The Bronze has never been one of Angel’s favorite places, and this evening it’s worse than usual, strobing lights added to the expected din and the scent of too many human bodies crowded into a confined space. Put together, the effect is nothing less than sensory overload, and it scrapes at his tolerance from the minute he walks into the club. He’s tempted to turn around and walk right back out but, while he has no intention of lingering tonight, he has a message he needs to pass on to Buffy.
Out on the dance floor, the girl in question stands out like a beacon, golden hair and golden skin and energy rolling off her in waves. She tosses her hair and moves with sensual confidence, her body gyrating in perfect sync with the driving beat of the music and the motions of her sister Slayer beside her: powerful and alluring, like a pagan goddess of old or some avatar of feminine sexuality incarnate.
The two girls own the center of the floor, entirely in their element. What seems like half the teen male population of Sunnydale are clustered around them, drawn in like iron to a lodestone or moths to a flame. He can hardly blame them, but he hates them for it all the same, these boys who are panting after his girlfriend and undressing her with their eyes (not that it takes much doing, given how much her skimpy tank top and tight leggings reveal). And the way she’s encouraging it – basking in the attention, letting them grind up on her as she loses herself in the pleasure of the dance – is enough to bring a red haze to his vision.
This was a bad idea. He should leave. Let her have her fun, have her release. He can catch up with her later, elsewhere, when he’s back in control of himself. Right now his grip on the semblance of humanity is all too tenuous.
As he turns to go, her voice stops him in his tracks. “Angel!”
Almost before he can react Buffy is bounding up to him, a brilliant smile lighting her face. She leaps at him and he catches her instinctively, encircling arms supporting her back even as her hands grasp at his shoulders and her legs lock around his waist.
He closes his eyes for a moment, attempting to steady himself against the way she threatens to overwhelm his senses: the heat of her skin, the scent of her blood and sweat and excitement, the frenzied rhythm of her heartbeat. A fresh cut on her arm and more adrenaline coursing through her veins than the dance can account for make it clear she’s been fighting recently.
She shifts still closer, draping her arms over his shoulders (and putting her cleavage nearly at eye level in the process). The look in her eyes is downright predatory. Unconsciously he licks his lips.
“Not leaving, are you?” she asks with feigned innocence.
“I saw you making friends,” he replies, unable to keep the jealous edge from his voice.
Buffy barely spares a glance back at the dance floor, where the crowd has closed in around Faith. “Them? Boys,” she says dismissively. “I like you.” She punctuates her words with a little wriggle that goes straight to his groin.
It’s all he can do to stifle a groan. Business, Angel reminds himself firmly. He’s here for business. He needs to warn her about Balthazar and the amulet. No matter how much he might want to carry her into a dark corner and fuck her into the wall until she forgets all about her little admirers. He unwraps her arms from around him and sets her back on her feet before he can do something he’ll regret.
She allows the relocation reluctantly, and remains right up in his personal space. “What’s the matter?” she teases. “Not afraid of little me, are ya?”
He ignores the question in favor of leading her to a table. “We better sit down.”
“Great!” Buffy chirps once he’s passed on his news and she’s retrieved the demon’s amulet from her hapless new Watcher. “You’ll put that thing somewhere safe that’s actually safe, and Faith and I can do recon on Balthazar later tonight.”
She rises, takes his hand and leads him towards the door. They leave the young Watcher staring confusedly after them, muttering about Balthazar being dead.
“Later tonight?” Angel inquires as they emerge into the cool night air.
Buffy shrugs. “We’ve got the amulet. Are a few more hours really gonna make a difference?”
“Probably not,” he admits. “But why wait?”
“Because Faith has a point about the hungry and horny factor.”
“Because I’m way too keyed up to focus right now,” she explains impatiently. She stops short a pace in front of him, forcing him to halt as well, and turns to look up at him with heat in her eyes and a plea in her voice. “Take me home, Angel.”
He wavers, caught between the belief that duty ought to come first and the barely tamped down mess of emotion roiling inside him. Then she presses the full length of her body against his and pulls his head down to kiss him passionately. It’s a more effective argument than it has any right to be.
“If you’re sure,” he concedes. He’s never been good at denying her.
She kisses him once more, hard, flashes a smile that’s all challenge, and the next thing he knows she’s pulled out of his arms and is off running. “Race you there,” she calls over her shoulder, and what can he do but chase after her?
