The parking garage is nearly deserted by the time we make it back to the car. Spike is strolling liesurely, puffing on what`s got to be his eighth cigarette in as many minutes. Why shouldn`t he be relaxed? I`m the one carrying all the stuff. He hasn`t even offered to carry the bag of the goddamn CD`s he manipulated me into buying him.
Annoying little....
He`s watching me out of the corner of one blue eye, grinning irrepressibly, as I juggle seven bags full of clothes. ``You gonna offer to help anytime soon?`` I snarl at him, before he can light another damn cigarette.
``Oh, did you need help, Peaches? I just assumed the big hulk of a guy who could manhandle my ass into a shoe store could carry a few packages. Sometimes I forget yer really an ol` man.``
I`ve just spent three hours in a suburban shopping mall buying formal wear for a souless demon. I`m tired and I`m cranky and I just wanna go home. I`m going to pound that smile off his face with my left fist. I toss three bags at him instead. Unfortunately, he catches them before they can smack him upside his platinum head.
``You`re awful cranky, luv.`` he asserts, earning another growl from me. To top it all off, I have no clue where I parked. I can catch the faint smell of blood prey four miles off, I can find a hare in a haystack, but I can never find my damned car in these intolerable mazes they call parking garages.
``You know what you need?`` he continues, oblivious to the murderous rage boiling through me at the moment. No, not oblivious, just heedless. What`s that line about where angels fear to tread? That would be the path of Spike.
``You need a good shag.``
I sigh. ``Spike, I`ve had good shags. Recently even. They aren`t the answer for everything. For instance, right now it wouldn`t help me find my car.``
He bursts out laughing.``You Mics got no sense of direction, it`s why yer always fighting amongst yourselves. Noone can leave, cause they can`t bloody well figure out where to go.``
``So far this evening, you`ve insulted my parentage, my age, and now my heritage. I`m safe in assuming there`s not much left?`` I quip, struggling to keep the edge from my voice. If he knows I`m annoyed he`ll only try harder. Two hundred years. You`d think I`d have learned to ignore him by now.
``Well, there`s always your dick size,`` he grins.
I still haven`t learned.
Actually, this is Spike`s version
of foreplay. Making me crazy. For some godawful reason, it never fails
to work either. He`s grinning at me with that evil, dirty leer, insulting
my manhood, and all I wanna do is toss him over the hulking SUV parked
in
front of me and fuck him until his
eyes bleed.
I am one perverted guy. It`s nice to know I can blame moments like these on my demon.
Or his.
I know this night is gonna end with someone on their knees. I`ll be lucky if we make it back to the car first. Hell, I`ll be lucky if we make it out of the goddamn parking garage.
``You gettin` a happy, yet Peaches? Careful now, don`t wanna lose that precious soul of yours.`` he taunts, and I am about to remind him that I am about as likey to lose my soul to him as I am to that obnoxious little prick, Xander Harris, when I realize something. I *am* happy. I`m annoyed out of my mind, but I`m happy.
This short, demented, bleached blond murdering fiend with no taste in clothes and even poorer taste in home interiors makes me irrationally, insanely happy. Admittedly, it`s not *perfect* happiness, but let me tell you from my personal experience, that ride is overrated. It`s nothing but a big bobsled to hell for me. So, I`ll take a ...*shag* in a parking garage. And I`ll *be* damned happy about it. And as a bonus, I won`t even wake up with the insatiable urge to usher in the Apocolypse. All right, from where I`m standing you can`t beat that deal with a stick.
I toss the bags down, and he looks at me, startled by my sudden, preternaturally quick gesture. ``We gonna throw down here?`` he smirks, dropping into a loose fighting stance, never losing the smile.
I match his grin, and step closer to him, watching in amusement as his fists raise to cover his chest. My boots thud gently against the concrete as I continue to bear down on him, and he eyes me warily, adjusting the level of his raised fists accordingly.
Only when we are nearly toe to toe, do I stop my advance. He does not back down, just blinks up at me, slowly, as I mouth the single word, ``No``, and another lazy grin spreads across his high cheekbones.
``What then, Peaches?`` he asks,
unecessarily, as my intent has become as
maddeningly obvious, to me at least,
as the bulge in my jeans.
I grab one of his fists in my hand, with enough speed and strength that even he is momentarily taken aback, and he drops the other voluntarily. Then he is back against the car, and I am crushing his lips under my own, and he is moaning, or I am.....
Instantly, his lips part under mine, and his tongue darts between my teeth. His kisses are always both insistent and delibrate, a curious mix so ridiculously intoxicating, it never fails to make me breathe. Which never fails to make him laugh. Which he does, now.
He`s still laughing while my mouth works its way down his long, smooth neck, while I nibble lightly on the jutting collarbone, and while I pull his head back to cover the hollow of his throat with open mouthed kisses.
In fact, he doesn`t stop laughing until I`ve slid down his body, kissing him through the thin material of his shirt, and begin to rub my tongue over the front of his jeans. Right about then he switches from laughter to small moans.
