— У меня правильнописание хромает. Оно хорошее, но почему-то хромает...(с) Винни-Пух.
Chapter 11 (Part 2 of 2): Revelations
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Five hours of nitpicking! I sure hope it doesn't suck! (Assurances to the contrary may be directed to the "Leave A Comment" area). =D
Also - thanks, Sarah Aless, for the kind encouragement.
As the car snaked through the Left Bank, rain sheeting its foggy windows, the back seat was their sanctuary. There in the quiet dark, time stopped -- and Buffy carried on with Spike as if she'd been granted dream immunity. Freeing herself from guilt, fear and morality, she transformed into pure, aching, beautiful id.
Like a deep sea siren, she moved in euphoric half time, multicolored lights gliding over her form. She reeled at his teasing caresses, nuzzled into his neck, wordlessly cooed for more, but he'd made up his mind: she'd be getting only the royal treatment from now on. No more half-naked wrestling matches; no more quickies -- no more nothing but the total worship she deserved.
Tonight, anyway.
Tonight, she was reawakening his inner poet: Her shoulder felt cool and smooth as a fresh-picked plum on his lips. Her throat tasted of salt and perfume. Her hair held the scent of lilacs and rain. Next he'd be calling her 'effulgent'.
To combat any such indiscretion, he growled in her ear.
With a plaintive whine, she took his head in her hands and licked his tongue, riding his clothed erection all the way to his flat.
* * *
Spike opened Buffy's door and found her shrouded in his suit jacket, brow knit over wish-it-all-away closed eyes.
Not very encouraging. "Love?"
"That's not my name."
He sighed, frustrated. Ten seconds apart and she was on lockdown again. Lucky he'd arranged for his staff to stay out of sight until morning; last thing she needed was a reality check. And the last thing he needed was to keep standing in this sodding rain puddle. "Buffy."
She didn't budge.
"Come inside, Buffy." Holding his umbrella, he offered a hand. "Please?"
She murmured something too low for him to hear, so he leaned in.
"Make me," she said into his ear.
A brief smile, and he quickly summoned his forceful face. If that's all it took to win him the round, yeah, he'd play it her way.
"You're coming with me." He slung her over his shoulder, but caught himself gently covering her exposed bits. "Now."
She didn't fight, only said, "I'm not staying the night. I can't."
As if that would somehow make it less of a sin? "Actually, you can, and you're staying as long as it takes."
* * *
A fresh log burned in the master bedroom's fireplace. Laid out bedside were a slew of provisions as per his instructions: chilled champagne, ice water, cigarettes, mints, the works -- and on the pillows, pink rose petals were strewn.
Thank hell his magic calculator won out. Arriving home solo would have been depressing.
"Wait," she said as he put her down on the petals. "I'm filthy and wet."
"I'm sorry," he cocked his head as he removed his cuff links and shed his shirt, "is that supposed to dissuade me?"
She sat up. "Your sheets..."
He eased her onto her back. "Are washable."
Her hand magnetized to his chest muscles. His hand magnetized to her inner thigh. She quivered at his touch.
"Pity about the dress. Looked so good on you." Fingering the scrapped, damp hem, he said, "Take it off."
Eyes level with his, she guided his hand to her shoulder strap. "No. You."
God, he liked this girl.
"All right." Reverently, he rolled the strap down her shoulder, slackened the torn fabric and bared her breasts. Her nipples, two strawberry cream dollops, tautened under his gaze. He noticed an alluring little beauty mark on one breast, another on her ribcage, one by her navel, another on the hollow of her hip... and committed each to memory, just as he had the three on her back.
He pulled her dress down her legs and exhaled, taking in her flame-lit form. "You are so lovely."
Trembling, she swallowed. "Don't."
"Don't what?"
"Say things like that."
He clasped a hand over her throat and squeezed. "You'd rather I was rough and mean, that it? Want me to hurt you, give you cause to hate me and yourself?" Nostrils flaring, he tightened his grip. "You're in my bed now. I say and do what I want."
Her eyes blazed with defiance, but her body betrayed her titillation.
"You are so lovely," he said again, releasing her neck to trace the curve of her collarbone, the swell of her breasts. Softly, he kissed one beauty mark, then kissed them all in a zigzag pattern.
She could hardly contain her gasp and quiver when he kissed her mons -- what would she do when he made direct contact?
Inhaling her lush fragrance, he teased her outer labia with soft kisses, then gave her one exploratory lick up the center.
"Ahh!" Buffy cried out and spasmed forward. Panting, she said, "Wait."
"What's wrong?"
Calming her shakes, she grabbed a cigar from the provisions array. "It's your turn."
"My turn to--?"
She leaned against the headboard, stuck the cigar between her teeth. "Take off. Your clothes."
Spike chuckled. Not a bad imitation. "Right. Well. Since you asked so nicely."
