RATING: NC-17 at least.
DISCLAIMER: No, I don’t own them, but if Joss says the Buffyverse was intended to be the source of fanfic, then I am by Joss gonna write some. No infringement intended.
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Now and Then
part 3

If she had given any thought to it, she would have expected this kiss to be brutal: dominating, forceful, a declaration of mastery, not an invitation to desire. She remembered, from the disastrous misfiring of the spell Willow had tried when Oz had first left, how passionately Spike and she had kissed when they were "engaged." She understood now that those fevered, bespelled kisses were no true measure of what it was like to kiss him. Because the only magic now was the spell keeping her too weak to move.

And the unexpected, extraordinary, appalling magic of his mouth tenderly ravishing hers.

Pure seduction, his kiss. Helpless as she was, Spike could do as he pleased with her. The kiss didn’t acknowledge such absolute power. It was not a demand. It was temptation, invitation, supplication. The kiss asked for favors, and promised delights in return. When his tongue came out, licking across the tender surface of her mouth, tasting of spice, tasting of whiskey, tasting of desire, could she really be blamed for parting her lips beneath his, and granting him the entrance he sought?

He settled his weight over her, pressing her into the softness of the mattress, and she grew wet with longing, as his tongue gently explored the damp heat of her mouth, caressing her own tongue, coaxing it into an intimate dance; serpents mating. In the end, it was Spike who broke the kiss, Spike who shuddered with the force of his feelings. As he gazed down at her, his eyes heavy-lidded with passion, some of her fear returned. She was incredibly aroused. By Spike. Her enemy. Who had her chained and helpless. Just because he kissed her as if he craved her repose, just because he wanted to bed her, didn’t mean she was safe. He was a vampire. It was entirely possible that he wanted to make exquisite love to her and painfully torture her, sink his fangs into her and drain her dry. Probably all at the same time.

Her body didn’t believe it for a minute. But she knew better than to follow her body’s lead.

Reading some of her trepidation in her eyes, Spike smiled, slowly, sensuously, and took a deep breath. "God, pet, you smell delicious. Desire laced with fear. If there’s a more potent aphrodisiac for a vampire, I’ve never found it." He kissed her again, hard and fast, then sat up, rolling off the mattress. "What fun we’ll have," he promised, moving to the foot of the bed, lifting the comforter just enough to secure her ankles as he had her wrists. Buffy attempted to pull her foot out of his grasp, but her muscles still weren’t listening to her. Neither was her traitorous body, which, aroused by the feel of his hands on her skin, the incongruous gentleness of his touch as he bound her, insisted on flooding with moisture, soaking the scrap of lace between her legs. Task completed, Spike stood over her, staring down at her intently, gloating. Fear got the upper hand on desire once more. Then he reached out, his hands skimming lightly from her velvet-roped ankles up her calves, beneath the comforter, and the balance shifted yet again. He chuckled, knowing exactly what he was making her feel.

"You know, one of the nice bits about this spell is that as the paralysis wears off, and the muscles come back to life, the skin becomes amazingly sensitive." He traced one finger delicately, just brushing the sensitive flesh under her knee. Buffy shivered. "I can’t wait for that. Want to see you jump out of your skin when I take my tongue to it. But . . .you smell so damned good," he shook his head, then pulled his hands away from her, tugging the comforter back down to cover her. "It may kill me to wait until the paralysis wears off." He walked away from her, taking off his duster and draping it over a convenient peg on the wall, before going over to the fireplace and kneeling down to check the logs he had earlier placed there. Buffy stared at him in disbelief, her body quivering in reaction to the things he had done, the things he had said.

"What?" she choked out. Spike looked over his shoulder, flashing her a grin. "Impatient, are we?" he drawled, before turning back to the task at hand. "Well, love, if you’re feeling a bit frustrated right now, just consider it payback for the frustration you left me in five years ago." Flames soon sparked, and he pulled the fire-screen into place, then took a seat in the wing chair, pulling off his Doc Martens and making himself comfortable "Oh, but don’t worry. I’m not planning on making you wait near as long. I give the spell fifteen minutes--twenty, tops--before the paralysis wears off. And, then, pet, we’ll see if you can make good on your promises."

