Thank you, everyone, for your kind remarks. Glad you’re enjoying. :)
He was tempted to answer the prospect of battling through the hordes of last minute shoppers by flashing some fang, though somehow, he didn’t think the Slayer would recognize that as the act of someone with her best interest in mind. Irregardless that these blighters seemed bloody well confident that all the space in the world was theirs to claim.
“Why on sodding earth do you need a cantaloupe?” he demanded, narrowing his eyes at her as she examined the small orb in her hand.
She shrugged. “You never know,” she said, dumping the fruit into a cellophane sack and tossing it into the cart. “Maybe we’ll have a cantaloupe emergency.”
His earlier assessment of insane or brilliant leaned more toward the former, though her brand of lunacy was a refreshing one from the all-out dementia that the ex-love of his life had occupied. Buffy was quirky if nothing else. She wanted everything perfect to the degree of an all-out obsession, but with as crazy as her ideas became, he found her similarly growing more and more adorable. And the way that she wanted him so desperately to be a part of the holiday had his insides singing with hope.
“Can you think of anything I’d need a kumquat for?”
Spike smirked and leered at her appreciatively. “Gigglin’ inappropriately at the fact that it’s called a kumquat?”
She rolled her eyes. “God, how old are you?”
“You age long enough, pet, an’ you end up where you started from.” He pointed accusingly. “An’ don’ be callin’ me black, Ms. Kettle. I saw you snicker.”
“At your immaturity,” she agreed.
“Believe that if you must.” His gaze lingered a minute longer, his body swallowed in satisfaction when her cheeks rouged and she glanced down. God, he could never get enough of that. “You makin’ your potatoes from a box or from scratch?” he asked. “Or rather, am I makin’ the potatoes from a box or from scratch?”
“Well, if you’re willing…”
He was already reaching for the roll of plastic with which to collect said potatoes. “Do us a favor, then, an’ put the cantaloupe back.”
Her blush deepened and she nodded, reaching into the cart. “If we have a cantaloupe emergency, though, I am so blaming you.”
“Fair enough.” Spike flashed a grin as he sacked the potatoes. “So, what kinda party are you throwin’? You lookin’ for somethin’ you could put on the cover of a Hallmark card?”
“I just want it to be normal,” she replied.
He rolled his eyes. “Bloody impossible.”
“Well, as normal as my life can get, I mean. I’m not looking for anything completely unobtainable. I want you there, after all.”
“To cook,” he emphasized.
“No. I want you there. Your cooking expertise is just a big perk.”
From the way her heart was hammering, he knew that admitting that much was a big thing for her, despite how far they’d come. Small hints like that warmed him thoroughly. After the almost-kiss of a few nights before, he’d half expected all the progress they’d made since their days of fighting to the death to relapse all the way back to square one.
Her behavior, her shameless flirting, and the adoring way she looked at him—well, he was only almost-human. He didn’t trust that she was fully aware of half the things she did that drove him crazy. She couldn’t know.
Not how he felt about her.
“Ugh,” Buffy grumbled, scowling at her list. “I have to get three different kinds of dessert.”
“What the bloody hell for?”
“Everyone likes different things. I don’t like the taste of pumpkin pie, Mom hates coconut, and Giles is weirdly addicted to German chocolate cake.” She shook her head. “So, I need a German chocolate cake, a pumpkin pie, and a cookie cake.”
“Why a cookie cake?”
“’Cause as long as we’re going twenty rounds of favorite sweets, I want mine. It’s my party, dammit.”
Spike smirked. “I don’ s’pose I get a vote?”
“You’ll eat my cookie cake and like it.”
“So we’re not buyin’ everythin’ to make from scratch. Pumpkin pie’d take a good chunk of the day.”
Buffy shook her head. “Nope. For the desserts, nobody does it like Sarah Lee.”
They turned the corner toward the frozen meat section, where evidently the entire populace of Sunnydale was enjoying some heated last minute shopping. Spike expelled a deep breath. “Well, as long as we’re doin’ that the easy way, do you really need that big sodding bird? Can’t we jus’…” His eyes fell to the crowd around the packed meats. “Buy a pre-prepared turkey?”
“I have a turkey. Buying one of those genetic turkeys would take away from the holiday.”
“My turkey’s just fine.”
Spike sighed as she rolled the cart by, wishing desperately for a fag. The bad feeling he had about the dinner was growing into an uncomfortable premonition. He wanted everything to go well for her, especially since she was pouring so much into the meal’s success, but her methods had him predicting an all out disaster.