I spare a look up at him, he`s leaning back against the car..someone`s car...with his legs slightly apart, and his head back just enough to expose his throat to me. His red shirt bears a mark of wet trails, and tugged to one side, it allows me a glimpse of pale skin, nearly translucent in the dim lights of the garage. His hands are gripping the hood of the car in anticipation. His eyes are half closed, but their gold glint catches me nonetheless, and I can do nothing but stare up at him.
I`m two hundred and forty and change. And here I am, acting like some horny teenager, pulling the zipper down on his jeans in a public parking garage. I used to kill and maim in the name of sport. Now my idea of a fun evening consists of...having sex on the hood of a car with a man I can`t even claim to like a good deal of the time.
His hands wind their way into my hair and he growls deep in his throat. Patience is not one of his virtues. In fact, the whole lack of underwear was probably just a plot from the very beginning. I undo his zipper the rest of the way, and tug at his button and belt. Now it is his turn to catch a sharp, unneeded breath. And my turn to laugh.
Then my hands are on his strong thighs, caressing through the thick denim, and the laughter is lost against the hard, unyeilding flesh which seeks out my mouth. As I take his cock inside my lips, he takes one one more breath, then is silent and still. He tastes of cool air and nighttime, of all things wild and willful, of blood and infinity, of me.
He slips so easily into my mouth, past my lips, and over my tongue, so easily into a steady rythm, so easily inside of me.
He`s always been home.
But Spike is not moved by sonnets and declarations....it`s what I do that matters to him.
Like now, grasping his ass to pull him closer to me, sucking relentlessly on his hardened length, twirling my tongue around the ridge of flesh and humming softly against his cool skin.
That`s what counts.
And not releasing him when he shudders, and bangs his fist onto the hood of the car, and calls my name in a harsh, gutteral voice. Swallowing the taste of him, the essence of him, right here, right now, in the middle of the purple evening, in a concrete shopper`s paradise .
That`s what matters.
And letting him slide down into my lap, and watching amused, but silent, while he struggles against his uncharacteristic and always unwelcome loss of composure. And zipping up his pants for him, because even after he`s quit breathing, his hands are still too shaky.
That`s what`s real.
The moment remains in clear, sharp focus as he pulls me to my feet, and pushes me back against the car. So rare, for me, to have such clarity of vision, of concentration, to be able to let go of everything extraneous and just *be.*
He is still on his knees in front of me, and I hear his jeans scrape along the concrete as he pulls closer. I shift my weight forward, unable to stop myself, and he chuckles. Then he is standing again, and I have to suppress a groan of dismay, or risk another self-satisfied retort from him.
He winks at me, and tugs at my hair,
hard enough to throw my head back, and into the curve of his cupped palm.
My eyes fall shut as he bends to me, and behind my lids, I can still see
him, the glowing embers of hair and eyes and teeth, as my skin is ripped
away. He is greedy when he feeds, as he is with everything he does, and
his tenacity is again my undoing. I grip his
shoulders, tearing the shirt, and
quite possibly his flesh, and press against him.
He doesn`t laugh at me now, the drink satisfying enough that he has momentarily forgotten to mock my obvious need. When he finally pulls away, his eyes are glazed and there is not the merest trace of my blood on his lips. I am trembling, and leaning back against the poor abused car to keep from falling forward.
By the time he undoes my belt and fly, I have to lay back onto the hood. Then the warmth of the metal under my hips, and the cold kiss of his lips on my thighs, and a small, stinging bite which makes me yelp despite myself, and he finally laughs. He must have been really put upon by those tuxedos. Or the off his medication comment.....
Ahhh..not too angry...no...because there are hungry kisses down the length of me, fist at the base of my cock, fair head moving eagerly up and down over me, urging every moan and whimper of delight from my chest.
Not too angry to rub my thighs while he nibbles gently at the head of my cock, not too angry to take me into the cool, wet recesses of his mouth with a groan that seems to suggest he enjoys it as much as I do, not too angry to find the simple, primal rhythm which never fails to make my back arch.
Not too angry at all to pleasure me in a parking garage, not too angry to lick, and suck..and gods...not too angry to swallow...not too angry for that...
And I think I hear someone screaming...and I suppose it`s me but it doesn`t sound like me, and I realize it can`t be him because..well..because his mouth is busy, and really, Spike isn`t much of a screamer on general principle, and I`m holding something in my hand...and why is it that the gods gave men brains and a dick and not enough blood to make them both function at the same time?
I leap off the car, which suddenly I realize IS what is screaming. Looking down into my left fist, I notice, not without a touch of confusion, that I`m holding what used to be a windshield wiper...but now is a twisted piece of metal, and there is another like it on the windshield of the car, and that is why the car is yelling at me.
Spike is laughing so hard now that sound isn`t even coming out, he is just rolling on the asphalt, wrapped in his duster like some bizzarre papoose run amuck.
And I think, well, I could kill him. But I`m not that angry.
Besides, even I have to admit this *is* somewhat amusing...somewhat....
And besides that.....tomorrow night, vengenance is mine.