Chapter 20: Interview
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"He's not what he seems." Phone at her ear, Buffy walked out of the law office and headed home. "I told you last night, Cordy. He's a player."
"But he didn't even play me!" Cordelia cried in disbelief. "He disappeared for like twenty minutes for his business chat, and when he gets back it's all, let me see you out Buffy, pleasure to meet you all, buh-bye! Where did I go wrong? What changed in those twenty minutes?"
I win. "I really couldn't tell you."
"Maybe it was the owner," Cordelia speculated while Buffy zoned out on sensory recall. "Maybe he upset him with pie charts. It couldn't have been me. Right?"
Narrowly avoiding a crash with another pedestrian, Buffy said, "Let it go and move on. Take it from me, you'll be saving yourself a world of pain and agony."
"Take it from you? Wait... did you ever... with--?"
"Ew! No! Oh. No. Gross, Cordelia." She really needed to watch what she said. Especially around women. "Take it from me, as told by Lindsey."
"God, you scared me for a second! Of course you didn't. I mean, incestuous ick factor aside, I can't really see you being his type. He's clearly attracted to big, dynamic, force of nature personalities. Like mine."
It never failed: when a guy came between them, Cordelia went right back to high school. And so did she. "Riight, huge personalities. That's what drives all the boys wild."
"Super-rich, confident men," Cordelia talked down to her, "want women who can be their equal, make them laugh, charm diplomats and kings or whatever and not be all surly and disrespectful like you. Also, they marry brunettes. It's statistically proven."
"Wow," Buffy said. "I better change my hair and stop being so surly if I want to marry someone super-rich and confident."
"I'm not talking about Lindsey. He didn't work for his fortune. Plus, I'm willing to bet he hardly knows his Dad. I bet Spike's a totally good person who just made some honest parenting mistakes, and Lindsey's gone and vilified him for some blocked out childhood trauma. He should go to therapy and work that out."
Buffy blinked. Cordelia and her psychic powers. She and Spike could start their own 1-900 network. "You realize you're making excuses for someone who brushed you off."
"I think he was just distracted."
"Listen to me. This is from my observation, not Lindsey's: Spike Pratt is a snake. A big, slimy, poisonous snake that squeezes you until you can't breathe and makes you..." She started over, flustered by where that made her brain go. "He's just bad."
"Yeah, yeah, down with capitalism, go poverty! Easy for you to say. Will you just give him my number?"
"No, Cordelia. I'm not gonna be a part of this."
"Fine. I'll go to Pratt Enterprises myself. I should at least get to interview for the job."
"Cordy, there is no job! Don't you get it? What part of poisonous snake do you not--?"
"Miss Summers?"
Great. Speak of the snake. Or, the snake's bodyguard/driver who'd just called her name from the curb, a stone's throw from her apartment building -- on the night she was supposed to be having a cozy birthday dinner with her husband. Spike was getting way too bold.
"Sorry, Cordy, I have to go." She closed the phone and begrudgingly faced the car. "Garrett."
"Mr. Pratt would--"
"--like a moment of my time?"
"Yes, ma'am."
At least Spike hadn't rented a stretch limo; he was back in the less conspicuous Rolls he'd taken to the art benefit. "Well, he can't have it. Just... He can't."
"He says he promises not to touch you in the car. He only wants to talk."
"And how do I know he's not crossing his fingers and toes?"
Garrett's stony expression didn't change at all.
O...kay, humor didn't work, so Buffy tried another tack: "Doesn't it bother you that your boss has you sweet-talk his booty calls for him?"
He looked her in the eyes and replied levelly, "Only when it takes a while."
Well, that shut her up. The last thing she wanted was to make anyone's crappy job crappier. And, admittedly, a bone-shattering bodygasm wouldn't be the worst start to her evening.
Garrett opened the door for her, and she got into the backseat.
The empty backseat.
The door shut.
She pulled on the handle, but couldn't open it. "Hey! Garrett! What the--?"
The engine started up and the car merged into traffic. Buffy banged on the partition, yelled through the intercom, but got no response.
Her phone rang. Guess who. "What the hell, Spike?"
"Oh," he said as if he'd just remembered. "You're coming to my place."
"I... gah!" She was going to kill him after they had sex. "I could have you arrested for this, you know."
"But you won't."
"Promising not to touch me 'in the car'," she said. "That's just low."
"Kept my promise, didn't I? I told you, I'm a man of my word."
"You are so lucky Lindsey had to work late tonight."
"Are you talking to me or yourself? Because I'm not afraid of him."
She huffed. "I can't stay long. I have a dog to walk and things to do--"
"I'll send someone to walk your mongrel. Do you see the bag on the floor?"
There was a paper shopping bag near her feet. She toed it. "What is it?"
"Don't be so suspicious. Look inside."
The first thing she saw was the sheer high-waisted pantyhose. "You've gotta be kidding me."
"I'm dead serious. Strip naked and start over with everything in that bag. I'll see you in my office."
Blouse, skirt, push-up bra, box of shoes, Joy perfume... "What makes you think I'd do this for you?"
