by
Margot Le Faye

The robe was no obstacle. He slid his hands beneath the opening as he pulled her toward him, and she was naked by the time he had her flush against his body and was claiming her mouth with his.

This is a mistake! the voices inside him screamed. But she was raising her arms to wrap them around his neck, her mouth was opening beneath his, and she was standing on her tiptoes to press herself against him, and he didn't give a damn about the little voices in his head.

Buffy moaned as Angel's mouth covered her own. It wasn't like last time, when he had been in gameface and she had cut her mouth against his fangs. He was still human, still handsome enough to steal her breath, and her sanity. Which is what must have happened, she concluded. Because the voices inside her head were screaming that she was making a huge and terrible and deadly mistake and she didn't give a damn at all.

"Bedroom?" he demanded tersely between kisses.

"Left," she returned as tersely before getting back to more important things. He lifted her in his arms, not breaking the kiss, and headed for the left-hand door she had indicated. He kicked the door closed behind him, and carried her to the bed, lowering her to the mattress.

That damned vanilla scent…he licked at her skin, needing to taste it as well as smell it. She moaned softly, and tried to pull his own clothes off. He helped her, but he wasn't about to stop tasting her and his tongue licked a hot path over her flesh. The first time they had made love, there hadn't been time for everything. He remembered that on the day the Oracles had swallowed, even though she had taken another lover, she still hadn't experienced certain forms of lovemaking. Had Riley introduced her to them? They hadn't dated all that long. Had there been time for…?

He knew by her gasped, "No!" when his mouth found the sensitive spot in her nest of curls that there hadn't. Something inside him was savagely pleased by the idea that he would be first, here.

Buffy sat up, her hands gripping his hair, intending to pull him away, to make him stop doing something so appalling…then a wave of wet, hot pleasure swamped her, and she instead held him closer.

She was ready for him, so ready that her inner honey was pouring out of her into his waiting, eager mouth. He lapped and suckled, as she gave a series of breathy, cooing cries, caught up in the utter sensuality of the act he was introducing her to. And each breathy cry, each roll of her hips, each drop of honey made him increasingly hard, achingly hard, ready to drive into her and drive both of them over the edge. He sucked harder on the little nub, and bit oh so delicately with blunt teeth. She screamed--his name--her inner wetness flooding him as she climaxed. He lashed his tongue mercilessly against the throbbing nubbin, drawing out her peak for several intense minutes. Finally she collapsed back, her hands loosing their death grip on his hair, her body relaxed and pliant beneath him. He kissed his way back to her mouth, and with a soft sigh, she opened for him, her thighs parting for him, her mouth opening beneath his.

His face was wet with her, and he forced her to taste herself. Moaning she pulled him closer. His achingly hard manhood brushed against her sated flesh, giving her a frisson of almost painful pleasure. She tilted her hips just enough and he slid inside the tight, welcoming wetness of her body.

So tight, so hot, so wet. He had to stop, afraid he would spill too soon.

Why too soon? She had hers, get yours, and get gone. But he didn't want that. He wanted to drive her as crazy as she drove him, and he wanted to come with the feel of her coming around him, wanted to know that however much she was under his skin, he was under hers. So he held still until he got his control back, and then he began an excruciatingly slow rhythm that he knew from centuries of experience would soon have her writhing and screaming and pleading for release.

He badly wanted to hear Buffy Summers beg.

She didn't know what was happening at first, why he went so still when he entered her. She had started to wriggle to get him moving, but his hands on her hips held her ruthlessly still. Now, at last, he was moving, filling her, making her feel complete in a way only he could ever do, and then withdrawing until just the velvety tip of his manhood was still inside her, and she was trembling with the need to pull him back in. But he still had his hands on her hips, and his grip was unbreakable. He wouldn't let her speed things up and he was driving her crazy. She gave a soft cry of despair against his mouth.