Buffy was now utterly confused, not only by her body’s reactions, but by Spike’s words. She wracked her brain trying to think of what had happened between them five years ago that could have left Spike sexually frustrated on her account. The only thing she could come up with was they way they had both acted when they were under Willow’s spell. But Spike had been furious when the spell had been broken, as disgusted and repelled as she had been herself.

Except that she hadn’t really been quite that disgusted. She had mainly been disgusted at how not disgusted she had been, and a lot of her protests had been made to cover that fact. For the first time, she wondered if Spike had been doing the same thing.

"Whatever shall we do to pass the time?" Spike mused, picking up the bottle of Jack Daniels that was waiting on the floor by the chair. Buffy watched him warily, still not trusting his intent. "I know!" the vampires said brightly. "Why don’t we have a look at that letter you wrote to Giles."

Buffy glared at him, desire draining away. "You’re a pig, Spike."

He grinned. "I’m not the one who was squealing, a minute ago."

"I do *not* squeal!" she said indignantly.

"True. It was more of a moan."

"Spike--"

"‘Dear Rupert.’" Buffy clamped her mouth shut as Spike began to read from the letter. Her eyes flashed angrily at this invasion of her privacy, but of course he was indifferent to her rage. For that matter, he intended to invade her privacy in a much more intimate fashion, so why was she even surprised that he would stoop to reading her personal letter?

"‘This won’t be an easy letter to read. It isn’t easy to write, either. First up, please give Willie the $500 you keep for me for Slayer emergencies.’ Even in death you’re gonna honor your commitments, aren’t you? God, you white hats kill me!

"‘I asked Willie to deliver this if I’m not back by dawn. Because if I don’t make it back to his bar, then it means that Spike won, and I lost.’ " Spike flashed her a wicked grin. "So it does, pet, so it does."

"‘Perhaps I should have warned all of you that he was back, and that he’s dangerous again--’ And about bloody time, too! --‘but I know you guys. You’d have insisted on coming with me, and getting yourselves killed, too. I want you safe. That’s all that matters now. That’s all that’s ever mattered.’ Oh, please!" Spike rolled his eyes, then took a swig of the whiskey. "Getting yourself killed for a world full of sheep. Only a white hat would think that trading off one Slayer for a billion sorry humans was a good deal.

"Tell you what I think," he continued after another pull from the bottle. "See, the Powers That Be really missed the boat on that one. If they’d written off the humans, and left the Slayers and demons to inherit the earth, now that would have been a party!" Spike shook his head, lamenting the missed opportunity, and went back to reading Buffy’s final message to her friends. "‘With me dead, I’m hoping Spike won’t come after you. What would be the point?’ None at all. Much more fun to watch them spend the next forty years moping over their lost Slayer. ‘But if I’m wrong, contact Angel. I know he would move heaven and earth to protect all of you, and because he was Spike’s sire, he probably has a better chance than I did.’" Spike looked at her in disgust. "You really think I could take you out, but not handle Peaches? You’re either underestimating me, or yourself or both of us. Or overestimating the poof, as usual. ‘Knowing Spike, he’ll leave me someplace obvious, so everyone will know who finally took me down.’ Too right, I would! ‘You’ll find the arrangements are already made. I always knew that the ride couldn’t be a long one. No Slayer’s ever is.’ Spike arched a brow at her and shook his head, but went on reading.

"‘I know how hard my death will be on Mom. This way, she doesn’t have to bother with the details.’ Bloody hell, pet. Could you be any more self-effacing? Don’t even want your own mum to fuss about your funeral? Because it would never occur to you that she might find attending to the details, the last thing she can do for her child, some sort of comfort, would it?" Spike actually seemed angry, and for a moment, Buffy thought he would just toss her letter into the fire. But he settled back and started reading again. "‘There is one thing that needs to be done. I left instructions for the funeral home, and they know the clothes I want to be buried in. But I have so many pieces of cross jewelry, no one can pick out which one I meant. Angel will know, though. Ask him to tell you which one it is. And tell him: Always.

"‘I’m sorry I let you down . . .’" Spike’s mouth twisted into a grimace and he did stop then, crumpling the letter into a ball and tossing it on the floor. "Goddamn it, Slayer! Of all the mealy-mouthed claptrap! What the hell’s gotten into you?" He stood up, raging. "Or maybe I should be asking what the hell hasn’t gotten into you. It’s been a couple of years since soldier boy, hasn’t it?"