Maybe she wouldn’t notice if he grabbed a packaged turkey. Just in case.
It couldn’t hurt to be prepared.
Losing Buffy in the store proved to be a decidedly bad idea. Spike found himself surrounded by pounding hearts and racing pulses, sweat and exhaustion, and completely alone. He could smell the Slayer. He could pick her out in a crowd, blindfolded if need be, but every time he thought he’d caught up with her, the scent would shift. The next twenty minutes were spent plowing his way through the entourage of last-minute shoppers and battling his innate need to shift faces in the wake of such temptation.
By the time he finally spied her, the panic blazing across her face stabbed him with both guilt and an odd sense of gratification. It wasn’t that he didn’t know she cared—he did; God, he did—but seeing it was a pleasure he wouldn’t soon deny himself. And the way she managed to look both relieved and pissed off when her eyes met his? It was hard to believe at times that she didn’t know exactly how sexy she was. How she tempted him with every breath that rushed through that amazing mouth of hers.
How he spent his nights remembering the taste of her kisses and wishing that Willow’s spell had lasted just a little longer.
Buffy grabbed his arm and pulled him close once they were within reach. She then proceeded to hit his shoulder several times, though without animosity.
“What the hell happened to you? I’ve been worried sick!”
“Worried?” he couldn’t help but echo, trying to hide his grin as he slid the back-up turkey into the cart. She seemed too preoccupied with him to notice. “About me?”
“I turned around and you weren’t there, you big stupid…guy.”
“In case you din’t notice, pet, the entire bloody town decided to show up at the same time.” As though to prove his point, a random customer bumped into him rather harshly, nearly knocking him over. Spike growled a bit too primitively, and turned back to Buffy before she could open her mouth to reprimand him. “There now, you see?”
She frowned and caressed his shoulder. “You just need to be careful.”
“I’m a vampire, for Chrissake! These people are snack food.”
“Jeez, a little louder, maybe? I don’t think they heard you in Bangladesh.”
“Oh, for cryin’…this is the bloody Hellmouth. You really think that announcement would shock anyone?”
Buffy shook her head and rolled her eyes. “Just…come on. Let’s get going. I want to get the frozen stuff in the fridge ASAP so we can run back and check on the turkey.”
He sighed and nodded, placing a hand on the small of her back and massaged her gently. “Right, luv,” he murmured. “Let’s go.”
She quieted for a minute, relaxed against the small caresses he was giving her, and slowly coming down from her erratic panic. And despite his words, he was still too touched by the overall display to really care about anything else.
Even more so when she, the Slayer, opened her mouth to apologize. “I’m sorry if I was patronizing…it’s just that I turned around and you weren’t there.”
He bit back a grin at that. “Right. Had to be bloody traumatic.”
“Hey! You could’ve been dust for all I know.”
“Yeh. In broad daylight, done in by the granny hordin’ all the candied yams. Have a li’l faith. I din’t crawl outta the grave yesterday.”
Buffy snickered appreciatively. “Well,” she retorted, “you never know.”
No. You never did.
Spike smiled at her, his bravado on the rise. She couldn’t possibly know how much the little things like that affected him. What she told him without saying a word.
He had the sinking suspicion that, despite all, he was going to end up loving this holiday.
Walking down that aisle in Sunnydale reminded Spike of news reports from the war—the pictures he’d seen following Hiroshima and the coverage that had plastered the evening news during Vietnam. There were old women beating each other with their purses over Pilgrim salt-and-pepper shakers and pumpkin candlestick holders. He was beginning to wonder if the prophets had it wrong. Perhaps the end of the world was going to be nothing more than an all out brawl on who got the turkey napkin holders rather than a definitive battle between good and evil. At that moment, he’d believe it. The entire place had turned into ground zero for some cataclysmic disaster.
“I got something!” Buffy gasped when she resurfaced from the mob, holding a few unrecognizable items above her head in victory.
“What the hell is that?”
“Streamers,” she answered, gasping for air. “And some turkeys to hang from the ceiling.”
Spike just looked at her, then chuckled and shook his head. “Your fanaticism about this sodding holiday is beginnin’ to worry me.”
He pointed at the mob of people behind her, grabbing her arm and pulling her out of the way of a shopper who was about to make the dangerous leap inward. “We need to get outta here,” he said. “Before you spot some whipped cream with turkeys on the canister.”
Her eyes brightened. “There’s whipped cream with turkeys on the canister? I didn’t—”
A low growl rumbled through his throat and he jerked her out of the Aisle of No Return, toward the city-length checkout line. “No.”