That mouth…she could die from pleasure on his mouth alone. What he had done to her…she had heard about that form of sex, but had never gotten around to trying it. Hell, she could count the times she had had sex in her life. Once with Angel in love. Once with Parker. Four times with Riley, because he had been injured so soon after the first time, and she had been a little standoffish after he hadn't been able to tell the difference between herself and Faith. Not long after, he had been injured again, helping Angel, and somehow, their relationship had never gotten back on track after that. He had gone home to Iowa for the summer, and even though he had returned to UC Sunnydale afterward, they were over.

She had dated a few other guys casually, but hadn't really felt interested enough to become intimate with them. Then had come that horrible battle with the demons, and Angel's bitter denouncement, and she lost whatever interest she had in dating.

So, there had been no one until Angel, again. Their last encounter had ended her moping, so that she took an interest in life once more. But even though she had gone dancing, looking around to see if there was anyone datable, and though a number of cute guys had approached her, somehow she had never gone beyond the initial drink or dance.

Now, if she were honest with herself, she knew why she hadn't. Riley and even Parker had been fun, and she had enjoyed sex with them. But even when she hated him, even when she wanted to just drive a stake through his heart and dance in the dust left behind, Angel could make her body sing with life and quiver with need. Nothing was comparable to the steel and velvet feel of him inside her, nothing tasted as good as his mouth on hers, nothing was as right as the weight of him pressing her down, the cool texture of his flesh against hers, the movement of their bodies in perfect harmony, whether they battled side by side or made love--and hate--face to face.

She was hungry for him, starved for him, and the famine had ended, the drought was over.

Even if only for tonight.

Buffy pushed the thought away, and gave herself over to what Angel was giving her. She stopped trying to fight what he was doing, and relaxed into his rhythm, content to just meet his thrusts. Sensing the change, Angel released his death grip on her hips and slid his hands caressingly over her body. Her curves were more deliciously rounded than last time, and he approved of the change, however little else he approved of.

None of that mattered right now. What mattered was sinking into the velvet wet heat of her, pretending that she still cared about him the way he now had to admit to himself he would always care about her, pretending that they were making love, not simply adding a new dimension to the hatred they felt for each other.

He shut his mind to all the rancor, and gave himself over to the sweetness her flesh had always held for his. She was kissing him back as if she cared, moving with him as if his pleasure were as important to her as his own, and even if he knew it was a lie, for the moment he would pretend otherwise.

He filled his hands with her full breasts, flicking the pebbled nipples until she moaned against his mouth and thrust them into his hands. He nibbled at her full lips, drinking in the taste of her, and still he kept his rhythm inside her achingly slow.

Each time he went a bit deeper, withdrew to the very edge, and pushed back a tiny bit further again. Sweat slicked her skin as she tried to contain herself. Every stroke unerringly hit her sensitive g-spot, and she was going crazy as he built her need without giving her release. Finally, he was so deep, he was touching the mouth of her womb, and she screamed as pleasure was leavened with a hint of pain, which somehow, appallingly, sweetened the pleasure.

She was so ripe, so ready, he could feel her tremble on the edge, knew he could push her over in a single thrust. Not yet, though, not until she begged. He forced himself to slow yet further. Her plaintive wail as she pulled from his kiss was the sweetest of sounds to him.

"Angel!" she gasped, not caring how much he hated her or how humiliating it was to have to plead with him for this. "Please!" she wept. It was what he had been waiting for, the Slayer to beg him for what she wanted. Angel thrust home.    

Deeper than before, deeper than he had ever been, and suddenly he was thrusting into her ruthlessly, with all the power she craved, and she sobbed helplessly as climax washed over her in a crashing wave of ecstasy and all she could do was hold on to him.

Her deceptively soft body clung to his, her hips meeting him, and her steel-like internal muscles clamping down like a vise. Angel hissed in painful pleasure as she rippled around him in her release, triggering his own. He roared again, vamping out as he pumped helplessly, driven by primal instinct to plant his seed as deeply inside her womb as he could get. No matter that such seed could not take root. Some instincts survived even the change to vampirism.

The feel of his seed surging inside her intensified her own release. Another orgasm began even as the first one ended. Not content with having driven her out of her mind, Angel reached between their straining bodies and stroked her overly sensitive clit, making her scream again as yet a third shock of rapture crashed through her system.

