***
Another ten minutes of mock combat later, Buffy found herself thinking
about
Spike's hand on her ankle. That thought was aberrant enough to
break Buffy's
concentration, and to her horror, she found herself hitting Spike
with the
full power of a roundhouse kick. Spike went down hard and lay
unmoving.
"Spike!" she gasped as she knelt by him. "Gosh, I- Spike?
You ok?" She put
a hand on the side of his face, still sans ridges. He must not
be too hurt,
she figured, or he'd go fangy. She ran her hands down his forearms
to his
hands, across his ribs trying to assess the damage. "Where did
I get you? Did
I break something?" She kept talking, even when he didn't answer.
All she
could think to do was murmur words of comfort and concern, patting
his hip, his
shoulder, wherever she could reach as she spoke.
Coming back to consciousness with Buffy leaning over him, hands skimming
over
his body, Spike immediately curled on his side into a tight ball.
"Get off." Spike groaned between clenched teeth.
"Spike-" she said in a tentative voice.
"Back off, Slayer and give me some effin' space, will ya?" he growled.
Buffy reared back at his response, puzzled. "What? What's wrong?" she asked.
"You ARE what's bloody wrong, you stupid git." Spike glared
at her as he
began to sit up slowly. At her abortive attempt to assist, he
yelled, "Back
off, damn it. A damn sight farther away from me, if you want to 'help'."
He
had managed to shift to a sitting position, knees drawn up against
his stomach,
protecting a sore rib cage, yes, but also a very dangerous side-effect
of her
well-intentioned physical contact. As much as he had enjoyed
her hands on him,
he was not willing to get himself staked for his body's show of appreciation.
He continued to sit, hunched over his knees, eyes averted. She
still hadn't
moved away, and the scent of her perspiration-dampened skin did nothing
to help
assuage his current discomfort. He wriggled against the mat,
trying to get
more comfortable.
That was what finally clued Buffy in. That little shimmy; she
knew that move.
Had done it herself. The growling, the guarded position, the
averted eyes. It
made sense now. And it made her feel- good. Warm. Wanted.
Powerful, even.
This was new and strange. She'd always thought if she could ever
disarm Spike,
it would be with a punch not a caress.
A corner of her mouth hitched up. Her amused voice broke
the lengthening
silence.
"C'mon, Spike. You're fine. Walk it off."
Spike contemplated his boots a moment more before raising his head.
She could
see his jaw work, his cheeks hollow as he clenched his teeth.
"Not. Bloody. Likely." He bit out.
"Ok then. We're done. Let's blow this place." She moved
to stand over him
again. "If you can get your lame-o vampire butt off the ground."
She half-heard him mutter darkly, something like "my butt's not
at issue."
but pretended not to notice. She held out a hand to help him
up. With a small
smirk, she pulled him right up against her then turned away, pivoting
on her
heel, her hip brushing where he was still half hard. She walked
to the
training table and stood, back to him, hands braced on the table.
Spike had jumped back as if burned, all of his muscles tensing with
anticipation. Of what, he couldn't be sure. When she looked
back at him over
her shoulder, the look on her face took him aback. A challenge.
She had
figured him out, the wench.
"Sod it all, Slayer what are you playin' at?" He growled.
"Not playing, Spike." She said, her voice low. She wasn't really
playing, she
realized, so much as testing his reactions, reflexes, strengths, weaknesses.
Sparring. A sultry smile turned her lips.
In a flash he was right up behind her, pinning her against the edge
of the
table, arms braced just outside hers, his long, cool body touching
hers from
shoulder blades to calves. "What then, pet? Discovering?"
He nudged her
slightly; denim rough against the cotton of her leggings, reminding
her what
exactly had brought them to this juncture.
She let out a long, shaky breath, feeling her cheeks - actually her
whole body
- begin to heat again, this time not from exertion. And that
unpleasant
twitchy feeling, that was gone, replaced by warm tingle beneath the
surface of
her skin.
"Maybe-" she said, "I was just concerned for your- um- well-being.."
Spike chuckled. Yes, they were still sparring. At much closer
quarters,
certainly, but neither was willing to give up the edge.
"I'm touched, pet. Truly." The smirk on his face was clear
in his voice. It
was a challenge. They were still opponents. But the rules and
objectives were
changing.
"Not really, Spike. Buffy said as she turned around, her body
brushing his
with exquisite friction, until she faced him. "NOW, you are."
It took him a
moment to process what she said, and then realized, yes, he was touched.
Chest, belly, thighs. Her hands were even on his butt.
"Touched. Truly."
"Buffy-" He breathed
"What?" She inquired mildly, as if asking after the weather.
Not at all as if
she were pressed intimately against him. "Buffy- stop?"
She chuckled.
"Buffy- more?" It was part question, part request. Her
hands had moved from
their place on his butt, up over the planes of his back curling around
his
shoulders and then skating down his arms still holding her against
the table.
He reached behind her thighs, lifting her to sit on the table.
He parted her
knees, stepping between them, adjusting her position so
he fit snugly against
her. The damp leggings were not much of a barrier, either for
scent or
pressure. He could smell her arousal; hot and urgent, yet tinged
with a
wariness that he knew he must be exuding as well.
Buffy leaned back a little, resting her weight on her hands behind her.
As he
fit himself to her, she found herself biting her lower lip, closing
her eyes,
inhaling and releasing a long, shuddery breath. It was all she could
do not to
wrap her legs around his hips, crush him closer to her. He felt
so good.
Spike took in the picture she made, knew that he would carry it with
him the
rest of his days. Even if there was never to be more than this!
He leaned
over her, his hips pressing into her softness, his chest just brushing
her
breasts. Her eyes popped open at the additional contact, blurry
dilated eyes
that told him of her desire.
The door to the training room opened with a creak.
"Buffy? Spike?" Dawn's voice floated into the room "You guys done sparring?"
end- part 2