Chapter Three Hundred and Sixty Seven

She can't remember every being this happy. Not even during those other weeks when she lived with him, loved him, because then the happiness was brief and spurious - clouded from view by doubt and uncertainty and all the lies that were buried deep inside her heart.

But now she falls asleep in his arms, and he stays awake so the last thing she hears before she gives in to sleep is his voice telling her how much he loves her. And even though she knows that he likes to jump out of bed when the cock starts crowing or whatever, he stays there still holding her tight and as her eyes slowly open, he tells her he loves her, and as everything comes into focus the heartbreakingly tender expression on his face is the first thing she sees.

He never makes her wait in the morning. Not the last two anyway. Just strokes and fondles and kisses flesh still sore from the night before, because they're working their way down the list, and then pulls her down on top of him so she can loll her hips lazily, relishing the feel of him hard inside her.

She notices now how she's not needy like last time either. Maybe because she doesn’t need anything, she's got it all - even if he makes her wait and beg for it. And they haven't sat down and talked about what will happen when she has to go back to Florida on the 3rd. Like, if she's coming back and when and where they're going to live and how she'll have to find a job because she's not being kept by him and he can just fucking accept that. But she's not freaking about it. They haven't talked about it because it's already a done deal when he speculates on whether her hair will have grown back by the summer. Or she tells him that they're going back to the cottage with nothing but a baggie of weed and some suntan lotion.

Not like they've spent the last two days gazing into each other's eyes and holding hands in Central Park though. She's been treated to the Wesley Wyndam-Pryce New York guided tour, following his dementedly organized itinerary that took in the Guggenheim, the Whitney, MOMA, the Frick and the Met in just one day and then he decided when she was sat in the cab with a pounding head and a slideshow of pictures still kaleidoscoping in front of her eyes until she wasn't sure whether she could tell the difference between a Warhol from a Watteau, that they still had time to do the Guggenheim Soho. If her feet hadn't been throbbing so much she'd have jumped out of the cab and thrown herself on the sidewalk in protest. As it was she had to promise that if he took her to the movies and bought her Chinese takeout instead she'd let him spank her tits with her hairbrush and that worked out pretty well. He'd been so pleased with her and the bruises on her breasts that she got to wear her collar in bed that night.

And today they'd gone on the Circle Line tour even though the wind coming off the water was so cold that she thinks it might have blown the top layer of her skin right off. Then they'd done the Statue Of Liberty and the Empire State Building and despite a minor spat because she wanted to give him a blow job at 1,453 feet, she'd got over her hissy fit at his refusal by the time she was teetering around the ice rink at the Rockefeller Centre while Wes drank coffee and winced theatrically every time she fell over. She'd tried to get him on the ice because Wes clutching her hand and swearing under his breath while he…

"Oh, bloody hell!" His anguished groan from the bathroom snaps her out of the adorable picture of Wes clinging to the side of the ice rink and begging her not to let go of his hand. She's not even dressed yet, just sat moony-eyed on the edge of the bed in her Fifi set of underwear with her Celine dress still wrapped in tissue paper.

"Hey, Wes, what's the trauma?" she calls and then catches her breath as he appears in the doorway of the en suite in starched white shirt and black trousers. Never realized just how much she'd missed his suits. And Wes in black tie and tux? She thinks she might have just come right there.

"Faith! You're not even dressed," he snaps, this little crease of agitation appearing between his eyebrows. Then the tight line of his mouth curves into a wolfish grin at the pale, bruised skin of her breasts. "You won't be able to wear a bra with your dress."

"I guess," she agrees equably, reaching round to unfasten it and watching his tongue snake out to lick his bottom lip as her nipples make a guest appearance.

"This sodding tie is going to be the death of me," he complains, not taking his eyes off her breasts for a second. "And really, Faith, I think it's only fair that one of your future duties should be to assist me in fastening it."

"But I don't know how!"

"Then it's high time that you learnt," he tells her without an ounce of sympathy. "It's an accomplishment that every girl should have."

She gets up from the bed and eyes the length of black satin doubtfully. "Maybe you should get one of those ones on a bit of elastic."

He shudders just like she knew that he would. "Over my dead body," he mutters faintly before narrowing his eyes. "Stop distracting me with your quite considerable charms and put on your dress. God knows we’re late enough already."

Seems like the ballet brings out Wes' most cranky mood so she bites back the snarky retort which she's got good to go, wriggles into the dress and contorts herself trying to get the zipper up while he stands and watches her with just trace amounts of amusement until he sighs good naturedly. "Come here, darling girl."

The zip follows his fingers' upward trajectory as he strokes up her spine and presses a kiss to the nape of her neck before turning her round and holding her at arm's length.

"Oh, Faith…" he breathes and she tugs at the full skirt nervously.

"Is it too much? 'Cause maybe I should change. And is it too low cut for a swank ballet thing 'cause I don't want to flash the other boxes and…"

"You look exquisite," he says softly, cupping her cheek with his hand. "Beautiful. So very beautiful."

She closes her mouth on the babble about how maybe her Claire's sparkly barrettes don't go with the dress and concentrates really hard on the top button of his shirt so she doesn't ruin her eye make up by crying.

"You look pretty spiffy yourself, Wes," she purrs, giving in to the temptation to press her hand against that crisp shirt front. "Really missed you all suited up."

"That's very sweet of you, Faith," he says, rolling his eyes because he's so shit at taking compliments. "And much as I relish your opinion on my sartorial choices, I'd like you to fasten this hellish contraption, please."

She takes the black strip from him and it's all his fault that she's already picturing it tied around her wrists while he fucks her up against the walls of a bathroom stall in Lincoln Center.

"How the fuck does this thing actually work?" she asks him curiously, holding it up to his neck and squinting to see if there's some cunning little hook and eye device.

"It's very simple really," he assures her as she gives him a "so why the fuck don't you do it?" look. "And if you do it to my satisfaction, then I'll give you a reward."

And when he puts it like that so she's starting to think that maybe her bathroom fantasy wasn't so far-fetched, she's got it looped round his neck in the blink of an eye.

"First you need to make one end slightly longer than the other," he says, smiling faintly as she stands on tip toe and gives the tie a quick yank. "And, please, Faith, try not to strangle me. Now you have to cross the longer end over the shorter…"

It only takes her two goes before she's got a perfect bow fit to have its picture taken and she's doing a little victory bump and grind.
"I fucking rule," she gloats, giving the knot a proprietary pat. "What's my reward? Can I have it now or is it the kind of thing that's going to have to wait 'til later?" Her eyebrows swoop up suggestively. "If you know what I mean, Wes?"

He's already got his finger hooked into his collar so he can tug at it and pout so he looks like a little boy about to be sent to bed without any dinner. Sometimes he could be so fucking cute, it wasn't even funny. "I really think that whoever invented bow ties was, well…"

"A sadist?" she suggests daringly, feeling her stomach dip deliciously, as she goes maybe just a little too far and touches her finger to the one bruise that's just edging out of the neckline of her dress. "Takes one to know one, Wes."

There's a second of highly charged silence before he bends his head so he can kiss the spot where her finger has been. "Indeed it does. And stop being so bloody provocative otherwise I won't give you the first part of your reward."

"There are parts?" she asks eagerly. "How many?"

He crosses over to the nightstand and gets something out of the drawer and her tummy's doing the mambo again or should that be, like, a pas de deux? She gives a sigh of relief when she sees that he's got one of the black, silk scarves in his hand.

"Thought we were going to be late, Wes? Don't think there's enough time to tie me up and have your wicked way with me," she giggles. "Or maybe we could sneak in during the interval or something?"

"We most certainly could not!" His eyebrows have shot up in horror and he gives her his most aggrieved glare, which just makes her giggle harder. "I haven't witnessed one of your capricious interludes for quite some time. Maybe I should rethink the reward, Faith?"

"I'll be good!" Now it's her turn to be all huffy 'cause it's mean to promise her something and then snatch it away.

"No, you won't," he drawls, prowling towards her. "But I prefer you when you're being bad anyway so that works out rather well. Now stand still, please."

She's motionless as he winds the scarf round her neck again and again and then ties it with a tiny little knot that's hidden by the fall of her hair. Then she lifts her head and looks questioningly at him.

"The collar wouldn't be appropriate," he tells her almost wistfully. "But this improvised little choker is imbued with the same meaning. Tell me what it means, Faith?"

"That I belong to you. That you own me." She doesn't even have to think about it. The words tumble from her lips with assured ease.

He nods and gives her an encouraging smile. "That's very good, Faith. And what else?"

"That when I'm wearing it around my neck it's because I've earned it and you're pleased with me." It's more than that though. It clears everything out of her head and leaves her calm and secure like he's touching her all the time and never taking his hands away.

"I think…" he clears his throat and she waits patiently for the punchline. "It also means that we're in the middle of a game, Faith. When you're wearing my collar, or an adequate substitute, I want you to be on edge, waiting, expectant for an order, a command. If I tell you to get to your knees and bring me off with your pretty mouth, you'll do it, won't you?"

Doesn't need to think about that either. "Yes, Wesley."

"And if you want to stop at any time, then what do you need to do?" His eyes are burning into her and she can't help but arch towards the heat.

"Say my word."

The tension dissipates in the time it takes him to give her a dazzling smile and run his fingers through her hair. Then he frowns again. "Good God, is that the time? You haven't got your shoes on. And the car will be here imminently. In fact, I'm surprised the driver hasn't…"

And she listens to his adorably anal rant as she moves with all the slow grace of a fucking prima ballerina and steps into her shoes, brushes her hair one last time, slicks on another coat of lipstick and all the time she can feel the reassuring pressure of the silk around her neck.

Chapter Three Hundred and Sixty Eight

They've passed Lincoln Center a few times before on their adventures through the city. Sure, the complex of interconnected theaters, offices, and recital halls is massive and impressive during daylight hours, but at night -- at night it sparkles and glitters and glows. And despite the chilly evening, couples and small groups mill around in the courtyard, admiring the giant fountains.

Of course, she isn't overdressed in the slightest, she realizes as they step out of the car and into the sumptuously dressed crowd. Most of the men are in black tie, or beautifully-cut suits. And the other women! She recognizes a few dresses from their shopping trips and so many of them are wrapped in ostentatious furs and jewels that make her even more unsure of the sparkly rhinestone barrettes in her hair. Still, the black silk scarf wound 'round her neck means more to her than any bauble from Tiffany's or Harry Winston ever could. Wes' arm is curled possessively around her waist as he leads her to their seats, and even when his hands aren't on her, the smooth warmth of the silk keeps her tethered to him.

And she is on edge – just as he'd ordered her to be -- and the two hours (plus interval) indicated as the running time in the program is enough to make her fidgety already. The synopsis of the story doesn't sound too promising either – Giselle falls for the wrong guy, he breaks her heart, she goes mad and dies. Sounds like a real thrill ride, but the second act sounded more promising, maybe, when Giselle becomes one of the Wilis, a pack of jilted girls who lure young men into dancing to their deaths. But Giselle ends up saving the life of Albrecht, the one who screwed her over. Not very realistic, there – she's pretty sure that if Wes broke up with her again, the last thing she'd do is save him from a bunch of killer zombie ballerinas. With a sigh, she closes her program and decides maybe it's better to take in the atmosphere than try and understand the plot.

The box they're seated in is empty of any other patrons and there's enough room and seclusion to send a number of scenarios spinning through her head – Wesley casually slipping his hand under the voluminous folds of her dress, or pulling her behind the heavy curtains of the box, out of sight of the rest of the audience and pushing her up against the wall, his hands curling over the point where her breasts swell out of the top of her dress...

“...not altogether interested in music written specifically for the ballet, but the notes here on the score ...” Her attention flickers back to him as his voice trails off and he leans in, lightly brushing his lips over an exposed portion of her neck before whispering, “A discussion of the music isn't interesting? So what are you thinking about, Faith?”

And for some reason – the scarf, the proximity of so many other people, or perhaps just that sweetly dangerous edge to his voice – sends a blush crawling over her cheeks. It's almost like thinking dirty thoughts in church, she thinks. And just before she can pull it together and snap back at him with a witty retort, the conductor steps into the orchestra pit to polite applause and the lights dim slowly as the strains of the overture fill the hall.

As the curtain rises, the stage is full of activity -- and for the first few minutes she's enraptured at the sight of all those dancers and their costumes and the grandeur of the sets, but then there's less dancing and lots of weird over-exaggerated mimed acting that sets out the plot and yeah, it's getting a little boring and the music's kind of making her sleepy.

That's when she starts to get a little fidgety. It's not too bad; just a little shifting around to keep herself from nodding off as Giselle's mother warns her of the dangers of dancing, or boys, or eating too much cheese, or something. But when the scene goes on and on forever, she can't help but chew the ragged edge of a torn fingernail and then discreetly examine strands of her hair for split ends. And she's just about to start drumming her fingers on the armrest, 'cause like, isn't Wes bored yet too? Surely he must be -- he had been the one who'd said ballet wasn't really his cup of tea anyway, right? But no, out of the corner of her eye, she can see his gaze locked on the stage -- he's leaning forward slightly, completely transfixed and transported. So much for all those naughty little fantasies she'd concocted.

Though the moment her fingers roll once across the wooden bar that's separating them, his hand clamps down around her wrist, pinning it to the armrest. “Faith,” he breathes, “please try and sit still. You're very distracting.”

Yanking her hand away, she settles back, with a huff, in her seat, and when she sulkily folds her arms across her chest, there's a little tug on the scarf. To her complete surprise, in her boredom she's nearly forgotten it was there. Chastised, and wanting to make sure he doesn't get so annoyed at her that he removes it from around her neck, she straightens up and manages to remain interested through the rest of the act, even though Giselle's mad scene is kind of overdone in her opinion, and the only good part is when the ballerina falls onto Albrecht's sword and does a pretty good impression of someone so heartbroken that death is the only answer.

There's polite but not very enthusiastic applause as the lights come up at intermission.

“Hey, that was really something, Wes...” she begins, eager to make amends.

He cuts her off with a sharp snap. “Silence, Faith.”

OK, yeah, she thought he'd be annoyed, but not like this. She's starting to apologize as he reaches behind her hair and begins to pick apart the knot in the black silk. “I'm sorry, Wes. I didn't mean to be so bratty...”

“Not another word,” he says, pulling the scarf free and leaving a strip of cold flesh around her neck that had previously been cradled by the soft touch of the warm silk. "I'm more than a little displeased with your inconsiderate behavior."

"I didn't mean –"

“Give me your hands.” His voice is even and low but he's got that frosty look in his eyes that used to scare her and turn her on in equal measure, sending her heart beating a mile a minute, and now's no different. She can't even look him in the eye as she extends her arms in his general direction, and it's all she can do not to give a little whimper of longing and frustration as he wraps the silk around her wrists and fastens it there with another tight knot. He gives a little unconscious nod, pleased at his work as he positions her so that her bound hands rest in her lap, a little too close in proximity to her now-wet and aching pussy, even if there are several layers of fabric between them.

“I'm going to the lobby bar for a drink,” he announces, his disapproving gaze boring right through her. “I'd ask if you'd like something too, but you'll be just fine, I think. You're to remain here and not move until I return. Is that clear?”

As if she could argue, retort, say no. “Yes, Wesley,” she whispers, her voice cracking a little. She wouldn't dare to move now, not even to shift in the seat or anything else to relieve the near-unbearable throb of longing that's making sitting perfectly still nearly impossible.

“Good,” he drawls smoothly. Rising to his feet, he strides out of the box, not even catching her eye as he leaves.


And she doesn’t really mind that he’s left her all alone, though if he doesn’t bring her back something to drink then he’s going to be in a world of trouble. At least all the prancing and lame-o miming is finished and she can rubberneck at the audience, giving them marks out of ten for their fashion choices. Eat your heart out, Joan Rivers, she thinks to herself as she stares in amazement at a fat woman who’s made the mistake of wearing skin-tight red satin which makes her butt look like the business end of a fire truck. And, look, there’s Wes, and he totally has to start wearing black tie round the house more, making his way up some stairs with an ice bucket and a couple of glasses in his other hand. Can’t be that mad with her, not really, if he’s going to let her have champagne.

She wriggles in her seat while she still can, after making sure he’s not looking up at her to make sure she’s doing a statue impersonation and decides happily that she’s not going to be knocking back the Moet with her hands tied so he’s just going to have to put the scarf back round her neck so it doesn’t get all lost what with it being real silk an’ all or feed her the champagne. Either way is fine with her. But maybe she should practice a few of her deep-breathing, yoga-y skills so she can ixnay on the fidgeting because it was sweet of him to take her out and buy her a dress and Jeez, ballet is really not the new rock ‘n’ roll.

That’s the general plan anyway. That she’s going to sit still. She really, really is. But Wes is gone so long and when she leans over the edge of the box, she realizes why. Because he’s got some skanky blonde clutching his arm and throwing her head back like she’s having a hysterical fit. OK, she’s not that skanky because actually she’s some Calvin Kleiny, thirty-something who looks like she was freshly delivered from the WASP assembly line that morning and would never go out to the frickin’ ballet with $2 barrettes in her hair.

It’s Anne. She knows it is before Wes looks up and gives her a little wave which she acknowledges with a cool nod of her head while her eyes shoot laser beams death rays at Anne who doesn’t seem to get the message because now she’s patting Wes’ arm like it’s her favorite thing in the world while she does a fucking good impression of a hyena.

Wes finally makes his escape and disappears into a throng of people all making their way back to the cheap seats and she manages to get at least five quality minutes of wriggle time in before he gets back and she fixes him with wide eyes and a dangerously trembling bottom lip.

“Even though you don’t deserve it, I’ve decided to let you have some champagne,” he begins and then stops when he finally gets a look at the frightened, little bunny face she’s giving him. “Faith, it was Anne,” he says softly. “I said hello, had a polite conversation about what we did over the holidays and then told her I had to get back to my box because my girlfriend was bored to tears and liable to start…”

She’s not having to fake the startled fawn act anymore. “Say what?” she demands. “You called me your girlfriend?”

“Well, I was hardly going to call you my exceedingly ill-behaved, teenage ex-secretary, was I?” he asks her silkily, turning to expertly pop the cork out of the champagne with a minimum of froth. And she had been about to go weak kneed or cry (she wasn’t sure which) because he’s never called her his girlfriend before, until he made that last crack.

“It’s not that,” she murmurs tremulously. “Though someone should tell Anne that her updo makes her look, like, fifty.” She’s getting way off message again and Wes is getting way flinty-eyed and not being forthcoming with the champagne. “It’s just this woman came in while you were gone and she said she was one of your clients and then she got all freaked out when she saw I was tied up,” it might be a touch overkill but she forlornly waves her bound hands in his general direction to make sure he appreciates the severity of her predicament, “and then she went to get someone from management.”

