Chapter 29, Part 1: Yours
[ Read the whole story | Read the last installment | Chapter list ]
Spike and his pink fetish.
As she glossed her smirking lips in the back seat of his Rolls, Buffy envisioned Spike's reaction to the bubblegum-hued bikini she wore under her casual tank dress. Was it strictly for eye candy, like her gown at the art benefit, or would he be tearing it from her body with his teeth? Granted, if she'd been game, he probably would have done that at the art benefit...
It was funny, how drastically their relationship had changed in just a few short months. Of her own accord, she'd gone to her salon and got the Spike Special: highlights, mani/pedi in his favorite shade, barely-there wax... and she didn't feel at all like a robo-whore. She felt powerful. Sensational. And really, really sexy.
Her phone chimed, alerting her to a reality check from Lindsey. Ignoring it until the worry took over, she fished it out of her beach bag and read his message.
Is it true love or just a fling?
Buffy's perfectly stacked house of cards began to shake above her head, threatening to collapse: Did her husband know about her affair? Oh, God, he'd pretended he didn't know, but he obviously did, and now he was messing with her, waiting until she was on her way to Spike, and what kind of sarcastic bullshit was...
That's when she saw the accompanying photo of Huey being humped by a male Dalmatian at the dog park.
Deflating, she laughed at herself, and the photo. Of course; he was at the dog park with Huey. He was joking about their dog, who had a rep around those parts for being a bisexual bottom. Lindsey wasn't onto her -- in fact, he was so grateful to be forgiven for his indiscretion, he never even asked who she'd made plans with. 'The girls' was good enough for him.
Once she recovered, she typed:
Let's not put labels on it. See you both later tonight.
She silenced the ringer and tucked it into her bag.
It had been a rough couple of nights. Lindsey vacillated between wanting to talk and hating that talk was necessary. He wasn't open to analysis or sympathy, but he kept asking for her input. Among the casualties so far were a rocks glass, a lamp and an armoire leg. It was frustrating, and she was glad to have a day of peace.
With his dad.
Buffy sighed, eying a freeway billboard that asked if she had earthquake anxiety. Of the literal kind, no. Of the large-scale metaphorical kind, loads. But she wasn't going to dwell on what ifs. She was going to dwell on riding Spike like a pony, all day long.
The guilt was still with her, but it was tempered by the knowledge that Lindsey wasn't perfect either. Okay, so maybe she'd left perfection behind a few thousand miles back, but still. He'd fucked up, too, and with someone she hated near as much as he hated Spike.
It hurt when she thought about it. Her own misdeeds didn't lessen the pain, as much as she wished they would. She loved her husband, she'd trusted him, and he'd stuck himself into another woman. Buffy didn't like to share.
Hypocrisy, thy name is me.
Perhaps what bothered her most was that deep down, she'd expected it all along. She'd been silently dreading a relapse ever since her first tête-à-tête with that boa constrictor with legs. Lilah felt a bizarre claim over him, one that obviously transcended marriage, and the haunting song Lindsey had once written about her, Artemis Packs a .45, implied that he felt it, too. Lindsey kept underlining his repulsion for Lilah, but all Buffy heard was I have strong, complex feelings for this woman who isn't you. It wasn't love, but it ran just as deep.
If Buffy had found out any other way, she might have left him -- on grounds of bruised ego, most likely. But he'd confessed, felt awful about it, and tearfully begged for help. Her first impulse was to comfort him, her pride eclipsed by compassion for a loved one in pain.
And now, she couldn't tell him about Spike. Lindsey needed a shoulder to lean on, not another devastating blow. And honestly, in hindsight? She preferred it this way.
Spike was all kinds of wonderful and pushed all her Happy buttons, but that didn't mean she could be his full-time girlfriend. Beyond the issue of how much Lindsey would hate her and possibly want to kill him, how could they ever make it work as a real couple?
They couldn't.
The entire foundation of their relationship was secrecy. It worked that way, and only that way. Spike was not out-in-the-open boyfriend material. He treated his wives like afterthoughts, his mistress like an inconvenience... how long until she got that treatment? No, Buffy had a feeling that if she was suddenly up for grabs, she'd be a lot less exciting to him, and he'd lose interest. Maybe not right away, but it would happen.
If she broke up with Lindsey, her relationship with Spike would end, too.
"Miss Summers?"
The partition was down. They were at the marina. "You can call me Buffy."
"Last boat on the left," Garrett said, eying her through the rearview mirror, "Buffy."
She gave him a tight smile, and got out.
* * *
A Moveable Feast. Buffy could have guessed it on name alone.
It was surprisingly modest, for Spike. Far from the giant, obnoxious yacht she pictured when he said "sailboat", it was a mere fifty foot catamaran with neither bells nor whistles, however there were several open-air nooks ideal for sunset sexing. Her extreme horniness approved.
In search of her Captain, she meandered into the canopied section, and bumped into Nigel. "Oh. Hi. You're... here." Buffy raised her sunglasses.