“But if it’s seasonal—”
“No,” he barked. “We’ve already been here for three bloody hours. I’m not gonna let you risk your neck by goin’ back into that madhouse for whipped bloody cream that might not exist. The stuff we have’s fine, all right?”
“You really don’t want to be here, do you?”
“The firs’ hour an’ a half or so wasn’ so bad.”
“Oh.” She winced. “Sorry. How long did you say we’ve been here?”
Three long, agonizing hours with bloody pulsers all around him, complete with pounding hearts and racing pulses and tasty-smelling adrenalin. Not a bite to be had. He was starving, he was in a food market, but they didn’t sell what would satisfy his hunger. It was torture.
Buffy’s eyes widened in shock. “Liar!”
“Yeh. I’ve bewitched time to do my bidding.” He pointed to the clock which read a quarter of twelve. “Well, nearly four hours.”
“We’ve been in the grocery store for four hours?!”
“This is what I’m sayin’.” Spike tugged on her arm again, pulling her out of the way of another flying customer. He was beginning to think the entire supermarket was possessed, rather than simply the Slayer’s grocery list.
“This is the kinda thing that people usually exaggerate about,” he muttered.
He gestured at the ensuing madness around them. “This. All of this. It’s the sort’ve thing you’d see satirized in a comedy skit. Not bloody well acted out in live action.”
Buffy grinned and shrugged. “Only on the Hellmouth, eh?”
“All the entertainment’s up close an’ personal,” he agreed.
Her grin broadened into a smile, and Spike decided right then that it was worth a thousand torturous years to be on the receiving end of her good graces.
Even Buffy’s fervent obsession with the holiday was worth it. He’d do anything to be near her. She was his kind of crazy. The only kind for him. And if she let him close enough, he’d never let her go.
It touched him that she was comfortable enough around him to sleep in his presence. Admittedly, he’d spent more time watching her than the movie. She was snuggled at the opposite end of the sofa, her arms hugging a pillow, and she looked so peaceful it stole the unneeded breath from his lungs.
He only wished that she had curled in his arms before napping, but that would take crossing a boundary they hadn’t come to just yet.
The movie had been over for about an hour, and Buffy was back in full holiday mode, reenergized from her powernap. He watched her under the pretense of being irritated with himself, though there was nowhere in the world he’d rather be. She was so bloody adorable when she let herself worry about anything other than the world of demons and sacred callings.
Spike glanced up from where he was leaning against the wall, an unlit cigarette wedged between his lips. The Slayer was currently atop one of the dining room chairs, holding up the red and orange streamer before the window. She had hung another in the entryway before the staircase alongside the several decorative paper turkeys that would make Martha Stewart proud.
“Well, what do you think?” she asked.
He was impressed. Buffy had taken a few dollar-store items and employed them wisely. The touch was subtle, slightly silly but it suited her well: a fine line between refined and idiosyncratic. And she was looking at him with such anticipation that even the witty retort curled and waiting on his tongue died without ceremony. Her nerves were beginning to get the better of her.
“Looks good, sweetling.”
Her brow furrowed. “Really?”
Spike nodded. “I like it.”
“You’re just saying that.”
“Well, I’m not sayin’ it looks like Windsor Castle, but I think you’ve done a right good job, considerin’ what you had to work with.”
She smirked. “Funny boy.”
Spike arched a brow and removed the fag from his lips. “Boy?” he drawled.
“Well, I’m assuming you have…” Her eyes wandered southward, and out of nowhere, he became self conscious. Bloody unpredictable chit. “That which makes you male.”
You lookin’ for a demonstration, pet?
The thought made him tremble with want, and he had to break eye contact to maintain a semblance of control. “Erm, well,” he said, pushing himself off the wall. “Point is, not a bleeding boy. All man here.”
“Awww. Did I hurt wittle Spikey’s pride?”
His eyes flashed dangerously. “Who are you callin’ little?”
“Someone’s sensitive,” she teased.
“You know, for someone who’s so bloody dependent on me for her party, you do talk a good talk.” He smirked and ran his fingers down his front, a small thrill shivering down his spine when the tease abandoned her eyes. There was nothing that he relished more than the look on her face, her gaze following the path of his hand, her mouth all but watering.
Just say the word, Slayer, an’ I’m all yours.
