— У меня правильнописание хромает. Оно хорошее, но почему-то хромает...(с) Винни-Пух.
Chapter 28, Part 1: Now
awesome banner by
читать дальше
[ Read the whole story | Read the last chapter | Chapter list ]
A/N: Remember when I said this wasn't a Mary Sue deal, that I didn't want the same things Buffy wants? I take it back: I want rich powerful Tantric Spike and room service right the eff NOW.
...Is now all right?
Spike Pratt was a man of many talents, not the least of which was the ability to pack two days' worth of emotions into the breadth of a single, innocuous word.
"Hi."
That soft, airy utterance was a layer cake of surprise, relief, flirtation, pride and a soupçon of uncertainty, baked to moist perfection and iced with the rich, delicious thrill of hearing from a secret lover.
Relishing that same thrill -- and most of the other layers, too -- Buffy, lounging on her stomach, kicked off her shoes, rubbed a toe over the left edge of her bed and replied in kind, "Hi."
He took her cue, didn't rush it. The silence held the true conversation. "How are you?"
Buffy fiddled with her jade earring. I've been doing this blushy-grinny thing ever since I left your driveway. Yesterday, at work, I kissed my own shoulder. Twice. My skin is always tingling, I verge on orgasm 24/7, and I can't stop fantasizing about running away with you. "I'm okay. You?"
She heard his chair creak. He was probably leaning back in it. "Never better."
The blushy grin broke out again, and she hid it in her Herbal Essences-scented locks. Two mornings ago, in his bed, he'd whispered that the scent of her hair made him hard.
Quietly, teasingly, he prodded, "Is there something you want to ask me?"
She bit her lip hard and rolled onto her back. Her hair fanned down the bedside and her blouse rode up. "Uh huh."
He breathed out, and she could tell he was grinning, too. Buffy knew exactly what his eyes looked like right now: sparkly and mischievous and too blue for anyone's good. "Do I get three guesses?"
She noticed she was finger-tracing an S shape onto her belly -- sort of like he'd done in his kitchen. Only, in his kitchen, he'd scribbled it atop his semen, punctuated it with a dot and held his finger to her mouth, saying, Eat this. "'Kay."
"Animal, vegetable, mineral."
Her eyelids fluttered, her neck prickled and her breath got shallow. Each one of those words sounded like an invitation to sit on his face. "Animal."
"Hmm," he mulled. "Is it bigger than a--"
"I want you."
He met her low volume. "Say again?"
She knew he heard her the first time. "I want you, Spike. Right now. I want you."
A savoring inhale as he took this in, and then he asked, "How much time have we got?"
She checked her watch. "Two hours? Maybe three."
"Twenty minutes," he said, suddenly No Nonsense Guy. "Make that ten. Meet me at the Downtown Pratt."
And that was crazytalk. His company headquarters were in Westwood, about two miles past his house, which was already twenty west of Downtown. At half past five, he would need a teleporter to make that time. "You can't get here in ten minutes, it's rush hour--"
"Don't trouble yourself with the details, pet. I have my ways."
Buffy sat up on her elbows.
"Garrett will meet you in the lobby, give you a key."
"To... a hotel room." Buffy snapped out of her dream state. A hotel room made this whole thing official -- with the planning, and scheming, and cheating and the mutual sharing of blame... No longer could this be justified as a slip or an impetuous urge. This was a sign-here-on-the-dotted-line, don't-forget-your-key-Miss, no-turning-back-now AFFAIR. "In your hotel."
"Don't be scared, Buffy. It's just a convenient spot to meet. That's all."
"Right." She breathed through the anxiety. His voice helped. "I know. Right."
"So... Will I see you in ten, then?"
Any guilt she felt was overpowered by how very desperately she wanted to see him in ten. "I'll be there."
* * *
It was official.
Buffy was having an affair. With her father in-law. Who covered up a murder, thrashed girls in a private dungeon, built a gluttonous empire out of the blood-stained ashes of his youth... He also cried like a little boy, kissed like the world was ending and held her like he was drowning in a stormy sea.
And the way he touched her... and the things he said...
'm gonna have to come on you now
Is now all right?
Grin. Blush. There it was again. Looking around her, she slid the duffel bag strap up her shoulder and waited to cross a busy intersection. She'd spent her lunch hour at the gym, but Lindsey didn't know that. Also, it helped to have a change of clothes should Spike rip anything, or pour champagne all over her, or a myriad of other fabric-unfriendly actions he was capable of.
She turned a corner and the looming scribble logo of the Downtown Pratt came into view. For the first time, it occurred to her that it was his hand-written signature, complete with confident period at the end that said, I own this bitch.
Such gross displays of power never impressed Buffy... before. Now it seemed like everything about him was there strictly to make her heart pound and her knees wobble and, okay, yes, her pussy drip. He'd sobbed in her arms, laughed at her jokes and cooked for her in his kitchen, but he also had his name on skyscrapers all over the planet. As she approached the giant, god-like autograph of her tender, fallible lover, it suddenly clicked: Power was hot. When you had the hots for the one with the power.
True, she married the heir to this throne, and sadly, she was about to betray him in a whole new way. But Lindsey had become so distant and Spike had become so close -- besides, he made her feel so indescribably good that any bad she felt melted away before it had a chance to take.
