Title: Beneath Me
Timeline: My post-Chosen Spuffy fantasyland
Note: Now I join the many fic writers who have had to come up with some sort of name for The Immortal. Thanks enigmaticblues for making this round happen. :)
“No one actually has eyes that color you know.”
Buffy dropped her bag on the end table and pulled off her filmy scarf. Spike watched it slide across the graceful curve of her neck. She looked beautiful. Expensive. He resisted the urge to run a hand over his own sleep-rumpled hair.
“Really?” she said, her tone wry. “And I could’ve sworn that half of my graduating class had violet eyes.”
“Oh? Is that why Sunnydale dropped the semester abroad program? Word was he was absolutely heart-broken.”
She stepped out of her shoes and sashayed over to him. The whisper of silk rubbing over silk was loud in his ears. She didn’t stop until his personal space was thoroughly invaded.
Now that she was closer he could smell just a hint of The Interminable’s cologne mixed in with Buffy’s perfume and the coffee from her favorite café. What had it been? Air kisses? An arm over the shoulders? Wanker. He was so wrapped up in his own imaginings that he didn’t notice that Buffy had leaned closer and tipped her face up for a kiss until she pulled back.
She looked up at him, an incredulous half-smile on her face. “I can’t believe this! Are we going to do this every time I have lunch with him?”
He was being an ass. He should admit as much or least change the subject. “So, how is he then? Still lonely though surrounded by wealth and beautiful women?”
He saw the flash of temper before she looked down to where she was fiddling with the edge of her blouse. Then she tilted her head back and looked him in the eye, expression all false innocence. “Well, it’s not like we were actually having lunch.”
He locked his jaw with an effort of will, for all the good it did.
Buffy’s eyes went wide.
“Oh my God,” she breathed, “That was a sniff.”
Shit. “No! Buffy-”
“A great, big, ‘my girlfriend’s a great big ho’ sniff!” Lips pressed together, she planted her hands on his stomach and shoved. He staggered back and fell awkwardly across the squashy chair. She twitched up her skirt and leaped astride him. He could see the light of battle in her eyes.
“Oh, by all means, let’s talk about Cesare,” she said.
He winced at the anger in her tone. “Buffy—”
She cut him off by grabbing fist-fulls of his t-shirt and yanking it up, making him pull in a startled breath. Buffy stared down at his bare chest, an unreadable expression on her face. “He’s a much better dresser than you,” she informed him, “All that fantastically expensive linen? I’ll bet it feels incredible.” She smoothed her hands up his torso then. “All I can think about all day is stroking it.”
“Hey! Stroking his— what—” He groped for some sort of response, but her hands on his skin and the shifting weight of her in his lap were making it hard to find the outrage.
“And have you seen his palazzo? All that gorgeous marble—”
“What does that—” He choked as she fit the soft hollow between her thighs to his rapidly growing erection and ground down. “Buffy—”
Buffy’s tone was as smooth as his was ragged, “—and his gigantic pool with all that blue tile? I look at that pool, Spike, and all I can think about—”
Dazed, he stared up at her as she grabbed his hands and stroked them up her body under her top. He closed his eyes as she gasped and shivered, her skin still warm from the Roman sun. When she went on, her tone was softer finally, a little breathless. “—all I can think about is feeling that cool water sliding over my skin… any time I want.” She slid his hands up over the curve of her breasts. Automatically, he began to stroke and squeeze.
He’d just started started to think he was out of the dog house. OK, he’d forgotten the dog house even existed when she yanked his hands out of her clothes.
A button clattered across the floor as she pinned his hands over his head and stared down at him, implacable as death. As he watched, enthralled, she leaned in close until she was his entire world: the swaying curtain of her hair, the scent of her breath and her skin, the shadowy heaven where her shirt gaped open. She shifted her grip. He shivered as a single finger traced a burning line down the center of his body.
He thought she would kiss him then; instead she spoke. “He’s so incredibly rich. Isn’t that what girls want, Spike?” Her chirpy tone did little to disguise the underlying edge that tightened his skin.
He opened his mouth, but the tugging at the top button on his fly took away his words.
He expected her to yank him roughly out of his pants, so he groaned all the louder when she teased him out carefully, watching all the while, and then worked him with slow, possessive strokes of her hand.
“Ya know,” she said thoughtfully, not looking away from her prize. “I think it’s his manners, all that Old World courtly stuff, that really makes the girls fall at his feet.”
He felt real dismay when she released his wrists and cock and shifted away. He lifted his head. “I can do manners.” But she was already sliding off his lap. Falling at his feet.
And then she had him again, her grip firm to the point of punishing around the base of his cock while her mouth—her mouth enslaved him. He took his punishment like the best of penitents, arching into every lick, every stroke of his cock between her lips—nothing but praise on his lips for his salvation.
Then she crawled back up over his panting, shaking body, her lips rosy. He watched as she gracefully knelt up over his hips; she twitched her skirt higher so that he could see the a golden line of flesh over the tops of her stockings, then a blunted triangle of pale satin. His cock bobbed and twitched in the frame of her thighs. He breathed deeply, hungry for every bit of her delicious scent. Her voice seemed to come from far above him. “You’re just going to have to face up to it; I’m madly in love with him. And you, Spike? You’re right here—beneath me…”
His vision went a little blurry when she slid a thumb between her legs, rubbing over the material, pulling it aside. He licked his lips, straining against invisible bonds. “Yes—beneath you—you on top. Buffy, please—”
Her hand paused; he heard her sputter and then giggle. As though this were some sort of unspoken pardon, he found that he could move. He reached up and yanked her down into his arms.
Buffy gave a satisfied sigh and snuggled closer. “Promise me we’re going to do this every time I have lunch with him.”
Spike laughed at the note of anticipation in her voice. Feeling pretty content himself, he played with her hair for a little while before musing aloud, “Sometimes I just don’t know what I’m doing here with you. I’m part of your old life, yeah? The ugliest part.”
“I don’t know, I think you clean up alright.”
“After I came back, you know I almost didn’t come here? What can I possibly remind you of except for pain and death.”
“Minimum wage at the Doublemeat?”
Spike let his head loll back against the chair.
“You’re right,” she said, “definitely in the pain category.”
For a while they were both silent, then Buffy spoke.
“The truth is, when I first came here… I thought about it: letting myself forget, becoming one more trust fund baby living it up in Rome. The kind that has a teenage sister to keep tabs on anyway.
“Cesare’s idea of showing someone the sights includes lots and lots of ritzy places. I met a lot of pretty girls with pretty lives, and it seemed like a lot of them were hoping that maybe the next outfit or the next procedure would be the magic one that would make their lives perfect, make someone love them. And I realized that I was really—proud of where I’ve been, what I’ve survived. I’m lucky to have so many people that love me, stakes and all.”
She lifted her head then and looked him in the eye. She was mussed and flushed, but her green-gold eyes were clear and bright. “I want to be me,” she said. She shrugged a little then, and her color heightened, but she didn’t look away. “And you, you love me.”
He smiled slowly.
“That I do, Slayer,” he said. “That I do.”
Originally posted at http://seasonal-spuffy.livejournal.com/270955.html