Omnes Viae, Part 2 of 3
She pulled him through a tiled entry crossed with bars of light and into a dark hallway hung with pictures. She went a little way into a room at the end and stopped. Buffy turned to face him, but he was still staring over her shoulder at the big, dark four-poster. Oh God. He felt his knees go weak even as his cock jumped in his pants. She pushed his coat off his shoulders and down his arms and then shrugged off her own. Then she backed toward the bed, pulling him after with her hands and her gaze.
It was when she tried to pull him onto it, onto her, that he finally balked. All rational thought had gone south with his first whiff of her arousal, but still he knew he couldn’t do that, couldn’t cover her.
He shrugged free of her hands. Surprised, Buffy stumbled and swayed toward him.
He gripped her hard by the shoulders and held her away. He shook his head a little, but the universe failed to right itself.
“What- what in the bloody hell do you- What is this?”
She hung loose-limbed from his hands, panting and bewildered. He looked at her eyes, long-lashed and hugely dilated, her lips, parted and swollen and tasting of both of them, those tits… He swallowed hard. Thin shirt, hard nipples. Heaving? Check.
“Right then,” he breathed and pulled her in for a devouring kiss.
The kiss broke as he fell back with her onto the bed. An elbow slid across his ribs, making him jerk. Buffy pressed a hand there, but she didn’t slow down. Hitching up over him, her mouth found one of his ears. A lick, a nip, and she was moving on. He arched into her caresses as she moved to his cheek and jaw and neck.
Hands moved down his arms, fingers stroking and testing. Her fingers circled his wrists again, a quick squeeze, and then they were pulling on his t-shirt, skimming over the unbearably sensitive skin of his stomach and up over his chest. The silky tickle of her hair framed the warmth of her mouth as she kissed and nipped. Out of the useless fog of his brain, a memory surfaced. From when he’d been a man, the sort who’d found joy in such things–a spotted stable cat returning to her kittens, purring and grooming and counting tails. Silently, he began to laugh.
The busy caresses stopped. He slitted open his eyes. Buffy was peering into his face with that intent, rather delighted expression she’d sometimes get when he’d gifted her with an excuse for kicking his ass.
“Oh, there will be none of that.” She quirked an eyebrow and tipped her head back a little, the better to look down her nose at him. “This is serious reunion sex.”
As he watched, her cheeks got pinker. She’d hustled him into her bed, bold as brass, but chatting him up made her blush. His laughter faded, but not his mood. He screwed his face into a confused frown.
“Reunion? What–” He stared at her.  And stared at her.  “Buffy? Is that you?”
He savored the dawning outrage on her face. She shifted her weight as though to retaliate, and before he could think better of it he drove his fingertips into her undefended ribs. She gave a gratifying shriek and collapsed onto his chest, gasping with laughter. The writhing was gratifying too. He gave her a couple more digs, and then curled his hands around her upper arms while she caught her breath. She made a choked noise and tapped him pretty solidly with a fist. He’d been thumped by her often enough to figure this one for affectionate, but still… His lifted his head, trying to catch her eye.
“I love you,” he said, to the top of her head, mostly because he was dizzy with it.
Buffy sniffled into his bunched up shirt. “I know,” she said, in a subdued voice. She didn’t look up. “But thanks for saying it.” There was a beat of silence, and she was off again, giggling helplessly.
He let his head fall back onto the bed. “Oh woman, you are evil! I always suspected you know. I was trying to do the honorable thing, alright? Fuck!”
Maybe she sensed his outrage wasn’t entirely feigned. She stopped laughing, mostly, and propped herself up enough to look into his face, her expression fond.
“So stop trying. You suck when you try.” She smoothed a hand over his temple and cheek. She shrugged a little. “Maybe you’re more of a natural.”
He blinked at her. “Is that so.” He pulled her hand from his cheek and pressed it to his mouth. “Well, I take it all back, anyway. I think you’re madly in love with me. What’s more, you’ve been swearing nightly, on bended knees mind you, that you would be a hundred kinds of sweet to me, if only I could be restored to you.”
“A hundred kinds… ?” Buffy flushed and glanced away, but she didn’t seem to be able to keep her eyes off him for long. Unless her lips were planted somewhere on him instead. As though his thoughts commanded, she leaned in to kiss him.
Before, in giving her what she’d wanted, he’d given her quite an education in what he craved. She’d been as free with her passion as with the punches and insults; she’d never refused his lead or denied her pleasure. Over the remaining hours of the night she gave it back to him without haste or anger, transforming it. Through it all she told him what she had missed, and what she had dreamt of. She told him what she had fantasized about when she pleased herself, and what she could never imagine doing with anyone else but him. She praised his cool mouth and clever fingers, and long white cock, as she offered herself to all of them in turn.
“I think I’m going to revise that ‘Best Nights’ list again,” he said, when she finally collapsed, gasping onto his chest. She snickered and pressed her hot little face into his neck.
Originally posted at http://seasonal-spuffy.livejournal.com/98409.html