Awards for Baptism

For the first time in weeks, the house was completely quiet. No pitter-patter of little slayer feet up and down the stairs. No giggling in the hallways. No conspiratorial grins whenever he tossed Buffy a glance. No guarding his every word and move based on what was or wasn’t appropriate for tender teenage ears. The would-be slayers were gone for the weekend on some mystical mind-trip with Giles and Willow.

And to top all off, Dawn and Andrew had been elected as involuntary chaperones. Anya and Xander were off shagging somewhere, though they’d never own up to it. Buffy was upstairs.

Buffy was upstairs, and Spike was in the basement.

The tension between them, if anything, had thickened since the girls took off. They’d shared very few words since their conversation in the living room. When she’d told him that she wasn’t ready for him to leave. When she’d said that she wasn’t ready for him to not be with her anymore, and that it had nothing to do with his value in battle.

The words she’d spoken only made the words she hadn’t ring louder.

His journey from Africa to where he was now had been long and excruciating, compounded with heartache he hadn’t anticipated and hurt that he’d foolishly thought he was strong enough to handle. Everything had seemed so clear before the demon touched him. Before every inch of his body ached with pain no punch could inflict.

The goal then had been unsurprisingly straightforward. Earn a soul for Buffy. Be the sort of man she deserves. The sort of man she could love. The sort of man who would never hurt her. He’d thought he’d known what to expect, based on what he’d seen with Angel. The blood on his hands would singe his skin, the screams of his victims would never quiet, and the things he’d done to the one he loved would never stop hurting. He’d known that.

He just hadn’t understood. He hadn’t thought of anyone but Buffy.

Nothing much had changed. Only, rather than his soulless delusions of Buffy being swept off her feet by the romanticism of his sacrifice, his eyes were no longer clouded with fantasy. The definition of his relationship with the Slayer was perfectly clear. And being here—being in her home after what he’d done to her—was already more than he deserved.

It didn’t stop him from loving her with everything that he was. From dreaming of her every night. From craving the one thing he wanted more than anything in the world, and could similarly never have.

The soul, at least, had brought him reasonability and a sense of peace. He knew Buffy wasn’t his and never would be. He knew any touch she allowed was a blessing beyond what he deserved. He knew he had committed the ultimate wrong against her, and yet she had still taken him in. That when he was being tortured by the First, she had braved primeval vampires and risked death to save his wretched life. He was so unworthy of her. So incredibly unworthy.

He missed her now. Lying on his cot, staring at the ceiling as though he could see through floors. He missed her.

There couldn’t be any harm, he supposed, in seeing if she fancied a go at the cemeteries. An old fashioned patrol, as it was, like those days that seemed so uncomplicated when looking back. He might not deserve her company, but he wasn’t going to deny it if she acquiesced. If she smiled one of those soft Buffy-smiles and agreed to walk by his side.

Spike sighed and threw his legs over the edge of the cot, inhaling deeply.

The worst she could do was say no. This wasn’t a Buffy who laughed at him. Who told him he was disgusting. Who hit him just for looking at her. He had changed, and she had changed with him. Somehow, while on opposite ends of the world, they had changed together.

There was no harm in asking.

For whatever reason, repeating the mantra to himself didn’t help matters. His legs still wobbled with every step he took. And when he reached the main floor only to find it vacant, his nerve all but abandoned him. His eyes turned to the second staircase—the stairs that led to Buffy’s bedroom. To the bathroom where he’d committed the worst of his sins.

Where he had hurt the woman he loved.

Spike shivered, his hand reaching tentatively for the banister. They hadn’t been alone in the house since that terrible night. What would she think if she saw him up there now?

Nothing, he told himself, though even in his mind the word sounded empty. This wasn’t a Buffy who saw his every move as layered in motive. This was a Buffy who could eventually trust him.

This was…something.

He knew if he didn’t go up those stairs and take advantage of these precious moments of silence he’d never forgive himself. If it was the last thing he did, he’d make sure things between Buffy and himself were resolved. He’d never have what he truly wanted, and no matter how much knowing that hurt—how he’d live out the rest of his days bathed in misery and heartache—he knew he could face it if she forgave him. If he had her trust and respect, he could live with never owning her heart.

It wasn’t until his foot landed on the second floor that he realized his mistake. The door to Buffy’s room was open, but she wasn’t inside. The air was thick and scented with the hint of raspberry and ivory soap. She was in the bath. God, she was in the bath. Spike willed his eyes shut and fought off a shudder. If he was wise, he would turn around now and head right back to the basement. Even thinking about Buffy in the bath opened the door to memories that made him wish for a tub of holy water in which to cleanse his unworthy flesh. To purge him of wickedness—of the part of him that had hurt her so terribly.

Turn around. Turn around now.

Spike expelled a ragged breath, unable to tear his eyes away from the bathroom door. It was open just a sliver—light spearing into the hallway. It wasn’t hard to envision what lay beyond the threshold, and his overactive mind wasted no time in filling in the gaps. Buffy wet. Buffy naked. Buffy sitting in a tub filled with warm water and bubbles. Her hair would be pulled back, a few wayward strands grazing her cheeks. Her nipples would be decorated with soapy suds, two flawless roses buried in snow. Her warm, delectable pussy would be concealed completely, of course, but he had no trouble imagining her perfectly trimmed curls, her blushing pink skin, and her succulent pearl of a clit. He knew just how to touch her. How to have her hot and writhing in easy seconds. He could almost hear her moans in his ears—almost feel her tongue flicking his earlobe. He imagined her stroking his achingly hard cock with a mixture of desire and affection—a look he’d never truly seen—and the sensation was so real for that sliver of a second he could almost believe he wasn’t imaging it at all.

The fact that he was rubbing his cock through his jeans did little to douse the fire behind the fantasy. And before his mind could catch up with his legs, he was moving forward. God, he couldn’t stop if he wanted to. The year-long drought had finally taken its toll. And fuck, he missed her. Forget the violence and the pain; forget the tears he’d wept and the bleeding he’d suffered. There had been moments—not many, but enough—that were filled with smiles rather than screams. With soft caresses rather than punches. The time between her resurrection and their first unbelievable shag had been peaceful; companionable. She’d treated him like a friend—a true friend. A confidant. And though being with her without touching her had certainly been some incarnation of hell, he’d missed it like he’d never missed anything the second they crossed that boundary. The second that the friendly flirting ended and the hate-filled fucking began. Buffy’s hate-filled fucking. His agonizing attempts at love-making always ended in devastation. In tears he didn’t want her to see him cry.

Buffy’s self-loathing had nearly destroyed them both. And without a soul, he hadn’t known how to help her.

With a soul, he just missed her. He missed the warmth of her body and the kindness in her eyes. He missed talking with her. He missed the way they once conversed. He missed her so bleeding much his insides ached.

He missed the way his feelings had once rolled effortlessly off his lips. Soullessness had provided an audacity he’d since lost. Even in the face of an apocalypse he’d stopped to ask Buffy if she could clarify who in the room held her affection. Now he couldn’t even muster the words. Not aloud. He said them over and over again in his head; he said them with his eyes every time he looked at her, with his hands every time they shared a touch.