He catches up to her on the mansion’s grounds. Once they’re in the door he barely has time to discard his jacket before she’s wrapped around him again, her legs straddling his waist and her mouth on his like she wants to devour him. The heat of her body pressed tight against him, the hungry urgency of her kisses, the scent of her arousal erode his control to a ragged thread.
There’s no way they’re going to make it all the way to the bedroom, so he just pushes her up against a wall and slides his hands up under her tank top. She moans into his mouth as he squeezes her supple breasts and pinches a pebbled nipple between thumb and forefinger. Her legs tighten around his hips, grinding her center against the bulge of his erection.
He reaches a hand under the waistband of her thin leggings. Her panties are soaked, her outer lips coated with the slickness seeping from her core. The undercurrent of irrational jealousy that’s been simmering within him since he caught sight of her with every curve of her body on display, shamelessly dirty dancing with that crowd of admirers, bubbles to the surface. “So wet already,” he murmurs darkly. “You sure it’s not for your new friends on the dance floor?”
“Those little boys? Oh please!” Buffy scoffs. “As if any of them could hope to have the strength or stamina to satisfy me.” She kisses the underside of his neck, sucks at his Adam’s apple. He growls at both the suggestive sensation and the surge of possessive satisfaction provoked by her words. “No, this is all for you. You’re the only one I want, the only one I need.”
“Good,” he snarls. “Because you are mine.” He knows he’s being a possessive ass, but he can’t bring himself to care. He rips the flimsy top off over her head and scrapes his teeth along the ridge of her collarbone.
Buffy doesn’t seem to mind. She unbuttons his shirt in turn and rakes her nails down his chest. “Then take me,” she invites, undaunted.
She manages to wriggle out of her leggings and panties without her feet ever touching the ground, a feat of preternatural dexterity that defies understanding. Angel doesn’t bother undressing further, just unzips his pants and pushes them low on his hips before dropping her onto his cock.
“Fuck,” she gasps, clinging to him fiercely as he rams her into the wall; he can’t form much more coherent thought than that himself. She is hot and tight and eager around him, raising her hips to meet each brutal thrust.
She throws her head back, baring the curve of her neck to him, and he wonders if she has any idea what a temptation she presents. The demon in him screams for her blood, urges him to brand his mate for all the world to see his claim. He forces the change back and instead bites down at the crook of her neck with his blunt human teeth, sucking hard enough to leave a mark. She gives back as good as she gets, her own teeth biting into his shoulder while her fingernails dig into his back. He maneuvers one hand between their bodies to work her clit until she screams her pleasure against his flesh, and tries not to think about how good it would taste to drink the orgasm from her veins.
He pounds her harder and harder, until he is too much on the edge to maintain a steady rhythm. The muscles of her sheath squeeze tight around him and her teeth graze the shell of his ear. “Come for me,” she urges, and he explodes.
For a long moment he just stands there, braced against the wall and his forehead resting against hers, catching his nonexistent breath. Then he adjusts his hold on his lover and carries her into the bedroom.
He lays her down gently on his bed, and she lets out a little noise of disappointment at the loss when their bodies separate. He drinks in the sight of her, flushed and disheveled with his seed dripping from between her thighs as she twists around to lick the last drops from his softening shaft.
He runs a careful hand over her back, reassuring himself that it’s not too abraded from the way he’d slammed her up against the wall. Buffy dismisses his concern with a laugh. “You worry too much, love. I think I was rougher with you than you were with me,” she murmurs, and kisses the places her nails have gouged into his skin.
Angel draws her up to curl up against his chest, and she settles contentedly into her favorite spot with her head tucked under his chin. He presses a kiss to her hair, savoring the peace of afterglow for a few more minutes before duty calls them out into the night again.
He can look back on the scene at the Bronze with clearer eyes now. Buffy had accepted the boys’ attention as her due, but she’d barely paid them any mind; he’d been entirely irrational to feel threatened. The magnetism between her and her sister Slayer might be more cause for concern; he can’t help thinking she’s been unusually reckless lately. Or maybe she’s just being eighteen. With as heavy of burdens as she bears, he can’t begrudge her the desire to cut loose now and then.
It will bear watching. Given how thoroughly the results have turned out in his favor, he can hardly complain at the moment.