Wes’ face looks like a cartoon character who’s just realized that a fifty ton weight’s about to drop on their head from a great height.

“What did she look like?” he demands, kneeling at her feet so he can unpluck the knot with nervous fingers.

“She was really fat,” she improvises. “And she had this red dress on, which I’m telling you Wes wasn’t doing her any favours, and she…”

“It’s rather strange because apart from when I was in the bar, I kept you in sight and apart from sitting up here and fidgeting with a sulky expression on your face, I didn’t see you talking to any garishly dressed larger lady,” he continues smoothly but she’s already got her hands free so she can grab the champagne and one of the glasses and pout at him. “Though I suppose it could have been Mrs Van Der Tait. She is rather given to hyperbole.”

“Do you think they’ll throw us out? ‘Cause that would be beyond humiliating and we might end up on Page Six and, oh fuck, Wes! You’re not buying it, are you?”

“I’m afraid not, Faith. And if I were you I’d cherish the feeling of your arse nestling against the chair because come tomorrow I doubt that you’ll be able to sit on anything,” he tells her darkly but his lips are quirking even as he takes the glass off her and begins to pour the champagne into it with the bottle tilted so it doesn’t bubble over.

“Is that a threat, Wes?” she teases, leaning over to kiss his cheek. “’Cause it was sounding like all kinds of fun.”

“Well, I’ll spend the duration of Act 2 thinking up a suitable punishment that’s less fun, shall I?” he asks her sweetly, handing her the glass and frowning as she downs it in one. “Really, Faith, you seem determined to behave like a hellion this evening.”

She loops one of her free hands around his neck and pulls him in for a respectable, little smooch so she doesn’t scandalize the Park Avenue dowagers in the next box. “Sorry, Wes,” she says, wiping a stray smudge of lipstick off his cheek with a finger. “Thank you for taking me out and letting me get all dressed up but I… y’know, my nana used to say that I had the devil in me when I got like this.”

“Naughty? Irresponsible? In line for a good, hard whipping?” he intones pleasantly and she shoves her chair over so she can rest her head on his shoulder.

“Yup, all of the above,” she agrees. “I promise that I’ll be really good now, even though I think the whole zombie, vampire ballerina thing is totally stretching it.”

The lights are dimming and there’s an expectant hush over the audience who are obviously more down with the Wilis than she is. “Don’t be too good, Faith,” Wes purrs in her ear and trails the scarf up her arm. “Would you like one more glass of champagne before I bind your hands again?”

“You could tie it round my neck like you did before, couldn’t you?”

“Well, I could,” he says but he sounds pretty fucking doubtful about it.

“And I could get down on my knees and blow you right here,” she suggests and she’s only half joking because if Hilarion hadn’t just pranced on stage like a total wuss, Wes looks tempted enough to give her offer serious thought.

“Maybe later,” he says, practically shoving the bottle at her, so he can lean forward like Manchester United are two goals up or something in the final half. “Have some of this and if you behave yourself I might let you actually come tonight.”

It might be the fact that she pretty much drinks the champagne solo, or the fact that Wes isn’t jonesing so hard on the tutu action that he refuses to holds her hand, but the second act doesn’t suck quite so royally as the first. Queen Myrta and the Wilis are kinda cool in an anorexic, goth girl way and she can’t help but snicker to herself every time she catches sight of what one of the male dancers is packing in his tights. Wes squeezes her fingers warningly a couple of times when the giggles threaten to put in an appearance but really she’s about as good as she can be.

She even gets a bit sniffly when Giselle protects Albrecht from being burned up in the Wilis’ disco inferno, though she sniffs disdainfully and rolls her eyes when she lets him scamper off the next morning. Sucks to be you, she thinks, as Giselle is condemned to an eternity of heavy black eye make up and carted off with the Wilis for all eternity - just another girl who’s been screwed over in the name of love.

The curtains swoop down and she’s clapping just as fervently as the rest of the stiffs because now they can finally get the hell out of here and Wes had muttered something about post-theatre supper in the car.

“I’m starving,” she announces mournfully, turning to him and there, reflected in the house light, is the teeniest, tiniest, most perfectly formed little tear drop catching on the edge of his lashes before trickling down his cheek so he can scrub at it furiously. “Oh my fucking God! You totally just cried over a fucking ballet,” she crows and then wonders if maybe she could have phrased it a bit more tactfully when he gives her an outraged look that has nothing mock about it.

“I did not!” he snaps, standing up so he can look down and give her the full wrath of his glare. “The lights startled me.”

“Oh, whatever, Wes.” And standing up wasn’t really a good idea because she’s a little unsteady on the fuck-me heels and her panties are clinging damply to her pussy. “You so were but it was cute.”

He’s hustling her out of the box and down the steps so all she can do is cling to his arm so she doesn’t go ass over tit. “It was so fucking adorable,” she insists. “Like, you were all overcome with emotion and stuff. I totally dig that about you.”

And just like that his face softens even though his lower lip is still jutting out in a way that’s just asking for her to nibble on it. “It was a rather moving performance,” he admits unwillingly, arm around her to stop her being jostled by the crowd as they approach the exit doors. “But I can assure you, Faith, that I was not…”

“Yeah, you were!” she splutters incredulously and she knows he’s just about to stutter out another denial when she sees Anne trying to shove her way through the crowd so she can paw at Wes with her skanky mitts. “C’mon, let’s get out of here.”

“Wesley, we really must stop bumping into each other like this!” Anne’s got one of these squeaky, little girl voices that kinda stop being cute once you’re not three any more. “I just wanted to see if you… oh, you must be Faith,” she pauses uncertainly and Faith flashes her teeth in something that’s meant to be a smile but ends up turning into a snarl.

“Guess I must be,” she agrees, clutching Wes’ arm in a death grip and taking a step forward so she’s blocking Anne from even thinking about touching him.

“Did you enjoy the performance?” Wes asks politely, gently disentangling her hand from cutting off his circulation.

“Well, I think it was a little pedantic,” Anne laughs like she’s just cracked the biggest funny and then she turns to Faith. “Wesley’s told me so much about you.”

“Well, that’s funny ‘cause he’s told me absolutely jackshit about you,” she replies demurely and yanks and yanks at Wes’ hand until he starts moving towards the door. “Bye!”

“I’m really sorry,” Wes is muttering as she tries to drag him through the doors and gets them stuck in a bottleneck of people with the same idea. “A little too much champagne and excitement.”

“Wes, c’mon!” she hisses but it comes out at screech-like volume. “Wanna go home now!”

He doesn’t say a word for the whole ten minutes it takes to queue up for their car. His mouth has practically disappeared from view anyway and he’s got his arms folded and his back so rigid, she’s surprised that his bones don’t snap clean in half.

The minute they climb into the toasty leather interior of the car, he turns on her angrily. “You were unforgiveably rude, Faith. I’ve a good mind to make you phone Anne tomorrow and apologize.”

“She was, like, completely coming on to you,” she says sulkily and then sidles over the two feet expanse of seat between them. “Do you think she’s prettier than me?”

“Of course she’s not,” he says instantly, like he doesn’t even have to think about it and so she decides to rethink the whole hissy fit she was just on the verge of having and give him a reward instead.

“Damn fucking straight she’s not,” she agrees, straddling him and smooshing against his taut frame. “Have I got nicer tits than her?”

“Yes and get off me,” he bites out, hands already pushing at her shoulders as she returns the favour by nibbling on his earlobe.

“Nope. See, Wes, already told you got a bottle of champagne and the devil in me,” she husks in his ear.

“Oh, you’ll have the devil in you later, Faith, I promise you,” he drawls and he sounds so fucking dark that she tenses for an instant before she sees his eyebrow winging up challengingly.

And if he wants to throwdown then he’s picked the wrong girl. Or the right girl. “Got me hot when you cried, Wes,” she teases as she tries to climb off him but ends up rubbing against his incipient hard-on, as his hands clamp around her waist. “Really. Fucking. Hot…”

And he goes silent on her for the rest of the journey. Not like she minds because she’s been prattling on about that fucking teardrop for quarter of an hour, watching his eyes glinting at her in the dim light of the car, his hands gripping her arms so tightly that she knows she’ll be wearing his bruises for days to come and he’s getting harder and harder as she undulates on top of him. She’s wet enough to have soaked right through her $50 panties.

The car pulls up to the curb and Wes is trying to shift her off him, trying to open the door, trying to get her outside and then inside so he can do whatever the fuck he likes to her because he knows that she’s going to let him. ‘Cept she’s not finished.

“Should have seen it, Wes,” she slurs, rubbing her cheek against his as he bites his lip down on a little groan. “Just this one single, crystalline tear running down your face and I wanted to lick it right off you…”

She never gets to finish the sentence because he’s dragging her out of the car, not even bothering to slam the door behind them.

Chapter Three Hundred and Sixty Nine

The uniformed man in the lobby glances up as they come through the doors and sums up the situation – drunk girlfriend, pissed-off man – with professional ease. Considering Wesley usually smiles, calls him by name and exchanges a few words, he deals pretty well with this new, tight-lipped version who storms across the carpeted floor, his hand clamped around her wrist, heading for the elevator.

Faith has to give the man points for managing to get there first, press the call button and turn, heading back to the desk, without once looking directly at either of them.

And because it's Wesley, the elevator doors slide obediently open so he doesn't even have to break stride as he stalks into it and stabs at the button to close the doors.

It's barely begun to move when he halts it, the same way she did the day she arrived, when she was so full of panic she could barely breathe.

"I'm starting to reconsider the notion of keeping you naked and locked away," he says, and he sounds really fucking serious. "As it seems you can't be trusted to behave appropriately in public."

"Like tying my hands up is so fucking appropriate," she hisses, trying to make the words come out the way they sound in her head, which is all reproving and dignified.

Seems she fails because his lips pinch together. "I think we both know your actions were fuelled by insecurity and boredom rather than resentment at the way I chose to deal with your abominable fidgeting. And as you don't seem in the least repentant, you can be silent until you're ready to apologize."

"Don't hold your fucking breath," she says as distinctly as possible.

Wesley nods slowly and presses the button to send them up, up and away again. And there's this lurch which sends her staggering and when he catches her, the way he always does, she ends up being spun around so that she's pressed up against the wall of the elevator, which is all mirrors and grey velvet padding.

"Five words," he says into her ear, his left hand already bunching up the skirt of her pretty dress and dragging it waist-high, exposing her ass. "Hands flat against the wall, Faith..."

He's got all the room he needs to swing his hand and it lands squarely across her ass with a crack that sobers her, bringing her surroundings back into focus as the sting spreads out. Given that they're on the tenth floor he can't exactly make this last and the second slap lands before she's finished moaning from the first. He manages to hit more or less the same spot with every hard, punishing spank and she's biting down on her lip trying to hold back anything that sounds like a word because she's not sure she can take more than five this fast, this hard, not when she's got to keep quiet.

He steps back, releasing the crumpled ruin of her skirt, which falls down as delicately as a snowflake, into a semblance of order, just as the doors slide open.

The hallway's empty, thank God and she steps out into it, her gaze fixed on the door to Wesley's apartment which seems so very far away.

"Stand still," Wesley says.

She turns and sees him draw the scarf out of his pocket. "I could fasten this once around your neck and use the remainder as a leash," he says softly. "Make you crawl beside me from here to the door, like the beautiful, disobedient bitch you are tonight. Would you do that?"

"I don't know –" And though she's aroused by the idea of it, so very much, especially now with the champagne wearing away every barrier between his wishes and her limits, she's shaking her head, because the hallway's full of doors just waiting to open. "No, Wes, not here. Please. Inside I will, but not out here. Please."

"You don't have to beg," he says, slipping the scarf around her neck so it hangs, fluttering innocently in the faint stir of warm air from the heating vent at their feet. "You only have to say your word. And you don't even have to do that until I give the order."

She's frowning, confused, as he continues. "But you're absolutely correct, Faith. Location matters and this isn't the place for anything quite that delightfully perverse." And then she's being dragged along again as he growls, "And there's never a good place to show yourself up in front of a woman whose only crime is having the temerity to find me attractive."

"Don't know what that means," she says straightening up and poking him in the chest as he opens the door. "But she can fuck off and stop touching you, and stop laughing with you and smiling at you and –"

"This mood of yours is singularly unattractive, Faith," he says, propelling her through the door and closing it firmly behind them. "I'm making every allowance for your excessive consumption of champagne – and trust me, you'll be drinking water when we dine with Rupert –"

"What?" And she launches into a tirade about how he can go out with Rupert all by himself, or yeah, take fucking Anne instead, when he turns on his heel, walks into the bedroom and slams the door, leaving her trembling with rage and disappointment and shame and really wanting to fucking break something.

There's a small cubbyhole of a spare room with an unmade bed, the corners stacked high with boxes she guesses belong to the man Wes is renting this place from. After she's glared at the closed door for, like five minutes waiting for it to open, and Wes come out with a plan to make her see the error of her ways, she gives up and goes to it, stripping out of her dress and giving up on doing anything in the small en-suite but peeing and splashing water on her hot face and dry, burning eyes. Curling up with one of the throws from the main room wrapped around her she cries herself to sleep.

She wakes a few hours later, dying of thirst and with a headache that's down more to the tears than the champagne. With the throw draped around her she goes to the kitchen and takes a bottle of water from the fridge, chugging it down until her teeth ache and she can feel the chill spread out across her body.

Or maybe that's because she's just remembered how disgusted Wes looked when he walked away from her.

"Never did know when to keep your fucking mouth shut, did you?" she mutters to herself.

"No," he says from the doorway. "You never do." He's still dressed, but the tie's gone and his shirt sleeves are rolled up.

She looks at him and feels her face pucker up because his voice sounds so empty.

"This the bit where you tell me to fuck off back to my small town and not come back 'til I've got the hang of being polite?" she asks dully.

"You're capable of being perfectly polite, Faith as true good manners are based around making people feel comfortable no matter what. You didn't make Anne feel comfortable. You embarrassed her and really, it was ungracious of you, as in any contest between you two, you'd emerge the victor and you know it."

"No, I don't," she says, in no mood to be lectured. "She might not let you spank her and do everything we do but she's more your sort of person. She's part of your world and I'm not."

"She doesn't know me," he says heavily. "And you're at the center of my world, Faith. Please don't make me regret placing you there." He turns away. "Come to bed. It's very late, and you're shivering."

"Wes!"

He doesn't turn. "Yes?"

"Will you –" She has to swallow before she can carry on. "Are you going to punish me? For spoiling everything?"

He glances back at her. "You spoiled an evening, yes. One out of many we'll spend together, Faith, not 'everything'."

And that should make her glad but she's still shivering as she goes over to him. "I want you to punish me."

He nods, leading the way to his bedroom. "Of course you do. Just be thankful I've acquitted you of staging your behavior in order to achieve that goal because then I'd be really very angry indeed."

She reaches out and grabs his hand. "I didn't!"

He removes her hand firmly. "I think I just said that I knew that."

The bedroom light's on and there's a book lying on the bed. She realizes that he's been lying here awake waiting – for what? For his temper to die down, for her to wake up?

"So you're just going to be all cold and ignore me and –"

"I'm going to go to sleep actually," he says, starting to get undressed. "If you choose to class that as being ignored, do, please, go ahead." There's the tiniest glimmer of a smile on his face. "It means you'll have to stay awake to fully experience the agony of course, but if I put you on your honor not to fall asleep for, shall we say another hour, I'm sure I can trust you to –"

"You're fucking laughing at me!" she says accusingly.

"A little bit," he says. His eyes narrow. "But make no mistake, Faith, I will be dealing with your actions which went beyond anything I'm prepared to permit, especially in public."

"But not now," she says giving him a narrow-eyed glare of her own.

"Absolutely not," he says softly. "You don't deserve it, Faith. My attention, like my collar, is something you want and it's not going to come your way as a reward for being petulant, rude and tiresomely repetitive."

And when she's still gasping over that, he slides naked into bed and places his hand on the bedside light. "Do get into bed, Faith," he says impatiently.

"You could just fuck me," she says as she slides in beside him, aware of the fact that she's so close to begging it's not funny, but he hasn't even kissed her... "Might have been all kinds of bad, but you were hard, Wes, you know you were."

She reaches out and she's about to home in on what she'd been wriggling against all the way home when he rolls onto his side, way from her, leaving the light on as if he knows he's not going to be getting to sleep any time soon. "I took care of that while you were standing outside sulking," he informs her. "If it's any consolation, I thought of you the whole time."

"Wesley," she hisses.

"I know I am," he says, forestalling her recitation of his shortcomings. "Now go to sleep."

"Not until you kiss me," she says firmly as he starts to reach out for the light again. "'Cause, yeah, I get that you're ignoring me and I let you know I hate this worse than anything, so I guess you must be hating me right now, but if you won't kiss me good night, I'm going back in the spare room."

There's this long pause and then a defeated sigh. "Come here," he says, turning over again.

She's snuggled up to him in a split second and kissing him frantically, running her hand over his face and into his hair. He endures it for a minute, and she swears his mouth twitches in a small smile, but then he pushes her away. "I believe I was supposed to give you the kiss," he reminds her. "Stay still."

His lips brush hers lightly and when she sighs and presses up against him he draws back, but not before she feels his cock stir, hardening just from having her with him.

"Guess you didn't do a very good job, Wes," she whispers.

Chapter Three Hundred and Seventy

He ignores her comment, despite the interest plainly evident elsewhere on his body. “Surely you don’t see Anne as a threat, Faith.” His voice is curiously flat; he doesn’t seem to have the energy to make it into a question.

Operation Distract Wes doesn’t seem to be going quite as well as she envisioned it. She should have known by now that it wouldn’t be so easy. She stops trying to writhe against him when she’s met with his tired, hard-edged stare, something she hasn’t seen in a long time and what do you know, really didn’t miss. Under his piercing gaze she feels horribly, irrevocably sober suddenly and none of the explanations running through her head seem like the right one.  “I don’t—“ She feels the familiar prickle of tears forming and she furiously blinks them away. “I didn’t…” Frustrated, at a loss for words, she just shakes her head, no.

“Something must have triggered your little …fit of pique. Tell me,” he says quietly, his tone completely changed. It’s like he’s given her permission to unload it all on him.  He even adds that crucial little “please” at the end.