He'd already hung up.
* * *
Buffy felt ridiculous. All she needed was a pair of glasses and a stripper pole, and the look would be complete.
And the shoes? So not made for walking. She was pretty sure Nigel was laughing on the inside when he opened the door to Spike's den.
But then she saw Spike look up at her, and she wet the nylons a little.
One corner of his mouth curled, and she rolled her eyes to the side, trying not to smile.
"Well," he said, throwing his pen down and leaning back in his chair. "Who might you be?"
"I 'might' be Buffy Summers-Pratt."
"Oh, come on. Play with me."
"What? I'm in the outfit!"
"At least lose the Pratt."
"Okay." She drummed her fingers on her hips, breathed in, and held her chin high. "I might be Buffy Summers."
He sized her up. "Here about the job, I see. Come. Have a seat."
Trying to maintain her balance and a shred of dignity, she teetered toward him, tight nylon hose rubbing against her smooth sex. "This isn't the shoe of choice for most secretaries, FYI."
"Pity." He watched her sit, cross and uncross her legs, try to pull her short black skirt down. "Now, Miss Summers." He steepled his hands and looked important. "Tell me why you want to work for me."
"I--" She couldn't do this. "Spike, what is this? What do you want?"
"You. Obviously."
"Yeah, but this isn't me."
Picking up a rubber band, he got out of his chair and walked behind her. "I know it's hard for you to be with me, Buffy." Her eyes closed as he combed his fingers over her scalp, swept her hair up and tied it in the back. "I thought you might like to be someone else tonight."
Someone else. He outlined the side of her neck, his tingly caress moving to her white satin collar, over her shoulder and down her left arm to her wedding ring.
"Someone... without guilt." Kneeling beside her now, his voiced lowered to a murmur as he eased the ring all the way off of her trembling hand. "Someone with a bit less at stake."
Restraining the urge to take it back, she watched him regard her ring, spinning it between his thumb and forefinger.
"Now," he placed it on the desk and touched her chin, "all you are is a gorgeous young thing looking for work."
Her eyes met his. "If you're in any way thinking of Cordelia--"
"Cordelia?" He laughed, and stood up. "Do you know how many Cordelias I meet on a regular basis? Girls who look at me with little dollar signs in their eyes? Do you know how often I've had to say 'you're lovely, but no thank you' in the last eight years? Think about it, Buffy. She's nothing new to me."
"Yeah, well. It turns out she really wants this job."
"I see." Leaning against the desk, he folded his arms and sniffed. "Guess you'll have to convince me you want it more."
She thought about this. "Promise you won't hire her if I do?"
"Convince me properly and I'll put that in writing tonight."
"Well, first off, Mr. Pratt," she said, inciting a wolf grin, "I just love to travel."
"Hold that thought, Miss Summers." He went back to his side of the desk, pulled up his chair, straightened his tie and got serious. "Do go on."
"I'm fluent in French, proficient in German, I know some basic Japanese and I just started learning Spanish."
He looked surprised and impressed. "Si, que es una ventaja."
"I can translate legalese. I can find the catch in any binding document."
Sucking air through his teeth, he said, "Ooh."
"I'm calm under pressure. I'm highly organized and extremely efficient. I'm a self-starter, and I learn fast." She crossed her legs and squeezed her thighs together, starting to like the feel of the nylon and the thought of him itching to get his hands on it. "I'm also an excellent substitute for a mirror."
Spike chuckled, momentarily disarmed. "I'll say. You've got quite a lot to offer, Miss Summers. But I'm not completely convinced you want this."
She bit her glossy lip and lightly traced her clavicle with her bare ring finger. "I can offer you total dedication, Mr. Pratt."
His adam's apple moved, and his voice got hollow. "Is that right?"
"I would do anything," she said, timbre of her voice matching his, "for this job."
He ran a finger across his desk, following the meandering course of hers. "Would you be available to me any time of day or night?"
"Always," she said.
His eyelashes fluttered and he tapped the desk.
She was getting almost a sick satisfaction out of telling him what he wanted to hear while she had the freedom to lie. "I could move in right away."
He seemed to struggle with this the most, letting out a sharp breath, akin to a bitter laugh.
"And I would wear whatever you wanted me to, wherever you wanted me to wear it."
His eyes met hers. "You must really want this."
"I do, Mr. Pratt," she said, subtly peeling back her collar to expose more of her push-up bra cleavage. "I want this more than anything."
His jaw flexed, and he whispered, "Show me."
Keeping her eyes on his, she started at the top button and went all the way down, eased the blouse off her shoulders, and began to unclasp the bra.
"Slowly," he said.
She kept her breasts covered until she brought the bra straps down her arms and off.
"Now," he said. "Lick your fingertips and touch your nipples."
She circled a moist fingertip around her pink areola, teasing him and herself. She felt her pussy swell and throb against the pinching nylon.
Nostrils flaring, his breath got louder as he watched her, hands folded on the desk. "Spread your legs. Move your chair back so I can see."