“I…ummm…” Her cheeks rouged and she turned quickly back to her decorations. “I’m just going to…ummm…”
It all happened fast. Buffy’s speedy whirl-around caused the chair she was standing on to rock against the sofa, and in seconds, it fell from under her. Spike didn’t have time to think—it was all instinct. He bolted across the room, catching her in his arms as she impulsively reached for him. Her legs wrapped around his waist as a surprised yelp tore from her lips, and somehow he ended up with his face buried in her soft breasts.
Spike was captured in absolute rapture for a few wonderful seconds. Buffy was in his arms. Her warmth was pressed against him, her heart hammering against his ear, her pulse was racing. God, she smelled good enough to eat; like baby powder and the hint of lavender. She was so ready for him. He’d enjoyed long whiffs of her arousal before—usually something that accompanied them mutually through a long patrol. Something that inspired a good wank afterwards. He couldn’t get enough of that scent…and he was closer to it now than ever before.
His mouth itched to sample her soft, perfect globes. To pull her shirt down and tease her nipples as his hand explored the wetness pooling between her legs. To put this agonizing charade to a rest and give them both what they wanted. He’d make it good for her. So bloody good that she’d never question his feelings, or think to tell him that it was wrong between slayers and vampires because of one lousy experience with his wanker of a grandsire.
It couldn’t last, though. Not in their world. Their world was reserved for longing glances and lonely nights of dreaming for each other.
Buffy expelled a deep breath. “Spike?”
“Slayer,” he growled into her, his hands sliding up her thighs until he was holding her ass. “Buffy…”
“I—I think you can p-put me down now.”
He sighed in defeat and lowered her to the ground. He missed her warmth immediately. “Was jus’ gettin’ comfy,” he complained, plastering on an awkward smile.
“Well…I…ummm…” She was bright red, and looking anywhere but at him. “I…we better go to the Magic Box now. It’s almost dark…and stuff. Turkey.”
Spike nodded and sighed again, casting a hand through his hair. “Right. Come on. Let’s be off.”
The day had gone by so quickly, and he didn’t want it to end. He didn’t want to go home that night and be away from her until the following morning. Every time he was allowed near her, every time the part of him that was hopelessly addicted to her got its fix, the pangs of withdrawal dug deeper. He always needed more by the time she left him to return to her life of forced normalcy.
Buffy slipped into a jacket at the door, which baffled him as she was hot enough to warm the both of them. It barely hit seventy-nine degrees on the coldest day of the year, yet she managed to shudder as though she was freezing.
She turned to him at last, smiling kindly, her nervousness still palpable albeit controlled. Spike couldn’t help himself; his insides melted on cue and he soaked up her warmth as though he hadn’t seen her face in a thousand years.
“You were right,” she said.
“Huss’at?” His eyes were trained on her mouth. She was a breath away.
A wicked look danced across her face, and her eyes dropped to his crotch. “Definitely all man.”
Spike nearly choked in surprise. “You saucy minx.”
She grinned and sprinted out the door.
He followed her with a predatory gaze. “I’m gonna let you have it,” he drawled before taking off after her.
And yet, Spike was right beside her. He’d had that look in his eyes again tonight. He’d wanted to kiss her almost as much as she’d wanted to be kissed. Lousy vampires ignoring lousy preset boundaries by lousy Powers That Be that were determined to make her life all around lousy.
He’s not like Angel, that logical voice told her for millionth time.
He’s still a vampire, replied the increasingly annoying voice that she wanted to jerk from her consciousness altogether. Honestly, what did it know, anyway?
“I really shouldn’t have left the turkey all day.” She sent him a meaningful glare. “Damn you and your tempting nap suggestions.”
“That’s right, luv. Blame the vamp.”
“It’s what you’re there for, right?”
“Savin’ your bum when things go south? Yeh, seems about right.”
“Well, you’re not a very good vamp, then. Saving the Slayer? Totally not a part of the job description.”
Spike tossed her a narrow look. “Oh, I’d say I’m a very good vamp, Slayer.”
Her face heated and her gaze darted to the ground. “You would,” she retorted, crossing her arms as a means of self-preservation.
“Well, after all, good is relative.” He winked as they came to a halt before the Magic Box. “’Sides, heaven forbid you get a li’l shuteye. Yeh, I guess you’re right, kitten. I am one heartless bastard.”
No you’re not. That’s the problem.
Spike gestured to the lock. “You wanna do the honors, or shall I?”
“You’re a bad influence,” Buffy retorted, digging in her pockets for a hair pin.
He favored her with a rakish smirk and ran his tongue across his teeth. “The baddest, baby.”