“I felt like I didn’t belong there, you know?” she blurts out, in a rush of feeling because she sees it all now, if not clearly then it’s starting to coalesce. “I’d never been to the ballet before, or surrounded by all those fucking upper-crusty society people, wearing my stupid two dollar barrettes and teetering around in a dress that would be, like three months’ rent back home. All of it, it was just too fucking much. I felt… so fucking out of place, like everyone was going to look at me like, like I was your…” She almost stops herself from saying the word but it’s too late. “Your whore, or, like, your stupid little backwoods, gold-digging… chippy? Is that the word?” She sighs heavily. “Fuck, I spent the whole night terrified I was going to say or do the wrong thing, and then when the time came  —when I saw Anne hanging on your arm like she belonged there, well, I just couldn’t stop myself.” She rests her head against his chest, curling herself against him. “And when I saw her, and you, I …I thought she did belong there, Wes. For a second, just a split second, but that’s all it took.” She doesn’t feel like crying anymore but she’s got that tight ache in her chest that comes from holding tears back. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to— I wanted us to have a nice evening. I didn’t mean to ruin it. Honest.“

Her words must soften him somewhat because he pulls her close, kissing the top of her head. “I know. I know you didn’t. But I must assure you that no-one was going to think those things until you started acting the part, Faith. ”

“Yeah. I’m really fucking good at that sometimes,” she adds ruefully.

He smiles down at her —a real, unforced smile and he doesn’t look so furious anymore. “Most of the time I find it incredibly refreshing. But your reputation as a brat is not entirely unwarranted. Especially this evening.”

“My nana was always right, Wes, I gotta say.”

He laughs. “Well, you did warn me. I suppose it’s my fault for fanning the flames, as it were.”

She rolls her eyes. “God, you’re never going to let me drink champagne again, are you? Not even if I promise to—“

He actually arches his fucking eyebrow. “Promise to—?”

She smiles slyly. “Sip it like I’m a fucking lady, not glug it down like it’s a shot of Jäger and I’m trying to win the commemorative shot glass?” she answers, mock-imperiously.

“You would drive Miss Manners to fits, my darling girl.”

She’s relieved, because now he looks more bemused than anything. He strokes her cheek, almost absent-mindedly, and she beams. “Kinda proud of that, Wes, even if tonight wasn’t exactly the night to go about proving it.”

“Well, no. Now, go to sleep. It’s been a long, unexpectedly trying evening.” He kisses her exposed shoulder, lingering there for a moment before rolling back over onto his side, taking a good deal of quilt with him.

“Hey! Wes! Give that back!” she shrieks. “Unless that’s how you’re gonna punish me after all? Make me spend the night as a Faith-shaped popsicle?” Oh, she knows it was totally unintentional, but that doesn’t mean she doesn’t enjoy ratcheting up the only-slightly-faux outrage to eleven. And anyway, she is frickin’ freezing. Her feet are like little blocks of ice. She presses herself tightly against Wes, who, in typical boy fashion, is throwing out enough BTUs to power a small city. She’s just snuggling in, grabbing great fistfuls of quilt, when he grits out, “Good Lord, Faith. You’re freezing!”

“What did I just say, Wes? Have I been speaking dolphin or something?”

“Your feet are like…”

“Little blocks of ice? Deja-fucking-vu, Wes. The popsicle thing wasn’t an idle threat.”

“I can see that.” He rolls back towards her. “Short of putting you in some footie pajamas, what do you suggest we do about it?”

She doesn’t answer right away, if only because she’s momentarily distracted by the mental image of a young Wes padding around the great, draughty family manse in footie PJs, trailing a threadbare teddy bear behind him. “They have those in the, uh, mother country?”

And she’s raising her voice because Wes seems to have disappeared, lost to the great expanse of quilt until she hears a muffled, “Yes, they do,” before feeling the comforting weight of him as he settles in between her thighs, parting them dexterously. “We may just have to improvise,” he mutters.

“Thought I didn't earn the right to have your attention tonight,” she says, half-teasingly and giggling, yeah giggling as his touch.

“You may receive a little reward, albeit a very small one, for being honest and forthcoming just now.” It only takes a small brush of his hand and his warm breath on her inner thigh start erasing the hours of sulking and crying and rekindle that spark of heat inside, making her almost instantly wet. Even if she is feeling about as far from sexy as possibly at that moment.

“How small?” The question comes out as a squeak as he slides one finger, then another, inside her, his only answer a little muffled noise of surprise when he finds her slick and ready – for whatever it is he has planned.

“I suppose that depends,” he says, after lazily finger fucking her for a few moments without making any advances toward her insistently throbbing clit, instead drawing his fingers out slowly and sliding back up to lie next to her. “On how indulgent I'm feeling.” He needs only just to rest the tips of his fingers on her lips before she's taken them in her mouth. “Of course, having your saucy little mouth sucking on my fingers like this leaves me feeling very indulgent indeed,” he says with a smile before dragging his hand away.

She can't help but smile back at his teasing 'cause maybe, just maybe he's not quite so angry with her any more. And though there's part of her that wishes he still was, wishes he would take that anger out of her hide, the only act of rebellion she can muster up now is to thrust her hips up when his tongue traces lightly over her pussy lips, even though she knows she should lay perfectly still...

But then, his hands wouldn't immediately press her thighs open even further, pinning her to the mattress. Oh yeah, there's times she knows exactly how to get what she wants from him, even in a precarious little game like this one.

He still won't touch her clit though, the frustration of deprivation slowly turning into a delicious agony, his hands still pinning her to the mattress as he tongue-fucks her, lapping up her juices with a fervor she wouldn't have thought him capable of just a few moments before.

Then he's stopping, lying next to her again, slipping one hand in her hair and drawing her in for a messy wet kiss that ends with her running her tongue along the salty and moist  stubble of his chin. “Still, I can't help but think that we should pause for a moment to allow for further self-reflection on your part.”

She's so lost in the realm of sensory pleasure now that his words hardly make sense. “Can't think right now, just want to come.”

“I know you do, my darling girl. That's plainly evident.” One of his hands slides over her breasts, tweaking one hard nipple, then the other; it sends her mouth to seek his out, to stop the chatter and get to the good stuff. She misses, as he shifts his head, voice deadly serious, but a naughty twinkle in his eye. “But I think I need to make one thing clear. A repeat performance of this evening's histrionics will not be tolerated. It really is beneath you, Faith.”

“I know,” she whispers, and she means it, really does. Finally snagging his mouth for that kiss, she hopes its intensity and ferocity and every other adjective she can't think of to describe her contrition is coming through loud and clear.

When he does finally drag his tongue lightly, gently over her clit, it's after he's devoted an untold, long number of minutes to sucking each nipple in turn, and it doesn't take long for the bundle of suppressed desire and frustration and anger that's all tied together deep inside to explode, leaving her shuddering and shivering in his arms, the very last of her tears finally spilling out unchecked.

And he doesn't tell her to stop – doesn't say anything at all really -- just wraps her up in the blankets and holds her tight until the last tearful, weary hiccup has passed and she's fast asleep.

Chapter Three Hundred and Seventy One

He’s still feeling super indulgent the next day because as she blearily struggles out of the depths of sleep and winces as the pale sunlight hurts her eyes, he’s tugging her back down into the soft folds of the quilt.

“My head hurts,” she mumbles. And yeah, it feels like someone’s emptied the contents of a chemical toilet into her mouth but she doesn’t need to share that TMI because he’s already slipping out of bed and comes back in the blink of an eye with a glass of water and a couple of aspirin.

“The wages of gin,” he comments sagely as she gulps down the water and moans gratefully before slumping back down on the pillows.

“Wasn’t gin. Was champagne and crying too much,” she peers up at him groggily as he gives her a fleeting smile and then because she’s probably hallucinating or lucid dreaming or some shit, he climbs back into bed and curls up against her sleep-warm body so he can run gentle fingers through her hair. “Don’t think I’ve said sorry enough ‘bout last night.”

“Shhh, go back to sleep,” he murmurs and the rhythmic motion of his stroking and the steady burr of his voice as he finally tells her the story of The Princess And The Pea, lulls her into a fitful doze which is shattered when the phone next to the bed starts chirping and it’s too far away for her to yank it out of its socket.

“Wes! Make it stop!” She rolls over and burrows against his chest as he stretches out a hand and yawns into the receiver.

“Pryce here. Doyle? Hmmm… Hmmm… They did? Oh, really? That’s completely unacceptable, Francis…”

She smiles against his skin at a happy flash of déjà vu. Wes sat at his desk, getting medieval on some prosecution attorney’s ass, while she sat there with her own quietly throbbing and her pen poised over her shorthand pad.

“Three hours and I’m going to have to be intractable on that and I insist on billing them at double the normal rate,” he says in a biting voice that’s completely at odds with the way his hand is brushing the little wisps of hair back from her face as she kisses the tip of his nose and winds her legs around his ‘cause it sounds like he’s about to make a bid for freedom.

He finishes the call with a muffled laugh and a snappy, “Mind out of the gutter, Francis, for once in your sorry life,” and then responds to her attempts to cling even tighter to him by gathering her up so he can give her a sour-sweet morning kiss.

“You gotta go to work, yeah?” she tells him without rancor. “But just five minutes more, OK?”

“I think having a hangover agrees with you, Faith,” he chuckles. “And I don’t have to be in the office to listen to a deathly boring deposition for another two hours so I might even take you out for brunch.” And normally she’d pout in the face of his pre-coffee teasing and maybe wriggle against him so they could have one of those lazy morning fucks that she was getting in to the habit of after only two days but instead she just grunts and cups her hand over his heart.

She’s left in a warm cocoon of Egyptian cotton while he has the first shower and he’s just finishing his first cup of coffee and giving her another flash of deja ooooh because he’s all dandied up in a charcoal suit, when she wanders into the kitchen, dressed in jeans and t-shirt and little cardie and hauls herself up on the stool next to his.

“How are you feeling, sweetheart?” he asks, pressing a cool hand against her forehead and she gives him a wry grin.

“Like, I’m never going to chug down a whole bottle of Moet in one sitting again. Gonna stick to the rotgut liquor from now on, Wes.”

“Oh yes, that sounds like an eminently sensible plan,” he drawls, eyes twinkling but that might just be ‘cause he’s tightening the knot on his tie and he’d have to be blind not to see the way she just gulped. “Are you ready to assuage your hangover with some bacon and eggs?”

“Yeah, totally,” she nods and then twists her mouth and takes a deep breath. “Just want to do something first. I should… I need to apologize to Anne so will you give me her number?”

He doesn’t say anything, just gives her a keen look while he takes a last sip of his coffee and then fishes in his shirt pocket for the famous Blackberry.

“Here you are,” he says mildly, handing it to her with Anne’s number and address right there on the screen, all smug and secure in its Park Avenue location. And then he gets up and walks out of the room, only pausing to tuck a loose strand of her hair behind her ear.

And actually it’s sort of OK when she talks to Anne. Plus, it’s a photo finish as to which one of them is more scared. The minute she says, “Anne? It’s Faith, from erm, last night at the ballet?”, she hears this tiny squeaking noise like a mouse stuck inside a helium balloon. All the way through her stream of consciousness apology about being a bitch and jealous and drinking too much champagne “and, like, completely embarrassing you and Wes and what I said was just… it was mean “, the squeaks get louder and louder and more frequent and Faith gets the feeling that Anne wants to get her off the phone as quickly as possible. Which just makes her spin it out for another couple of minutes because yeah, she’s sorry, really she is, but the trust fund bitch still had her manicured mitts all over Wes and that’s a deal breaker as far as she’s concerned.

"So, y'know, just hope that you don't hate me too much," she finally finishes when her brain is passing on urgent messages to her mouth that it needs some oxygen.

Anne's stopped squeaking and there's this awkward little silence on the line before she says so sweetly that if Faith wasn't such a fine, upstanding girl, she'd want to totally vomit from the sugar overload: "It was really kind of you to call and well… I'm sorry if… when Rupert, you see he never told me that Wesley was involved with someone and it's so hard to find eligible, single men in New York and…"

She spends another ten minutes on the phone listening to Anne tell her the woes and wherefores of trying to date in Manhattan where all the men are emotional fuck-ups who can't commit and by the time she rings off, well, she's pretty much feeling lower than a snake's belly. Plus, she really, officially hates Rupert Giles and his match-making bullshit.

Her own emotionally fucked up, completely adorable boyfriend is so goddamn committed that he’s waiting in the hall for her, the Miu Miu coat draped over his arm and as she slips the Blackberry back into his pocket, he tips her chin so he can give her one of those smiles which might just be a reason for living.

“You’re always so brave, Faith,” he tells her softly. “It’s one of your most endearing qualities.”

And after that she guesses they’re frosty cool again, because he holds her hand as they walk to Café Joul and he doesn’t even go off into a rant about the four food groups when she decides that the complex carbohydrates contained in a basket of French pastries with the biggest side order of steak frites (or fries as they call them back home) she’s ever seen will see off the last traces of her headache.

In fact, he feeds her the fries one by one because he says he has a vested interest in “keeping her energy levels up” and gives her a lecture about the perils of New York City that would have Darla sueing for copyright.

“Now you have enough money for cabs, Faith?” he asks her sternly as she walks him to the subway that she’s absolutely been forbidden from using on her own in case she gets lost or abducted by white slave traders or ends up in Coney Island. “And you’re sure you’ll be all right on your own this afternoon because you could go…”

“Wes, I’ll be fine,” she says patiently, wrapping his scarf tighter round his neck ‘cause she’s got plans for him that don’t involve sore throats and hot lemon drinks. Besides, it makes her feel more girlfriend-y and she’d decided that that’s her new favorite feeling. “I could totally use the subway, but I’m not going to,” she adds hastily because he’s flaring his nostrils and beetling his brows. “Gonna get Darla a present and try on a ton of things that I’m never going to buy.” And I’m gonna buy you a metric assload of birthday presents, she grins to herself which makes him bristle suspiciously.

“Well, if you’re sure,” he says doubtfully, tugging back his coat cuff so he can frown at his watch. “I need to go but you have my cell and you’re to call me…”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever Wes. If I get followed round Bloomingdales by anyone shifty looking, you’ll be the first to know.”

He doesn’t even rise to the bait, which sorta sucks because that usually leads to all sorts of dark promises. “I really am sorry about having to leave you like this, Faith. You’ll have to let me make it up to you.”

“You’d fucking better,” she gasps indignantly. “And I get to say how and when and for how long.”

And even though it’s the middle of the day and broad daylight and the wool of her coat impedes his progress, he gives her a kiss on the cheek goodbye at exactly the same time that he lands a slap on her ass.

“Imperious little baggage,” he intones darkly before heading down the steps.

Chapter Three Hundred and Seventy Two

There's a moment as he disappears from sight when she's struck with panic. Like, suppose he gets run over – the traffic in this place lives up to every cliché, and he's English; one moment spent thinking about just how he's going to exact a suitable retribution for all the teasing about the tear – which hasn't been forgiven and forgotten, not yet, because it's a whole different thing to the being rude to Anne deal – and he'll be looking the wrong way, the mother country way, and splat!

The blare of a horn jolts her out of her daze and she steps back from the curb hastily. Reminding herself that she's on a schedule, because if he gets back to find her not there he'll assume the worst and she won't be able to hide his presents before he sees them, she spins around, gets her bearings, and sets off.

And maybe it's the coat, purse and stash of Christmas bonus cash, maybe it's the faint tingle that won't go away when she remembers that final swat on her ass, but she doesn't feel out of place in this city. It's noisy and brash and busy but it's got a Wesley in it thinking about her and it's going to be her home when she comes back – and just how long will it take to work out her notice with Monty and will he really retire when she goes, as Mrs Monty wants him to?

She spots a used book store after six blocks; still on foot because she's not gonna take a cab, not yet, when she's still getting a high from sucking in frosty air, however laden with exhaust fumes it is, and hesitates. Anything Wes wants, and doesn't have, is going to be way out of her range but even so...

The elderly man behind the desk of 'Looking Bookwards' gives her a smile and marks his place with a scrap of paper. "Browsing? Or looking for something in particular?"

"I don't –" She spreads her hands helplessly. "I want to buy a present for someone. But he's got, like, every book there is, and I don't know..." She nibbles her lip. "There's these kids' books he collects," she says hesitantly, feeling guilty as if she's exposing Wes to ridicule. "Biggles or something, but I forget the author..."

He nods briskly. "Of course. Highly collectable, in the early editions, if a little expensive for most pockets." He doesn't seem to be fooled by her fancy clothes and as he leads her through the narrow, dim corridors formed by the bookshelves he doesn't mention 'first edition' once.

When they've established that not only is everything he's got way beyond what she can afford, but that as she doesn't know which ones Wes owns she's kinda wasting everyone's time, he gives a sad little sigh before brightening.

"He wrote other books, you know, oh, yes indeed! Adult thrillers, although, hmm, no, I don't have any in stock and, yes, expensive, so very, very..."

She's giving up on the idea and ready to go by now. "Yeah. Look, I don't have a lot of time to shop and –"

"'The Death Rays of Ardilla!'" he exclaims. He gives her a smug look. "Does he have that?"

"I don't know –" It's a far cry from anything she's ever seen him actually spend time reading and she's wavering because she's got a mental list a mile long, and, bonus or not, she's only got so much to spend. "I don't think so –"

He reaches out his hand, snatches a book with a lurid cover from the shelf and flicks through it. "Paperback re-issue, slightly foxed, hmm, hmm, got it marked at twenty but I'll let you have it for sixteen, how's that?"

"Do you gift-wrap?" she counters.

He rolls his eyes in answer but relents and throws in a cardboard bookmark with a bookworm in glasses on it that's so cute she thinks she'll keep it herself.

After that she's hurrying, dipping into the cab-fare Wes gave her, kept scrupulously separate from the five hundred dollars of her own money that's melting away fast, and criss-crossing the city center to pick up cheese at Artisanal that actually doesn't smell too bad; something called extra-aged Pleasant Ridge Reserve from Wisconsin. It's selling for $26 a pound which means the bit she tastes before nodding for them to wrap her up half a pound probably costs more than her lunch back home, but it doesn't matter.

She might have had lousy birthdays and Christmases before this one, but somehow she thinks most of Wesley's have sucked too. Not this one.

After going to town on some classical CDs because she knows what music he's got better than his books and there's one by some moody European minimalist he loves that jumps every time they really crank up the violins, she heads for Barneys and gets Darla a nightdress in her favorite hot-pink that manages to be elegant and sexy, even if her shopping trip with Wes has kinda re-defined her definitions of both those terms when it comes to undies and such.