In the graveyard, she’d straddled his waist as an example to her girls, and had tried to check his wounds when he grunted in pain. Her hand had been in his and their eyes had locked. That instant had been the second most explosive moment of his return.

The first was the revelation of her belief in him. She believed in him. And she wasn’t ready for him not to be here. Not to be with her. And it had nothing to do with fighting the good fight.

Spike exhaled slowly, his eye leveling with the sliver in the doorway. He thought she’d notice his presence immediately, and didn’t know whether to be relieved or dismayed when she didn’t. Buffy was reclined in the tub exactly as he’d pictured, though reality was even more awe-inspiring than his imagination could conjure. She was so gorgeous. So breathtakingly gorgeous. And she was beyond reach. Her eyes were closed. Her breasts just barely poked above the water, and his first glance of her rosy nipples after a year without them between his fingers had his mouth watering.

Oh God.

She was so beautiful. So distant. So…

Not yours.

No, not his. She’d never been his.

Spike rubbed his palm against his denim-clad cock with a shuddering sigh. There was no hope for him. None whatsoever.

Especially with what happened next. Buffy bit her lips and spread her legs, her right hand sliding under the water. And for the achingly familiar flash of ecstasy that crossed her face, for the mouthwatering scent of her arousal that quickly thickened among the raspberry bubbles, he found himself staring down a pitcher of water after forty long years in the desert. Watching Buffy bathe—looking at her slick flesh and wishing those small perfect breasts were in his hands; that her pussy was wrapped around his prick—was one thing. Watching unabashedly as she stroked herself, as she thumbed the clit that belonged in his mouth and slid her fingers between the pussy lips his cock craved was something else altogether. He was caught between full perversion and insanity—between knowledge and desire. His head knew he needed to high-tail it for the basement, but his heart heard none of it.

And his heart, as always, won the battle. He couldn’t tear his eyes away if he tried. Not when, for the first time in months, he was feasting on the sight of Buffy aroused. He absorbed it all. The way her perfect mouth parted as her small, musical whimpers touched the air. The way her golden skin blushed with need. The haze that draped over her eyes. The way she threw her head back. Oh God.

Oh God.

He didn’t know when he’d undone his jeans, or how long he’d been pulling at his dick. And God, his hand was a bleeding poor substitute for her hot, silky pussy walls. But for the first time in months, his eyes were soaking her in; he just wished he could see it all. Wished that the tub was transparent so he could watch her stroke her clit. So he could watch her fingers slide in and out of her tight, heavenly little hole.

Instead, his eyes flickered alternately from her hot face to her bubble-laced breasts, his fist pumping his cock in time with her labored whimpers. She sighed whenever he sighed. She arched upward in time with the thrusts of his hips. Every moan that rolled off her lips drowned out the murmurs he couldn’t hold back. They were in sync in easy seconds—as though no time had passed since they’d last laid in each other’s arms. And for the waves of ecstasy crashing over her face, for the throaty mewls which clawed at her throat, for the near-words that tickled the air, he could almost believe she was performing for him. That she knew he was there and she was fingering her pussy because she wanted him to watch her. That the barriers between them had finally fallen and nothing stood in their way.

“Uhhh…” Buffy gasped, her head rolling back as she arched into her hand. “Oh God.”

Oh God. Spike tightened his grip on his cock. He wished the world would stop long enough for him to savor the moment. So when he replayed this in his mind, nothing would be lost. He knew once she climaxed that all would return to the dreary state of endless distance between them. Once his senses returned, shame and horror would set in. He had no right. God, he had no right at all. Standing at the threshold of the room where his greatest sin had been committed, beating off as he spied on a rare private moment. On a moment of pure intimacy. Buffy didn’t want him; if she did, she would have come downstairs. She would have had him stroke her. She knew he belonged to her; if she wanted him, he was hers for the taking.

But she didn’t. She didn’t want him, and God, he couldn’t blame her. After what he had done to her, leaving him alive was already more than he deserved.

“Ohh…”

She gave him more than he deserved, and he stole the rest.

“Guh…” Buffy inhaled sharply, her mouth forming a perfect oval. Her brow was furrowed, the jerks of her arm just barely visible over the edge of the tub. Water swirled and splashed. Her breasts heaved under the weight of her gasps. She was beautiful—she was a fucking seraph, and she was so far from him that they might as well have been separated by lifetimes.

That was until she moaned something remarkable. Something he dared not believe.

Something that sounded very much like his name.

“Oh God,” she gasped. “Oh…Spike…”

Spike’s eyes widened and his knees all but buckled. The hand around his cock was jerking so hard it’d be a bloody wonder if he got any use out of the thing ever again. She couldn’t have said…she couldn’t have…

“Spike…oh God…like that. Ungh!”

Tears stung his eyes. God, this was unfair. This was so fucking unfair.

The idea that she could ever touch herself intimately while imagining him in her own hand’s place was beyond anything he could have wished for. Even if nothing came of it—even if she never spoke to him again—knowing he hadn’t hurt her enough to earn himself an eviction notice from her fantasies was worth the world in gold. And somehow, it did little more than make him sink with shame. He’d hurt her and she still wanted him—on some level, at least. And in turn, he’d become little more than a peeping-tom. Standing in the hall, drinking in the vision of her like a man starved as his fist pumped the length of his cock. He was a disgrace. He was such an ugly disgrace.

And somehow she still wanted him.

“Spike,” she whispered, her voice cracking. “Miss…uhhh. God, miss…”

Had he owned a beating heart, it would have stopped.

What?

Buffy’s orgasm arrived on the cusp of a euphoric gasp tied with a heartbreaking sob. She shuddered violently, arching a final time into her hand as waves crashed around her. His name rode off her lips like a prayer, and shoved him over that final threshold without warning. His answering roar tore through the silence of the hallway as thick ropes of semen spilled into the waiting hem of his cotton tee. His head barely had time to stop spinning before he realized things inside the bathroom had become very still. Buffy’s eyes were now fixed on his shadow, locked on the thin outline of him that blocked the doorway.

Her eyes were large. Her arms crossed protectively over her breasts. Her suddenly-pale face was slack with astonishment. And she stared at him. Just stared.

“Oh God,” Spike gasped, shaking his head hard and stumbling back in horror. “Oh God.”

“Spike?”

“Oh God.” He couldn’t move away fast enough. The walls closed in at alarming speed. His vision blurred and the staircase disappeared. Shaking, disgraced hands tucked his cock back inside his jeans, and he jerked the zipper up so fast that it was a wonder it didn’t snap clean off. “Oh my God.”

The bathroom door flew open the next second, and then Buffy was there. In the hallway. She was wrapped in a towel, her hair now spilling over her shoulders like a waterfall. “Spike, what are you—”

“I din’t mean to,” he blabbered, his eyes wide with contrition. “I know how it looks—”

“No, you really don’t.”

