Author: Elsa Frohman Feedback:elsa@frohman.net Rating: NC-17 Spoilers: Through some unspecified point in the Smashed to As You Were Arc. Archiving: Please ask, I'm easy Summary: How many times in five hours?
The weather is changing.
The storm breaks with a flash of lightening followed several
seconds later by the rumble of thunder. The wind picks up and
tosses the greenery surrounding the crypt. Big wet drops of rain
splat against the windows, driven by gusts of cold air.
The crypt door slams open, and she stomps into the room,
drenched to the skin.
"Looks like you need an umbrella, pet."
"Shut up, Spike!"
She shoves him back against the wall and tears his shirt open,
sending buttons tumbling and bouncing across the stone floor.
He pretends to be surprised, but he isn't. This is the way it
always starts. Her hands clawing at his chest, her eyes angry.
Her body tense and shaking as she rips into him.
"Why do I want this?" is her unspoken question. "How can you do
this to me?"
He wraps his arms around her as her hands scrabble to unfasten
his belt and his fly. He's ready; he's always ready. Her hands
find him inside his trousers and bring him out with a rough
jerk. She presses her belly against his erection and rolls her
hips. He moans his pleasure and she frowns, as if the move was
meant only for her own benefit and she resents his sharing the
sensation.
She pushes his jeans down and hikes up her skirt. He lifts her
up as she wraps her legs around him, and he turns to press her
against the wall. She wiggles to get into just the right position,
and he plunges into her like a man diving from a cliff into the
ocean below.
The center of the storm passes overhead, and bolt after bolt of
lightning crashes down on the cemetery. Somewhere nearby, a
tree is struck and cracks down its center to crash to the ground
in two pieces. The air crackles with electricity. The wind howls
through every crack and cranny and in through the half-open
door. The rain pelts down mixed with pebble-sized hail, driven
so hard it sounds like static against the windows.
They're locked together in an embrace that no human force
could pry apart. Her legs are a vise; his arms are steel bands.
He drills into her, his jaw set rigid to guard against any
temptation to bite, his eyes squeezed closed, his breath coming
in ragged gasps.
Her eyes are closed just as tightly, but she doesn't resist the
urge to bite. Her teeth grip the smooth skin of his neck and she
draws blood, tasting the sharp coppery tang of the crimson
oozing from the shallow wounds she makes. Her breathing is
shallow and rapid, and she lets out little mewing sounds as she
presses back against his thrusts to feel him ever deeper inside
her.
He feels the tension in her muscles increasing as she claws her
way toward her climax, and he pounds harder and faster.
Thunder rolls over them -- sound so deep and strong that it
shakes the air and the ground and the walls.
She cries out as the orgasm washes through her and he takes
the cue to release his own.
That's the first.
She pushes him away, and her feet are on the floor again.
The rain drums on the roof.
He steps out of his jeans, now rumpled around his ankles, and
moves over to her, standing behind her and running his hands
over the damp skin of her arms and shoulders.
"Don't..." she says without conviction.
"Hmm?" he replies, ignoring her weak protest.
Her hair is soaked, and he gently removes the band that holds it
at the nape of her neck so it can spread out and dry. His fingers
caress her throat, then wander lower to find her hardened
nipples through the sodden fabric of her T-shirt.
She leans back against him, and he moves his hands to her hips
to increase the pressure. She rubs against him and he feels her
tense up, then relax again -- an aftershock to what they've just
done -- but he counts it as the second.
He takes the hem of her shirt and starts to work it up --
carefully, to keep from stretching the wet jersey.
"What... no..." she says, barely putting enough breath behind
the words to make a sound.
"Need to hang this up, love. Let it dry."
She lets him take her clothes -- her T-shirt, her skirt and her
panties -- and he spreads them over the wrought-iron grillwork
that divides the space inside the crypt. He slips off the remains
of his shirt before he returns to her. She's shivering, crossing
her arms over her chest and holding onto herself.
He brings her the coverlet from the sarcophagus and hangs it
around her shoulders. She won't look at him. She looks at the
floor, the walls, the door -- anything but him. He puts a finger
beneath her chin and raises her face to kiss her. Her lips are
warm, and he presses them gently, tasting her lipstick, her
perspiration, the moisturizer she uses and the makeup. He loves
the way she tastes and smells. He could breathe her in for
hours, but she's not having any of that. She pulls away, and he
knows he has to do something now to keep her interested.
He picks her up and sets her on the edge of the sarcophagus.
He parts her knees and steps between them. With one hand he
strokes her abdomen and mound then slips a finger between the
folds of her labia. He moves slowly exploring the warm, soft
wet recesses with a light but insistent touch. She lets him kiss
her now, and he takes full advantage, letting his tongue wander
through her mouth.
The rain continues to beat a steady rhythm on the roof and
windows. But the thunder and lightening have moved on.
The third through sixth happen this way, in rapid succession.
When she collapses back on the cold stone surface, he knows
it's time to change the game again. He stands looking at her for
a moment, his erection painful in its intensity. She's lying limp
with her arms spread out beside her, her legs hanging over the
edge. The coverlet is rumpled beneath her. She's not cold
anymore.