She shot him a look but didn’t reply. There were certain things she simply couldn’t trust with her voice.
“Prepare to be amazed,” she said a minute later, standing straight up. “Inside is irrefutable proof that there’s more than one way to thaw a turkey.”
They proved to be famous last words. The minute she opened the door, whether by movement or eerily timed tricks of the Hellmouth, said turkey crashed to the counter. It was so sudden, Buffy couldn’t help but jump. Anya’s trinkets broke and scattered and bits of water splashed across the floor. The turkey rocked for a second at the edge of the wrap desk, then finally collapsed to the ground with an anticlimactic thud.
The air around them grew very still. Then Spike couldn’t help himself. He released a long roar of a laugh and clapped appraisingly.
“Well done, Slayer,” he commended.
She didn’t say anything. Rather, she stared at the mess for a long beat, released a sigh, then turned and walked away.
“’S not that bad!” Spike amended quickly, scouring to lock up the store again before he tore after her. “Buffy!”
She stopped and waited for him to catch up.
“Luv, I’m sorry, okay? I jus’…I don’ know what you expected. You stuck the sodding turkey up there an’ jus’—”
Buffy threw her hands up. “I know, okay? No lecture.”
“I wasn’ gonna—”
“No lecture.” She shook her head furiously. “This isn’t going to work. None of this is going to work. Who am I kidding? I can’t pull off a Thanksgiving meal. I can’t even thaw a turkey! I’m just—”
“You pulled it off last year, din’t you?”
“Giles and Willow were helping me,” she whimpered, wiping at her eyes. Stupid girlish tears. Gonna mock me for that, too. “But Will went to see Tara’s mom and Giles…”
“Y’don’t need the Watcher, pet. We’ll work this out, yeh?”
“Nothing is going right!”
“Bollocks. The turkey fell. So what? We dunno that it din’t thaw. Looked to me that the shelf was jus’ slippery from where the ice was meltin’, which was really kinda predictable.” His hand found her back and began caressing her soothingly. “Everything else is goin’ fine, sweets. Jus’ stop expectin’ the worst from yourself. There’s no need to panic every time somethin’ happens off the hoof like that.”
A long sigh rolled off her body. He was right, of course. He was right too often.
“You’re right,” she said, kicking at the ground.
Spike arched his brows. “I’m what?”
“You heard me.”
“I want you to say it again. Come on, now. ‘S not so hard. Take a deep breath an’ say, ‘Spike, you were right, I was wrong, an’ as a reward for bein’ right—’”
“You get rewards now?”
“What fun is there in bein’ right if there are no rewards?”
Buffy rolled her eyes, biting back a grin. “Typical.”
“But I’m still right against your wrongness.”
She offered a non-committal shrug. “However—”
“No. No ‘however.’ Just be wrong. Just stand there in your wrongness and be wrong and get used to it.”
A giggle rose in her throat and she looped her arm spontaneously through his, ignoring the annoying voice of everything anti-vampire. Her skin tingled to be so close to his. “You’re a big jerk, but you’re kinda fun sometimes,” she said as they crossed into the graveyard. It shouldn’t have surprised her that this was where he led her instinctively—or rather where they led each other. This routine was rooted in the fabric of every night.
“I’m fun all the time,” Spike retorted with an expected leer. “In fact…” He gestured to the nearest headstone. “Sit down, luv.”
Buffy’s eyes went wide and her heart started thundering. “What?”
“Sit down. Gonna show you how much fun I can be.”
Oh god, oh GOD! So not ready for this.
Yet she didn’t object. She was tingling with fear and anticipation, but she couldn’t deny him anything.
I am in so much trouble.
Spike moved behind her and placed his hands on her shoulders. “You’re tremblin’,” he murmured. “Scared, sweetheart?”
“Scared?” she replied, hoping she didn’t sound as uncertain as she felt. “You’ve never scared me, Spike.”
“Now, now, pet. You’re lyin’ again.”
“I am—ohhh. Ohhhhh, my God! What are you doing?”
Suddenly his voice was very close. “Don’ tell me no one’s ever given you a massage before, Slayer.” His hands were playing her body like a harp, and she was melting rather rapidly into a puddle of slayer-putty. God, he could proposition her all he wanted if he kept doing that.
“Ahhh.” She rotated her shoulders into his magical touch, her body shuddering. “God, that feels fantastic.”