Buffy eyed Spike uneasily. "What is your deal? You don’t like my letter to Giles? News flash. It wasn’t written for you. I don’t care what you think of it. And what the hell is it to you how long it’s been since I broke up with Riley?"

Spike took a deep, unneeded breath, getting himself under control. "Not a damned thing," he said. She knew he was lying, and couldn’t imagine why. His next action, however, distracted her from giving the matter any more thought.

Spike began to strip off his shirts.

"That damned spell should’ve reached the next stage by now." The red silk shirt was tossed onto the chair. Buffy gasped. "Not that it matters, at this point." The black shirt joined the red one, and Spike began undoing the buckle on his belt, as Buffy whimpered. In fear, she assured herself. "I think I’ve waited long enough." He pushed his pants down his lean legs and stepped out of them. With the grace of a stalking panther, he prowled over to the foot of the bed.

Buffy’s wide eyes widened, and she was unable to pull her fascinated gaze away. How the hell had she fought against him and along side him for the better part of six years without ever letting herself realize just how incredibly gorgeous he was? Tall, lean, his muscles beautifully defined by several lifetimes of fighting for his life, or for dominance amongst other vampires, Spike was very easy on the eyes. And the long, thick erection rising against his belly--there would be nothing easy about that. Buffy grew nervous again. It had been a few years since she had taken anyone to her bed. If he wasn’t gentle with her--and she had no reason to expect gentleness from him--the sheer size of him was going to hurt.

Why did that seem like a good thing?

Spike had reached the bed, and slowly drew the comforter away from her. He simply stood looking at her for a few minutes, and Buffy felt herself blush at the heat in his regard. He said nothing, but got on the bed and crawled up the mattress, between her forcibly parted legs, until he knelt between her trembling thighs, reaching out a hand to delicately stroke the tender skin.

The paralysis had worn off.

With a shriek, Buffy arched into his touch, as a thousand nerve endings came alive, responsive to the gentle stroking of his fingers, sending a flood of moisture surging from her aching core.

"Delicious," he said, inhaling. Then he gave her a slow, wicked smile, before lowering his head to the soaking bit of lace covering her mons.

Spike opened his mouth over the scrap of fabric, and suckled the aching bud of her clit. The cold moisture against her heat, coupled with the abrasive texture of the lace against her suddenly hypersensitive flesh forced a pleading whimper from her throat.

He had once observed that she wasn’t the begging sort. Seemingly, he had decided to teach her how.

His knowing tongue against the lace caused excruciating pleasure to burn through her, pleasure she could not fight, could not avoid. The paralysis had worn off, but the weakness was still there. She could move, but she had no strength, and there was no way she could gain the upper hand in this situation, no way she could pull free of the velvet restraints to turn the tables on him. Used to a measure of control, used to deference, if not adoration, she was utterly unprepared for Spike’s ruthless assault on her senses. Her bound and weakened hands could not tangle in his hair to push him away, or hold him closer. Her tied and strengthless legs could not close against the intimate invasion, or wrap around him and urge him on. She was utterly dependent on his mood, his desires, his mercy.

But she had long known about Spike and mercy: he had none.

His tongue and mouth and teeth were by turns gently seductive and forcefully demanding. Her ascent towards the peak was now coaxed, now coerced. But she was never permitted to reach the top.

Whimpers became gasps, gasps became moans, moans became soft pleas, and when the pleas went unanswered, there were tears. By the time Spike abandoned his exquisite torment, and kissed his way from her aching center to dally at her breasts, she was weeping openly.

"Poor little thing," he said, almost tenderly. "So ripe." He kissed her nest of curls through the lace of her panties. "So needy." Several more kisses fell upon her belly. "So divinely edible." A veritable rain of kisses fell upon her ribs and the undersides of her breasts, until he hovered just above the aureoles, the nipples pressing insistently through the lacy bra, begging his mouth to inflict more of its delectable torment. "You are a feast to savor, love, aren’t you?"

"Spike," she whispered, half plea, half imprecation. He laughed, understanding.

