Or at least a performer. She has a drink in her hand and she’s dancing sloppily on the disco-ball-lit floor, eyes half-closed and head thrown back sensually. She looks like a fucktoy and she knows it. She has to know.
I drink her up with my eyes. I stare at her, my hands idly stirring a drink that’s on the edge of my mind, watching the way she curves and sways. Watching the way she almost falls out of her shiny silvery top, the way her hips slither back and forth in her sleek, pleathery pants.
She’s seducing the room by telling them with her body they can look but never touch. Every man who gets near her keeps a strange, critical difference. Cordelia decides who touches and for how long.
If she knew I was here, she’d be worse. The game would be driving me crazy. Torturing me by playing with them. Sliding one sleek arm around a neck, moving closer, aware of me but refusing to throw me even a single glance.
The ice cubes have long since melted into my drink. I take a quick, violent swig of it, tasting the water, the sharpness of the alcohol, the faint sweetening of sour mix. It’s terrible. I set the drink down too hard, causing it to slop over the sides onto my hand.
I think about Cordelia and me. There was always this strange tension between us, a tension I realized only too late to change it from dislike to like, to more than like. It only got worse after she came here.
Part of me still thinks I’m insane for reacting to her. It’s only the pretty face I’m watching, those dark eyes, that endless smile, those perfect breasts–
I look over at her again and catch her looking at me. Her eyes go big when she realizes I’ve caught her. A slow, dangerous grin crosses my face.
Cordelia responds exactly the way she should. She sneers at me, a sniffy superior sneer, and then she half-closes her eyes and runs her tongue over her upper lip. Not slow and obvious. Quick. In and out, and then it disappears. After that, she turns to the dark-haired guy dancing next to her and cozies up to him.
I hate Cordelia. She pushes my buttons hard and acts like she can get away with it.
I stand up and head for the dance floor. If Cordy wants to play, I’ll play. I can take it out of her later.
The guy I find to dance with looks like Riley. He’s tall and blonde and wearing khakis. He’s also utterly fucking clueless, just like Riley. I throw myself into the game, dancing close and warm, grinding against him lightly. I let him put his hands on my hips.
Poor guy. Just like Riley, he thinks I’m nothing more than a pretty blonde girl who could blow his mind. Poor Riley. He didn’t pick up on what exactly was going on between Faith and me, either. Maybe that was just willing self-delusion, though, and not complete ignorance. What guy wants to realize that his girlfriend’s playing for both teams? At least not any guy who’s gotten past the threesome idea, anyway.
Of course, I don’t think Angel’s picked up on Cordelia, either. A little birdie told me that he’s been getting that familiar faraway look on his face again whenever Queen C walks in the room. You could have knocked me over with a feather when I heard that. Angel realized before I did that Faith and I had a little more between us than rogue Slayer issues.
I glance across the room. Cordelia’s not impressed with my blondefinding skills. She’s rubbing up against an Angel-lookalike, trying to tear my heart out. It occurs to me that Cordy hates me as much as I hate her. We so like to hurt each other. It’s part of the fun.
That may even be what makes the sex great and I so can’t believe I thought of Cordelia and sex in the same thought. But I did and the thoughts go rapidly south from there.
“Can I buy you a drink?” the wannabe Riley asks me. I shake my head and pull away from him. I go to the bar, where Cordelia is sitting next to the almost-Angel. She’s holding a new drink. The bitch can pound them, I’ll say that for her.
“I’ll have a water,” I tell the bartender. He charges me two dollars and then hands me a bottle of mineral water. I gulp it down in three gasps and set the bottle on the bar. I walk away, heading for the bathroom.
Cordelia catches up with me halfway.
“Cute guy,” she says. I’m not sure if she means mine or hers. “Where’d you find him, Nebraska?”
“Fuck you,” I reply. “At least I’m not jonesing on certain vamp resembling creatures.”
“He did NOT look like Angel,” she says, hooking her arm around mine.
“He even had the hair,” I tell her. “Is he really into you? Angel, I mean, not the wannabe.”
“Will you kick my ass if I say yes?” Cordelia asks, wobbling drunkenly on her platforms. “Because it’s not my idea. Broodmaster A could have the crazy girl from another dimension, but no. He has to make my life miserable.”
“Where’s the bathroom, Cordy?” I say, dodging the question. “I have to pee.”
Cordelia swings us around, opens a door, and leads us into a fairly busy bathroom, letting my arm go suddenly. Before I can ask why, she’s at the mirror, fixing blurred eyeliner, dabbing at a tiny bit of shininess on her forehead.
Some things never change.
I go find a stall. When I come out, she looks put together and smug. She gives me a Cheshire-cat grin and I suddenly get a little tingle.