She heard him exhale deeply, as though strained. She knew she sounded suggestive, and at the moment, she didn’t care. It was a rare day that anyone ever sought to see if she was doing all right in all realms of the job. As long as she was still breathing, the world seemed content. No matter if she pulled a muscle here or sprained an ankle there—she was the Slayer, and as long as she was alive and kicking, everyone around her was satisfied.
“Better?” he asked raggedly.
Buffy nodded dreamily and relaxed into him. “Mmmm…I am so your bitch for life.”
Okay, so he had obviously hexed her. There was no way she would say that to Spike, whose job, other than being evil, had somehow reverted on a nonstop plan of slayer seduction.
Said hex was likewise the reason she didn’t know when to stop talking. “How do you always know?”
“What I need?”
Her mind had been completely taken over by Buffy The Lust Bunny. Whatever she said was against her will.
Unfortunately, she couldn’t seem to convey that to Spike with any measure of success. Whenever she tried to open her mouth and let him know that she obviously didn’t mean any of her whimpers or pleasured gasps that sounded much naughtier than they were, she either sang his praises or moaned in delight.
“Buffy,” he murmured, his mouth much closer now. Then—oh God, he was suckling at her throat. Vampire at her neck, and all she could do was whimper in encouragement. His hands left her shoulders, wrapping around her middle as his mouth laved her skin in sweet, soft kisses. “Want you so bad, kitten.”
The next thing she knew, she had twisted in his embrace, thrown her arms around his neck, and had attacked his mouth with hers. To hell with everything else—Spike was the only thing in her world that made sense. That kept making sense. That didn’t surprise her, even where he should. The fact that they were friends? It seemed natural after everything. The fact that he was the one she kept running to? Well, that’s what friends were for, right? The fact that no man’s touch had ever made her feel so alive? That had to mean something. Cliché as it was, it was the truth. Her body reacted like a lightening rod if he so much as brushed up against her. Now his lips were forming words against hers, their tongues tangling, a low, throaty moan rumbling through him that she had somehow inspired—she swore then that life didn’t get any better than this. He tasted of cigarettes and smelled of leather. Tasted like liberation itself. And God, his arms were around her, holding her body to his as his tongue explored her mouth. If he was temptation embodied, then she wanted nothing more than to roll in it. Screw the rest, she had what she wanted.
She’d never been so turned on from a simple kiss before. Granted, nothing between her and Spike could ever be considered simple.
She didn’t know how they ended up on the ground, or at what point she straddled his waist. And it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered at all. She was grinding herself into the hardness that pressed against her, swallowing his whimpers with her own. She drank him in as though she was dying of thirst, and he was the only one who could provide solace.
At some point, though, reality had to come crashing down. Buffy tore her mouth from his with a heavy gasp, her wide eyes taking in their surroundings. They were still in the cemetery, despite the fact that the ground had definitely moved.
“Buffy,” Spike gasped. She was on top of Spike. Her legs were on either side of him, and she was sitting on his erection. He was looking at her like a man starved, though recognition burned behind his eyes. He knew what was coming. God, he knew before she did. “Buffy, I…I din’t…”
The world collapsed around her with all its cruelty.
“I…I’m sorry,” she said awkwardly, clamoring to her feet. “I was…ummm…”
He stared at her for a minute, swallowing her in his gaze.
“We…” Buffy brushed dirt off her jeans, avoiding his eyes at all costs. “We should get back to the Magic Box,” she said. “See about the turkey. Get stuff ready for tomorrow.”
There was a long pause followed by a sigh of defeat. Spike climbed to his feet, wiping his hands, and nodded solemnly. “Sure thing, pet. Lead the way.”
She released a deep breath and forced herself to meet his gaze. Pleaded with him without words to understand. “Okay.”
She took his hand without waiting for him to offer it. There would be no running from this. No denying that it had happened. No pretending that her world hadn’t again been turned upside down. No pretending that whatever she had with Spike wasn’t exactly what she wanted.
“Just give me time,” she muttered when he shot her a confused look. “I wasn’t ready.”
Spike held her eyes for a long minute, then nodded softly and kissed her brow. “I’ll wait till the end of the world,” he replied.
“That’s a long time.”
She smirked. “Touché. Call it wishful thinking.”
“Well, I know what I’ll be thinking of wishfully tonight.” He shot her a cocky grin and waggled his brows. And her body flooded with warmth.
Maybe, for the first time, what she wanted and what was right could peacefully coexist.
Maybe. Spike made the impossible seem possible.
And when she was ready, she was going to take him by storm.
It gave her something to look forward to.
Originally posted at http://seasonal-spuffy.livejournal.com/25241.html