"You brought this on yourself, pet. You should never have thrown down the gauntlet if you didn’t want me to pick it up." She wanted to ask what gauntlet, but he dipped his head to oblige one of her importuning nipples, pulling the bit of fabric covered flesh into the cool, wet cavern of his mouth. Buffy wailed, all questions forgotten as she arched helplessly toward him while a wave of sweet fire coursed from her breast to her womb. He spent several leisurely moments at this new torture, before taking pity on her other breast, and torturing it similarly. Not until she was sobbing did he relent.

"I couldn’t sleep that night," he said then, before dropping more kisses over the tops of her breasts as he moved upward over her body. "I just kept hearing your voice, over and over," his stopped to press his cold lips over her collarbone, and lave his cold tongue against the wildly beating pulse of her jugular. She shivered, pressing herself into his touch. She could feel the hard length of his erection against her thigh, increasing the ache inside her, making her desperate for him. "Remembering the way you taunted me, the way you smelled, and the things you made me feel."

"I don’t--" He silenced her with a kiss, to her mouth this time, and not as gentle as the first one. This kiss contained all the demand, all the force, all the domination she had expected before. But then, if he had not first played the seducer, she would never have acceded to his demand, allowed his force, accepted his dominance. There was, perhaps, quite a bit to be said for having over one hundred years of amatory experience. Buffy yielded to this kiss as she had before, returning his ardor in kind.

"Doesn’t matter," he said between kisses. "You’re here now, and damned if you don’t look, and taste and feel and smell even better than my most heated memories."

She was more concerned with the heated present. Her kisses were avid, her reactions wanton. A small part of her brain tried to remind her that she was in mortal danger, but the mental warnings kept getting swept aside by more important things, like the taste of him on her tongue, the weight of him pressing her into the mattress, the feeling in every inch of her skin as it came in contact with the cool, firm surface of his own.

When he finally undid the clasp of her bra, pushing aside the cups and suckling the revealed flesh, she was crying in earnest. A few moments later, she felt his hands on the scrap of lace at her hips, and knew he was going to get rid of the last flimsy barrier between them.

"It’s time to see if you can, pet," he purred.

"Can what?" she asked, breathless and bemused.

"Can deliver on those promises you made, that night in the Bronze, five years ago." He bent to kiss her throat. "If you can ride me at a gallop until my legs buckle and my eyes roll up." Another kiss was pressed against her jaw. "If you’ve got muscles I've never even dreamed of." A kiss to her cheek. "If you can squeeze me until I pop like warm champagne." A kiss to her temple. "And if I’ll beg you to hurt me just a little bit more." Another devouring kiss, this one to her tender mouth, as he reached for the lace of the panties and tore them apart, baring her completely. But realization finally hit her, and Buffy pulled her mouth away, breaking the kiss even as his hands found purchase on her hips and lifted them to accommodate his entrance.

"Spike!" she gasped. "That wasn’t me! Don’t you remember the spell we told you about? That was Faith!" As soon as she had spoken, she was horrified that the words had actually left her mouth. Great going, Summers. Your most deadly enemy has you tied up and helpless, and you’re only alive because he wants to make love to you. Now, you told him the person he wants to make love to you isn’t you at all, but your reformed ho’ of a sister slayer. And isn’t the irony, that Faith might just get you killed now that she’s stopped trying, just sickening?

Spike froze. She stared up into his eyes, trying to read the emotions roiling in their jade-colored depths. Surprise was certainly there, and, oddly enough, humor. But the lust was unabated and she didn’t see anything like disappointment. "I’ll be damned," he said at last, a grin spreading across his face. "Yeah, I should have realized, what with the timing and all. Faith always had a mouth on her, bless her little black heart. Some day I’m gonna have to see if I can get her to play for the other team, again. And I should have known you would never say anything like that."

Buffy licked her lips nervously. "So, you don’t really want to do, this then. You really want Faith." He arched a brow at her, and she blushed. His body was already answering that question. She tried not to quiver at the feel of his hard cock just outside the delicate portal to her own body, both dreading and longing for the promised invasion.

His grin faded. "Thing about Faith is, she always could see through people. It’s a skill I admire. When she said those things to me, she knew how I’d react. And, darling girl, she only said them because she knew that you felt them."