He smiled warmly, but she was busy trying not to come all over herself at the sight of Spike in casual basics. "Mr. Pratt isn't much of a sailor."
"Oi, appearances, mate." Chewing on a mint stick, Spike cuffed Nigel's shoulder. "Keep them up."
Spike looked all of twenty-five. His sparky blue eyes, his unslicked hair, his Long Hot Summer-era Paul Newman vibe with the toothpick and the white v-neck tee, beige pants of the perfect fit and oh, cute loafers with no socks... All of these things incited in Buffy a very clear vision of taking a running leap, tackling him to the floor and sniffing his neck like it was sprinkled with cocaine.
"Mr. Pratt excels at everything," Nigel deadpanned in his Hindi-Brit lilt. "He requires no assistance. I'm here only to make him look excessively wealthy."
"That's better. Look at you." Spike got very, very close to her, but didn't touch her. He smelled just as good as she thought he would, but the addition of freshly laundered cotton was almost too much to bear. "Your hair's blonder."
She nodded.
He stopped chewing, tossed his mint stick aside. "I like your earrings and things."
She cracked a grin, exhaled a shy laugh.
He noted her fingers and toes in pink-gemmed sandals, and squinted. "You do this all for me?"
Chest heaving, skin thrumming, she gazed into his eyes and touched his arm.
He tilted his head, fanned his long lashes down her body ...and up. His nostrils flared. One end of his mouth quirked. "Nigel?"
"Yes, sir?"
"Go away."
"Gone, sir."
They stared at each other, waiting. The second Nigel left, he pinched the hem of her dress and pulled it over her head, flung it on the nearby table and threw her sunglasses on top.
She threaded her hands behind her as he surveyed the ensemble. She did look all right, didn't she? What if he expected something better?
He growled on exhale and said in his bedroom voice, "You are the perfect girl. D'you know that?"
Yay, she thought, but she could only quiver and blink a lot.
Reverently, he caressed her hips, ran his hands up her sides to her shoulders, then touched the pink fabric, starting at her spaghetti straps and lingering at her nipples, asking, "Did you miss me?"
As if he couldn't tell from the uncontrollable trembling. She tried to nod.
He put his forehead on hers, whispered, "How much?"
She gasped as he roved a hand into her bikini bottoms and opened her slit, closing his eyes when his fingers slipped and slid through all that nectar.
"What's all this, baby?"
Biting her lip, she grasped his biceps and agitated against him.
"Right," he said, and widened her stance. "Count down from ten for me."
"Uh?" He wanted participation? How did he expect her to comprehend words and numbers when his hand was moving and his clothes were soft and his neck smelled like Paris?
"Start counting, love." He raised her knee, wrapped her leg around him and said at her ear, "Ten..."
"Tah... ten," she tried, a little shaky.
He slipped his middle finger up and into her, closed his hand. "Go on."
"Ohhh." Her eyes closed. "Nnnine..."
"That's it." He massaged her, slow and deep, inside and out. "Keep counting. Little faster. Like seconds."
"Eight." With a whimper, she wiggled her hips. "Se-seven." He upped the pace and the intensity with each diminishing number. "...Mmn, Six... Hunh," he was so good, so good at this, "Sah, five... ngh, Four..."
She could hear the wet slap of her flesh against his, his amped breath in her ear. "Don't stop now."
"Three..." Grinding on his palm, she shut her eyes, held her breath, heart pounding, "Two..."
He placed his free hand on her lower back.
"W--auunh!" And... yesyesyes! -- Blast off.
"That's my girl," he said, kissing her neck as she trembled in aftershock. "Can't resist a countdown."
She chuckled, caught her breath. "You and your dirty tricks."
He eased his fingers out of her and pulled her close. "You were all pent up. Be a crime to keep you in that state."
Nose on his chest, she inhaled. Tickled his stomach and looked up at him. "Aren't you pent up, too?"
"Well, yeah, but..." He raised and dropped an impish brow. "Thought about you in the shower this morning."
She gasped. "You naughty boy."
He gave her a wolf grin, then cocked his head. "Don't you ever...?"
"I... Yeah. Just not..."
"Not since you saw me," he concluded.
She nodded.
"Why?"
"I don't... I don't know," she answered, knowing how well he could read her, "there wasn't time, I guess."
He did seem to assess that for a moment, but let it go. "Well, that won't do. I'll just have to see you more often."
"It's clearly the only solution."
He sighed, bewitched. "I love the way your lips move when you flirt."
Blushing, she looked away.
Spike turned her chin toward his, said, "Good morning, beautiful," and kissed her, soft and tender.
Read on... >>
A NOTE ABOUT PLAGIARISM: Don't do it. Call me crazy, but I don't like finding my hard work pasted into other people's stories. If I find out you've plagiarized me or any other author, I will make sure everyone knows it. If you're not clear on what 'plagiarism' means, the definition is here.