“I’m bored,” she says, looking at her nails for longer than she looks at me. “Wanna go? I’ve got a car down the street.”
I’m about to ask her if she’s good to drive when I realize I’m being stupid.
“Sure. Do they have handstamps here?”
“At the door,” she says, rolling her eyes at the provincial little Sunnydalien. I’m going to hurt her soon.
“Good to know,” I say, grabbing her hand and practically crushing it in mine. Her eyes widen in pain, but the sneery, unfazed mask covers it a split second later.
“I guess so,” she says, pulling her hand away and walking out of the restroom. I follow her, grabbing her hand again, but not so rough this time. We thread between the crush of bodies on the dance floor and the warmth is intoxicating. The feeling adds to the tingles I’ve already got. My mouth is getting dry.
We emerge into the cold night air. Cordelia turns to me and grins.
“Welcome back,” she says, tugging at my hand. I’m suddenly very turned on and she hasn’t even kissed me yet. We almost trip trying to get downstairs to the street.
“How far away is your car?”
“Two blocks,” she says. It’s cold and I don’t have a coat, so I snuggle up next to Cordy. Of course that’s why. It’s cold. No ulterior motives, not me.
Her skin is still soft. No matter how many visions she has, Cordelia still finds time to moisturize. I rest my head on her shoulder like a little girl with her best friend.
“You okay?” she asks, sounding slightly nervous.
“I’m sort of cold,” I say.
“Oh,” she says, leading us toward Melrose. I can’t believe Cordy found parking on Melrose. Of course, she knows the town and I don’t. “It’s not too far.”
The car is one of those little sedans, a Corolla or a Civic or something. It’s got to be a recent acquisition.
“I borrowed it from a friend,” she explains tersely, pushing a button to unlock the car. “So.”
“Long time no see,” she says, opening the driver’s side door. “I wasn’t even sure you remembered my name.”
“I was kind of dead, remember?”
“Fuck you, that’s not what I meant,” she says, sitting down on the seat. “It took someone telling you Angel was into me to bring you down here.”
“Fuck Angel,” I say, leaning down next to her and breathing in.
“I’m not that stupid,” she replies, looking up at me with sharp, evil Cordy eyes. “What the hell do you want?”
I lean in and sit in her lap, which isn’t as easy as it sounds with the steering wheel half an inch from my hip. We’re about to fall out of the car onto the street. Someone is probably watching us.
I don’t care.
I kiss her hard, lips pressing against hers for a long long time. Then we pull apart a little and Cordy makes a little gaspy moan sound. I pull her lower lip into my mouth gently, worrying it, let go. Kiss her mouth softly and pull away again.
“I want you to scream,” I say.
“Okay,” she says. She looks very soft. Underneath me, where my hands are running up and down her arms, she’s also very warm.
Warm and soft. Sort of like heaven. Not really, but any little bit will do.
I get off her and open the backseat door of the car. It’s not a big car, but it’ll have to do. We’re not that big.
Then there’s this awkward moment. Cordelia stands up at looks at me with this funny expression on her face. I understand. Are we really going to make out and possibly fuck in the backseat of a borrowed car? Is this for real or are we dreaming?
“Cordelia?” I say.
She smiles at me, a dreamy un-Cordy smile, and slides into the backseat.
“My friend told me that this car was lucky,” she says, eyes glittering wickedly. “I’ll have to thank him later for the borrowing.”
She leans back, looks at me, and laughs. I get in and close the door behind me.
Her lips are fastened to mine practically before I can blink and she’s falling back, trying to avoid hitting her head on the door handle. I would help her, but my hands are too busy trying to pull her top off.
Our lips part. Cordy whimpers, struggling to arrange herself properly. Backseats are problematic. We get her half sitting up and I practically drape myself over her, my hips on top of hers, pressing into the bone. She’s generating serious heat.
“I wanna,” she says, but what she wants I don’t know because I suddenly start sucking on her neck and her words dissolve into moans. Cordy is noisy. We should have turned on the radio.
I start rubbing up and down against her, my hips trapping her against the car seat, my thighs pressed into hers, rubbing feverishly as I lick and tease her neck. There isn’t much my hands can do, but I’m trying to rub the side of her breast with one of them, while the other one keeps our balance.
“Oh God,” she cries, shimmying her hips under me, trying to get me to grind into her harder. I move my lips back up to her jawbone, feeling such nice warm softness under my tongue.
Angel was sweet. But he was cold. I move my lips next to her ear and blow. She wails. The sound makes my nipples tight and sore. It blows a gasket in my brain.