"But, I--!" Buffy tried to deny it, but Spike cut her off.

"I don’t really care which of you said it, right now. Because, pet, I still want to see if it’s true."

The invasion came, Spike pushing himself into her unwontedly pliant body, groaning at the silken heat enveloping him. As he slid inside, Buffy learned two things. First, that the sensitivity imparted by the spell worked everywhere. Second, that Spike’s size didn’t hurt at all. Buffy sobbed, surging against him, his mouth capturing her own and drinking down her moans.

"God, you’re so fucking tight," he murmured between kisses. "And soft." Kiss. "And hot." Kiss. "And wet." Kiss. "You may kill me before my knees have time to buckle."

Buffy wasn’t sure she wouldn’t be dead herself, first. Every excruciatingly slow withdrawal of his hard shaft, every achingly prolonged thrust back inside her clenching sheath, was rasping along tiny, delicate nerve endings that were handling more sensory input than they could possibly be asked to carry. Different, so different from Riley, who had been warm blooded and human and who had treated her like spun glass, even though her strength exceeded his own. And so achingly similar to Angel: the same coldness, and strength, centuries of skill all used to enhance her pleasure. But Spike had a ruthlessness Angel would never show her. Just as well. It hurt to think of Angel . . .

Not that she was capable of more than the most fleeting thoughts and realizations, at the moment. Spike brought her to the verge of orgasm in a few languorous strokes, and then he stopped, seeming to know what he had done to her, seeming to have gone back to his earlier game of forcing her almost to the top of the mountain, and then keeping her away from the peak. He broke their kisses and stared down into her eyes, fathomless green boring into beseeching hazel. Buffy simply didn’t have the experience to deal with what he was doing to her, and she no longer had the pride.

"Please," she whispered. A lazy smile curved his mouth. He had finally made the Slayer beg.

Buffy screamed as he slammed into her, hard and merciless, triggering the oft-denied orgasm, making her climax with a ferocious intensity she had never imagined her body capable of, before. He groaned as her body pulled an inevitable response from his own, barely keeping himself from joining her in rapture. He had waited too long to let things end that quickly.

Spike captured her lips, his mouth plundering her own, swallowing her helpless cries, drinking down the taste of her flesh as avidly as he might blood. She was as hungry for him, tongue licking out to relish the whisky-smooth taste of his mouth. She was beginning to come down from the peak to which he had finally allowed her to ascend . . . only to find he was now blocking her descent. Spike plunged back inside her, angling her hips so that he could put exquisite pressure on her clit with every stroke. He drove her upward once more, into another shockingly intense climax, and once more had to fight to keep himself from joining her.

The anticipation of six years was taking its toll, though. She felt better than even he had imagined she could. Everything she had told him--Faith had told him--about a Slayer’s abilities was undoubtedly true: even with those muscles weakened by the spell, the feel of her body around his own was incredible. At full strength, she probably would kill him. But, oh, what a lovely way to die . . .

Spike stilled his movements, as the frantic paroxysm of her pleasure once more demanded its due from his own flesh. Not yet, not yet. He tried distracting himself with the most revolting images he could come up with, but she was too soft, too heated, too responsive for his attention to wander long. Just as he was beginning to think that if he had to stay still for one more moment he was going to explode into a pile of dust from sheer frustration, he felt her go limp beneath him, as the delicious tremors of her completion began to ebb away . . .

. . . at which point he thrust, ever so slowly and gently, trying to start them up all over again. Buffy gave a high, keening cry . . .but her hips lifted to meet his next thrust.

Spike grinned down at her, then plundered her delicious mouth once more.

Buffy couldn’t believe how good it felt to have Spike make love to her. Initially, it had been frustrating not to be able to move her arms or legs, not to be able to participate freely. She was used to being an equal in such matters, used to having her wishes taken into account, her desires given due consideration. The only desire Spike was considering was the basic desire for climax. He wasn’t treating her like a fragile flower, the way Riley always had, or like a goddess to be worshiped, the way Angel . . . don’t think about Angel . . .Spike wasn’t afraid to be rough with her, to demand from her, to push her limits. And, suddenly, there was something so very liberating about being tied up. She could tell him, no, when she thought she’d had enough. But unlike her other lovers, he didn’t have to listen, and so, he could ignore her no and prove to her that she didn’t know what enough really was.