She's heading out when she goes by the ties and there's one that's a strip of blue the exact shade of Wesley's eyes. She's savvy enough about the pitfalls of shopping for ties after being reduced to helpless giggles by Liam's face as he peered at some horrors Darla had inflicted on him, but this one, God, how could he not like it? She strokes the silken slither with a finger and sighs in appreciation. A sales assistant appears like magic; a young man extolling the virtues of the tie, hand stitched and made using an all-but-lost tradition of folding a yard of silk seven times and stroking it until –

"I'm in a hurry!" she snaps, grabbing it off the display. "Look, I just want to buy it. It's a good tie, right?"

"It's an excellent tie," he assures her reverently, whisking it away before she's had chance to look at the price.

This gets gift-wrapped which is just as well, as she's all but numb at handing over eleven ten dollar bills and getting not a lot back in the way of change. It's a tie. It's a freaking tie and it's... the color of Wesley's eyes. Fine.

She's heading home, loaded down, when she pauses, collapsing on a bench by a fountain and moaning slightly as her feet begin to throb worse than they did when she was walking on them. She's got him something to read, something to wear, and, after ten minutes of pointing at an array of chocolates, she's just him got a quarter pound of truffles that, 'cause Wes is going to be sharing them if he knows what's good for him, include one, or maybe four, raspberry in dark chocolate ones. And although bloody Rupert kinda cornered the market on whiskey with his present, she one-upped him with the single-malt chocolates, she just knows she did.

Plus, Economy Candy had fizzy sharks in sour-lemon and he's getting a bag of them too, just because.

But apart from the last photograph of her, still hidden in her case, it's all stuff his mom could've bought him, and she wants something else. Something that's about what they are to each other...

She lifts up the bags and carries on walking, looking for a cab to whisk her from the Lower East Side back to Wes' place in the Upper East. She's a block down from the candy shop when she sees a place called Toys in Babeland and she grins. Bingo.

The cheerful red front is matched by the smile she gets when she goes inside, but she's left alone to wander the shop after they've offered to put her bags behind the counter so she can browse. She can see that the shop's fairly busy, with women older than Darla picking up stuff that makes her want to blush, because, damn, it's almost easier in the sleazy places and the casual atmosphere is freaking her a little, which makes no sense.

Then she spots a familiar shade of purple and homes in on her Rabbit like it's some sort of security blanket or something.

"That's a great vibe," says a voice behind her. She turns and there's this shop assistant with dreamy dark eyes that remind her of Dru, a little, and a long, shining braid of red hair hanging to her waist.

"I know," she says. "Got one just like it at home."

"Cool." The girl's wearing a name tag that says she's 'Lisa' and she gives Faith a smile. "You want anything, just let me know."

"Well," Faith begins, glancing around, "do you have anything more, uh – well, less vanilla, you know?"

Lisa's smile gets just a little bit speculative and her gaze drifts to a display of paddles that'd probably have Wes looking pretty fucking interested too and she raises her eyebrows in a silent question.

"Yeah," she says, losing her blush, because Lisa's really putting her in mind of Dru now. "But not paddles. Something – it's a present for my –"

Lisa walks off, not even looking to see if Faith's following. "Master? Slave?" she asks as they come to a halt in front of a row of floggers, mostly black.

"Fuck, no!" Faith says. She gives Lisa a slightly panicked look because that's just not – no. "My boyfriend," she says, and it's weird to call him that too, but she's really firm on the not going near 'master' because it's not something that fits them, somehow. "I want to give him something to use on me," she finishes in a hurry. "For his birthday."

Lisa's head is nodding now. "That's so romantic," she sighs. "How about this ruler? Acrylic, easy to clean and stings like you wouldn't believe."

She stares open-mouthed at the slender strip of clear plastic and swallows. "I think something a bit more, I mean he's already got –no."

"Have you tried clamps?" Lisa asks taking three steps sideways and tapping her finger against a shelf. "No? If you're both into breast play, you'd probably love them."

Curious, she joins her and peers at oddly delicate chains attached to clamps and clothes pins that are never going to see a washing line. She feels her nipples tighten just looking at them and imagining the relentless pressure they'd inflict.

"Yeah," she breathes. "They'd be perfect."

Lisa notices the ones she's focusing on and shakes her head. "Those clover clamps might be a bit much if you're just starting out," she says. "They don't adjust, for one thing, and they'll tighten if you try and pull away."

"Oh," Faith says a little weakly. "Well –"

Lisa picks up some black and silver clamps connected by a wide, silver chain. "These should do. See this little screw on the side? You can ease them off a little."

"I'll take them," she says. She's not sure if she's supposed to be picking stuff like this out for herself but something tells her Wes still isn't totally certain of how far she wants to go.

As hints from her go, she thinks it's verging on the subtle.

Chapter Three Hundred and Seventy Three

She’s just got time to stash the huge amount of bags she seems to have accumulated behind a pile of boxes in the spare room, toe off her sneakers and start contemplating the contents of the fridge when she hears a key turn in the lock and she’s tripping into the hall to greet him.

“Hey Wes,” she beams, scurrying over so she can help him take off his coat and scarf, even though he can manage it perfectly well himself. “Hard day at the office?”

His arms snake round her waist so he can pull her in and rub his cold cheek against her neck, which makes her squirm wildly and giggle. “It sucked,” he says solemnly. “But, well… it’s so very lovely to have you waiting for me, Faith. It’s something that I used to dream about when…” He straightens up but keeps one arm wrapped round her, fingers just grazing the underside of her breast. “I like coming home to you,” he says simply.

And Wes can be wordy guy and she still thinks that sometimes he needs to come with subtitles but sometimes it’s the plain and direct stuff he says (and not just when they’re playing a game) that gets to her, worms its way right into her heart.

“Like you coming home to me too,” she smiles and then plays her winning hand. “And I put the kettle on for you.”

She likes these quiet episodes of domesticity. Never realized just how much she missed them because she was so busy jonesing for the high octane drama of his cock, his hands, his voice, his tongue driving her crazy.

But as she ignores his pained expression and pops the top off a can of Diet Coke while he sips his tea and they both work their way down a packet of digestive biscuits, she knows with an irrevocable certainty that just the utter simplicity of seeing him, sprawled tiredly on the sofa, tie undone and socked feet propped up on the coffee table is the picture she’ll tuck away in a hidden little corner of her brain. And she’ll pull it out during those weeks when they have to be apart and it will get her through.

The thought of having to leave him in, what, like five days time makes her lips twist and though she hasn’t said anything, he knows. Wes always knows. He must do because he’s stretching over the arm of the couch to reach for his briefcase and pulling out a yellow, legal pad.

“We need to start making some plans,” he says with all the fervor of the list geek that he is. And maybe there’s just a hint of darkness in his voice, which means he’s been cataloguing all her recent misdemeanors and spent the journey home thinking up new and exciting ways to punish her. Both her and her nipples are sitting up at the thought of it.

“A list of what?” she asks all throatily but he’s already uncapped his fountain pen and is scrawling a date: 7th March 2005 on it, which as deliciously decadent tortures go is kinda obscure.

“It’s a Monday,” he murmurs. “You’ll probably be here before then anyway, but Mr Rosenberg might need a little help in replacing you.” He gives her what can only be described as a cheesy like Gruyere smile. “You are rather irreplaceable after all, Faith.”

“Thanks, Wes, I really am,” she agrees modestly. Then leans over him to see the next date he’s written down, which is 21st May 2005. “What’s so important about then?” she asks.

“It’s when my lease on this place expires,” Wes explains, then takes a deep breath and he’s off with plans about realtors and decorators and up and coming areas and dates scribbled down of when they need to do stuff by but she’s flashing back to him moving in here. A week after he left her. A week after he’d cancelled his plans to rent the brownstone that looked over the garden square that he’d told her about. The one with a room of her own and a bedroom that she was going to paint all white and a fire escape so in summer they could sit on it while he read to her. And instead she knows that he sat on this sofa night after night, working his way down a bottle of single malt, and hollowed out from grief.

“What happened to the place you were going to get?” she interrupts and he blinks and looks almost startled to see her sitting cross-legged next to him. He’s so fucking single minded when he’s got some complicated scheme on a slow simmer, which is, like, the understatement of the year.

“Oh…” he pauses briefly, finger moving carefully over his little table of dates and boxes. “It’s been over six months, Faith. I’m sure it’s already been leased.”

“I’m sorry, Wes. Must have cost you a fucking fortune to cancel like that.”

“It wasn’t your fault,” he snaps out so harshly that she jerks back but he’s already taking her hand and trying to soothe away the fright with frantic fingers. “I couldn’t have lived there without you. I signed the lease agreement solely because I knew you’d love the house but when I arrived here I realized that if I even spent one night there, Faith, I’d see your ghost in every room, standing in the shadows and I just couldn’t…” He closes his eyes and rubs the bridge of his nose with the hand that isn’t still clutched compulsively around her fingers.

“When you’d gone, I’d see you all over town,” she suddenly bursts out, rubbing against his arm like a cat that needs feeding. “Like, I must have seen your car a hundred times and I’d get a glimpse of some tall, dark-haired guy and my whole tummy would lurch and it wouldn’t be you. Was never you, Wes.” He’s staring at her so intently and in the dim light of the room with darkness creeping in, it seems that his eyes are all pupil. “If I’d never stolen the checks, do you think things would have worked out with us?”

He’s touching her everywhere now. Patting her arm, her leg, shifting so he’s pressed against her. “I don’t know, Faith. I’d like to think so but we both needed to grow…” He won’t look at her, but his fingers are gripping her wrist tightly, pressing down on the bones, like he’s trying to never let her go. “I had to be without you,” he says heavily, placing a finger over her lips to quiet the hurt, little gasp that’s just escaped. “If only to miss you so dreadfully, to feel so bereft that I realized that I could change, that I wanted to change so I’d be worthy of you, my darling Faith.”

She’s scrambling up so she can kneel on the couch cushions and whisper in his ear because what she has to say she doesn’t want to share with anyone else, not even the walls. “Still wish I hadn’t taken them ‘cause everything we used to have feels dirty now ‘cause I was lying to you for weeks. I fucking hate myself for that, Wes. You know… when I said it before you were so angry and yeah, you had every right to be but you know… you know, I’m sorry, right?”

“Faith, it’s in the past and it was never…,” he pauses and undoes the top button of his shirt as if he the words are getting stuck in his throat. “I forgave you for what happened before I ever left,” he says firmly. “It’s over, Faith, finished."

She cups his face in her hands, traces her fingers over the hollows under his eyes. "But, Wes, I lied to you."

"Because you were scared," he insists; lifting her onto his lap so she can rest her head on his shoulder. "Circumspection is a wonderful thing, Faith, and despite your constant assurances that you trusted me, I gave you little reason to. I hurt you. I kept changing the rules and when I did that it meant that it was impossible to trust me and I couldn't keep you safe. So if we're getting all our contrition out of the way, then I want to apologize profusely that you had to shoulder all those burdens on your own."

"I'm never going to lie to you again," she chokes out past the lump in her throat. "I mean, I haven't since then, have I? Told you all sorts of shit that you probably wish I hadn't." His fingers glide under her t-shirt to trace the words etched into her skin but he doesn't say anything, just lets her muddle through. "And I trust you, Wes and you have to trust me to know that I'll tell you if I'm scared or if I don't feel safe or that you're hurting me."

"I do trust you, Faith," he murmurs into her ear. "You've become so strong, so fierce that I'm grateful for our time apart, no matter how distressing it was."

And she knows what he means because although she wouldn't ever want to relive all those nights of feeling rubbed raw from crying and the ache of not having him near, they did some good. And maybe they had to go a long way to get back to where they were.

She sits there in the cradle of his arms for a while, just glad to be quiet with him until he stretches slightly and then tips her off his lap so she has to sit on her own patch of couch.

"Hey, I was all kinds of comfy," she protests and then smirks as she sees the little tic banging away in his cheek. "But you did promise to make it up to me for being alone all afternoon."

"I did, didn't I?" he smiles, until his features rearrange into this expression of severity, which she knows he's totally faking. "But I also promised to exact retribution for your bizarre claim that Giselle reduced me to helpless sobs."

"I never said you were sobbing," she huffs, throwing in her best Bambi eyes while she was at it. "But there was tears, Wes, or like one tear…"

"Which was entirely due to the brightness of the house lights and was quite insufficient to warrant half an hour of taunting from you. And there is the quite considerable list that we've barely begun to work through," he muses, throwing her a darkly glinting look, hand suddenly clamping round her thigh.

"Oooh, you promised, Wes!" she snarls and because there's no good reason not to, she snatches up one of the cushions and bops him over the head with it.

He looks so bemused, hair ruffled and eyes wide, that she bursts out laughing, doubling over at the incredulous expression on his face and not quick enough to scramble off the couch and get away from him, when he suddenly pins her down on the seat and looms over her, hands dragging her arms over her head and his thighs tight against her so she can't wriggle free.

"I was going to make it up to you but I'm afraid that won't be possible," he tells her sorrowfully, which really doesn't sound too convincing from the way he's leering down at her. "Now about these spurious claims of yours…"

"You were crying over a pansy ass ballet," she bursts out, because he so was and hadn't she just told him she was a stickler for the truth? And that she was never going to lie to him again?

"Since you seem so taken with tears rolling down cheeks, Faith, perhaps you could shed some for me?" he suggests and she's never felt further from crying in her life. Unless it's an hour from now when he's spanked her and fucked her and maybe gone down on her and still not let her come.

Which seems like a fun way to get to dinner time. "And perhaps you can bite me, Wes," she tells him sweetly.

"Maybe later," he drawls. "After I've made you cry."

And when he says it like that, it seems pretty damn callous like he's gonna pinch her until she starts weeping buckets. But it's worse than that. Like, way, way worse than that and ten minutes later she's curled into a tiny, little ball in the corner of the couch, tears streaming down her face.

"Stop it, Wes! Please, no more," she splutters but he doesn't listen, just delves his hands into the Faith-shaped ball she's become and grabs her foot so he can tickle her instep, because her socks were the first thing he stripped off her, while he starts dragging her jeans down her frantically kicking legs.

"Those aren't crocodile tears, are they, Faith?" he asks her teasingly, one hand skittering over her stomach as she tries to wrench away from him.

"No! No! Swear they're not," she squeaks, trying to pull her t-shirt down to hide all her over-sensitized skin from his wicked fingers. "You have to stop!"

"But you look so beautiful when you cry," he persists, both hands running up her arms while she feebly flaps her hands and tries to swat him away.

"Fuck! Neruda!" she yelps and it's a completely moot point which one of them is more shocked. She reckons it's him because the minute she's free, she's launched herself at him. "Right, gonna see how you fucking like it."

And it's so damn typical of him not to be ticklish. The bastard even peels off his shirt and lies back on the couch with a challenging expression. Five minutes later and she's just about managed to tease a stifled giggle of him when she tickles the arch of his foot but mostly he keeps sighing and rolling his eyes like it's all too tiring for words.

"You're no fun," she snaps crossly, flinging herself back on the couch and folding her arms. "You could be, like, a little bit ticklish, Wes."

"I'm very sorry, Faith. Maybe you should send me back to my mother and ask her for a refund."

"I totally should. Dear Mrs Wes, your son isn't ticklish so I'm returning him to you with the manufacturer's guarantee and a receipt," she giggles, then gives him a sly look from under her lashes. "I should get compensation, you know."

He gives her a heavy-lidded look. "Not to mention a reward for shedding such pretty tears and saying your word so charmingly. Would you like to go and get your collar, Faith?"

"That's like the most rhetorical question in the world." She's already jumping up and practically vaulting off the coffee table to get out of the room, when he coughs slightly so she turns to look at him. "What?"

"When you return, I want you naked, Faith," he says blandly. "And I also want you wet and ready, please."

She doesn't think that's going to be a problem because all her insides have suddenly turned to liquid. "I'll see what I can do," she manages to say with a fraction of her usual sass.

That gets her an approving smile. "Good girl but I don't want those busy hands anywhere near that demanding, little cunt of yours. Is that clear?"

There are no words, just a tremulous nod and when she comes back after breaking the world speed stripping record, the collar dangling from her fingers, she's aching with the heavy dampness between her legs.

He holds out his hand for the collar and when she's carefully placed it across his outstretched palm, he gestures to the easy chair a few feet away from where he's sprawled out.

"Go and sit on that, please," he orders her, his voice level and his cock hard. "Then I want you to show me how wet you are."

When she drapes her legs over the arms, he leans forward so he doesn't miss a single second of the show she gives him as she feels her lips spread open and she's pink and wet, just like he wanted.

"Oh yes," he purrs, licking his lips again and again and again. "I want to see you come, Faith. I missed seeing your work your fingers in that beautiful pussy. Missed it so much."

And she's missed that dark longing in his eyes too. Missed the way he tells her exactly what he wants her to do…

"I want you to push your finger into your cunt, Faith. You're so very wet, aren't you, my little Olympia? Good. No… not yet. Now touch your clit, Faith. A little lighter than that, please."

He's on his knees in front of her, head darting forward to swipe his tongue against any parts that she's missing but as she's got three fingers thrusting furiously inside her, her thumb rubbing at her clit, back arching against the soft velvet of the chair, it's mostly just because he loves to taste her. That's what he says before he pulls back, so he's sitting on his haunches, cock twitching inside his trousers.

"Wes," she breathes, trying to get another finger… fuck, her whole hand inside her cunt, anything to make the ache stop. "Gotta come."

"I know, I know," he soothes her gently, picking the collar up from the floor and trailing it up her thigh. "Use this. I want to see you fuck yourself with my collar, Faith."

He pulls her sticky hand away from her pussy and curls her fingers round the leather, wrapping it tight then pushing her hand back towards her soaked cunt.

It feels strange in this really wonderful way. The leather rubbing against her, the edges of the collar catching against her swollen clit and she's twisting in the chair, his hands tight round her ankles when she tries to bring her legs down so she can grind harder against the damp leather.

Just needs something more and she gives him a beseeching look. "Wes, please…"

"What do you want, Faith?" he asks her all concerned and it's bullshit because he knows what she wants and as soon as he pushes one long finger into her, she's clenching round him, head flung back as she worries at her clit with the pointed tip of the collar.

She hasn't even come down, her hand still pressed into her pussy, trembling with a million tiny aftershocks, when he pulls his finger free and drags her off the chair, half carrying her across the room so he can tip her over the back of the couch and press himself up against her.

"I have to fuck you," he grits out and she's reaching behind her with her damp hand, trying to fumble at his cock through the cloth of his trousers. "Stop that and spread your legs."

The grate of his zipper is the sweetest symphony and he's lifting her up, hands biting into the skin of her inner thighs as he spreads them even further and he's in her with one hard shove, stretching her open and then pulling out so he can drive into her in a relentless rhythm that has her clutching at the cushions and begging him to go faster, harder, deeper.