The rhythmic contractions of her release were milking every drop from him, and he just might die of an excess of pleasure. But what a way to go. His fingers danced across her clit, not letting her down, not letting her escape. Spent, he had slipped from her still, quivering body, but he wouldn't stop. Not until she was screaming, he told himself, not until he had wrenched every sensation from her as she had drained everything from him.

Slayer stamina, Buffy realized, had its drawbacks. How many orgasms could she have, one right after another, before delicious pleasure became delicate pain? Angel seemed determined to find out. His long fingers replaced his cock, and he pressed up inside her, finding the most sensitive places, unerringly knowing where to put pressure, where to lightly stroke. She clamped her thighs together, trapping his hand. He chuckled. She tightened her arms around his neck, and buried her face in his shoulder as yet another peak made her shake and tremble in his arms.

There was something about his ability to make her respond that acted on Angel like an aphrodisiac. Angel found himself getting hard again, knew by the way Buffy pressed her warm thigh against his erection that she could tell. He pulled her closer, kissed her savagely, then pulled his fingers from her still quaking center. Before she could react, he knelt up, then rolled her so that she was on her stomach. Grabbing the pillows, he shoved them under her hips, lifting them to an enticing angle. With a groan, he pulled her legs further apart, stopping just long enough to deliver nipping little kisses to the inside of each firm thigh before positioning himself behind her.

He sank once more into her hot sweet tightness as she sighed beneath him. Reaching around he cupped her breasts again, and she bucked back against him, keening in need, a need that couldn't possibly be any greater than his. Slow, this time, like before, because the edge was off for him and he wanted to test the limits of Slayer stamina. Her responsiveness made it so damned easy.

Hot tears were running down Buffy's face, as the new position made it easier for her to take Angel even deeper, without the twinge of discomfort she had felt before. He was stretching her, testing limits she didn't know she had, and she opened for him, letting him slide in deeper yet. His skilled fingers caressed her breasts until they were so sensitive, she didn't think she could handle one more touch, one more stroke. She screamed his name as one more climax ripped through her.

Angel shook in delight as her soft little body convulsed beneath his, and her strong internal muscles once more brought him to the edge. This time, he ruthlessly held back, knowing the next time would be the last for him, and also knowing that he hadn't fully plumbed the limits of the woman beneath him. He waited until the contractions of her tight core eased up, and she had gone limp again. Only then did he start to move.

He was trying to kill her, Buffy decided as reluctant muscles and overwrought nerves were once more brought to quivering life. Not that she minded this particular form of execution, which beat the hell out of fighting, or arguing, or moping around for five or six years. She forced herself to her knees, thrusting back against him, and adding a purely instinctive roll of her hips that spread delicious sensation throughout her womb, and by his soft groan, tantalized his steel-hard manhood, as well. She smiled. Good. When it came to Angel and the intimate warfare they waged against each other, he had about two and half centuries of experience on her, and she needed all the weapons she could get. She rolled her hips again, he squeezed her breasts. She thrust them more fully into his hands, eyes shut as she surrendered to the rhythm they were developing between them. Needing to feel him more intensely, she concentrated, trying something else, also out of instinct, deliberately tightening the muscles that ordinarily slipped out her control in climax.

Where the hell had she learned to do that? Angel wondered. And did he really care? She was rhythmically squeezing him, and rolling her hips in a way that sent quivers of delight down the length of his hard shaft. He closed his eyes, surrendering to whatever she wanted to do to him, not even realizing he was moaning her name, over and over. She did, and her smile grew.