He shook his head miserably, tears raining down his cheeks. God, he was such a git. Such a pathetic git. It’d bloody well serve him right if she decided to plunge a stake through his chest. Lord knows she’d given him chance upon chance. There was absolutely no excuse for what he’d done now. No soulless conscience to blame it on. No ghosts to turn his head. No brain-washing trigger. His sanity was intact. There was nothing. Nothing but his love for her burning his chest, accompanied by a bloody, guilt-drenched soul and loneliness unlike anything he’d ever felt stretching his insides.

“I wanted…Christ, I jus’ wanted to see if you wanted to patrol or…or, God, or something.” Spike inhaled sharply and wiped at his eyes. “I’m so sorry, Buffy. I know I…I jus’…I heard you an’ I know I should’ve left it, but I miss you so much. I miss you so much an’ it…it was a moment of weakness.” He didn’t dare meet her gaze; he couldn’t face condemnation now. He was shaking too hard to trust his eyes—cursing himself enough without her input. “I know that’s not good enough, but it’s all I have. It’s the truth. I jus’…God, I miss you an’ I heard…an’…”

There was no sense digging his bottomless grave any deeper. The first step alone was bound to land him in the center circle of Hell. Right alongside Brutus, Cassius, and Judas Iscariot. The devil would have to grow another mouth with which to feast on him for eternity.

And yet, even knowing that couldn’t stop his mouth from widening the plunge to his inferno. “I just…I just miss you.”

He didn’t manipulate the words to sound like an excuse, but that was the way the air carried them. Buffy’s answering silence was almost worse than screams and threats. She just stood, swallowing him with her eyes—those beautiful eyes he couldn’t bring himself to meet with his own. They were at an impossible standstill. Spike standing with a soiled tee and hands that somehow seemed redder than before, and Buffy in her towel. Pure. Distant. So far out of his reach, the pull on his weary soul made the whole of him ache with pain beyond pain.

Then in a blink, everything changed. Everything.

Buffy whispered his name and stepped forward, tipping her fingers under his chin and coaxing his eyes upward. He did not, could not, deny her. He owed her that much if she asked for it.

But something was wrong. Something was so very wrong. There was no condemnation in her gaze. No hatred. No repulsion. Even the flickers of anger that had been there just seconds before had vanished completely. Instead, the wide emeralds of her eyes swam in a pool of tears. She looked at him with something he’d never seen before. Not from anyone.

She looked at him with…

My God.

“Spike,” she said again, a watery smile gracing her gorgeous face. And the next thing he knew, she’d closed the space between them and brushed her lips tenderly against his. And at first touch, the flames that licked his insides were banished in a river of clemency. Light poured through every cell in his body, dousing the burn of Hell with the burn of something else. Something pure and radiant. Something that made his eyes go wide with awe and had every other inch of him trembling with hope that dared not show its head. Her touch was soft and exploratory. She kissed his upper lip, his lower lip, his chin; her hands slid up his arms, palming his cheeks as her mouth found his again. The gentle invasion of her tongue into his mouth finally broke him out of his stunned silence, and he melted into her with a choked moan that rode out on a sob.

“Is this…” Spike willed his eyes shut again when she broke away to shower his face with kisses; each burning another pardon into his skin. Each melting a different spot of red off his hands. “This isn’t real.”

“It’s real,” she replied. “It’s real.”

“God, it can’t be.”

She felt real. God, she felt so real. The feel of her hands on his body bringing to life memories of things that had never occurred—things he’d wanted but never experienced. Not from her. There was no anger in her touch.

His hands closed around her waist. “This isn’t—”

“It’s very real, Spike.” She pulled back just enough to make him whimper in protest, taking his right hand and bringing it to her chest. “Feel me?”

Her heart thrummed beneath his fingertips; her face was open and vulnerable. Her eyes swallowed him. Her scent was in his nostrils and her taste was in his mouth. But it couldn’t be real—she couldn’t be standing with him, allowing him to touch her after what she’d caught him doing. It wasn’t real. It couldn’t be.

“I’m dead,” he protested softly, shaking his head. “You’ve staked me.”

“Spike—”

“Buffy, I—”

“I’m real.” Her hands linked around his neck in a blink, and then she was in his arms. This time her kisses weren’t soft and exploratory—they burned. She peeled his skin away without trying; drinking him in as though she’d been the one starving for him. As though the distance between them had been slowly killing her as well. She swallowed his tongue with a moan that couldn’t be mimicked by the devil. She swallowed him in a moan that was pure Buffy.

Pure Buffy…

It was too much. Everything was too much. She was dragging him backward slowly, and he followed. He was hopeless to do anything but follow her. He’d follow her off the edge of the world if she asked it of him.

“I’m real, Spike. I’m right here.” She was peppering his face with kisses again. “I’m right here.”

The scent of raspberries hit him hard. Spike opened his eyes as though awaking from a dream. The bathroom. She’d led him back into the bathroom.

Panic ripped his veins, and just like that, he knew it was real. “No—”

“It’s okay.”

“No, I can’t. I can’t. Please—”

“It’s just you and me, Spike. Just you and me.” Buffy smiled softly, and for the first time since she’d stepped into the hall, he truly saw her. The haze that had rendered him blind slowly faded. There was no mistaking her now. She was there; she was really there. She stood before him in a towel that looked seconds away from dropping. And she’d brought him here—into the place of his greatest sin. But there was still no condemnation in her eyes. “It’s just you and me. I…I know I reacted badly—”

“Badly?” he rasped incredulously, shaking his head hard. “I tried to—God, Buffy, if you hadn’t stopped me, I would’ve ra…I would’ve…I would’ve—you…I love you so much, an’ I hurt you. I hurt you an’ I would’ve hurt you more if—”

“Spike—”

“If you hadn’t kicked me—”

“Spike, I’m not talking about that.”

“Well, why the bleeding hell aren’t you?” he demanded, snapping at last. This didn’t make sense. None of this made sense. Why bring him in here if it wasn’t to punish him? It bloody amazed him that she was strong enough to get over the echoes of what he’d nearly done in here, but asking him to carry that weight along with the blood of past victims was too much. “You can’t just—”

“Yes, I can.”

“There isn’t a sodding thing about you that I understand.”

“We’re even.” Buffy sighed and stepped back, the light in her eyes dying a little when she realized he wasn’t going to cave that easily. “I…okay, I don’t really know…I guess I was trying to make a point.”

“A point?”

“A badly executed point. I just wanted to…I guess I just wanted to prove something to you.” She paused, shifting self-consciously. “It was a spur-of-the-moment thing. I’m sorry…I wasn’t thinking.” She sucked in a deep breath and tucked the towel up tighter under her arms. “I wanted to show you…when I saw you standing there…”

The air between them was dreadfully still, and now that she had stepped out of his arms, he found himself drowning in cold. The words she spoke made sense to him, but he didn’t dare to believe them. God, he barely dared to hope at all anymore. It didn’t stop him, though, from imploring her for clarification.

“Buffy?”

“I’ve been trying to get up the courage to talk to you for a long time,” she said suddenly, running a nervous hand through her hair. “I just didn’t know how. God, Spike, you know me. Talking and Buffy aren’t exactly two elements that mesh well.”