"I love fucking you," he hisses into her ear. "Always so tight and wet. You always want me." He sounds dazed by the concept but she's already fervently agreeing with him.

"Love it, Wes. Just want you to never stop," she gasps, pushing back against him as his hand delves between them and he's pressing his thumb against her clit with the same driving insistence as he rams inside her clutching cunt. She's beyond words now, just moaning in a rising crescendo as his hips drive against her buttocks and the hard tips of her breasts smoosh against the soft nap of the couch. "Hurt me," she barks and deliciously, immediately, his teeth sink into her shoulder, the sharp sting making her cry out and squeeze around his cock as she comes in shocking, violent waves that threaten to pull her under as she feels his come spurt inside her.

He presses a soft kiss against the blossoming bruise on her shoulder, cock still quivering against the walls of her cunt and smoothes her tangled, damp hair back from her face. "I've been dreaming about doing that all afternoon," he says with a soft, little laugh, before pulling out, the damp head of his cock kissing the backs of her thighs as he tugs her upright.

Chapter Three Hundred and Seventy Four

The gentle click of the front door wakes her so she can roll into the Wes-scented hollow he’s made on his side of a bed for a few seconds before she recalls a vague memory of him saying something about croissants and maybe even coffee.

She’s up, even if she’s not capable of complete sentences, by the time he comes back with a really promising looking pink patisserie box, a couple of steamy cups of coffee and an exasperated smile when he sees her slumped all, glassy-eyed in front of Jerry Springer in a tank-top and boy-cut shorts.

“Caffeine,” she moans piteously, managing to lift her head a few inches before deciding it’s too much effort. “I’m fucking dying here, Wes.”

“And a very good morning you too, Faith,” he retorts snappily and then he’s withholding food or, like putting it down on the sideboard so he can hang his coat up while she hauls herself up and leans over the back of the couch where there’s a funny stain that wasn’t there until last night. Gonna be way unlikely if Wes ever gets his security deposit back, especially as she managed to smash the toothbrush holder clean off the wall the other morning when he she practically ended up sitting in the bathroom sink as Wes fucked her.

“Did you get croissants? And donuts – I could really eat about half a dozen chocolate sprinkles,” she sighs dreamily, tugging on to his hand as he tries to get past her. “Where you going?”

“To get plates,” he says, leaning down to kiss her forehead. “And forks,” her eyelids get a little kiss each too. “And to try and tempt you to eat at a table like a well brought up young lady,” he adds, giving her a tooth-pastey smooch right on the mouth.

“I’m not well brought up, Wes,” she grins, winding her arms round his neck and holding on until he rethinks the whole breakfast at the table madness.

“You’re having a disastrous effect on my routine,” he announces, as he watches her demolish an apple danish in two bites. “Look at me, Faith, please… “

She swivels her gaze away from two cross-dressing grandpas having a knock-down fight over some 50-year-old skankerama that they were both sleeping with. “Huh? What?”

“I keep missing dinner because I seem to end up fucking you,” he begins patiently, catching her chin between his fingers because she’s trying to turn back to the TV when she hears someone scream, ‘And that marabou trim ain’t doing you no favours, girlfriend!’ “Please, Faith, do try and concentrate or I’m confiscating the remote control.”

“I’m listening,” she protests and with a sigh, she swings round to face him ‘cause Wes is far easier on the eye that an old man in a pink muumuu. “You’d rather fuck me than eat dinner and somehow that’s my fault? Whatever, counselor.”

“And then you force me to sleep half the day away because you wrap that delectable little body of yours around me when I try to get up,” he adds plaintively as she clambers onto his lap and does just that. Though he doesn’t seem to mind, just lets her lean back against him so he can run his hand under her T-shirt and stroke her tummy. “And now I find myself getting crumbs all over the sofa and watching… Good Lord, what exactly are we watching, Faith? And why is that man wearing a mauve dress that does absolutely nothing for his complexion?”

She gives a gurgle of laughter and aims the remote at the screen so it fades into blackness. “We’re on vacation, Wes,” she reminds him, all of her aware that his index finger is idly tracing the low-riding waist of her panties. “We’re on holiday time.”

“Well, I suppose it’s silly to be wasting an hour eating food when I could be fucking you,” he agrees mildly, kissing the bruise that his teeth scraped across her shoulder the night before. “Though talking of which, what would you like to do see the New Year in? I daresay I might manage to scrounge up a dinner reservation.” He swallows manfully ‘cause he’s such a brave little soldier and slaps away her hand which is already creeping up to give his Adam’s apple a curious poke. “Would you like to go to Times Square and see the ball drop?”

And she really, really wouldn’t. But she pretends to consider it for a moment if only to see him trying to damp down the horrified expression on his face. “Do you think it’s true that, like, what you do on New Year’s Eve is how you end up spending the rest of the year?” she asks him.

“Well, it’s a charming notion but generally, no,” he says decisively. “Though I did once spend New Year’s Eve at a quite horrific cheese and wine party and ended up vowing never to drink Chardonnay again. What are you planning, Faith? You look like you’re cooking up some positively Machiavellian scheme.”

“I’m not!” she protests indignantly, because what she’s about to suggest, she’s pretty sure that he’s going to be down with. “It’s just I have to go home in a couple of days,” she sighs heavily and he seems to echo the sound. “And I just want to spend as much time as possible with you, Wes. Not like the city of New York is going anywhere, is it?”

“No, I imagine it will still be standing when you return,” he says quietly, fingers smoothing along the bump of her hip bone. “So you’d like to stay in tonight?”

She nods emphatically. “Yeah, I do, Wes. But, like, I want how we spend tonight to be like this dream of how we’re going to spend the rest of the year so I want yummy food…”

“Yummy food,” he agrees with a teasing smile. “I’ll cancel the sprouts and the asparagus, shall I?”

“Damn straight!” She takes a deep breath. “When the clock strikes midnight, I want you to be fucking me, Wes. Want us in bed and your cock inside me, and you telling me how much you love me. And I don’t care how fucking needy that makes me, I just…”

“You don’t sound needy.” He lowers his head so he can drag the tip of his tongue across the indent marks of his teeth, which seems to be slightly obsessing him this morning. “I think that it sounds like a very fitting way to welcome in 2005. Though, of course, I reserve the right to improvise.”

“How?”

“Oh, I’m sure between now and midnight, I’ll be able to expand on the theme,” he says airily. “Anything else I should be expanding on?”

Her hands are already resting on her throat. “I want to be wearing my collar,” she says firmly. “That’s, like, non negotiable and I want champagne too ‘cause there’s not gonna be anyone round that I can insult. Well, except you, and that would probably work out well. And I want…”

She doesn’t even get to explain her really wicked idea that if it’s snowing they should totally go out and fuck in it, just so she can say she’s done it because his soothing fingers have become cruel, pinching her thigh so hard that when he takes his hand away she can still see the imprint of his fingers. She watches it fascinated for a moment and then lifts her head. “What did you do that for?” she asks him and there’s not a shred of censure in her voice, which makes him smile fleetingly before his face hardens into the tight, angry lines which she thinks she almost prefers.

“Because you seem to be laboring under the misapprehension that if you say ‘I want’ enough times in that over-bearing tone, I’ll capitulate to all your demands,” he bites out.

“But it’s New Year’s Eve, Wes!” she wails, fluttering her eyelashes at him and pursing her lips. “Don’t you want me to be happy?”

He’s already springing to his feet so he can haul her up. “Well, not too happy,” he concedes with something that might be a wink if she squints extra hard. “I do so like to keep you on your toes, Faith. And I do so like it when I give the orders and you obey.”

“Yeah, well I like that too,” she admits, as she follows him into the kitchen with the empty coffee cups in her hand. “But shouldn’t I get a say in some stuff… Hey! Hey! You total bastard!”

“Mind your language, Faith,” his mild rebuke is completely at odds with the stinging slap that he lands on her poor, defenceless ass. “And your exceedingly peevish tone.”

“As I was saying, Wesley, before I was so rudely interrupted, I do have rights. Got myself a contract and now I’m starting to realize why you’ve been all quiet about updating it.” She gives him an aggrieved look. “OK, I know what I want to do for the rest of the day.”

“I want, I want,” he mutters under his breath, as he wraps a couple of pastries that escaped her tummy in tinfoil. “I think someone wants a very severe spanking. Possibly with a hairbrush.”

There’s a pause while she contemplates that delightful little notion before she wags a reproachful finger at his back and hmmm, his ass as he starts doing his control freaky fridge thing. “Don’t you try and sweet talk your way out of this, Wes, I’m calling the shots today. And we’re going to go out and get some supplies for tonight ‘cause you’re cooking dinner and then we’re coming home and we’re going to rewrite that contract ‘cause I think you’re getting too used to having things your own way.”

He turns to her then, his expression veering from amused to deliciously stern in a New York second. "Oh, really, Faith? Is that what you think? Because we should have a talk about it. I wouldn't want you to feel as though I'm unreasonable about these things."

She laughs sharply. "Oh, c'mon, Wes. I know negotiations get you really fucking hot and bothered. Why else did you become a lawyer?"

"Fair point, my darling girl. And negotiations with you tipped over my knee get me even hotter." He finishes alphabetizing the eighteen varieties of gourmet mustard he's got in there or whatever the hell he's been doing, closes the fridge, and starts walking back to where she's curled up on the couch.

"Oh, but aren't you giving the game away, counselor?" She beams at him, thinking she's just about ready for her first guest-starring role on "Law and Order" when Wes sits down on the couch next to her.

"People in glass houses shouldn't throw stones." And the bastard looks really insufferably smug when he says it. His eyes are glinting evilly as he slips his hand under her tank top again. She almost swats it away, but she's still trying to figure out what the fuck he's talking about.

"Say what?" She's peering at him, her eyes narrowed to little slits.

"What I meant to say is that" —and his hand is straying further up her top, making a play for one of her breasts— "I do seem to recall the party of the second being extremely ticklish."

She shoots back against the edge of the sofa as fast as she possibly can, flattening herself against the cushion. "No way, Wes! That's totally fucking unfair! The party of the second calls a fucking time out!"

He tilts his head to one side, his expression thoughtful. "I wasn't aware that we'd begun anything, Faith. Are we on the clock as it were? Because I could retrieve the contract if you like. I've added some additions which would need to be drafted." He closes his eyes and sighs almost dreamily. "I can't even remember the last time you took dictation—"

And sweet Jesus, how wrong is it that the very mention of the word gets her really fucking wet, conjuring up all sorts of dark, delicious images swimming in her head, some real, some imagined.

God, how she's missed being his secretary. She had almost forgotten how much it had meant to her —even now, the pain was just too new and raw; she couldn't even bear to remember all those afternoons she'd spent bent over the dark wood of his desk, skirt up, panties down, her ass as red as all those typographic errors he'd circle in perfect, neat little whorls. Both standing as symbols of her imperfections. And maybe they didn't need that ritual now, strictly speaking, but God, she still wanted it. It was their little world, and she loved it.

Loves it. Past, present, it didn't matter. Time stood still in the inner sanctum of his office.

"Shall I take a letter, Wes?"

And oh, yeah, she wishes she could bottle whatever it is, that heady power that's radiating off him now, sending her heart beating a mile a minute. He leans in close, catching his hand in her hair, pulling her head aside at an awkward angle that sends a thrill of deja whatever straight through her gut. If there was any question in her mind that the change of scenery would diminish the game, it was long gone now.

She almost gasps and pulls away because he's so intense, but his lips are already on her neck, her earlobe, and then he's whispering, whispering in a way he hasn't in months. “I don't think you're in the appropriate attire for such a task, don't you agree?”

And if her mouth hadn't gone dry, she'd be able to speak – but no words come, so she just nods mutely.

“I'm sorry, Faith – I didn't quite hear you,” he says, straightening back up, but not letting her go.

The pressure of his hand still lightly pulling her hair makes it impossible to think, to remember her lines. That is, until she recalls that it's the easiest one of all. “Yes sir,” she manages to rasp out, swallowing down the lump that's rising in her throat. Dammit if this isn't nearly reducing her to tears.

Unraveling his hand carefully from her tangled hair, he smiles. “Good girl. Be dressed and showered in twenty-five minutes, please.”

It's all she can do not to bolt off the sofa like a rocket – instead she plants her feet carefully on the floor, which is a good plan 'cause she's practically swooning.

“I'll be in my office,” he says, running his hand over the curve of her ass. “Be a sweetheart and bring me a coffee too.” He looks up at her, and that smile is back, the cold shard of what she now knows is his normal expression of pleasure.

“Yes sir,” she says, confidently this time, and her impertinence rates a swat on the ass, and they ricochet away from each other to opposite ends of the apartment like pool balls after a fast break.


He'd bought her a few outfits she'd classify as office appropriate on that trip to Soho, and there was no shortage of pleasing underwear now. But she decides to go with a tried and true classic, a severe little black wool number that Wes bought her back in the day. She takes what's probably the fastest shower of her life, pausing her hasty bath only to carefully lather up her pussy and run a razor over that tender flesh, her hands shaking a little. She can't possibly think how their game would play out here, with all that Scandinavian modern office furniture, all blond wood and hard angles. Perhaps it will be easier when they're together, conjuring up a shared hallucination of his old, dark office with the moss green heavy velvet curtains and heavy mahogany desk, the old creaking desk chair, and the cup of freshly-sharpened pencils and the blotter that saw more hot action than any office supply item ever should.

Her hair wrapped in a towel, she slips into the plainest black bra and panties in her new stash and settles on the bed to roll her stockings carefully over her legs. She pulls the dress carefully out of its garment bag and puts it on for the first time in a small forever. When she smoothes it down over her body, she’s amazed at how much she feels like the Faith of old; right away she's this mix of self-confidence and nerves. And somehow that feels just right.

Glancing at the clock, she sees there's no time for much more primping. So she just leaves her face free of makeup, save for running a dark wine lipstick 'round her mouth and twists her still-damp hair into a hasty knot pinned with a few bobby pins from the bottom of her makeup bag. Checking her reflection in the full-length mirror one last time, she can't help but think he didn't give her the full thirty minutes on purpose --  just to make sure she appeared just as she is now, and was so many days back then, half made-up and hair slightly askew.



There's no mistaking the flip-flopping in her tummy, though, as she quickly raps on the half shut office door, balancing his cup and the fresh, blank steno pad he'd so thoughtfully left on the kitchen counter.

“Enter.” The word, clipped and efficient, makes her just the tiniest bit weak in the knees. Pushing the door open with one pointed toe of her precariously high shoes, she can't look anywhere but at him. Sometime while she was in the shower, he must have snuck into the bedroom, 'cause he's wearing shirtsleeves rolled to the elbow, one pushed higher than the other and a thick silk tie that's perfectly knotted and nestled neatly against his throat.

And the moment he looks up at her, they're both thrown out of the game for just a moment in a split-second of self-consciousness, 'cause they both let out a little gasp at the other's appearance. If she concentrates hard enough, they've traveled back in time almost, back to some undetermined point in that six weeks – six weeks that seem so long ago as to be nearly antique. They're still the older and wiser Wes and Faith of now, of course, and there's something so encouraging about how easy it is to slip back into the Wes and Faith of then.

He blinks, as if she's some kind of ghost, before giving a little nod of approval that shifts them right back on track. “Sit, please, Faith.” And she complies after carefully setting the coffee on the desk, perching in the hard wooden chair that's infinitely easier to sit in than the old overstuffed things from his old office.

“We have quite a bit of work to do here,” he says, shuffling papers and files into neat little stacks. “There's the matter of our existing contract, which clearly needs revisions.”

She nods, face falling into that familiar neutral expression that she hopes is still serious and captivating and not completely ridiculous.

“We'll get to that in due course. But first, there's a number of letters to get through...” And before he can finish, she's flipped the steno pad open to the first blank page, the perfectly sharp tip of her pencil poised and ready.



She doesn't need to take shorthand this fast for Monty, not ever, not even when he's had his verboten three cups of coffee before noon – and it's actually a challenge to get her hand moving fast enough as he dictates the letter, then another, and finally a third, before she's actually asking him for a moment, shaking the cramp out of her hand. But she only had to stop and ask him to spell a name once and didn't ask for repeats of the tangle of Latin legal terminology that trip so charmingly off his lips. Which, she realizes proudly, is probably way better batting average than she ever had as his real secretary. Or, paid secretary anyway – because what's happening now is most definitely real.

“That's all for now Faith,” he says, icicles dripping off each word. “I would hate to overtax you after such a long time away.” Slipping out from behind the desk, he crosses to a corner of the room and returns, pushing a tiny table with wheels, with, of all things, a quaint but modern Olivetti typewriter, and sets it at her side. It's not the old, familiar Selectric, but it's enough to send her head spinning and who knew a damn typewriter could get her so very, very wet? “You've earned a cigarette break. And I expect you back here in four minutes.”

“Don't need it, sir,” she says brightly. Bet he wasn't expecting that part, 'cause honestly, she's cut back so much since she's been there, that her hankering for nicotine has calmed down significantly.

“Faith, I really must insist that you take your break, as mandated by state law.”

And really, when he says it that way, she knows there's no point in arguing.

“Yes sir, four minutes.”

He's looking down, scribbling incomprehensible notes on a legal pad. “And when you return, you're to start on the letters. If they each pass muster, we'll move on to the contract.” It's all she can do not let a huge, bright grin flash across her face, but that would totally violate the rules of the game, even if he wasn't looking at her. He would know. “Oh, and Faith -- three copies of each please.”

Oh shit, not the carbons! She opens her mouth to protest, but his head snaps up at the split-second of silence that follows his request, and she squeaks out another, “Yes, sir,” before leaving the room. Still, she's not too stunned to make sure she takes the walk to the door nice and slow, giving the slightest shimmy of her ass that sends the delicate edges of the skirt undulating around her knees.



She figures it won't kill her to have half a cup of coffee too, just to make sure she's bright and alert enough to wrangle the carbons into the typewriter. And she manages to get the balcony door open after shoving her cigs and lighter ungracefully into the waistband of her skirt, as the jacket's pretty tailored lines would be ruined by something as pesky and utilitarian as a pocket or two.

She started counting the seconds off in her head the minute she was out the door, but now as she whispers “sixty one thousand,” she can't remember if it's the second or third minute. She imagines it must be the third, 'cause she's already nearly half of the way through her cig, but that kind of seems too long, and then she sucking it down as fast as she can because she's fucking stopped counting and who knows how long it's been if that was her last minute. Gulping down the last of the coffee, she stumbles over her feet and back into the apartment, slamming the mug down on the counter as she practically sprints back through the office door.

And standing there out of breath, she knows it's been too long, just from that frosty look he gives her as a whole side of her hasty updo comes sliding out of the pins and lands softly on her shoulder.