As ever, they matched each other, whether in bed or in battle. He slowly began to pick up the pace, and she thrust back eagerly, meeting him, the roll of her hips adjusting to his tempo, her internal muscles adding tantalizing sensations to every move. He hauled her upright, so that they were both kneeling on the bed, her thighs spread over his, riding him. Her head rested against his shoulder, the white column of her throat exposed and temptingly vulnerable beneath his lips. He bent his head, and sucked the sweet skin into his mouth, one hand slipping from her lush breasts over her rib cage, down her rounded belly to the nest of curls where he could feel himself being rhythmically engulfed and released, engulfed and released. His fingers flicked lightly across the swollen, slick bud of flesh there, and she spun out of control once more, screaming his name as she slammed down on his erection, impaling herself urgently and completely, her body clenching around his, destroying his own control so that he did, as he had once before, the unthinkable. He had been in vamp face, and before he could stop himself, his fangs moved the tiniest fraction needed, piercing skin and vein and delivering the hot liquor of her blood into his waiting mouth, even as his seed spurted into her waiting womb.

She didn’t have words for what was happening to her, couldn’t think coherently. Buffy reached her arms behind her, tangling her hands in Angel's hair, pressing him closer to her throat even as her hips jackhammered down on his. If this was how he planned to kill her, let him. Nothing her empty, bitter life held for her was worth giving up this matchless ecstasy.

Take it all! Put an end to it! the voice inside him screamed. But if he did that, it would be over forever, and no way was that happening now, because nothing in his empty, bitter life was worth giving up this matchless ecstasy, no matter how infrequently he got to experience it. Angel gently retracted his fangs licking closed the tiny wounds he had made as their bodies surged together in the ebbing spasms of their mutual completion. His fingers eased up on her, soothing her down, and he slowed and stopped the thrust of his hips, letting her have control. With a sigh, Buffy settled over him, her body trying desperately to hold his softening manhood inside her. She managed for a few minutes, but neither Slayer stamina nor vampiric endurance could argue with simple biology, and eventually, he slipped free.

But he was still holding her gently, still nuzzling her neck, and she began weeping again, quietly, as all the anger and pain, pushed aside during their passion, returned.

You've let yourself become his fucktoy, the voice inside her whispered, and she sobbed as she realized that was probably true.

"Let me go," she demanded, trying to mask her pain with anger.

Angel pulled away, eyes narrowing. The little bitch! Now that she's used you, she's back to showing her true colors. He lifted her from his body in disgust, tossing her amongst the pillows. She fell, boneless as a rag doll, her face turned from him as if the mere sight of him were unbearable. With a snort of self-loathing, ashamed that he could want her so badly when she had such contempt for him, Angel got off the bed, quickly dressed, and got the hell out of her apartment, heading back to LA.

And under Sunnydale, It told Itself that It had matters under control, and nothing would go wrong.

Buffy's temper was absolutely waspish for the next few weeks. Her renewed friendships were jeopardized, and even Giles found himself taking her to task. Her kills were back to being very efficient, however. If anything, she was going out of her way to find things to attack and destroy. However, when she stormed out of his home one night after reducing Willow to tears over a fairly trivial piece of research, Giles knew something was still badly wrong. On a hunch he called Cordelia in LA.

"So that's what's behind his sudden one man war tactics," Cordy said thoughtfully.

"Angel has been, um, out of sorts?"

They compared notes, coming up with a date, as well as a scenario that was correct in one assumption--that Buffy and Angel had seen each other and had had another quarrel--and utterly wrong in all other details. They realized that if things kept going this way, something disastrous was bound to happen. They began to make plans to bring the two combatants together on neutral territory to get whatever the hell was going on out in the open where it could be dealt with. It would be tricky, and would take some planning. But before they could pull it off, events took another surprising turn, and they reluctantly decided to let matters rest as they were.

Not realizing that matters were anything but restful.

Buffy had managed a full month after Angel's visit before she decided that what was sauce for the goose was sauce for the gander. Just because he was bigger and stronger than she was didn't mean that he had the upper hand, or that he called all the shots. She was the Slayer, damn it, and she had ways of evening the score. Smiling to herself, she grabbed her rarely used credit-card and went to a particular store she had seen during her patrols, but had never had the nerve to go into before….

Angel couldn't sleep. It had been bad just after his stupid and pointless visit to Sunnydale, and it had only gotten worse. He would close his eyes, and he would see her, the silk robe sliding off her shoulders, the cascade of her golden hair a glorious nimbus of light around her face. The scent of vanilla would drift across his senses, the silken feel of her skin linger on his fingertips.