This new chapter scared her to death, but it was also exhilarating. It wasn't just the power trip, or the heady euphoria of sneaking around with a new lover. It was the rush of risking it all, no chute, no cord, not caring how it ended because in under five minutes she'd see him again, hear him, touch, smell and taste him... She had no idea how he was gonna get here by then, but--
Passing overhead, a familiar sonic nuisance she typically ignored. But this time, she looked up.
A helicopter. Flew right down the street and landed on the rooftop of his hotel.
"Oh." Heart? Pounding. Knees? Wobbling. Thong? Not very absorbent. "Wow."
* * *
It was just as Spike promised. By the time she arrived in the lobby, Garrett was there with his sharp suit and his earpiece, waiting like an onyx statue near the VIP elevator.
Buffy took a deep breath and traversed the lobby like she belonged there.
When she passed him and stood at his side, looking up at the elevator arrows, Garrett slipped her a golden card key and murmured, "Penthouse."
"That's the floor, not the magazine, right? I never really know with him."
He nearly smiled for a second. Hey, progress. "Top floor."
"You're staying down here?"
"You planning on hurting him?"
She noticed the fierce protectiveness in his deep brown eyes then, and not just for Spike's physical well-being. "No."
"Then I'm staying down here."
It said something about Spike, she realized, that underneath all of that professional detachment, his people sort of adored him.
* * *
The elevator opened directly into the penthouse suite. Which was huge. And stunning. And Architectural Digest-y. Dark wood floors, mid-Century decor, modern artwork and an entire wall of windows that dwarfed the Downtown cityscape. Want was a word that sprang to mind. But it wasn't exactly limited to the suite.
"It's odd," Spike said, and she turned to see him framed in a doorway, one pale blue shirttail untucked, two buttons undone at his chest. He wasn't looking at her, but at his fingers, scraping at the doorframe. "You make me nervous."
She took off her sunglasses. "Me?"
"I was gonna meet you at the lift all barechested Casanova," he nodded toward the elevator, "but then I thought, 'Is that too much? Will she think it's silly?'"
Chin down, he raised a brow at her.
Buffy shrugged off her bag, then her jacket, and walked towards him. Spike had no idea that his insecurity was just as sexy as his confidence -- if not moreso. It was a reaction to her as a person, not a conquest. As an equal, even. She knew his darkest secrets, and while he may have thought this revealed a weakling behind the curtain, all it did for her was make him human. Real. And kind of amazing.
Looking into his eyes, she unbuttoned his shirt all the way and peeled it down to his elbows. Lightly, she ran a palm over his chest and said, "Nope. Not silly."
With an intake of breath, their mouths met.
* * *
The sex was intense. More intense than ever. He'd carried her into the bedroom and gave her exactly what she craved: no props, no words, no frills -- just him and her, stripped naked, on a bed, warm breath mingling, bodies entwined.
Buffy lost track of time and space and everything but the deep-down ache he massaged so well. Release wasn't the point -- it was the way he felt inside of her, around her, with her. Now was all there was. No future, no past, just this.
When her leisurely climb up the ecstasy ladder was one rung shy of the top, she stayed put to prolong that giddy sensation of Almost.
The rhythm of their breathing slowed and synched. She felt his heart pulse on her chest. She became so sensitive, she thought she might laugh or cry, or both.
He straightened his arms to rise above her and, whether it was the angle change or the way he looked at her, she bounced right off the diving board into an unexpected backward free fall.
Which was okay, she told herself as she began to quiver, she could start all over again once she hit the water. Spike wasn't in any hurry; sun hadn't gone down yet, there was still time. Relax. Savor. Release.
At that thought, the pool below her curiously disappeared and gave way to infinite space.
She'd had a lot of orgasms in her life. Sometimes several in one sitting, some in rapid succession. Some took a moment to crest. But all of them ended.
This did not.
It just kept coming. Whenever she was sure she peaked, she peaked even more. Buffy wasn't falling, she was rising -- going up on a rogue elevator, smashing through ceiling after ceiling after ceiling...
Heartbeat thumping in her solar plexus, Buffy whined, writhed, pulsed and overflowed like the Trevi -- endlessly. Through it all, Spike steadily rocked his torso, watching her as though she was under his command. He'd somehow kept her, held her, enthralled her in an indefinite, relentless state of pleasure...
And it was the most exquisite feeling she had ever known.
Out of her mind, she ran her feet over his hips, up and down his thighs, clawed his biceps, bit his forearm. She threw her head back and let out a throaty wail when the orgasm hit a new, preternatural high. Spike convulsed and moaned and convulsed again, and she realized he was ejaculating into her.
Wait...
He collapsed on her shoulder.
She wriggled beneath him, tried to speak but it came across as hot breath and consonants. Still coming. So good. Oh god. Help.
He turned his head toward hers. "Oh. You're still...?"
"Yhh..."
"Feet." Panting, he sat up, determined. "On my chest."
"Huh?" Words had ceased to make sense.
He brought her feet to his chest and bore forward until he was so deep she could hardly breathe. Then, he curled his pelvis up, depressed the heel of his palm firmly on her mons, and Buffy shrieked in climax.
Top floor: outer fucking space.
Staring at him in disbelief, she could only hyperventilate. "Wh... H..."
He smiled at her, picked up the bedside phone and said into it, "Bring me a little bit of everything."
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