“Sweetheart—”

“And to be fair, it’s not like I haven’t tried to get you to do the talking for me. It was so much easier when you were there to tell me the truth about what I was feeling. Figures the second that I’d actually listen is the second you stop talking.” She smiled miserably and met his eyes with apprehension that looked so odd on her shoulders. “You didn’t jump on that whole ‘I’m not ready for you to not be here’ thing like I was hoping you would.”

“I was supposed to jump on that?”

Buffy snorted ineloquently. “Figures. You never missed my cues before.”

“I’m walkin’ on eggshells, love. I can’t—”

“Is there a part of I believe in you that I messed up in the big explanation downstairs?” She glanced down. “Look, as I said…Buffy plus the big conversations are so very much not compatible. But really, you’ve never failed at reading me. Never. Not once. I…I risked everything to bring you back. I practically insisted that you move in with me. I told everyone to get lost this weekend, and you still—”

“What?”

She fidgeted. “That was a two-for-one, I guess. I get my house back and you all to myself.”

Spike stared at her numbly, frozen solid with shock. She wanted him to herself? She actually wanted him? Had the whole world gone barmy? Had he dreamt himself into a mocking rendition of Elysium?

“Don’t,” Buffy warned sharply.

“Don’t what?”

“That look. Stop with the look.”

He blinked.

“I know that look, so just stop what you’re thinking. Do you really think I would’ve invited you in if I hadn’t forgiven you? If I hadn’t forgiven you a freaking long time ago?” She threw her hands up in frustration. “That’s…that’s what I’ve been trying to tell you, Spike. I…I forgave you. I forgave you a long, long time ago.” She paused again and wet her lips, gesturing to the floor, as though he needed a reminder. “For this. Forgiving you was one of the things I had to do before I forgave myself. Admitting that…what happened here wasn’t really your fault…and I wanted to show you that by bringing you in here. Granted, the bringing you in here part wasn’t a part of the plan until I saw you…in the hall, but—”

Spike held up a trembling hand. “Could…” he whispered. “Could you go back to the…the forgiving part?”

She smiled softly. The tears that ribboned down her cheeks shone in the light like diamonds. In all his life, he’d never thought he’d see her cry for him. “For this,” she whispered. “For…for what happened here. I forgave you almost…well, almost immediately. I didn’t realize it until…until after the apocalypse was over, but the second that I…that I really felt that you were gone…that’s when I forgave you.” She glanced down, trembling hard. “Spike, the day after you…after the thing in…that happened in here happened, Dawn asked me to take her to you to protect her from Willow, and it took me all of two seconds to agree.”

There were no words for the wonder that split his veins. Buffy amazed him. She continually amazed him. She stood before him in the bathroom where he’d nearly…and she was telling him that…

Buffy had sacrificed herself to save Dawn. She’d done it to save Dawn, not the world. She’d given up everything to protect her sister. And even after what he’d done to her—how he’d tried to force his way inside her beautiful body—she’d still trusted him with her baby sister. With the most important person in her world. It didn’t add up. How could she trust him with her sister after he’d nearly raped her? How?

His eyes burned and his chest crushed under the weight of his breaths. “Buffy…”

“Our relationship has never been…normal. Never.” She licked her lips nervously. “We live in a world where monsters are real.”

“I am a monster, love.”

“No, you’re not.”

If he weren’t so preoccupied with the tears scalding his cheeks, he would have laughed himself to dust at the irony of their turnabout. “I tried—”

“You only hurt me when I hurt you. God, every time we were ever together, it started with violence. With me screaming no. We’d fight. I’d tell you how much I hated you; how much you disgusted me, then we’d fuck each other silly.” She smiled dourly. “And—”

“Is that s’posed to be an excuse?” Spike rasped incredulously. “Buffy…for Chrissake, I had you pinned under me. You were screaming an’ crying and somehow my nearly raping you is your fault? What, because Soulless Spike couldn’t tell the difference between fighting an’…you’re off your bird.” He shook his head until the room spun around him. “Is that what you’re telling yourself? You’re fooling yourself, Slayer. I tried to rape you. I tried to…with as much as I love you—then an’ now—I still…I never thought myself capable of hurting you. Never. How can you tell me I’m not a monster for trying to…because you wanted to get your life back?”

“Spike—”

“All you wanted was a chance to get your—”

“And somehow that’s an excuse?” she replied, blinking. “I wanted to get my life back, and that gave me reason to kick the crap out of you for fun? Look…moral ambiguity aside, you did everything you could to help me. You didn’t always know how or what was right, but you didn’t have a soul. That wasn’t your fault. I spat at everything you tried to give me because I was holding you to standards that most people couldn’t meet.”

“An’ that gives me—”

“I never said it wasn’t wrong and that I…you hurt me. You did. Bad.” She shivered. “I trusted you more than…more than I even wanted to…”

The ground beneath his feet vanished. “You trusted me?”

Buffy smiled. “Yes.”

“But you said you could never—”

“Hello? Front much? Spike, you know me better than anyone in the history of…people I’ve known. The fact that I did trust you is what really freaked me out.”

“How could you trust me?”

“How could I not?” she countered. “You guarded the Hellmouth while I was…gone. You protected Dawn every night. You…you nearly let Glory kill you to keep me from getting hurt. And then you were the only one I told about Heaven. The only one. If that isn’t trust, I dunno what is.” She wiped her eyes with a pathetic sniffle. “I trusted you so much…and that’s what hurt more than anything. More than what…what nearly happened in here. But that doesn’t change anything. I broke you over and over and over again. What happened in here…you didn’t mean it.”

“Buffy—”

“I saw your eyes. Rapists don’t look like that.”

Spike choked a sob, shaking his head hard. “Buffy, please—”

“They don’t.”

“My God, Buffy, please—”

“I kicked you and beat you and when I was done, it looked like Glory had come back specifically for who’s-the-key-torture: round two. I hurt you over and over again. And even…even with what happened, you never meant to hurt me.” She stepped forward and took his face in her hands again, brushing a soft kiss across his lips. “I know that. I know that, Spike. If you’d wanted to hurt me, you had every chance. The chip hasn’t worked on me for a year and a half; if you wanted to hurt me, you would have. The only time you ever hurt me is when I hit you first. When I started it.”

Words abandoned him completely. There was nothing to say—nothing to say at all. Buffy was in his arms, caressing his cheeks with her heavenly fingertips, her brow pressed intimately to his. “The point,” she whispered, “is I forgave you. You hurt me, but I forgave you immediately. And yeah, it took seeing you again before I even realized it. I saw you in that basement and I knew I’d…I’d forgiven you entirely. If Dawn hadn’t been in trouble, it would’ve taken a crane to get me from your side.”

Spike quivered and sighed. “Bloody hell, Slayer, I don’t deserve this,” he gasped. “I haven’t done anything to…I hurt you—”

“You hurt me,” she acknowledged. “But God, Spike, not nearly as much as I hurt you. But it’s over now. I forgave you. I had to so I could forgive myself. For everything. I had to forgive myself for ignoring Dawn. For pretending Willow’s problem was nonexistent, and then magically fixed the second it was thrown in my face. For not…and it was hard. Forgiving myself. Forgiving my friends for tearing me out of Heaven. And at the end of the day, forgiving you was the easiest thing I’ve ever done.” Buffy smiled through her tears and kissed his lips again with veneration that made his insides tremble. “Easiest thing.”