Chapter Three Hundred and Seventy Five

He sighs long and loud as if his disappointment in her less than stellar timekeeping and hair care is causing him immense pain. “This really is unacceptable, Faith,” he clips out. “You’re three minutes late, which wouldn’t have happened if you’d been wearing your watch.”

They both eye the slightly pale band around her wrist where it usually sits snug, like the months in Honest Dave’s Pawn Shop were just a dream. “I’m sorry, sir,” she gulps nervously because for just one second, he’s not looking quite so much stern as kinda upset - enough that she has to carefully step over the lines they’ve drawn. “Took it off when I was having a shower, Wes.”

“You’re to wear it at all other times, Faith,” he whispers fiercely, eyes burning into hers. “Promise me.”

“I promise you, Wes. I didn’t mean anything. I was just in a rush, y’know.”

He nods slowly, hurt still shadowing the blue of his eyes until he blinks, straightens up and gives her that cool, supercilious smile that can make her go from frustrated to skin-twitchingly horny in about the time it takes him to quirk his lips.

“I don’t require excuses, Faith, just an assurance it will never happen again,” he says snootily, looking down that aquiline nose of his at hers. “Anyway I think you’ve squandered enough time, don’t you?” He glares at her as she gives him a half-hearted nod at one of those damn rhetorical questions that always catches her out. “I’m sorry. I don’t believe I caught that.”

“I’m sorry, sir,” she mumbles, head down so he won’t see her eyes which she’s pretty sure are gleaming. “It won’t happen again.”

He sidles up to her and when they’re doing this, dressed like this, being this, the closeness of him is an invasion of her personal space that makes her head swim and her heart start pitter pattering.

“Your hair,” he hisses in her ear, picking up a lock between finger and thumb before carelessly flicking it over her shoulder. “It’s a disgrace.” His hand slides down the curve of her spine and that simple action suddenly makes breathing this really hard thing to do as she stares straight ahead, mouth open so she can take tiny sips of air, so painfully aware of the way his eyes are sweeping over her parted lips, the hot flush staining her cheeks, her breasts suddenly straining against the tight confines of her dress. “And you’re slouching,” he adds, the flat of his hand pressing into the small of her back, so the tips of his fingers just graze the upper curve of her ass. “It’s inexcusable that I spent months training you only to have all my good work in tatters.” His hand slides down a few crucial inches so it’s cupping her backside, and the warmth of his skin even through two layers of wool and silk feels so very fucking amazing, she’s pressing into his touch and letting the tiniest moan leak out of her mouth.

“Wes… Please,” she implores him and he clucks his tongue disapprovingly.

“I’m very far from pleased, Faith,” he snaps reprovingly and he’s word perfect, like he spent the months apart refining his lines. “Assume the position, please.”

And her body has a perfect muscle memory of how it feels to be bent over smooth wood, forearms flat and fingers spread. He gives this tiny exhalation of pure pleasure as she shuffles her feet apart and arches her back.

“Oh yes. I see some of my lessons were successful at least. Now lift up your skirt, Faith.” Her hands creep round to inch up the heavy wool and she wishes she could see what he’s seeing as the black lace of her stocking tops gives way to pale, white skin. Wish she knew what he was thinking but then one, indolent index finger hooks round the waistband of her panties and she decides that she knows exactly what he’s thinking.

“I think not,” he suddenly announces and that sneaky finger retreats leaving her panties exactly where they were and she almost growls in frustration ‘cause the only predictable thing about him is his maddening, deliberate unpredictability. “Just five for now,” he decides and before she can even steel herself for the first blow, he’s speeding through five stinging, super-charged slaps that have her rocking back and forth in her fuck-me pumps as she tries to keep some semblance of balance.

It’s over before it’s even begun and she’s waiting for him to do something, anything. Yank down her knickers and really go to town. Throw her over the desk and climb up after her so he can fuck every inch of her with his mouth, his fingers…

“Oh, do sit down, Faith,” he snaps and she comes to with a start as she feels the wooden chair he’s carried over pressing into the backs of her knees. “No, don’t pull down your skirt, just sit!”

She plops down on the seat as an involuntary reaction to the abruptness of her order and hisses as the hard wood connects with the tender skin. “Jesus, Wes, might want to ease me in gently.”

“I don’t see why,” he replies equably, placing the small Olivetti on the desk in front of her. “I really must insist that you finish typing these letters before we can even begin to start on the contract.” He fixes her with the steeliest glare in his arsenal but even that can’t detract from the pretty blush of pleasure staining his cheeks. “And, Faith, I’m afraid that I simply won’t countenance any mistakes. You can’t expect me to be lenient with you.”

“No, sir,” she agrees, reaching for the linen bond and the carbons that he’s so thoughtfully fetched for her and inserting them into the typewriter. Like, riding a Wesley, she thinks to herself smugly, as she listens to the satisfying whir of the cartridge as she adjusts it to her liking and then places her fingers lightly on the keys, caressing a to f, and semi-colon through to j.

“I’ll be watching you very carefully,” he warns her from somewhere behind her. Remember that you’re absolutely forbidden from making any errors, Faith.”

And she’s damn sure she’s not going to make any. Call it a point of pride but the Olivetti’s smaller and slicker, so different from the unwieldy Selectric which she loved and loathed in equal measure. She’s also got used to the barely there pressure of the nifty little Dell that Monty got specially for her. She’s biting her lips as her fingers fumble and try to get used to the unfamiliar span of a different keyboard and just as she’s getting into the rhythm, sinking into that almost Zen state of staring at her squiggles and hearing the satisfying click of the typewriter keys as she transforms then into neat black lines of text on the clean, white page when that utter, ratfink, bastard blows her game completely.

He’s been standing behind her but then she hears his move away, step round the side of the desk so he can sit down at his chair, pulling it in close so he can rest his elbows on the polished table top and stare at her.

She tries to ignore him. She really does. Just gives him a narrow eyed look as she inserts the next set of paper and carbons into the machine to let him know that she’s totally on to him but he just raises an eyebrow in this beleaguered way, which makes her hate him just a little bit.

His chair inches even nearer and she knows that if she looked up, rather than at her sheet of paper with his bullshit letter to Congress about the appropriate skirt length for girls called Faith from the State of Florida on it, all she’d have to do is stretch forward just a fraction, purse her lips and they’d be kissing. As it is she can barely concentrate on the words, ‘…resting just on the knee…” because his scrutiny is making her self-conscious and painfully aware of how tight and swollen her breasts are, not to mention the tropical heat between her legs which his speed-spanking had just made worse.

“I’d forgotten just how adorable it is when your tongue pokes out the corner of your mouth when you’re concentrating hard,” he murmurs throatily, and her fingers slip and hit all the wrong keys and she’s just about to wrench the whole damn mess out of the machine when he hands her the bottle of White Out. “Here, use this. I’m sorry, Faith, I didn’t mean to distract you. I imagine it’s hard enough to focus on what you’re doing when you’re arse is throbbing and you’re all wet and ready for me,” he adds sympathetically. And it’s so not fair that he’s pushing her buttons without actually, y’know, bushing her buttons.

She stumbles through the last letter having to blink back tears of sheer fury as he won’t fucking shut up. Everything he’s ever done to her in his office gets recalled in the kind of loving detail which has her squirming longingly in her chair and she knows that the letter to the Supreme Court involving Wes’ acid-trip scheme to have National Secretaries Day replaced with National Stinky Cheese Day has become completely derailed because she’s inserting random words like “spank”, “fuck” and “you evil bastard” in where she feels it’s appropriate.

“I can’t wait to proof read these,” he purrs gleefully, when she’s typed ‘Wesley Wyndam-Pryce is a big, fat cheater’ at the bottom of the final letter and she’s snatching it out of her typewriter and practically throwing it at him. “Thank you, Faith,” he says, delving into his drawer and pulling out a clutch of red sharpies, “Now, where to begin?”

The first letter isn’t too bad. Just a couple of typos and one mis-placed comma. The second letter has at least one angry, red circle in each line and that damn third letter – well it’s pretty damn hard to see where the sharpie ends and the letter actually begins.

“It’s not fair,” she bursts out as he circles her charming little pay-off line and tuts. “You weren’t being fair.”

His hand is already on his heart. “I’m hurt, Faith,” he gasps. “Are you suggesting that I deliberately distracted you because I was so very eager to administer , hmmm, let me see, 47 hard slaps to your pretty arse?”

“Yes!” she snarls and he has the fucking nerve to chuckle at her.

“I’m sorry,” he says, without one ounce of sincerity. “You have to understand my confusion at your little snit, Faith. Am I correct in thinking that you don’t actually want me to chastise you.”

“No… I mean, yes. I mean, sometimes, Sir, you, like, completely work my last nerve,” she snaps out mutinously.

“Over the desk, please, Faith,” he orders her pleasantly. “And I think panties off this time, don’t you? Now, what on earth did I do with my ruler?”

He wields the 12 inch strip of wood like the expert he is, alternating between slow, languid strokes across her buttocks and a furious flurry of blows against the backs of her thighs, periodically delving between her legs to make sure she’s still paying attention. By the time he stops, she’s convinced that her skin is exactly the same shade as her Stila Crimson Bloom lipstick or maybe that red sharpie that he’s suddenly picked up and is eyeing contemplatively.

She watches in fascination as a secret, cruel smiles curves over his lips, eyes darkening to deep navy. “Oh no, Wes. Don’t even go there,” she hisses.

“I’m not going anywhere, Faith,” he assures her kindly. “On the other hand, maybe this will be an apposite reminder of the consequences of typing errors.”

She’s so over-excited, not to mention about to melt into a puddle all over the Aubusson, that the sharpie doesn’t do much more than make her buck her hips and growl threats at him. And just when she thinks she’s going to come right there with a goddamn felt tip inside her, whether he says she can or not, it’s taken away and she’s growling even more threats at him.

“Wes, you are driving me fricking mad!” she all but shrieks at him. “Stop being so mean.”

“You wanted to take a letter, Faith. You asked for that privilege quite specifically,” he tells her smugly, perching on the end of the desk with the greased-up sharpie tapping out tattoo against his palm. “And I don’t believe I care to be shouted at in such a querulous tone of voice. Not if you’re hoping to get me in a more conciliatory mood.”

There’s fat chance of that and really, she wouldn’t have it any other way. She’s still bent over the desk, skirt rucked up, panties somewhere down around her knees and she starts to straighten up, then thinks better of it. “Can I get up, Wes?”

“Of course you can, you only had to ask.” He’s pushing the chair up against her again like a well-trained maitre d’ and she sinks down gratefully on it, reveling in the friction against her tender flesh and spreading her legs wide because he’s got some delicious endgame in mind and if he can see how needy she is, how much she’s aching for him they can cut right down to the chase.

Wes seems to think so too because his head is tilted so he can get an appreciative eye view of her pussy that makes him smile fondly. “That’s good,” he breathes. “So very good. Well, Faith, now that I have you in such an agreeable mood, I think it’s high time we started on these long overdue contract negotiations.”

Chapter Three Hundred and Seventy Six

She closes her eyes in anguish for a moment and then opens them, fixing him with an imploring look. "Yeah, I'd like that, Wes, but we can take a break first, right?"

"You're not scheduled for another for quite some time," he says primly, still staring right at the evidence of her arousal, as if her breathy voice and wild eyes weren't giving the game away quite as much as the slicked-up mess the spanking and his games have made of her cunt.

"I don't mean for a smoke!" she grits out. "I want you to fuck me, Wesley." She tries to moderate her growl. "Never used to mind doing that in the office..."

"I'm afraid the contract must come first," he says regretfully. He gives her a wolfish grin. "Certainly before you do." Oh, isn't he funny?

Frustration brings with it inspiration. "The old contract's still in force though, isn't it?" she asks.

It's amazing how this totally lawyer look comes over his face as he launches into this speech about superceded by blah and negated by yadda and whatever, yeah, seems like it is. Good.

"Well, in that case," she says, with a sigh of pure delight because she's got him, she really has, "I'm invoking clause 8b."

A tiny frown crinkles his forehead. "I don't recall -?" he begins.

"Remember when you signed the contract after I gave you that fucking awesome blow job?" she asks sweetly. "It was one of the bits you were arguing about, but it ended up in there anyway."

He reaches out and pushes the papers on his desk aside, locating the contract in seconds and leafing through it.

"Oh. That one," he says flatly.

"Read it out," she suggests with her lips twitching as she struggles to hold back a grin. "Want to make sure I'm remembering it right." And she knows she is, 'cause she spent twenty minutes of the flight here reading the contract he'd sent to her and that had just jumped out at her.

"I'm sure we don't need to –"

She stands up and tweaks the contract out of his hand, holding it high as he snatches at it.

"Back off, Wesley," she says. "You're, like, impeding the lawful execution of a legally-binding –"

"Oh, give it here!" he snaps. He takes it from her and recites, in a bored monotone, "The party of the second part shall be entitled to at least one orgasm following a spanking, the period of elapsed time involved to be no more than thirty minutes from the last blow."

He tosses it aside and purses his lips. "I can't believe I allowed that to stay in," he mutters to himself.

"It's been fifteen minutes already," she says, sitting back, but letting her skirt sit a little more demurely now. "And you wouldn't want to have to stop in the middle of the negotiations, now would you, Wes? Might as well get it over with now, and think how focused I'll be if I'm not sitting here thinking about how much I want you to fuck me."

"But I rather like you thinking that all the time," he purrs, taking back control of the situation smoothly. "In fact, I get a good deal of pleasure out of seeing that particular hunger in your eyes when you look at me."

Her mouth goes dry. "Yeah, well..."

"So I'm not in the least pleased with the idea that at any time, night or day, pre, during or post-fuck, you don't want me."

"I do! Always," she says. "Wes, you know I – oh stop fucking snickering like that!"

"You rise to the bait so beautifully," he tells her. "I simply can't resist teasing you." His gaze travels from her face down to her heels. "But, as ever, Faith, you were woefully imprecise. I'm in no way obliged to fuck you." His eyes narrow. "I just have to make you come. In, what? Twelve minutes?" His tongue runs over his lower lip. "I see no reason to begin right away. Not with that much time at my disposal."

Outrage deprives her of speech for a good ten seconds and then she stands up, jabbing his chest with her finger. "And how much time do you plan on taking, then, Wesley?" she hisses. "Thirty seconds or less? Because I'm getting pretty fucking good at all that self-control shit and you know there's a penalty involved if you don't deliver, don't you?"

He rolls his eyes. "Oh, yes. You get to tie me up for thirty minutes. But didn't we already do that? And haven't we really moved into a better appreciation of our roles than to try it again?"

She purses her lips and nods slowly. "Guess you're right, Wesley," she murmurs. "It's true I get more of a kick out of being the tied not the tier, but you want to know something?" He raises an eyebrow and she smiles. "You don't get me off, and I'm so invoking that penalty." She grabs his wrist and studies his watch. "Nine minutes. Plan on starting now?"

She can see a rare flicker of indecision on his face because she's really twisting the knife here. He's too cautious to risk losing – and she's already got some nicely-fiendish ideas brewing for what she wants to do with a bound and helpless Wes if he does, oh yes she has – but he's got too much pride to admit that even as aroused as she is, if she puts up a fight he's going to need those nine minutes. And it goes against his nature to rush...

Then he gets an unholy gleam in his eyes. "I think I will," he says, picking up the ruler again and slapping it against the palm of his hand. "You once came from a spanking, Faith. As we've already got you in a receptive state, perhaps we could see if we can't achieve release through that means again."

"But I don't want –" She takes a deep breath. She can't take nine minutes more with that ruler, not with the state her ass is in, and she knows it will be that long because she's not gonna come that way today, she's just not. She wants his cock in her, or failing that, his fingers and tongue, delving and dipping into her wet, hot hole rubbing hard until she shatters and screams. "I won't come that way, Wesley," she tells him. "Really, I just can't. Don't even bother trying."

"You sound so definite," he murmurs. "Negative and pessimistic, but definite." He stares at her and there's nothing in his face to suggest that he's at all sympathetic to her plight, or the way her clit's still throbbing steadily, sending little shivers over her.

And fuck, she thinks angrily, what about him? He's hard, she can see it, and he could get to fuck her without waiting for once; she's given him the chance, but, no, he has to keep playing even past the point where it's really starting to piss her off.

"Bend over the desk again, Faith."

She shakes her head. "Wes," she begins, "I really don't want to –"

A flash of irritation that looks disturbingly genuine crosses his face. "Faith, either use your word, or do as you're told," he snaps.

And she's so fucking tempted to snap back at him, but she settles for hitching her skirt up high and bending over, just like he wants. It's more like seven minutes now, and she's not going to use her word. Not yet. She'll trust him to make this work.

For another minute at least...

"Thank you, Faith," he says, sounding surprisingly calm now, although that might be down to the sight of her bare, reddened ass, reminding him of just how bad she's been and how efficiently he dealt with all those terrible typos of hers. "Now, let me see –"

His hand, shockingly cool, strokes her ass, testing her reaction which comes in the form of a whimper that's on the ouchy side.

"You do seem a little tender," he muses, and then he follows it with a light slap which has her turning around and skewering him with a glare. He smiles. "Well, suppose we compromise," he says, all sweet reason and generosity. "I seem to recall you cut though some rather tedious negotiations with that blow job of yours. Suppose I return the favor?" When she doesn't answer right away, because she's choosing her words really carefully, he adds. "My very best efforts to gratify you in return for an agreement that, hmm, 75% of the clauses read how I want them –"

"Wesley," she says, in a voice as deadly calm as she can make it when she's shaking with anger. "You've got three minutes to make me come. And you're good with your mouth but you're not gonna be able to make me come that fast and you're not even going to try, are you?"

She straightens and moves away from the desk, smoothing down her skirt.

"Faith, I – where are you going?"

She doesn't answer, just speeds up, so by the time he catches up to her in the bedroom, she's already found what she wants and she's able to let him get a good look at Mr Bunny before she slams the bathroom door in his face and locks it.

Her skirt hits the floor and she follows it, sitting across from the door with her back against the cupboard under the basin.

He tries the door just as she turns the vibe on.

"Faith, will you kindly unlock this door?" he says icily.

She pushes the welcome thickness inside her cunt, moaning loudly, staring straight ahead.

"Faith –"

"You gonna let me have a moment here?" she says. "Won't take long... on kind of a tight schedule after all."

"If you dare –" He's sounding outraged by the idea of her letting Mr Bunny come out to play, which, as he's the one who insisted she pack it, is more than a little ironic.

She's not sure she can come actually; there's nothing like sheer fury for shutting down arousal, but she's not going to let that stop her from faking it.

