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Wanting
By Steph
Spike had Buffy pinned and was kissing her senseless against a crypt in the middle of the graveyard. And she wondered why she was enjoying it so much. It wasn't what she wanted. Or was it? Or was it that it wasn't what she thought she should be wanting?
He leaned closer in, his sneaky little thigh slipping between hers, until she was riding the black-clad, sinewy length. Even in her heeled boots, her toes barely brushed the floor once Spike got to where they both needed him to be. They fit, she realized. Matched. Melded.
Buffy held on to Spike with one arm around his shoulders, while the other hand worked itself between their bodies, past the odious barrier of his duster. Once underneath, she grabbed his ass, pulling him closer, harder against her.
He answered her unspoken demand as he lazily flexed his thigh and hip, pressing into her softness in a maddening pulse. Moving one hand from where it had been braced against the crypt, the other from her hip to her other breast; he began to knead both breasts in soft counterpoint to the thrust of his lower body. He pulled away to a breath. Scenting her, perhaps. Then diving back in, lips and blunt teeth trailing along her jaw, down her throat, where he could feel the vibrations from the soft, keening sounds she made.
Buffy let out a long, shuddering breath. This long, slow buildup of desire, the heat racing under her skin, the clenching emptiness inside her, all this was new, strange. The one time with Angel had been all soft kisses and soft hands. Sweet touches and sweeter words. Breathy sighs, but no breathless demands. No merciless pounding of heart and of hips.
Spike... He wasn't close enough, she fretted. Not to where it mattered. She pulled herself up, wrapping her legs around his waist. Spike grabbed the waistband of her jeans, settling her on him. God, he was hard beneath her, the fly of his jeans pressing the seam of her slacks against her with a pressure that made her want to rend the offending clothing. Panting into his neck, she whispered "Oh god, Spike- I- I need-"
"Hmmm?"
She mewled against his pale throat. She wondered if she had ever needed anyone, or anything, the way she needed Spike. "I- Spike. I-" She trailed off, using her hips instead of words, trying to show him-
"C'mon, Buffy. If you want it, you can say it." He spoke against her mouth, his voice rumbling through her; delicious vibrations traveling from lips to breasts to the aching space inside her.
"I- I need you to, Spike- I'm so- I-"
"Tell me, Buffy," he prodded "tell me what you need."
She felt herself grow even warmer, if it were possible. With Angel, she had been led from desire to completion in satin silence. No effort. No input. No risk. And now, with the rasp of Spike's desire-roughened voice rubbing against her already over sensitized nerves, she told him-
"I need you inside me, Spike. Fuck me."
"With," he asked, "fingers? Tongue? Cock? I could happily fuck you with any one- or all three. Tell me."
Her bowstring-taut nerves tightened one notch more at the sensations his words evoked. The thought of his blond head between her thighs- the idea of his nimble fingers playing in the curls guarding her sex- the lure of his hard, ice-pale cock deep inside her- She was sure she had soaked his jeans as well as her own, sure that he could feel the dampness seeping from her. She wanted all of it. All of him. All the heat and moisture and hardness and pressure. All that he could give.
"Yes." She said.
He cocked an eyebrow, encouraging her.
"I want-" she licked her suddenly dry lips, wriggling slightly against his thigh. "I-I-"
She dropped her head to his shoulder, unable to continue. Spike pressed his hips against her yet again, making her whimper in frustration. He stroked her hair, whispering in her ear "Talk me through it Buffy. Let me give you what you want. All of it."
She clenched her hands in the leather of his coat, mustering the courage to name her desires. Since her resurrection, what everyone else wanted for her had taken precedence. She had stopped telling what she felt, what she wanted. She had long since stopped believing what she wanted mattered.
"I can't tell-"
"Bollocks. You can. You can tell ME anything. And I'll listen. And, if it's in my power I'll give it to you. Tell me what you want."
Buffy looked up, then took Spike's face between her palms, staring into his earnest face. She then placed soft kisses across his eyebrows, down his nose. She brushed her lips across his then skated them across his cheekbone to his ear. She whispered.
