When The Dust Settles

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I'm not sure what my expectations were, but finding the Slayer riding me to
a frenzy wasn't one of them. I wanted to break her, to show her what she
was, maybe rile her up and make her fight me, get out some of that anger,
but I'll be damned if she didn't latch onto me instead.

Not that I'm complaining, mind you, but Holy Fucking God, she's tight. And
I'm in so deep inside of her that it's killing me. Other women have held
back, unable to take me to the hilt, but I'm buried so far inside of her
that I brush her womb every time she slams down on me. And the look on her
face says that it isn't hurting her. No, she just moves harder and harder
and I have to fight to control myself. I've been too close to coming since
she first slammed her fist against my face. Sick, isn't it?

I don't know how to explain it, even to myself. I tell the little voice in
my head to shut up when it reminds me that this is probably a one time deal.
I tell it that she's getting the shagging of her life, just listen to her
cry out, and that she'll be back. I tell it that she finally realized that
what keeps us in each others lives is the undeniable chemistry, the
fatalistic attraction that will cause us to go at each other until we bleed,
or die. I tell it that I'm as much in her system as she is in mine, that the
reason the stake that fell from her skirt didn't land in my chest is because
she knows she has feelings for me.

I tell it I love her. And if she wants to use me and abuse me, my heart will
let her, no matter what my mind says.

The building comes down around us, crumbling, beams falling as I turn her
and pound her into the wall. This is better anything I've had. Her arms are
up over her head, latching onto the wall, and then she's pumping up and
down, harder, faster still.

Then we fall, and we fall, and we fall. I land hard on my back, but I'm
oblivious to any pain it might cause. I'm still inside her, she's still on
top of me. Dust begins to settle and she sits up straight. I want to see all
of her, I want to touch all of her. I push the coat over her shoulders and
she helps me. Then her shirt comes off, I toss it over my head and she
stills on top of me, concentrating on the feel of my cold hands on her pert
little breasts. Her nipples are hard, rock hard, and they're the color of
midnight roses that I saw in Italy. I sit up, catching one with my mouth,
and roll my tongue around it, earning something that sounds like a squeal
from the Slayer.

Then she pushes me back roughly and stands. I fall from her and start to
protest, but she's only unzipping her skirt. She has on knee high boots, and
I think she'll take those off, too, but she doesn't. Instead, she stands
there, totally naked except for the boots, and looks at me. All that's
missing is a
whip. Not that she would need it. I wonder if she knows what she's doing to
me.

She comes to me again and rips my shirt from my body with one fierce tug.
There's a fire in her eyes I've never seen before, it almost burns me when
she appraises my naked chest and kneels to kiss me again. I somehow manage
to get my pants off while she's kissing me, then I hook her behind the knees
and pull her down, so that's she's sitting on my face. I have to taste her
wetness. I have to know what her honeyed need tastes like.

I tease her clit, which is just as hard and distended as her nipples, and I
smile. I did this to her, aroused her to this point. When I plunge my tongue
into her, I'm unprepared for the sweetness, the perfection. She tastes
incredible. Better than blood. Better than whiskey. She tastes like candy,
like the candy my mum used to buy me for a penny.

She reaches her second orgasm and her completion fills me. I roll us and I'm
inside her again and she's clawing at me with her need. Her hips lift up to
meet mine every time I slap against her, her voice chants my name over and
over in a hoarsely seductive whisper. I come with every ounce of power that
I have, filling her so much that her eyes pop open and she cries out again.
There's three. I still have it.

I fall on top of her, spent, and she says nothing, just runs her fingers
through the hair at my neck. I listen to her heart pounding against her
breast, listen to her lungs fill with air and release it, listen to the
blood pump through her veins and I know that I could kill her with my bare
hands right now. I could strangle her. I could snap her neck. I could sink
my fangs into her neck and drink deep. I could. But I don't.

"Spike," she murmurs sleepily.

"Yes, luv?" I ask, sounding like a lovesick schoolboy.

"Get off me. I can't breathe."

I slide off her and move to the side. She stands and I expect her to gather
her things and go. Instead, she grabs my duster and pulls it around her,
then she lays back down beside me, her head on my chest. "You don't have to
breathe," she adds, as if I questioned her lying there.

I don't know if this is a good sign or a bad sign.

But she falls asleep.

And I lay awake for a long time trying to convince myself it really
happened.

Sometime before sunrise, I'll be pulled from sleep, and it'll happen again.

The End