"Yes, sir, Mr. Pratt." She pushed the chair back, leaned backward, and hooked one knee over each arm of the leather chair.
"Rub your stockinged cunt, Miss Summers." He tilted his head to watch with hooded eyes. "Tell me how it feels."
"Wet," she said, and licked her fingers.
"Get up on the desk. Now."
She climbed on the desk, crawled over his papers and pens and her wedding ring and let him grab her neck to kiss her and unpin her hair.
Foreheads touching, he whispered, "God, what you do to me."
She was struck with the urge to taste him. He hadn't let her yet and as of right now it was becoming an issue. "Stand up, let me--"
"No." He caught her hands at his zipper, gave her another kiss. "I've got a fantasy to fulfill." He smacked the desk. "Sit."
Fine... She'd let him have his pantyhose-ripping fantasy. This time. Aiming to not break anything with her heavy, lethal fetish shoes, she took a seat in front of him and spread her legs.
He took her thighs in his arms to slide her butt to the very edge, then pulled up his chair like he was about to dig in to a rare delicacy. That you eat with your face.
He started with a kiss. It was almost chaste, and sort of adorable with the way he looked up at her to gauge her reaction.
Possessive hands gliding over her sensitive inner thighs, he spread her legs in a wide split.
Then his warm tongue snaked out to lathe her from bottom to top and she moaned, falling on her elbows. Their gazes reconnecting, she shook and whimpered as he sampled her with a smile.
"Oh, fuck," she said, spasming as he fastened his mouth over her sex. Her skull hit the desk. It only hurt for a second.
He began to slurp and chew at her. Noisily. She took hold of his hair. She thrashed helplessly as he ripped a hole in the center of the pantyhose and stuck his fingers through, curving them up to hit her g-spot while he sucked her clitoris through the fabric.
"Ooh. Ooh. Yeah. Don't stop, gonna come--"
He stopped, tore a bigger hole, stuck his drenched fingers in her mouth and speared his cock into her, making her shout and bite down.
"I'm not sure I'm convinced, Miss Summers," he said, rattling the desk and her body with every hard thrust, "you'll just have to give me a little... bit... more."
"I -- unh! -- I wanna work for you, Mr. Pratt," she cried with unintentional vibrato, arms spreading out and causing an avalanche, "I wanna work for you so! hard!"
"Points for enthusiasm," he said with an infectious schoolboy giggle, hair all cute and tousled.
"Oh! Yeah! Mr. Pratt! Hire me! Hire me deeper! And, unh! Faster!"
Laughing with her, he rammed into her deeper and faster. "When can you start?"
"Now?"
"You're hired." Throwing one of her legs over his shoulder, he bit and licked her stockinged thigh, then the bare skin after tearing a hole.
"Unh! Yeah! Rip it off me. Do it. I'm all yours now."
Growling, he violently ripped the hose off of her body as he fucked her, eyes glazed over with unmitigated lust.
She came up to meet him and grabbed his head to say, "Touch my spot."
He rubbed her sweat-slick lower back and nibbled her ear, whispering, "You all mine now, baby?"
"Yeah, just like that..." She clenched her thighs around his hips as a climax built up inside her.
Over their belabored grunts, so close, so close, she heard the strangest noise -- hydraulics, like an elevator or something... Hazily, she turned her head toward it.
The wall of devil posters was moving, revealing a dark hidden room beyond.
Her orgasm crested and she convulsed in release, toes cramping in her narrow shoes. Keeping his face buried in her neck, she blinked her eyes wide and tried to make sense of what she was seeing: A huge black cross, with shackles and chains hanging from it, and behind that, an entire wall of whips and masks and horrifying torture devices and, oh god, he was coming in her, begging her to stay and be all his forever and ever...
She began to shake uncontrollably. "...Spike?"
He turned his head and saw it. "How...?" He scrambled to find the button on the desk to close it back up again. "Bloody fucking hell."
"That's what you do to them?"
"It's not--" He exhaled sharply. "Fuck. Whatever you're thinking, Buffy, it's not that bad, all right? It just looks--"
"Get off me."
"Buffy, you've got to believe me--"
"I need my ring." Panic rising, she wriggled off the desk and searched the fallout on the Persian rug. Tears sprang to her eyes. "Where is it?"
"Calm down, love, we'll find it."
"Don't. Call me 'love'." She shuffled through papers and felt him close in. "Get away from me!"
He stepped back, chastened. "I'll um, I'll have Nigel get your things."
* * *
Buffy got dressed in the car, compulsively thumbing her wedding ring like it was her only thread to reality.
Spike had let her go without a fight. It was a good choice. If he'd tried to keep her there or god forbid tried to explain, she might have clubbed him with her shoe.
Eyes stinging, she reread the business card she'd found under his desk.
Above the Beverly Hills address and phone number for Masterson Top Models, Spike had scribbled the name Chanterelle.
A teardrop fell on the ink. Buffy wiped her cheek, stuffed the card into her bag and thumbed her wedding ring.
The chest-wracking sobs started a few minutes later.
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