He didn’t have to listen about other things, either. He ignored her plea of soreness, and insinuated his hand between their bodies, delicately stroking her tender clit until she forgot what had been distracting her from the rapture he wanted to give her. Later, he ignored her plea of distaste, wriggling a finger into her tight, virgin back passage, and teaching her how intense her pleasure could be when he stimulated nerve endings she didn’t know she had while filling her womanly core so deeply, the head of his cock brushed the top of her womb. And later yet, he ignored her plea of exhaustion, that she simply was too tired to do anything more. He just favored her with another wicked smile, lifted her hips to a more exquisite angle, alternating shallow strokes that tickled her, with sharp, deep strokes that aroused her until she forgot the need to sleep, the need to stop, the need to do anything but meet his thrusts and crush herself into his embrace and drink down the taste of him on her lips even as he drank down her own.

He managed to hold out for an hour longer. An hour of driving the helpless girl beneath him to peak after screaming peak. An hour of keeping her suspended just short of rapture, until she begged for release. An hour of those delectable muscles clamping down on his cock in the most exquisite embrace he had ever been held. An hour of driving himself into the most deliciously welcoming wet heat imaginable, scalding himself in the pleasure of her flesh, and the passion of her response.

He should have done this eight years ago, the first time he’d seen her, he realized. How different might things have been for all of them if only he had acted on his first impulse when he saw her dancing at the Bronze?

Buffy drew his mind from the past to the much more delightful present, nipping at his lips with her blunt little teeth. He nipped back, a shade too roughly, and a single drop of blood beaded on her lips, quickly swept clean by his tongue.

A drop of ambrosia, the most gorgeous liquor imaginable, utter and total temptation. Frenzied, Spike slipped into game face, and broke the kiss so that he could nuzzle into her neck . . .on the opposite side from where Angel’s mark remained.

As his fangs slid into her, the most powerful orgasm yet rolled over her, crushing her with the sheer glory of the sensation, her lover doubly impaling her on his fangs and his cock. Buffy screamed, surging against him, and Spike, the hot savor of her blood flooding his mouth, spilled himself inside her, his thrusts brutal and deep, her body yielding and pliant, both of them caught in a rapture too long denied. Spike wasn’t draining her with a killing bite, was barely sipping from her, by vampire standards. There was no danger, only heated, wicked pleasure, forbidden desires permitted at last.

It seemed to go on forever, and to end too soon, but, at last, they both lay spent. Spike lifted himself slightly, and tenderly brushed the hair from her face as she looked up at him. Her expression was pensive, and he realized that, now that they were done, all the reasons why she should be worried were coming back to her. After all, she was still tied up, helpless, his prisoner. If he wanted to turn her, he would never have a better opportunity. He sighed. The prospect of turning her was very, very tempting, just then. Making her his immortal partner, being able to have that incredible carnal response every night for the rest of his unlife was a more than appealing prospect.

But, it wouldn’t really be Buffy in his bed, but a demon in her body. And, he had the damnedest feeling that if he set a demon lose in the Slayer’s flesh, he wouldn’t be able to keep her long. No, she’d remember her lust for Angel, and, likely, do her level best to get his demon to come out to play, banishing the pesky soul to the ether. Spike would likely find himself deserted in a fortnight, with Angelus and the Slayer running off to wreak who knew what sort of havoc on a hapless world. Better things remain as they were, for as long as they could.

"Pet, if I’d wanted to turn you, you’d be turned by now," he said by way of reassurance, and kissed her lightly, once more. He saw the relief in her eyes, and she smiled softly up at him.

Buffy wasn’t sure why she trusted his words. It wasn’t like honesty was Spike’s strong suit. He was the most devious, artful, cunning and untrustworthy bastard she had ever gone up against. Still, she knew that what he was saying was nothing less than the complete truth. She was in no danger of being turned. Or even simply killed outright. She was, it occurred to her, safer than she had usually was. For once the Big Bad was concerned with protecting her, not trying to do her in. She smiled at the thought. He smiled back, then drew the comforter over them both. They settled down to sleep, their bodies still conjoined.

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