“I don’t…”

“Do you know what I told Willow right before my date with Robin?” she asked softly. “She was hinting at something and I automatically leapt to the conclusion that she was talking about you and me, and how I wasn’t ready to move on.”

“Move on?”

Buffy actually needed time with which to move on? From him? She needed time to move on? As though they’d actually had a relationship? Beyond the destructive punches and even more destructive words, and the fucking that led to physical satisfaction and emotional despair? Why?

“I asked Willow why everyone in the world thought that I was still in love with you.”

Spike’s unbeating heart plummeted in astonishment. She couldn’t possibly be saying what the words insinuated. “But you—”

She smiled weakly. “Freudian slip much?”

“Buffy—”

“And I seem to recall you telling me that you always hurt the one you love.” She shivered and kissed him again, and the taste of her made every inch of him ache with yearning and split with near unbearable shades of hope. “I’m so tired of running from this. I’m so tired.”

“What are you saying?” he asked. “I know I can’t…I don’t deserve anythin’, but please don’t muck with my head. I can’t bloody bear it. I love you too much, an’ I—”

“I love you, too.”

Of all the ways he’d envisioned Buffy whispering those words to him—rolling her hips against his as his cock pumped in and out of her hot silky pussy, lovingly taking him into her arms once she knew the truth about the soul; hell, even in a screaming match—it had never been like this. Never after telling him how much she trusted him. Never after telling him that she’d forgiven him for how badly he’d hurt her. Never with her eyes level with his with wet cheeks and a tender smile on her face.

It was the most perfect moment of his life.

And all he could do was weep with joy. “You love me?” he whimpered, jerking her to him before she could reply; all of his reactions were on autopilot. He consumed her in a fierce, hungry kiss, his mouth loving her for all she was worth. And just like that, the world around him vanished. The taste of Buffy was in his mouth again; her tears were in his throat, her tongue was wrapped around his. Her fingers tunneled through his hair, her teeth nipping at his lips, trying to swallow him whole. And he was helpless to do anything but let her.

“You love me?” he demanded between kisses, unwilling to let her go long enough to answer him. He didn’t want to give her the chance to clarify. He wanted to savor this. He wanted to freeze this moment. God, he wanted the world to end, because there was no possible way that life could get better after hearing those words. And yet he couldn’t stop asking her. The part of him that needed to know was stronger than the part of him that feared of the truth. He needed to know. “You love me?”

And amazingly, Buffy nodded, tugging him back for another ravenous kiss. “I do,” she gasped. “I love you. I love you.”

“Oh Buffy…”

“I’m head over heels crazy in love with you.”

Every corner of his body seared with bliss. He couldn’t stop touching her. It’d been too long since her warm flesh had been under his hands. Too long since he’d last drowned in her needy little whimpers. And before he could blink, the towel vanished and he had an armful of warm, aroused, naked Buffy. Buffy, who was sucking on his tongue like a woman starved. Buffy, who guided his hands to her breasts and gasped into his mouth when his eager fingers plucked at her thick nipples. Buffy, who was tugging at his fly and ravaging his lips.

“Why din’t you tell me?” Spike demanded, throwing his head back as her mouth nibbled a wet path down his neck. “Why?”

“I tried,” she countered, scraping her teeth across his aged bite mark. The one that had made him a vampire. “Didn’t you hear the…Buffy plus…talking…badness…part?”

“You did not try.”

“Yes I did!”

“Liar.”

“Well you didn’t…try to…to tell me…what I was…really feeling.”

Spike grinned in spite of himself and pinched her nipple, tugging at her earlobe with his teeth. “You…hate it when I do…that.”

“Nuh uh.”

“Tell me, Buffy.” He pulled away, needing to see her eyes. “Tell me again.”

“I love you.”

His heart sang. “Again.”

She smiled into his eyes as his hard cock sprang into her warm, waiting hand. “I love you,” she whispered. “I love you.”

“How much?” he whimpered, thrusting his hips against her with a desperate moan. “Oh fuck, your hot li’l hand…”

“You know me better than anyone has ever known me,” Buffy whispered, pumping the length of his cock in slow, tantalizing strokes. “You know me inside and out. And you’ve always been real. Always. You were my best enemy. My friend when I needed one. You’re the only man who’s never abandoned me.” She kissed him softly. “Not even when I did everything I could to chase you away. I wanted you to hate me at least half as much as I hated myself, and you didn’t. I hit you and you just loved me more.”

“I couldn’t help it,” Spike moaned. “Love you. Love you so much.”

“I love you, too. That’s what I’m trying…I love you more than…you’re real to me. You always have been.”

“Oh God…”

“And that’s why you scare me so much. My life isn’t real. It never has been. Not even pre-slayer.” Tightening her grip around his erection and licking at his jugular. “Look at me. I need to…see your eyes for this part.”

He immediately obliged.

“I need to let…I’m not gonna look away whenever we’re together again. I’ve never thought of Angel when I was with you. Never. I just wanted you to think I did.”

“It didn’t take, pet.” Her passionate moans couldn’t be denied—though the idea that she’d even wanted him to think otherwise hurt more than words could express. “I knew—”

“I know. The point I’m…Angel was a fantasy. He was a part of the fantasy world. He wasn’t real. Real scares me because it…” She caressed his cheek gently. “Because real is something you can’t do over. You have to give real your all. Fantasy…am I making any sense?”

Spike grinned. He knew exactly what she was trying to say, of course, and while he could throw her a line any time, the part of him that was floating with bliss just loved watching her fumble over explanations. It was bleeding adorable. “Not really.”

“So I don’t have the skill with words that you do,” she retorted cheekily. “All I can say is what makes sense to me. I’m through living in fantasy worlds. You’re real to me—what we have is real. It’s so real. And…I love you.”

“I’m never gonna get tired of hearing that.”

“I dunno. I’m gonna say it quite a bit.”

“Say it again now.”

Buffy giggled, and fuck if it wasn’t the most glorious sound that had ever tickled his ears. “Love you,” she murmured, drawing his tee over his head. “You might wanna hold onto the counter.”

It wasn’t difficult decoding her intent. His cock ached with want of her sweet, hot mouth. He wanted her eyes on him as she sucked him for everything he was worth. He wanted to thrust himself between those succulent lips of hers as love burned her emerald gaze. But he didn’t want her to feel like she had to prove anything to him. She owed him nothing. Nothing. But it didn’t stop him from wanting.

However, the sight of her dropping to her knees on the bathroom floor triggered the warning bells—warning bells that easily drowned out hysterical shrieking that had every nerve in his very male body dancing with glee. He knew she was doing it deliberately; that if her intent wasn’t to make a point, she would have dragged him to her bedroom rather than stay another second in this godforsaken room.

“Buffy—”

She winked at him, and amazingly, there was no hesitance in her eyes. As though she wasn’t kneeling before him on the very floor where he’d nearly raped her not even a year earlier. The fist that stroked his cock never once wavered. “No talking,” she warned, shifting his erection from her right to left hand. “Just enjoy.”