There's an ominous silence from the other side of the door as she yanks the vibe out of her, but leaves it running, so the buzz is loud enough for him to hear it – although maybe not once she starts to give some impressive, high-pitched 'oh God, yes' type moans.

When she's done faking a pretty impressive climax, and there's a charged silence in reply, she lets Mr Bunny have a rest, wipes it clean, and pulls her skirt back on before opening the door.

Wesley's waiting, arms folded, face blank in a completely fucking pissed-off kind of way.

"Sorry, Wes," she said. "Did you want the bathroom? All yours."

She starts to push past him and his hand lashes out, curling around her wrist and halting her. It's a hold that she could break with a tug, but she stands quietly, looking ahead.

"If you were unhappy with what we were doing –" he begins, but she cuts him off.

"Not everything's about safe words, Wes," she tells him. "You were out of line. Way out of line."

"In what way?" he asks, letting go of her. "Do tell me how you intend to rationalize your little tantrum."

She walks away from him and drops the vibe back in her case. "Word of advice, Wes. Don't piss me off any more than you have done, OK?"

"I'm still at a loss as to what I've done."

She curls up on the bed, turned away from him. “Maybe, with some things you just can’t go back again,” she sighs, her voice sullen, flat.

He sits down next to her, gingerly, not making a sound. “I don’t know what I’ve done, Faith. Please—" And he sounds so genuinely upset —she can hear a tiny tremor in his voice— that she relents and rolls back to face him. She takes a deep breath before it all starts to spill out.

“I was angry, and I realized that it’d been there for awhile. Needed to make you see, didn’t know how to—" She shakes her head roughly, as though trying to dispel the words and start again.  This time she looks him right in the eyes, her gaze as unflinching as his when he’s in the middle of a particularly delicious game. “Sometimes I feel like, there’s no room for what I want. I mean, we’re not always in, like, perfect alignment, y’know? Well, most of the time we are, but… Sometimes you just don’t listen. It’s like you’ve got a script all written out in your head and it doesn’t matter what I say and I don’t know why but I just had to cut through it because I was frustrated and…”

She pauses to take a breath but she’s practically rendered speechless again when she sees the look on Wes’ face: pure stunned amazement, like she’s struck him. It’s so rare to see him truly flummoxed that it’s almost precious. Or it would be if she weren’t so angry with him. He touches her arm, softly, as though he expects her to flinch away but she doesn’t. She just waits for him to speak. And it’s so interesting when he doesn’t, because even though he’s good with words, his silences are eloquent too. She knows them intimately: she can read the indecision and the vestiges of shame there, all the little lingering traces that flicker between the lines. All that stuff he’s slowly learning to acknowledge: the parts of him that are messy, chaotic, unsure. Maybe she knows them better than he does; she’s more comfortable with chaos.

She’d missed the office, she really had. But she hadn’t missed the inequality between them, or the sometimes frightening single-mindedness and control bordering on cruelty he could exhibit there. Yeah it’d gotten her wet, but it wasn’t —it wasn’t sustaining. If they’d carried on like that, they would have burned out in no time.

She doesn’t want that back —not the way things were; she realizes that all too well now.

“I want to try it again, Wes, but this time…” She decides to let him off the hook, just a little bit, and she smiles. “Just ‘cause you’re calling the shots doesn’t mean I don’t have a say in matters, right?”

He doesn’t say anything for a long moment, just reaches out to her and clutches her to him, and there’s such a fierceness to it, so much tamped-down feeling, that she has to hold back the tears that have been threatening to make an appearance.

When he finally lets go of her, it’s hard for him to look at her. He doesn’t hold her gaze when he says, in this dry, lifeless monotone that reminds her eerily of the Wes of old, “I fall into old patterns far too easily, Faith. I never meant to—“

He’s so upset and serious that she has to jolt him out of it. “Wes!” she snaps. “I know. I know, okay? It’s …it’s not such a big deal. I mean, yeah I was pissed off, but it happens. Just like I got drunk and pulled some stupid shit at the ballet. It happens, then we forgive one another and move on. It’s what we do. And we’re getting better at it.” She laughs sharply. “Although it was kinda touch and go there for awhile, you know?” When he doesn’t laugh, just looks at her with his mouth set in this tight, hard line, she takes hold of him and won’t let go. “I love you, Wes, more than anything. I even love you when you’re being a total bastard, but sometimes you go too fucking far. And when that happens I need you to listen to me. Do you know what I’m saying?”

“Yes. Yes. Of course.”

He still looks ashen, shaken. Christ, he could be such a baby sometimes. Only one cure for that. She wraps her legs around his waist, pulling him close to her. “No harm, no foul Wes,” she whispers huskily into his ear, pressing her body tightly up against him.

She smoothes her hands over his back, like she’s trying to calm him. Maybe it’s working, she can’t quite tell. Until he asks, “You didn’t come, did you?” and the spark is back, along with all that silky, dark promise she loves so well.

“Nah.” She waves her hand dismissively. “Faked it.” She giggles. “There’s a first for everything I guess.”

“First?” he asks, just to make sure he’s heard correctly.

“Yeah. Pretty fucking stellar track record you’ve got there, Wes. Really.”

“Speaking of stellar, your performance was very …porn soundtrack.”

“It was, wasn’t it? You want that more often?”

She’s rewarded with the quirkiest quirk of eyebrow she’s ever seen on him. Which is really saying something. “It was rather novel, Faith, but I admit I prefer the sounds you make to be less dramatic and more …genuine.”

She tries to look disappointed. “What, I don’t get to scream out ‘fuck me with your great big cock, you stud!’ in the throes of passion?”

“As charming as that is, no.” He pauses, then smiles slyly. “Not unless you are thusly moved.”

She nudges him. “So, you gonna?”

“What?”

“Fuck me with your great big cock?” Now it’s her turn to pause for dramatic emphasis. “You stud.”

“Not right now, no.” He looks tired, like he’s running on empty. And really, that’s not so surprising. But he doesn’t look so hard-edged and unhappy, at least. The smile he gives her is warm, and he slips his arms around her so their bodies are linked together and that’s lovely.  He nuzzles against her shoulder. “Perhaps later?”

She nods, trying to hide her slight disappointment, even if she’s feeling kinda tired too and not exactly aroused anymore. Mostly she just wants to curl around him and sleep for a little while, maybe with the added bonus of his reassuring kisses and whispered sweet nothings to soothe her into sleep.

Chapter Three Hundred and Seventy Seven

But it's too soon for her to be able to drop off the edge of the world and lose herself in dreams of him that are pretty much like right now, with one hand curled in her hair, the other clutched round her waist, like he's frightened she's going to bolt.

His eyes are shut tight and she brings up a finger to carefully brush the smudges away. "I love you so much, Wes," she whispers quietly, not sure if he's awake or not but then she sees a flicker of blue from under his lashes and he shifts on the bed so she's cradled in his arms, rather than held, like she's something precious. "Be so easy just to let you take me over," she continues, and her fingers have slid down to his mouth, warning him to be silent and to let her say this. "But I don't want that and neither do you. Not really. You'd hate it if I never kicked against you, Wes, you know you would."

Her free hand is stroking his hair now and although the slight ache of arousal has quieted down to this barely-there throb, she's unprepared for the sudden wave of tenderness that almost makes her shudder. "But I don't want to do the contract right now 'cause there's no point in having one, if you don't honor it." She closes her eyes briefly and when she opens them, he's staring at her unblinking and solemn and she lets him see the hurt on her face. "Fuck, Wes! You wanna know why I got so mad at you?"

"I thought we'd already been over that," he says warily, and yeah, he's back to looking like she's turned down the corners on every page of every one of his books.

"Well, we haven't," she says firmly and wriggles out of his hold so she can sit up and fold her arms. "I totally had you! I found a loophole and I was right and you were wrong and you wouldn't fucking budge an inch. Like, what I was saying or what I wanted wasn't important because you always have to have your way."

"I always take care of your needs," he says all affronted and now it's his turn to sit up and give her a pissy look. "Is this your roundabout way of saying that you're in a mood because I don't want to fuck you?"

For one second she's tempted to slug him. Just really belt that huffy, closed-expression off his face once and for all. "Jesus, Wes! You haven't listened to a fucking word I've been saying," she hisses, scrambling off the bed. "We can't always fuck every time we have an argument and just expect things to be OK. And I'm pissed off with you right now so no, I really don't want a mercy hump."

He stands up, hands hanging listlessly by his side and walks towards the door. "Well as my presence is so obviously distasteful to you, I'll give you some peace," he says quietly and while she's gaping at him, he walks out.

She cries in the shower where he can't hear her. Because if fucking isn't any way to solve a fight, then neither is bursting into tears so he start being nice to her again and they stop picking at the scabs because it hurts too much. She pulls on her jeans and a jumper, hunts around for her sneakers which have ended up under the bed and walks into the lounge where he's sitting on the couch and not even pretending to read the paper.

"You're such a fucking baby at time, Wes," she tells him without preamble, before she throws his coat at him. "We're having an argument and maybe we should have had it before this. It's not the end of the world and it's not the end of us, but don't you fucking dare walk out on me in the middle of it."

"I did not walk out on you," he says indignantly and his eyes flash enough that he's lost the dead cast to his face. "I was merely giving you some space."

"Whatever," she sighs. And they're going round in circles and the apartment is too small for this. "Can we just not? I want to go out and get some fresh air and I want you to come with me."

His chin lifts up and her heart sinks at the mutinous look in his eyes. "It looks like it's going to rain."

"So we'll get wet," she says calmly, then gives him a sly smile. "Man, Wes, doesn't it make you wonder just how much of an asshole you're acting when I'm being the mature one?"

She knows he's working up to a really crushing retort, but she doesn't even give him a chance. "Stop being so fucking stubborn," she says firmly, walking out of the room and almost sagging with relief when she hears him get up off the couch. "We're going to walk to the supermarket if they have them on the Upper East Side and we're gonna get some stuff for dinner and you can buy me a tub of ice cream to make up for being such a jerk. And when we've both calmed down we're gonna come back here and sort this out so we can have a totally kickass New Year's Eve."

He's still sulking or, like, wallowing in self pity during the ride down in the elevator. And she's ever so slightly hurt that he doesn't take her hand, just jerks his head to the right when they step outside into the blistering cold and starts marching up East 76th Street, without bothering to see if she's going to follow him. She has to scurry along to keep up with his long-legged strides and by the time they're in D'Agostino's and he's clutching on to the shopping basket like it's a life belt, she's ready to turn on her heel and stomp off in a strop all of her own.

Instead she gives him a cold smile that she learnt from him. "Fine, Wes, guess it's your turn to act like a brat. I'm going to get some chips and something to drink and then I'm heading back. And if you get over yourself in the meantime, then let me know."

And she lets herself have one second to savor the completely incredulous look on his face before she turns on her heel and flounces off to Aisle 5 in a flurry of Miu Miu coated pique. She's just picking up a six pack of Diet Coke and resisting the urge to kick over the entire display when he brushes up against her.

"I thought that I could make chicken cacciatore, but I need to know if you'd like pasta or sauté potatoes with it," he says politely, like she's an elderly aunt who's come to stay and he's making the best of it.

"Potatoes are cool. Unless you want pasta?"

"No, potatoes are fine," he insists and he's looking everywhere, and especially the row of Diet Peppers, than at her.  And she's just weighing up whether to tell him to fuck right off when he tries out a tentative smile. "Um, would you like to pick out some ice cream? I'm slightly bewildered by the staggering variations on the theme of chocolate."

By the time they get to the chiller cabinets, he's linked his arm through her and yeah, it's subdued and he doesn't seem that interested in whether Double Chocolate Fudge Chunk is a better choice than Triple Chocolate Peanut Butter whirl but he's making an effort.

"Get them both," he urges when she's read out the list of ingredients and still can't decide. "Really, Faith, I want you to have them both."

"So, what? You're just going to agree to whatever I want now?" she asks him and the effort almost kills her because it's going to take more than ice cream to turn her frown upside down, but she manages to give him a very shaky version of a smirk. "Is this selfless act going to last indefinitely, 'cause I'm totally going to take advantage of it if it is."

The tiniest of smiles tugs at his lips and because there's this connection between them, always is, always will be, her own smile steadies, becomes genuine.

"I estimate you have perhaps thirty minutes before my true nature reasserts itself," he drawls. "I think that's enough time for you to fill the basket with items that will, and I'm really quite adamant about this, be utterly forbidden in the future."

She walks past him, nudging him with her hip as she throws the ice cream – both of them - into the basket. "Whatever, Wes," she says with an approximation of jaunty that'll do for now. "Guess we'll have to see about that later, won't we? When we're drawing up that contract?"

He sighs. "Your eternal optimism returns. Faith, once and for all –"

And the wrangling over his idea of delicious and nutritious, as opposed to the grease, sugar and additive-laden snacks she favors occupies them until they're back out on the sidewalk again, clutching bags filled with enough food to keep them from starving until the shops open again in the new year.

***

While he's filling the kitchen with a smell she swears she could live on because it's so rich and garlicky, she sits at the small kitchen table scribbling some ideas for this new and improved contract down on a legal pad, the old contract in front of her.

The silence that's fallen isn't entirely comfortable, the way it used to be when they were reading at the same time, both lost in individual worlds, with Wes lying at full-stretch on the couch and her head resting against it, because she always ended up on the floor, his hand sometimes leaving the book to brush against her hair. No, not like that – but it's not awkward either. Guarded, perhaps, with both of them waiting for the discussion to start again.

"Do you make resolutions, Faith?" he says finally, his back turned to her as he drops a handful of freshly-chopped herbs into the pot, their green pungency cutting through the sweetness of cooking tomatoes.

She glances up. "Yeah. Doesn't everyone? Not sure I ever remember them by Valentine's Day though. How about you?"

He shakes his head. "It's tempting to view a new year as a chance to begin again, but there's no need to wait for January the first to do that." There's a pause and then he says softly, "I'm sorry."

"What for?" she asks, and she's not being mean, but she really needs to make sure he's apologizing for the right reasons – and the right sins.

He places a wooden spoon on a rest so it doesn't drip and turns to face her. "For being a terrible loser." She gets the rueful smile that always melts her a little, because he looks about ten; a little boy caught in mischief, stolen apples bulging out his pockets. "You have a way of being so direct and uncompromising, Faith – it's quite disconcerting to a lawyer like myself."

"That a candy-ass way of saying I don't try and bullshit you, Wes?" she says bluntly, just to get him to wince at her language.

"I suppose so." He pours himself half a glass of the red wine he's opened to cook with and comes to sit beside her, shifting her glass of soda out of the way. "And you're right; I was a little – my pride was stung that you'd found a way to get what you wanted so neatly when I wanted you to wait just a little longer." He takes a reflective sip of Shiraz and reaches out to link his fingers in hers. "I don't relinquish control easily, Faith. It – the idea of it even – it disturbs me." There's a shadow in his eyes now and his fingers tighten painfully before he relaxes; the effort needed to do that, a sign of his distress.

"I told you once that when I was with Lilah – at the end – I couldn't –"

"Yeah," she says softly, saving him from saying it. "But you're not going to tell me that would've happened today? That's just –" And the fire she'd thought was out, rekindles from a single spark. "Wes, you're so full of it sometimes!"

"Faith-"

"No!" She snatches her hand away and slams it down on the table with a satisfyingly loud smack. "Wes, you're you. You're like this god of getting stuff right. You're so fucking good at what you do with me, you could've dreamed up half-a-dozen ways to make me come that didn't leave you feeling manipulated by me and didn't leave me pissed as hell because I felt cheated. You just couldn't be bothered. Easier to mess me about, then try –" She has to suck in a deep breath because the outrage is back. "You tried to sell me my own property, you bastard. No, worse; you tried to make me think you were doing me a favor." He's open-mouthed with surprise but she's not going to give him an opening.

"And I'm not going to punish you for trying to get control over a contract we're supposed to be negotiating as equals by telling me you'd give me an orgasm you fucking owed me anyway."

"That's good to know," he murmurs with just a trace of sarcasm that lets her know they're edging back towards normal.

"But I'm going to make this contract real or we just forget about it."

"I don't understand," he says, frowning slightly.

She picks up the old contract and flips the pages. "This wasn't real, Wes. It was a game. It was a way to get me ass-up over your desk, and I played along because I liked being there. You were, like, giving me all these chances to get what I wanted in office hours. Good times." She lets it drop back on the table. "But I'm not your secretary now."

"I'm sorry I fired you," he says suddenly. "Even sorrier that I neglected to provide you with a reference. That was unforgivably thoughtless of me."

She shrugs. "Yeah. It didn't make life easier, but it's OK, Wes. I managed."

"I know," he says. His mouth twists. "If it makes you feel any better, the news that you owed your position – one I was very glad to see you in I hasten to add – to Lilah's intervention was a very fitting revenge. That was – galling in the extreme."

"Don't think she meant it that way," she tells him, although now she thinks about it - "But let's not get off-topic here, Wesley."

"Of course," he says smoothly, standing up and giving the contents of the pot a brisk stir. "We were discussing the new contract. The one that's going to, sadly, have no section regarding your clothing."

She grins. "Not even my thongs?"

He purses his lips. "Hmm. Good point."

"Do you want this to be something serious, Wesley?" she asks. "Something that's there for me – and you – when a safe word isn't going to cut it?"

"In what way?" he asks, sitting down again. "And I still don't quite understand why you didn't use your word today."

"Because I didn't need it," she says with a tired sigh. "You weren't hurting me, although my ass was sore enough that I don't know if I could've gotten through however many minutes of spanking you had planned for it."

He flushes and looks a little bit shame-faced. "I did rather come to that conclusion when I saw it," he confesses. "But I'd said I could get you to come that way and I – I don't like back-tracking."

"Typical fucking man," she comments snidely but without heat. "But a safe word's not there so I can save you from being an asshole."

"Touché," he says after a moment where he's staring at her with a frowning intensity. "And very true. I think you have a better understanding of its limitations and uses than I give you credit for."

"Yeah, underestimating me is one of your bad habits, Wes," she says with a sniff. "Right up there with the way you keep screwing the lid on the toothpaste tight when you know I'm gonna be using it in, like, thirty seconds."

"It oozes out –" he begins and then smiles.

"What?"

"I love you," he says.

"Way to change the subject," she says, trying to hide the way hearing that makes her feel which is a combination of utter delight and confusion right now.

"No, I think that is the topic under discussion," he says, pushing back his chair. "Come here?"

She stands up and takes the two steps she needs to be standing by him. "My ass is still the same shade as those tomatoes you chopped," she warns him.

"Really?" he asks. "Too tender for you to want to sit on my knee?"