“Does it make you hot to feel me on top of you like this?” I whisper hoarsely, sounding more like Faith than me. “Do you like it?”
Her eyes meet mine, dark things full of angry desire.
“Hell yes,” she replies, reaching around and grabbing my ass, pulling me tighter against her hips, her crotch. Her hips buck up and she starts to whine and moan again, rubbing against me hard.
“Don’t you wish I’d touch you there?” I say, nuzzling my head against her cheek. “I bet you’re so wet. I do it for you, Cordy, like nobody else.”
Faith talked a lot. It worked. I’d get so mad at her but my body would do exactly what she said it was doing.
“Oh, God,” Cordy whimpers between moans. “Please, Buffy. Please touch me.”
“You’d like it if I fingered you, wouldn’t you?” I whisper, feeling the rhythmic pumping of our hips and thighs against each other. I was getting hot and dizzy. “If I slid those cheap pants off you.”
“Yes,” she says, her face getting hotter. I start kissing her again, crudely shoving my tongue into her mouth like a high school boy who’s just learned to French kiss. Her tongue meets mine, wraps around mine. I pull us up and try to figure out how to do it, how to unbutton her pants without too much difficulty. But first, I push her top down to her waist and start undoing her bra so that she’s naked to the waist.
I finally pull away enough to start rubbing her breasts, rolling her nipples between my fingers. I even start pulling on them the way Faith used to. It’s not easy–the space is awkward, but the sound of Cordelia moaning like a porn star is worth it.
“Tell me how much you want it,” I say, cupping one breast and squeezing.
“I want it,” she says hoarsely. “Please, Buffy, please fuck me.”
I lean down close to her, my elbow shoved up at a weird angle.
“Fuck you how?” I whisper, squeezing harder.
“With your fingers. In my–”
Cordelia, the most popular girl in high school, the self-assured bitchmonster, doesn’t like to use dirty words.
“Say it,” I order, letting go of her breast and pulling away. My fingers trail down to the top button of her pants. I’ve gotten so Faith in the way I think sex with girls. Part of me loathes it, but part of me gets off on it. Cordelia and I have always had a power struggle. It’s not always like this, me on top and acting like the queen bitch from hell.
Tonight it needs to be. Tonight it’s bright and brittle and burning like fever. Just like this horrible world.
“In my pussy. Finger-fuck me, Buffy, hard. Make me come,” she says, hating me for making her say it. “I want you bad. I don’t care.”
She cares very much. I unbutton the pants, unzip them. She’s practically steaming. Pleather keeps in heat. I have to practically stand up to pull her pants down, and that’s with her wiggling her ass for all she’s worth. But finally, they’re gone along with her little thong and I’ve got nothing left but skin.
I spread her. She’s dripping and I’m lost now, completely lost in the moment. I don’t care how hard it is to do this in the backseat of a car. It’s probably impossible. I don’t care.
I slide a finger into her. Two fingers.
Cordelia screams. Her back arches and I get a great view of her breasts, the nipples hard.
Angel would freak out if he knew I was touching her. No one else would get it.
I slide in and out, adding a third finger. She’s pretty tight. It’s probably been a while for her.
“Oh, like that, like that,” Cordelia gibbers, her eyes closed. “Harder, Buffy, oh, please, harder–”
She always talks. I like to watch her, the way she shakes and shimmys, the way her eyes open and close like a doll’s, how her tongue keeps wetting her lips.
I can feel her getting wetter and hotter under my fingers. I could keep talking, getting a reaction from the words. But I don’t want to. I want to fuck her, feel those hips move frantically.
“Oh, ‘m gonna come soon–”
I flick her clit with a free finger. I earn another throaty scream. She’s so warm. She’s so sweet and wet and warm. She’s going to feel like a blanket when she’s on top of me–and she will be, soon.
“Are you?” I hear myself say calmly. “Are you going to come, Cordy? You wanna, don’t you?”
I start moving my fingers faster, pushing further with every stroke.
She’s babbling, praying, wailing and screaming, completely gone. I bring a finger to her clit again and rub, brutal rubs and suddenly she’s coming, shrieking like a banshee, convulsing against my fingers. I ride it out with her, moving slowly for a little while. Then I start moving my fingers again, and she’s so wet and I want to have her come again.
“Buffy, I’m gonna–”
“Come for me again. You know you want to.”
And she does.
She’s gasping like a fish now and I finally slide out of her as she lays there, sweaty and exhausted and sated.
“Wow,” she says, looking glazed. “Wow.”
I offer her my fingers. She sucks them into her mouth. I lean over her naked body, drinking in the heat as much as the satisfaction.
“My turn,” I whisper gently.
And she just smiles back.