He moves decisively -- always the way to overcome her
objections -- and turns her over on her stomach. She doesn't
resist. He takes her from behind, hard and fast, reaching his
climax quickly.
That's the seventh.
She turns back over and sits up, giving him a disdainful look. It
cuts him to the quick, but he pushes the hurt feelings away. He
won't show her how she's wounded him. He sneers back at her.
"Not hard enough for you, bitch?" he says.
He sees a spark of something in her eyes and realizes that this
is what she wants.
"Can't get enough, can you? You're such a slut."
He sees her catch her breath. Her cheeks flush and the pink
spreads down her neck to bloom across her upper chest.
"I don't know why I bother with such a low-rent whore. I can
pick up a better woman at Willy's any night of the week.
You're not even a decent piece of ass."
She reaches out and pulls him to her, and he pushes her back
farther on the sarcophagus. He gets on top of her and presses
her legs apart. She clings to him with fingers that dig trenches
across his back as he fucks her hard. She cries out when she
comes, and he floods her with his cum.
The eighth.
"More," she whispers in his ear. "More like that."
A new storm center is moving over the cemetery. Several
flashes of lightning illuminate the crypt, the thunder coming
right behind. The rain drums harder and the wind howls.
He wracks his brain for another insult. She wants him to tear
her down, to punish her for wanting him. And suddenly, he's
angry that she makes him talk to her this way, when he wants
to tell her he loves her, that he idolizes her, that she's the only
clean, worthwhile thing in his life.
"You are such a bitch," he says -- and he means it. "You don't
give a damn about anything but yourself."
He gets off her and goes to look for his jeans.
"Spike..." He hears the hurt in her voice.
"I've had about enough, pet," he says quietly.
She gets up and faces him. He can't stand the intensity of her
eyes and backs up. She advances on him, backing him up until
he tumbles into his armchair.
She kneels in front of him between his legs and strokes his soft
cock. Her touch is gentle and he can almost believe that she
respects the dead flesh in her hand. His cock responds and
when it's hard, she takes it in her mouth. He buries his fingers
in her golden hair, feeling the silky strands slide through his
fingers as her tongue and lips make him forget everything but
the perfect feeling of having her surrounding him.
The ninth.
Ten through fifteen are accomplished on the rug in front of the
television, the blue light flickering over their backs as they roll
and tumble.
They sit up, both breathing hard, and he laughs. It's absurd.
She's insatiable. Vampires are supposed to be insatiable, but
she outpaces him easily. It won't be enough until she's too tired
to move.
"What's so funny?"
"Nothing," he says.
The storm has settled down to a steady rhythm on the roof. He
could sleep now, but he knows she isn't ready to give up.
He runs a finger down her bare arm.
"Don't," she says with a frown.
He raises an eyebrow. "Little late to have regrets, pet."
She frowns. "Not regrets... just ... not like that."
He collapses back, spread-eagled. He's fresh out of ideas. What
the fuck does she expect?
She climbs onto him, impaling herself on his willing cock. He
reaches up to touch her, but she bats his hand away. She rides
him slowly, her hands resting on his chest. Then she rocks
faster, coming with a shout and a laugh. She stops for a
moment. He's still hard inside her -- resisting the urge to
release because she'll get off if he can't offer her a hard cock
anymore. She starts to move again.
That's sixteen through twenty.
He sits up abruptly, catching her off guard and wrapping his
arms around her. She tries to get away, but he won't let her. He
buries his face in her hair and nuzzles her neck. She relaxes
and lets him have what he wants -- to touch her and feel her
close to him. They're still joined and he starts moving again.
She's tired but she can't stop herself from responding. It takes a
while, but she climaxes again, and this time he comes with her,
holding on to her as if she's the only real thing in the universe.
Twenty-one.
The rain has slacked off to a gentle tapping. It washes down the
sides of the crypt and gravestones outside. The sound is
soothing.
She moves away from him and lies flat on her stomach on the
rug in front of the easy chair. He lies back and goes limp. He is
about to drift into sleep when he hears her sob.
He goes to her and puts a hand on her back.
"What's wrong?" he asks gently.
"Why can't I stop?"
"Why should you?" he replies.
He picks her up and sits in the armchair with her across his lap.
She rests her head on his shoulder and cries quietly. She's
exhausted now -- too tired to rise, too tired to complain, too
tired to say anything cutting.
He strokes her and pets her and murmurs sweet endearments.
She lets him now; she hasn't the strength to push him away. His
hands wander over her body, memorizing every curve and
hollow. He marvels at how smooth and soft she is. There is
nothing hard left about her. The anger and petulance have
drained away. He feels her heart speeding up as his hands find
her moist folds. He touches her there again and she sighs
shifting her legs a little bit to give him better access.
The twenty-second time happens slowly. He's kissing her
tenderly when he feels her tense. She pulls away from his lips
and says "Oh," breathing out the word as her hips flex against
his hand.
She relaxes then, and lets her head rest against his neck. Her
breathing calms and her heart slows. He knows she's asleep
now. He shifts her a little bit to make himself comfortable, and
begins to drift toward sleep himself. The television station is
signing off the air. It's 2 a.m., he notes. It's been five hours
since she burst through his door.
Twenty-two times, he thinks languidly. But who's counting?