He gave her a slow, playful show, starting with his socks and ending with his briefs. Though this role reversal put him in a vulnerable spot, the sight of her -- nude, intently watching, cigar jutting from her mouth -- more than made up for it.
Cock pointing at her, he asked in French, "Is there anything more you desire, my mistress?"
With a nod, she dragged the wet end of the cigar down her torso and tapped it on her clitoris. "Oui."
* * *
"Oui! Oui! Oh, fuck oui!" Soaked in sweat and champagne, voice going, she slammed into his palm, three of his fingers curved inside her.
"Good girl," he praised in French, feeling her juices gush into his hand. "My little Parisian wildcat."
Spike had started off slow -- really slow. Spent quality time gazing at and tasting and smelling every peak and valley of her irresistible flesh, coasting his hands up and down her gorgeous body, frothing her into a delirious lather.
When he'd finally clasped his mouth over her swollen sex, she lost it, thrashing and sobbing in gratitude. She came in less than a minute, and kept coming while he fingered her and suckled her nipples.
So thirsty, she said once she caught her breath, so he popped the champagne and poured it directly into her mouth, letting it foam down her chin and into her lap. Inspired, he poured it on her tits, licked it off to her adorably unconvincing protests and, holding her up by her spot, shook the bottle and filled her pussy with chilled, fizzy champagne. While she squealed and shuddered, he sucked it out with gusto.
That took less than a minute, too.
By her third climax, which was due in part to the length of his tongue and a strategically placed thumb (a place she clearly wasn't accustomed to), she was whispering unfiltered raves like Oh my GOD you're so good. Oh my GOD it's not fair you're psychic. Oh my GOD oh my god oh my god!
And that's when he happened upon her other weakness: French nothings in her ear.
Which brought her up to four earth shatters, not counting the one under the bridge, and he wasn't even close to letting up.
"You're so good, kitten," he whispered in French, extracting his fingers from her clenching pussy. "So delicious, so sweet. Taste how sweet you are."
Eagerly, she sucked on his fingers -- which, by the way, may have been the hottest thing he'd ever seen -- and panted in English, "Fuck me, fuck me. Fuck me."
Right then. He'd planned to draw out the foreplay even longer, but that was a damned compelling argument to the contrary.
Kissing her lips, her cheek, he tied her shaking legs around him.
"Gonna say please, ma petite puce?"
"S'il te plaît," she breathed, swooning beneath him in heady aftershock. "Je t'en prie. Please."
He curled his tongue. "Avec plaisir, ma minette sexy." Her pussy immediately suctioned to the tip of his cock, welcoming him in, but he eased in slowly, savoring every little sensation.
When she impatiently tried to speed things along, he stopped her, looked into her eyes and did it right.
Sheathed in her at last, he pumped - fluidly, steadily, expertly.
Buffy sank her fingernails into his shoulderblades. "Oh. My. God."
"My sweet Buffy," he said in French. "You're so beautiful."
"Oh, my god, you're the Devil. Touch my spot."
"No, no. Not yet."
"But--"
"Shh shh. We'll get there, minette."
She relaxed, and he pulled her down the bed. Standing at the edge, he raised her thighs and entered her again, then undulated in languorous slow-motion.
"Unh..." Watching him through slitted eyes, she reached out to grope a rippling muscle that ran from his navel to his groin.
She bit her lip. He pushed his finger into her mouth, let her bite it.
"Oh, Buffy."
"Mmmn... Spike..."
She felt so good, moved so well, wanted him so desperately that he was unwilling to let the night come to a premature end. Oh yes, he made it last until purple dawnlight peeked through the curtains and the fireplace dimmed, leaving crackling embers to punctuate their moans.
When they rolled onto their backs, all heavy breaths and contented sighs, she said, "I'm going to Hell."
"Isn't everyone?"
"No."
He sat up to locate and light a cigarette. "Well, I for one am glad you'll be there too."
"The Devil's escort," she said through a yawn.
"Hm?"
"L'escorte du Diable." She was curled into fetal position, eyes closed, face serene. Falling asleep. "That's me."
"Hate to disappoint you, love." Tenderly, he touched her hair. "But I don't have that kind of power. Wish I did, though."
"Mmhm."
As she drifted off, looking like a yet-to-be-fallen angel, he traced her cheek and said it again. "Wish I did."
Read on... >>
A NOTE ABOUT PLAGIARISM: Don't do it. Call me crazy, but I don't like finding my hard work pasted into other people's stories. If I find out you've plagiarized me or any other author, I will make sure everyone knows it. If you're not clear on what 'plagiarism' means, the definition is here.
@темы: Сперто. Без суда и следствия., spuffy, Spike, Buffy&Angel, Art, Crave, NautiBitz, Buffy, fanfiction