He laughed nervously at the insinuation that enjoying was an option. “Sweetheart, God…you…I want you so fucking much.”

“You got me,” she whispered, that magnificent tongue of hers licking sweetly at his swollen head. The moan that ripped through his throat made her fingers tremble against him, which only coaxed another moan. “You got me, Spike.”

There had never been sweeter words. “You don’t…we don’ have to do this here.”

She didn’t play dumb with him, and he appreciated that. “Yes, we really do.”

“Buffy, please…we…you don’t need to do this.” He paused and swallowed hard. “Not for me.”

“I’m not doing it for you.”

The implication made every scar on his body, no matter how aged, ache with pain beyond pain. “Oh Buffy, please don’t—”

“I’m not doing it for me, either, Spike.” She licked at the tip of his cock again, her eyes fluttering shut as though savoring his taste. “It’s for us. We need…I plan on living for a long, long, long time. At this rate, I pretty much figure the only way I’m ever gonna die is by suicide, and since that’s never happening, I’m a done deal. And I want to live with you.”

Spike threw his head back and moaned. “Buffy…”

“And I figure we’re pretty much married to the job, so we’ll be living here.”

“Oh baby…”

“Though I’m not above taking very, very extended vacations and letting others handle world-saveage for…months at a time.” Buffy’s lips brushed just slightly below the tip of his length, her mouth suckling at him with tenderness that had him shivering with both lust-beyond-lust as well as an overwhelming need to weep at her softness. “I want the bathroom to be safe for us again.”

He whimpered, words halting in his throat.

“I want you to remember this when we come in here…not what happened.”

God, he was crying again in earnest. He was such a sodding ninny. “Buffy…” he moaned. “Bleeding hell, I don’t deserve you. Never bloody did.”

“Stop that,” she berated softly just before taking him fully into her mouth, bobbing her head with slow leisure that, at the slightest touch, had him seeing stars. She had his balls cradled in her left palm, her fingers gently massaging the base of his erection as her mouth trailed the length of him back and forth. Then she released him and leaned back, whispering, “You deserve more than I can give you.”

Spike shook his head furiously, ignoring the smack of cold air against his wet cheeks. He stood as a house divided—torn thoroughly between ecstasy and guilt-drenched denial. Buffy’s words and the heavenly strokes of her warm mouth sent shards of pure bliss through his worn body, but the other end of the scale tipped the balance too much for him to believe anything. He knew Buffy believed it. The words she spoke were given life because she believed they were true. But wishing that he wasn’t a monster didn’t make it so. Saying he deserved her—deserved anything close to her—didn’t make it reality. Life didn’t work that way. Not even for slayers and the vampires that loved them.

But despite everything, Buffy was with him now. Buffy was on her knees, her succulent lips were around his cock. She was working him in and out of her mouth with such gentility that he couldn’t keep from trembling. Her left hand stroked his flesh as she drew him deeper into her throat, her right scaling slowly up her body until she had a handful of her own breast.

She was pinching her nipple while she sucked him. There had never been a more glorious sight.

“I want to get to know you all over again,” she whispered, lifting his cock as her hot, pink tongue lapped delicately at his underside, laving a path back to his tip before welcoming him back into her mouth. “I’ve wasted so much energy running from you.” Her palm kneaded his sac delicately, as though pressure would cause him to break. And God, for the first time in his long life, he felt completely cherished.

“Buffy…oh God…”

“No more.”

“Buffy!”

In all his years, he’d never been caressed like this. Not like he was worth something more than his body’s value. Not like he was a creature with thoughts and feelings and actual worth. He’d never been touched by a hand that loved him. The duality of sensation was too much—too bloody much—and before he could stop himself, he’d jerked away a bit.

Damned men didn’t deserve an angel’s touch, lest they burn alive.

Buffy whimpered in protest, her mouth following him. Like he was depriving her of a special treat. She didn’t comment; didn’t scowl at him for pulling away. She just wrapped those luscious lips around his sensitive head again, her hand moving gently against his sac. Every stroke of her tongue was like a whispered admission to paradise itself, burning him with pleasure so intent it was miraculous he didn’t dissolve on the spot. Her hand shifted in easy seconds, fingers wrapping around his erection to pump him in time with the idyllic movements of her mouth.

“My God…”

“Mmmm…”

Bloody hell, she sounded like she was enjoying this more than he was. Like she couldn’t get enough of the taste of him on her tongue. Her eyes were shut in pleasure, and the sight alone had his bones shivering in awe-laced ecstasy. “You’re a goddess,” he gasped. “My hot, glorious goddess.”

Buffy grinned and pressed his cock to his stomach, her heavenly tongue lapping gracefully at his testicles. “I’ve missed you,” she whispered. “Over the summer…God, I went through so much and you weren’t here to make sense of anything for me.”

Spike shook his head. “Impossible,” he objected, shards of rapture splitting his veins. “Bleeding impossible.”

She murmured something unintelligible as she skimmed the underside of his cock again until her lips were once more wrapped around his head, humming around him contentedly.

“Feel so good,” he rumbled. “My Buffy…”

“Yours,” she agreed breathlessly when she released him, licking at his head. “Entirely.”

He was still half-convinced she had staked him—that he was actually in some form of limbo wherein his body was worshipped in ways he could never truly earn. No matter how many souls he fought for, no matter how many tears he cried, no matter how many times he fell to his knees and begged for forgiveness, he never believed this possible. The idea that Buffy could ever be his was so far beyond anything he’d ever dreamt of touching.

And yet here she was. Her fist pumped his cock in time with her mouth’s sucks. Her tongue laved his underside again, brushing a tender kiss against his balls. She touched him like she’d never touched him before. Like she wanted to commit him to memory. Her touch was so soft it drove him sodding out of his mind. So beyond anything she’d ever given him.

“Love you,” he whimpered, shaking so hard he was sure he was about to collapse. Every stroke whispered like fire against his skin. Her scent flooded his nostrils—the rich allure of Buffy-wet. Buffy-aroused. Buffy-anything, and it was so real. So real his insides bled. “I love you…so much. And I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry for everything. I—”

Buffy licked her way back to his tip. “It’s okay,” she whispered, her mouth engulfing him all over again. She measured the length of him in long strokes, her tongue swirling around him as though she was devouring an ice-pop. “I forgave you. It’s over now.”

“B-Buffy—”

“I’m sorry, too.” She coated his cock with kisses, her hand dipping again to caress his balls as the tip of her tongue delved to taste the sensitive slit at his tip. “For everything.”

He whimpered and wove his fingers through her hair. “Nothin’…to…”

Buffy opened her eyes long enough to give them a good, incredulous roll. “Uh huh,” she retorted cynically, her hand favoring him with a good squeeze.

“I’m the one—”

Something that sounded suspiciously like a growl rumbled through her throat. “Stop.”

It was bloody difficult, fighting the temptation to fist her hair and hold her to him. To drive his hips forward with brutal need and fuck her mouth until his cock was lodged so deeply down her throat that she’d taste him for months. “Fucking…”

“Stop apologizing to me,” she demanded.

