"God," she keened, arms and legs wrapped around him like a sloth on a tree. "Fuck me already."
He was balls deep, stilled, and exquisitely stretching, and holding her closer than he ever dared. The smell of sex and sweat and Buffy was like a cloud of nerve gas assaulting his senses. He felt dizzy.
"No," he leaned down and rumbled in her ear. "I won't fuck you." And ever so slightly, he rocked his hips and pressed.
She moaned, a small noise in the back of her throat. "Spike." Warning? Encouragement? Her arms tightened around him.
Gently, slowly, "I won't fuck you." It's too gentle to be fucking. He didn't have to say that part. So what the hell was it?
His pubic bone ground against her clit and she moaned again. A slow steady rhythm. He never pulled out an inch. He rocked against her and she squeezed around him, hard and desperate.
She could make him if she wanted. Make him slam into her with enough force to bring down a building. Make him hit her, make him mad, and violent, and so dirty there was no way to ever get clean.
He rested his forehead against hers, eyes closed, every possible inch of skin touching. Her breathing sped up, claustrophobic for five seconds before she closed her eyes and let him take her away. From her shitty life and shitty job and shitty--oh!
"Spike" she cried. "Ah!" There weren't even words for the slow flood that broke over her--the low trickle of water from a cracking dam that cascaded like a waterfall, like a torrent, like a hurricane. All bright lights and low thunder and downpours. On it went. On and on.
Lying there, spent, wrapped up in him (wrapped around him? She knew she'd be sore in the morning and not from the Karlor demon they'd killed,) she could breathe again. The air went into her lungs, her body took the oxygen, the air went back out. He didn't move from her, although with an orgasm like that he had to have come too. She was too busy to notice.
"Still want me to fuck you?" He rumbled in her ear.
She couldn't find her voice. She couldn't find her will, or her words, or any semblance of what she wanted anymore.
"Yes," she finally whispered against his neck.
"Tough" and he slid from her, hands brushing against her ribcage, her belly, her sides, spreading her legs so he could fit crouching like a predatory cat. Like the predator that he was. Eyes lowered and all too thoroughly sexed. When he looked at her like that she felt like her skin might catch fire.
She was so wet she was dripping. He trailed his finger through their mingled come, tasting it, sending a shudder through her. He anchored his hands on her hipbones and leaned in, nuzzling his nose against her clit, not caring what a mess he made.
She waited, patient, excited, letting him play out whatever he had in store. She could make him do anything she wanted, but she didn't.