"I want your cock inside me, Spike." She could feel her throat closing on the words and paused, taking a shuddering breath. "I want you to fuck me hard; like you're not afraid I'll break. I want to feel your cock in me for days."
Spike gave her a pleased smile, then nodded in assent. He moved his hand to her hips, his thumbs rubbing along the waistband of her low rise slacks, brushing the skin above the cloth. "What about these?" he whispered.
She looked down at his hands, pale against the dark cloth, felt the cool touch against her waist. Licking her lips again, she spoke.
"Um, you can, um-" she paused, her eyes unfocused for a moment. A small smile stole across her lips and she continued. "Undo the button and zipper, then- um- hold me up with one hand and peel them off with the other."
Spike unfastened her pants. Slipping his fingers down the back of her slacks, he cupped one firm cheek in his hand. Lifting her up and against his chest, he grabbed the back of the waistband and drew them off in one long, graceful motion, dropping them, inside out, on the grass beside the crypt.
"Yesss. Good." Buffy hissed as the cool night air, and the cold wall of the crypt, made contact with her naked skin. She gave a little shiver, which became a small moan when the movement ground her sensitive skin against Spike's jeans.
Spike watched Buffy as she tried to make herself comfortable on his thigh, naked from the waist down. His hands, which had been steadying her hips, brushed idly from hip to knee as he awaited her next request.
"You next." She said, somewhat breathlessly. "Go slowly with your jeans. And, um, leave the duster on." Her lips quirked up in a shyly wicked smile.
"Right, luv."
Buffy let out a moan as Spike eased his thigh from between hers, letting her slide off his knee. The drag of her flesh against the denim was exquisite pleasure. When her boot heels hit the grass, it was only the crypt wall that kept her upright. As it was, she considered slipping to the turf in a boneless heap to watch Spike strip.
Spike moved to begin undressing. Idly, he rubbed at the wet spot on his thigh. Buffy's legs suddenly lost their ability to hold her as Spike brought his moistened fingers to his nose, then to his lips. He held her gaze as he meticulously licked his fingers clean.
"Tell me." Buffy breathed. "What does it-?"
He gave her a hot, wicked smile as he fingered the button of his pants. "Tell you what you smell like? How it makes me feel? How you taste??"
Buffy nodded; openmouthed, panting, trying to control her rioting senses. The buttons of his jeans opening in a series of pops, each a small shock to Buffy's already hyped nerves. His voice was deep, rough. "Well, luv, you smell like- sunshine and- sex. It makes me hard enough to pound nails," His pale cock spilled from his opened jeans. He smoothed one hand across his bare belly, then both hands descended slowly down his thighs as he shimmied the cloth off his hips. "And hungry enough to eat you whole." He leaned over her, then, his voice becoming even more intimate. "That's how I feel. But how's about we let you find out that other part. If you want- however you want-"
It impacted like a sledgehammer to her belly, his meaning. On his fingers? Or his lips? Or maybe on his- Hotter again by degrees, she could only nod mutely as Spike reached down to her, helped her to stand, then kept her upright with the pressure of his cool naked body against her overheated one.
Spike's hands skimmed from waist to hip, up and down, awaiting her instruction. His hands seemed to need to keep moving, afraid to rest. Shark hands, she thought disjointedly. Except if they stop, I'll be the one to die. She grasped his right hand, pulling in, his palm sliding to the top of her thigh, then inside.
"Touch me." She whispered. "Make me come- Then, we can-" her breath shuddered out of her, taking with it the last of her inhibitions "-share."
After Spike's cool, slender fingers brought Buffy to a shuddering climax, the two lapped her juices off his hand, tongues darting along skin, between fingers, sharing the musky sweetness. Then, after she explained in coarse, exuberant detail, Spike again pinned Buffy to the crypt wall, kissing her senseless, pounding into her body with all the power and passion that he possessed, that she needed.
Just like she wanted.
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