“Wha—”

“Stop. Apologizing.” Buffy leaned back on her legs, her fist gliding up and down his cock fervently in the absence of her mouth. His fingers massaged her scalp with growing intensity, his warring emotions battling with the last of his onerous guilt. He wanted to let go so badly—to not feel this ache anymore. To do exactly as she wanted and just allow her forgiveness to absolve his sins. But the larger part of him protested that it couldn’t be that easy. It shouldn’t be that easy. That while Buffy had forgiven him, there was no way he’d be able to forgive himself.

“I’ve never known anything to defeat you, Spike,” she said slowly, her hungry eyes glued on her hand as she stroked his cock. “Never.”

“B-Buffy—”

“We can’t redo what’s been done. We can’t. But we’re here now, and I love you so much it…I didn’t know if you wanted me anymore. For the monster I was to you.” She paused and leaned in again, licking him from balls to tip and suckling his head once more into her mouth. Then she pulled away again and said, “We hurt each other. But that’s over. It’s over.”

Spike released her head, his hands falling to her wrists. “Up,” he demanded harshly. “Need you up here.”

She left his cock with a parting kiss, and was in his arms the next second, their mouths ravaging each other with hunger beyond hunger. Her tongue had a mind to conquer, and he was hopeless to offer anything but complete surrender. Bugger the rest; she was right. God, she was so right. No amount of apologizing could ever erase what he’d done to her—could ever mend the fences they’d destroyed while systematically trying to destroy each other. Buffy trying to destroy him with her hatred; Spike trying to destroy her with his love. Over and over again, they had fought each other as two imperfect beings who had been handed the wrong script.

But it was over now. It was over. And God, she was right beyond wisdom. Beyond knowledge or understanding. She was right above everything. The past couldn’t be touched—couldn’t be redone. There was nothing to gain from looking back but appreciation on what he had right now. What the present had yet to take away. Buffy was in his arms. She was sucking his tongue into her mouth as her legs fought to shove his jeans completely off his legs.

“Back,” she gasped into his mouth. In a blink, her legs were around his waist, his hands under each hip, and she was motioning for the tub. The tub that was still somewhat full of bathwater and dissipating raspberry bubbles. “In there.”

He’d take her wherever she wanted. His body burned with absolution. His eyes soaked up every delicious inch of her. Buffy was here. She was really here. She was really in his arms, her small, perfect hand stroking his cock. Her warm, slick pussy was his for the taking. Restraint was gone—reservation chucked successfully out the window. Because she was right. Because wallowing in the past never did anyone any good. He’d hurt her, she hurt him, but they were still together. She was still in his arms. She was in his arms, pressing open-mouthed kisses down the side of his neck. After all the hurt, they were still together.

And she loved him.

Buffy loved him.

“Oh God…”

She released his cock and linked an arm around his neck, her free hand fumbling behind her for the faucet. “I love you,” she whispered. “Spike, I really do. I love you.”

White clarity burst through every cell, his lips falling to her skin. And when he whispered, “I know,” it was the truth. He’d felt it in every stroke of her mouth. In every caress of her hand. In the infinite warmth of her eyes. Water poured from the shower nozzle, and for the first time—for the first real time since he’d crawled out of that pit in Africa—he felt truly cleansed. He felt blessed.

“Touch me,” she whimpered, thrusting against him desperately. “I need—”

“Know what you need, kitten,” he murmured as his hand slipped between them. He parted her pussy-lips slowly, his middle finger taking gentle consideration in rubbing her wet, dripping flesh before finally landing on her swollen clit. “Christ, you burn me up.”

“Oh God!”

“Why on earth would you think…” He blinked hard and shook his head. “Think that I don’t want you? I’ve bloody well told you—”

“Buffy stupid,” she moaned into his shoulder, thrusting her hips against his hand. “Buffy very stupid.”

“I told you it’s always been you. I told you.”

“Hearing it and knowing it are two different things, buster.” The scowl she leveled his way was so adorable he couldn’t help but pinch her clit just to see it melt into a needy mewl. “As you should know.”

“My feelings for you have never been—”

“Spike, please!” She bucked wildly. “Do you wanna argue about silly things, or do you wanna fuck me?”

“No fucking.” He was through fucking her. He’d spent too many nights wanting desperately to make love to her only to end up giving her the hard fucking she wanted. No more. Not for a long time, anyway—not until their scars were fully healed. “I’m not gonna fuck you, Buffy. It’s—”

Her eyes softened a bit. “Sorry. My bad.”

“Buffy—”

“I meant love me. Love me,” she whispered, her lips brushing his. “Please.”

Any lingering reservations promptly melted. Her heart was open to him. Her feminine folds were brushing the head of his cock in ways that would drive any sane man mad. He had the woman he loved in his arms, and for the first time, there was no harshness. No cold veneer. There was only warmth.

“Always,” Spike murmured. His left arm wrapped fully around her waist, holding her to him as his other hand took hold of his cock. He soaked up several delicious seconds in teasing her, rubbing his head along her folds and teasing her clit until his body was wound so tight it was a wonder he hadn’t yet popped.

“Spike! Please!”

“I love you. I always sodding have.”

“Then show me.”

There was nothing in the world he could hope to deny her. Especially not with that look in her eyes and those words on her lips. Spike kissed her hard, his brain again stuck on record. Not because he thought this would vanish once it was over; because he knew it wouldn’t. The love he felt rolling through her body couldn’t be fabricated; it was too pure, too radiant, too beyond anything he’d ever dreamt up. His wildest fantasies could never hope to touch anything like this. And with a long, strangled moan of completion, his cock slipped inside her, and the final walls of Jericho collapsed. Fire blazed across his wet skin. The clouds that had followed him from Africa finally parted. There with Buffy in his arms, with her vaginal walls wrapped tightly around his prick, with her heat scorching every inch of his formerly broken body, every splash of red washed away for good. She cried out and bit his shoulders, her nails digging tunnels into his flesh. In all his years, he’d never had a sweeter homecoming.

“Oh Buffy,” he whimpered, again fighting the urge to cry. “I’ve missed you so much.”

“Ohhh…” She tossed her head back and her fingers clutching him tighter. “Spike…missed you, too.”

“Never leavin’ again,” he swore, lifting her just slightly off his cock before surging within her again. “God, you’re so tight. So tight. How long has it—”

“No one since you.”

A part of him had known that all along, but the larger part had always thought she’d do everything she could to erase him from her body. To forget what he’d done to her, and the mock of a relationship that had preceded his crime.

Then again, that was before. That was before tonight. Before she’d told him she loved him. Before he had the breadth of her forgiveness in his hands.

Her right hand braced the back of his neck and wove through his hair. Her lips pressed a kiss against his sire’s mark. Her pussy tightened around him. Her hot, slick juices coated his length. Her body was his temple, and he intended to worship his fill.

“Please,” Buffy whispered. “Need…”

“I know, baby. Just…trying to get over the shock.”

“Shock?”