He was going out of his mind.

He knew he was taking his frustration and anger out on Wesley and Cordy, but he couldn't seem to stop himself. Tonight was just the last straw. He had fallen asleep, dreaming the same dream which wasn't a dream but a memory, and he had woken hard and aching and missing her. With a growl, Angel tossed off his covers and headed for a cold shower.

The noise of the ancient plumbing covered the sound of the descending elevator, and he was so used to the phantom scent of vanilla drifting in the air at unexpected moments that he thought nothing of it other than he had wasted his time in the shower, because the scent had him as hard and aching as ever. Snarling he wrapped a towel around his hips and flung open the door…

…stopping dead in his tracks when he saw what waited on the other side of it.

Buffy's aim was as unerring as Giles had been. The crossbow quarrel would be through his heart if he made one wrong move. She was wearing a leather coat, and probably a very short skirt and low cut top, because the only thing he could see beside the coat--and the crossbow--was a pair of very high heels and dark, sheer, seamed stockings. He licked his lips as he became harder than ever.

"I am so sick and tired of your shit," Buffy told him. His eyes flashed resentfully to hers. His shit? What the hell was she talking about? The crossbow decided him against demanding she answer those questions, however. A moment later, the crossbow decided him against something else, too, though his rage mounted to the point where his demon slipped free and he went into gameface. She had tossed a set of manacles onto the bed and given him explicit instructions about what to do with them. Blood boiling, Angel obeyed, promising himself that when he got the crossbow away from her, she would pay for this humiliation if he burned for it.

Buffy watched critically as he wound each manacle around the headboard. When they were attached to her satisfaction, when she was sure he wouldn't be able to pull them loose without breaking the bed, she gave him the next order. He turned to her with a growl, she gestured with the crossbow. He knew she wasn't bluffing. Stiffly, he climbed onto the bed, sitting against the headboard, raising his arms to the manacles, pressing his wrists into them until the locks snapped shut automatically.

"That's better," she said with a cold smile, setting down the crossbow. Angel glared at her. She ignored the rage in his yellow eyes, and untied the belt of her coat. Angel's eyes widened and he swallowed convulsively, his demon melting away.

It was a very tight corset, lace, not leather, the black fabric making her skin look lustrous as an uncultured pearl. Her full breasts swelled over the top, and he could almost see the tempting bronze aureoles. He began to break out in a sweat, something exceedingly rare for a vampire. The stockings and shoes were the only other things she was wearing. His eyes were drawn to the dark thatch of curls hiding her feminine secrets.

"I've had about enough of you," Buffy said, coming slowly toward the bed. He could smell not only the vanilla, but the musk of her desire. "I've had enough of you calling the shots and making the decisions." She had reached the bed and began to crawl onto it, by his feet, moving like a pantheress stalking its prey…or its mate. "Turn about is fair play, you bastard."

"Buffy," Angel growled, "What the hell--"

"Shut. Up." She pulled a stake from the bodice of her corset and Angel shut up. She smirked at him. "That's better. Now, let's get something straight. I am not your fucktoy. I am not going to be used at your convenience. Not without getting to use you right back."

The injustice of that remark left him speechless.

"Understand?"

Not trusting himself to say a word, Angel nodded brusquely. Buffy rewarded him with another cold smile. "Good," she said. "Now, there's something I've always wanted to try…." She crawled up a few more feet to his hips, stretching luxuriously like the cat he had named her, before settling so that she was kneeling over him, and pulling the towel away from his body. When her small, warm hands closed over his straining cock, Angel's hips nearly bucked off the bed. She smiled smugly, then she stopped looking at his face. It hurt too much, seeing all that anger. It was much easier to watch his body, which was still responsive to her even if she had lost any sway over his heart.

He doesn’t have one, remember? That was right. So why worry about it? Buffy stroked her hands over the strong flesh that could bring her such incomparable pleasure and turned her mind away from all the things that she wanted from him that she could never have.

At least she could have something.

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