Title: No Words
Were there words for how wrong this was? Buffy racked her mind trying to think of at least one. College educated, desk covered in dictionaries, thesauri, okay, the desk had been covered in books, now it was...oh god.
Throwing a hand above her head, stretching fingertips to the wall in a futile effort to keep her head from slamming into the plaster, her neck creaked at an awkward angle, she could feel his eyes on her, every now and then he would lick the veins that bulged as she twisted and thrashed beneath him. When he came in close she could smell the lingering scent of Angel covering his clothing, skin. Had he showered there? Even his hair smelled of Angel, same shampoo, surely mousse. The need to breathe deeply had nothing to do with the fast pace he kept. As he crawled inside her, filling, awakening, Buffy just wanted to breathe in through her nose, slow languid streams of air taking her out of this room with its childish posters and stuffed bears, into a barely lit basement apartment, statues in glass cases watching her struggle to keep her legs from shaking.
Surely being here wasnít an option, kissing a demon she had tried to kill, let live, watched love with a twinge of jealousy. Had she wanted it all along? Someone who would die, kill, live for her. Maybe she had, but not this, not whispered words telling her how beautiful she was, how no woman in a century had held him so tight, pushed him out of his body and into heaven with one simple phrase...yes, I want you.
Had she said those words, mid fight, straddled over hardening flesh, stake in hand. Was she so desperate to feel the touch of someone she couldnít break that she would let him in? Into a room where he once tried to kill, rape, turn, whatever he had planned. Could the fact that he wore Angelís scent like an invitation be why he was here, naked to the world, thrusting into her with a passion other lovers never dared show?
Could the knowledge that he would reek of her weakness for months be the reason she had let him in. Take this back to L.A. Show him Iíve moved on, let him lick it off you, let him hurt for once. Were Spite and Getting Even always the same thing? He finally finishes. Finally? Does she want it to be over, so long, yet not near enough. She wants him again but doesnít dare encourage him. Pushes him off when he leans in for a final kiss. Tosses clothes to his feet as she finds her own and pulls on slippers, desperate for a shower. Last look at glistening skin, index finger to his lips, though she knows heíll never keep it to himself. All the same she has to say the words.
"Spike," she says, pulling a stake from the desk as warning, "no one ever knows."