“Being inside you after so long.” He turned so that her back was pressed against the longer stretch of tiled-wall. “Don’t want this to be over before it even starts.”

And for the heat ripping across his cock, it was a wonder he’d lasted this long as it was. There wasn’t an inch of her that wasn’t doused in perfection. The way she caressed his skin. The way her mouth danced across aged scars. The way her eyes swallowed his. God, he’d never had her eyes before. Not once. Not once had she looked at him. Not beyond a flickered glance before she twisted her head from his. Looking at Buffy now only to have her look back—even as his hips starting moving and his cock began the slow slip and slide from her pussy—made him feel, for all their past, that they finally had a first.

“Oh my God.”

“Spike…”

“You…God, Buffy, you feel so good.” The words were cheap compared to what he wanted to say. What he couldn’t convey simply by speaking. He felt like a creation of Milton, only found rather than lost. “So good.”

A small smile touched her face and her lips found his, her muscles contracting around him as he helped her rise off his cock and sink down again. “You too,” she whispered. “So good.”

Spike’s brow found hers and his hold on her hips tightened. The few agonizing seconds of reclamation finally fell to the wayside, and he remembered what he was supposed to be doing. Hard and rough would come later, when he felt more in control of himself. More capable of loving her while smashing inside her at the same time than he did right now. Right now, he wanted to savor everything. The flesh that burned him every time he drew out of her pussy and the warmth that welcomed him inside. The way she arched her pelvis into him with need, fighting to recapture his cock whenever he pulled away. Her eyes were wide and her heart was open, and the whole of her belonged to him.

At long last.

A sentiment he didn’t register that he had vocalized until she licked at his neck and squeezed her slayer muscles around him.

“Yes,” she breathed. “Oh yes. I’m yours.”

“Buffy…”

“So yours.”

His eyes fell shut and his thrusts grew harder. His. She was his. It was there. Right there in the open for anyone to hear. He was driving himself inside her pussy. Her breasts were pressed against his chest and her teeth were clamped at his ear. And she was his. She’d said it—she was his.

His fangs itched to make it permanent, but he held his demon at bay. Instead, he buried his face between her breasts and growled, sucking a nipple between his lips and smashing into her with ferocity that offset his intent. One didn’t simply go around and throw those words at vampires. Not unless one knew what they meant—or how dangerous they could be if not taken seriously.

The demon growled but he ignored it. The demon had already stolen too much.

“Oh God!” she cried, arching against the wall. “Oh my God.”

Spike’s growls grew louder in reply, but he refused to release her breast. Too afraid of what the demon might do in the heat of the moment. The fleeting aspirations of slow and gentle were shoved aside in the want of need. His plans never lasted, anyway. Not when she was moaning like that and writhing around him. Not when her nails scratched his arms and those wondrous slayer muscles of hers tightened to the brink where pleasure and pain were a combined force. He drove into her with fury, months of repression and need coursing off his tired body. Her flesh molded around him. Her heady moans tickled his ears. Her pussy thrust against his cock and her body tightened in recognition.

“Oh my God!” she cried, her eyes meeting his. His mouth remained locked stubbornly around her breast. And watching her as she watched him tease her nipple only coaxed the flames higher. “Oh…Spike!”

He growled and his thrusts quickened. She was so fucking glorious and she didn’t even know it.

“Touch…touch me.”

His tongue flicked her nipple, his body surging with empowerment that he thought the world had ripped away for good. That flash of ego that had occasionally shown its head since his return emerged now at full force. He drank her in greedily, determined to mark her body beyond the point of healing. He never wanted her to recover from him as he would never recover from her. Each plunge into her pussy only heightened his avarice. He rocked her against the wall as water beat down on them, so lost in her warmth that the sun could peel his skin away and he wouldn’t notice.

And he loved seeing what he did to her. After years of fantasizing about her, after the miserable months he’d actually had her in his bed, watching her eyes grow wide with need and pleas tear off her lips meshed a world of endless fantasy with the hard lines of reality. Only fantasy couldn’t hope to compare.

“Spike, please!” Buffy slid her own hand between their rocking bodies. “Please…”

“You need to come, baby?”

She nodded desperately. “Oh God, yes.”

Spike grinned and batted her wrist aside. As much as he loved watching her stroke herself, he’d waited too long to have her not to orchestrate her climax. Later, he wanted that luscious pearl between his lips and her thighs around his face. He wanted to lap up her womanly juices and dip his tongue so deep inside her that she’d wonder how she’d managed to survive without him. But for now, he’d settle with rubbing her so good that she lost feeling in her legs.

His fingers brushed her clit as the thrusts of his cock grew harder, and the euphoric gasp that touched the air was so damn addictive he resolved to bring it out as often as possible. “You like that?” he growled.

Buffy choked a sob, bucking wildly against him. “Oh yes. Oh yes.”

“You feel so fucking wonderful, baby.”

“Spike…”

He left her breast with a long, parting lick, his mouth hungry for hers. He wanted to feel her tongue against his as she cried out and drenched his cock. As she gripped his arms and squeezed him into oblivion. “Come for me, kitten,” he panted. “Wanna feel you come for me.”

“Unh!”

It happened then. His body slamming her into the wall as he consumed her in a hot, searing kiss. She poured a moan into his mouth and her pussy-walls clamped hard around him, tremors riding through her body that had the ground quaking beneath his feet. The heavens opened and the roar in his ears died at last. Her pussy smacked hard against him even as waves of orgasm washed over her, suctioning his cock inside her with aching desperation. Her fingers bruised his arms. She swallowed his tongue and came back for more. Her body’s explosion was sudden but complete, and he didn’t allow her reprieve. He kept thrusting within her, massaging her slippery, inflamed clit, determined to milk this moment for all its worth.

“Spike. Oh god. Oh my GOD!”

“Oh Buffy…” He whimpered, brushing his lips against her temple reverently. “I love you so much.”

With a last, trembling sigh, he spilled himself inside her. Blinding white crashed over his eyes, and for a blink of a glorious second, he saw the face of God. Buffy was around him. Running her hands over his body, kissing his skin with her swollen lips. Love bathed every fiber. And when her glossy, sated eyes met his, he could have sworn he’d kissed the sun.

Water rained upon them. Buffy was in his arms. Her wet, pliant body was pressed against his. Her legs were around his waist. And God, he was unwilling to leave her. With her head on his shoulders, her scent in his nostrils, and her warm, silken pussy cradling his cock. Buffy was with him.

And that night, naked, they turned down her bed together.

“Our bed,” she whispered heatedly. “Ours. From now on.”

There wasn’t an inch of him that didn’t tremble with awe. “Ours,” he echoed. “Buffy…”

“I’m not hiding, Spike. I lost you once before because I hid…from you. From my friends. Really, from me. I hid from me the most.” She paused. “Not again. I love you too much to lose you again.”

Then she was in his arms, kissing him with sweetness that again had his eyes filling with tears.

He didn’t know how it had happened, but he would never question it. Never. Not with Buffy in his arms. Not with Buffy’s mouth on his skin. Not with love in her eyes and his name on her lips.

The screams had finally silenced. His hands were finally clean.

And now, at last, he was home.