She shakes her head and perches on his lap, snuggling into his arms. "You all over your snit?" she asks.

"I think so," he says equably. "Are you, er, all over your disappointment in me?"

And he's targeted it so perfectly with that one word, because, yeah, she's got to trusting him to always get it right and maybe that's not fair either.

"You're only human," she says forgivingly.

There's a pause and then he asks gravely, "Is that a promotion from fucking bastard or a demotion from god of getting stuff right?"

And when she looks up, grinning, he kisses her, a long slow kiss that leads to nothing but more of the same, with his hand stroking her breast gently until the sauce sticks to the bottom of the pan and she gets dumped unceremoniously off his knee as he curses and goes to rescue it.

Chapter Three Hundred and Seventy Eight

And she’s not going to be so cruel as to snicker —even if she loves those few-and-far-between moments when he loses it— because their hard-won détente is still so brand-new and yeah, kind-of shaky.

He rescues it, of course. Not that there was really any question, but… She just sits back and enjoys the show, watching him reconstitute the sauce by adding some more wine and throwing in the remainder of the herbs, layering the impeccably sliced potatoes carefully into a casserole dish. She’d never realized before just how much she eroticized his competency, even if this whole debacle has underscored the fine line between competent and over-bearing. But at least she’s jarred Wes out of his sometimes cyclopean view of things. Again. After all this was over he was gonna owe her more than one orgasm. Oh, that would be fun to collect on.

There’s a clatter and a muttered “Bloody hell!” and she’s jarred out of her little reverie. And hmm, maybe she eroticized his incompetency too. If only because it was so endearing.

“Is dinner ruined, Wes?” She cranes her neck to try and see what just shattered on the floor, but, ever efficient, he’s already sweeping the mystery contents of the dustpan into the trash.

“Hardly. But I do hope that Mr. Greenwood has forgotten about that hideous fish-shaped platter that just put itself out of its misery. Or else the state of my security deposit may be in jeopardy.”

“Oh, c’mon, Wes, you know as well as I do that you’re gonna give him back this place in even better shape than you found it.”

He flashes her a wry smile. “Provided that I replace the toothbrush holder.”

“That thing was fucking ugly anyway.”

“Faith.” She’s rewarded with the stern voice. Yum.

“C’mon! It was!” she yelps indignantly.

“What’s next on your hit list?”

She narrows her eyes and slowly surveys the room. “Hmm, let’s see...” But she can’t keep up the pretense and she giggles.

He starts walking toward her. “Not going to be me, is it?”

“Don’t be too fucking sure of that, Wes. This is, like, the probation period. And you’d better be on good behavior.” Now it’s her turn to work the stern angle. Pity it doesn’t quite have the same effect on Wes that it does on her. She’d pay good money to see him weak-kneed and slowly liquefying from the inside out. But yeah, she can just file that away in the folder marked “Not Going to Happen.”

“Oh really? And what would that entail?”

Her eyes practically glitter at the thought of Wes tied up and at her mercy for a contractually specified thirty minutes, but she doesn’t say as much, just smiles coyly and flutters her eyelashes at him. She’s not above using her feminine wiles to make a point. “I think you know damn well, Wes. But I’m not calling in my marker just yet.”

“I’ll ignore the metaphor mixing and just add that I’m pleased you’re willing to let me make up for my unfortunate behavior earlier.”

“Yup. Isn’t that big of me?”

“Very, considering.”

He’s close enough that she gives him a kiss on the cheek. “You tell me when I’m being a brat, and I get to tell you when you’re being an asshole. It’s that whole new quid pro quo thing we seem to do so well.”

“You seem to be better at it that I am. Your learning curve has been most impressive.”

“That the only impressive curve I got?” She’s not above arching her back and jutting her breasts out to make a point either. But then, he responds with a look that’s somewhere between appreciative and lusty, so hey, whatever works.

“Now you’re being a brat.”

She wraps her legs around him and pulls him towards her. “Yeah, but I’m so good at it.”

He clucks his tongue, seemingly ignoring her last comment. “Not to mention fishing for compliments, which is most unbecoming.” Now he’s smiling broadly at her, and she’s really enjoying the momentary thaw in the arctic temperatures, not to mention the lovely close-up view of him.

“Whatever, Wes. I think“ —and here she smiles winsomely in return— “I think we should finish cooking dinner, get totally blitzed on champagne, and get to work on those resolutions. How does that sound?”

He must be agreeable, because before she knows it he’s pushing up the fabric of her t-shirt and kissing her stomach lightly.

“Answer the question, Wes. Not gonna distract me that easily.”

“Oh no?” He’s moving upwards, leaving this row of devastatingly quiet little kisses in his wake.

“No.” If her resolve is weakening, she sure as hell isn’t going to let on. Not when there’s a principle at stake.

“Would you like to start on the champagne now? I took the liberty of chilling it.”

Damn it. Score one for the home team. “If I didn’t know better, Wes, I’d say you were trying to get the party of the second drunk so she’ll forget all about a certain clause in a certain legally-binding document.”

He pulls back, looking stunningly self-assured. “Oh, but Faith, the party of the first part would never, ever try to pull one over on you in such a nefarious fashion.”

She rolls her eyes at him, pulling her t-shirt back down at the same time. “Yeah, yeah. And I bet you’ve got a bridge you could sell me real, real cheap.”

He laughs and gives her one last quick kiss before going back to his sauce, which has been simmering along nicely. “Champagne it is, then.”

“I can’t win for losing,” she mutters under her breath.

“Did you say something, Faith?”

“I do so love champagne!” she chirps, a bit over-enthusiastically. She knows damn well she’s going to get her way this time, come hell or high water.

But dammit, her resolve is totally weakening by degrees, watching him carefully and deliberately open the bottle of champagne, the cork coming off the bottle easily with a soft pop, the depressurized gases curling out of the bottle in a delicate wisp that dissipates as quickly as it appeared. He pours the champagne just as handily too, after carefully checking the two fluted glasses for dust, which he tells her in an aside is what keeps it from forming a head of nasty foam and overflowing when it's decanted.

“We toasting to anything, then, Wes?” she asks, spinning the stem of the glass between her fingers.

“To us, of course,” he says, pinning her with that intense look that makes her heart all squeezed up and proper breathing nearly impossible, and it's almost enough to make her wish they were skipping the whole dinner thing and going straight to the bedroom, even if  it does smell heavenly and she's totally ravenous.

“To us,” she whispers, and the soft clinking of their glasses echoes the sentiment. What was that about hell or high water again? And she's about to glare at him over the rim of the glass as she takes a delicate sip when an idea hits her as the bubbles of the champagne tingle on her tongue. “How much longer before dinner is ready?”

Her voice has gone back to that overly sprightly tone and she could very nearly predict that quirk of his eyebrow. “Another ten minutes or so, I think.” He eyes her warily. “What are you up to, you naughty girl? Your poker face leaves much to be desired.”

“Well yeah,” she laughs. “But I'm not telling, not yet. You just keep cooking, and I'll be right back!”

She's feeling quite pleased with herself as she sneaks Wes' copy of the contract off the kitchen table when his back's turned – it's just like the old days, palming lipsticks at Walgreen's -- and skips off to the study, quietly closing the door behind her 'cause it wouldn't do to have him sauntering and ruining the surprise, a surprise he's gonna be damn grateful for and better leave him putty in her hands for the rest of the evening.

She flips through the pages, rolling her eyes at some of his recent amendments (brisk walks through the park every morning, only two double caramel lattes per day) before settling down in front of the Olivetti, perched daintily on the edge of the chair.

It's rare that she's ever sat down in front of a typewriter to write something off the top of her head, but as soon as she's finished formatting the page to fit the standard look of a contract amendment, the words flow right out and she only has to stop once to fix a typo.

The thing was, she realized she'd put that clause into the contract before she'd actually had the chance to tie him up that one time, before she knew it was totally like, as anathema to him as the whole incident with the zucchini had been for her. Well, maybe not entirely that much, but close enough.

And yeah, even if it would totally be the funnest thing ever to turn the tables on him like that... Well, hadn't this whole stupid argument and the ensuing fallout of a grumpy afternoon just kinda proven that both parties needed to be considerate of the other's comfort level and all that?

She finishes typing the last sentence with a glow of pride at her obvious maturity and fucking astronomic emotional growth, yanking the page out of the typewriter and carefully adding her signature to the appropriate line with the fat-nibbed fountain pen Wes uses for the sole purpose of signing documents. And if that doesn't make the piece of paper in her hand official, there's nothing that could -- short of running down to Centre Street and finding a late-night notary that worked holidays.

Cracking the door open slightly, she can see that he's set the table, laid out all the food, and is just sitting – and possibly lost in thought, though she can't really tell from there – waiting for her to return. And yeah, that just cements the decision she's made, especially as he didn't come barging in on her, even to say that dinner was ready. It was really too sweet fucking for words, really.

Reading over her words again and lightly touching the ink of her big scrawly 'F' to make sure it's dry, she slides the page, along with the copy of the contract into a manila folder from his desk.

“Everything ready then?” And really, he needs to quit it with the heart-stopping looks because one of 'em is totally gonna knock her dead one of these days. And when he smiles at her, well hell, she can't help but smile back.

“Indeed. I just finished setting everything out, so your timing is quite impeccable.”

“That's me, Wes. Impeccable.” She carefully and nonchalantly tucks the folder under her chair as she sits down.

“And I take it your little surprise is all prepared?” If she's not mistaken, he's bursting with curiosity under that veneer of polite but detached interest. Takes a little of the edge off feeling too grown up too freakin' fast, knowing that she's making him wait now.

“Mmm. Yes,” she says, noncommittally, after two slow and deliberate sips of champagne.

“And...?” Ha! She was right. It's only in his eyes, but he sure looks like he's about to burst from not knowing.

“Don't you think we should eat first? I'd hate for this all to get cold after all the work you put into it.” And it's talking all the effort she can muster up not to burst into giggles at the slightly defeated look he gives her as he nods in agreement.

“Yes, of course...” he says, reaching for the salad, a slight flush rising on his cheeks. He takes a bit of everything without passing her any of the plates, and she's pretty sure what his strategy's about to entail. And when he drawls at her, “Come here, Faith,” she just smiles prettily and shakes her head.

“Nice try, but you're not gonna get it out of me that way. You're still in that probationary period, remember? No sneaky tricks like feeding me dinner while I sit on your lap – or kneel by your side, for that matter.” And he's the one that almost laughs at that last bit, no doubt his vivid imagination's coming up with all kinds of resolutions to that hypothetical scenario. “Would you pass the salad, please, Wesley?”

And when he does so without the expected sour face or protest, she's feeling pretty darn vindicated.



They pass the meal making what can only be described as genial small talk, she compliments the meal and he tells her about the cooking course he took on alternate Wednesdays for a month when he first arrived in New York, one of those celebrity chef affairs, and he's got her laughing, really laughing at his description of the vapid Upper East Side heiresses trying to learn how to trim a hangar steak or truss a chicken or assemble a crown roast.

And when he clears away the dishes and presents her with a chilled, square plate upon which rests a perfect little pyramid constructed of dainty little scoops of her two ice cream selections, she finally capitulates a teensy bit and sits curled in his lap, feeding him the ice cream and gives him a big, sticky-sweet and cold kiss when he admits that he prefers Triple Chocolate Peanut Butter Whirl to Double Chocolate Fudge Chunk, and that he really likes it quite a bit actually – so much in fact that after they've decimated his little architectural folly of a dessert, they end up eating almost all of the rest of the pint together, right from the carton.


When the food coma hits, they're wrapped in each other's arms on the sofa, too groggy to do more than snuggle and canoodle between declarations of fullness and oaths that they'll absolutely never eat that much ever again. And she's just found the perfect way to rest her head in on his shoulder without getting a major crick in her neck when he whispers, “What were you typing in there, Faith?”

“Wes...” she whines softly. “Too full to get up and get it now. You made it through dinner, you can like, totally make it through the whole digestion part of the program.”

“I barely made it through dinner,” he sighs. “But that ice cream was extremely effective in making me forget, though, as I only just now remembered to bring it up again.”

“Brain freeze, was it?” she laughs.

“Something like that, yes.”

She sighs, knowing that in the end he's gonna make her get up and bring the papers over, and frankly, she'd just rather tell him from this comfy spot on the sofa.

“I've made an amendment to the contract, Wes.”

“You can't do that...”

“I can too! I'm within my rights to do so. Of course, all it's lacking is your signature...”

“I see,” he says, voice seemingly stuck permanently in seductive murmur mode, sliding a hand across her back, leaving it resting gently on the curve of her ass. “And how exactly does this amendment read?”

She closes her eyes, and smiles -- both at his incredulity and the deliberateness of what would be, so many other couples, just a simple caress – and recites:

“Per clause 8b of the contract signed on May 9, 2004 under the mutual agreement of the aforementioned parties, the party of the second part hereby releases the party of the first part from the obligations heretofore laid out in section 8 per section 17a in said document, incorporated here by reference.”

“I don't seem to recall a section 17a, either. Faith,” he says archly and with a little petulant sniff. “I believe you're making that up this time...”

Her eyes snap and she sticks her tongue out at him – so much for that whole maturity thing. “Don't get cocky with me, counselor. Your track record for recalling some of the most important details of our contract is pretty crappy lately. And considering how many proposed amendments are currently penciled in the margins of your copy, maybe you shoulda spent more time checking out the fine print...”

He's definitely rendered speechless by that comeback and it's pretty freakin' exhilarating – that is until his hand traces a slow circle over one ass cheek, and she's totally about to call him on his underhanded tactics 'cause like, they're totally working -- when he plants a little kiss on the tip of her nose and smile brightly. “You're not only extremely beautiful, you're extremely smart as well, my darling girl.”

“I know,” she says, snuggling closer. “And you'd better not let that little fact slip your mind again either.”


Chapter Three Hundred and Seventy Nine

Wesley doesn't come out and thank her for letting him off the hook with the whole tied up for half an hour bit, not in words anyway, but there's still this relieved, grateful look lurking in his eyes as he watches her tip up the champagne bottle and discover that, although it's really heavy, it's also empty.

"We have no more champagne," she tells him, turning wide eyes on him so he gets the full significance of her discovery. "No more champagne, Wes!"

"I can assure you we do," he says, as she leans back into his waiting, outstretched arm, "but I think you've had enough for the moment. I'd hate for you to fall asleep in the middle of what I have planned."

She giggles. "Do these plans involve fucking me, Wes? 'Cause I've gotta say, I'm not likely to fall asleep when you're doing that."

"Well, no," he drawls. "And if you were so very impolite, I'm sure I could rouse you quite easily."

"Oh, yeah?" she says huskily, giving him a narrowed glance through rapidly batting eyelashes and spoiling the femme fatale look by breaking out into more giggles as he rolls his eyes. "And how would you do that. Wes? It wouldn't involve.... " She shudders in mock-horror. "Spanking me, now would it?"

"Oh, I don't think so," he says with a smirk. "Not now I've established at least three spots on your body so ticklish I could probably just breathe heavily on them and you'd start to squirm."

"No tickling!" she says, sitting upright and glaring at him. "When we do this contract that's so going to be in there –"

"Tomorrow, perhaps," he suggests. "I'd hate for you to claim I'd taken advantage of your slightly squiffy state –"

"'Squiffy'? Is that even a word?" she demands. "You make them up, Wes, you know you do!"

"Indeed I don't," he says. "The English language is rich with words to describe the various states of inebriation; why should I feel the need to invent any?" He grins at her. "Squiffy, but not yet sozzled," he decides. "Perfect. You're too relaxed to resist my evil plans and yet –"

"You have evil plans?" she asks. "Do they involve, like, world domination?"

"Half right," he murmurs with a meaningful twitch of his eyebrow. He glances at his watch. "Ten-thirty. Yes..." His hand strokes across her neck. "You're looking under-dressed for such a momentous occasion as the last night of the year, Faith."

And somehow, she thinks that much though she loves wearing his collar, Wes loves seeing her in it even more, because there's this little contented sigh that slips from his lips after he's finished fastening it and adjusting it.

"Does that feel comfortable?" he asks. "It's not rubbing you?"

"No," she says, and she's wet already, has been since he sent her to fetch it. "It feels good."

He draws his finger along the black strip of leather. "I ordered it over the phone," he tells her. "Told them the exact length I wanted, the width... oh, they had half a dozen questions I had to answer."

"Yeah?" she says, getting a tingle at the thought of him rapping out the answers, with that intent, serious frown on his face because he would've been so focused on getting everything right, down to the pink velvet of the case.

He nods and moves the collar around so that he can tap his finger against the buckle. "And when they asked if I wanted to have it engraved... " There's a pause as his gaze becomes distant and then he says, "Well, I was very glad I'd made the call from home, not work."

Her imagination starts working really hard, but then she decides to just ask him, since he's obviously willing to share. "I know what I did when I saw it, Wes, how I felt when I put it on –"

"Three unauthorized orgasms, I believe," he says reflectively. "Yes, so you told me. I think I might deal with that shortly now you've reminded me."

"I had to!" she protests. "Wes, I was so fucking turned-on... but never mind me. Why were you glad you were at home?"

"You know perfectly well why," he says, finding her nipple through two layers of clothing and pinching it with a delicacy that makes her remember what's waiting to be wrapped in her case. The shudder she gives makes him glance at her in mild surprise but he carries on. "Because I was hard, and had been throughout the conversation, but that final question left me barely able to control my voice as I replied."

"But you managed it," she says with certainty.

Her faith in him is rewarded with a slightly harder pinch. "Well, yes." He looks faintly aggrieved. "It was – disconcerting though. I hadn't expected to have quite such a profound reaction to something so distanced from you." He smiles slightly and turns the collar so the buckle's centered at the back of her neck. "Seeing you in it, yes, I expected that to arouse me, but simply ordering it? No."

"Did you come, Wes?" she asks him, kneeling up on the couch so that she can cup his face in her hands. "Tell me."

His hands slide up her arms to grip her wrists, his thumbs rubbing against the sensitive skin there. "You're very curious, Faith," he murmurs.

"I want to know," she says. "When you called, I told you how it felt on me, remember, so you knew, even when you weren't there – I want to know, Wes. Please?"

His face warms beneath her hands and then he tugs down on her wrists and she releases him.

"I was sitting at my desk," he says, shifting position so that her head's on his shoulder again and her hand flat against his chest. "When I put the phone down I was so very hard..."

She can't see his face like this, but she glances down and yeah, the outline of his cock's jutting up, just waiting for her hand to cup it...

His breath catches as she curls her fingers around him and then goes to work on his zipper, but he lets the hand he raised in an involuntary movement fall back and carries on talking.

"I wasn't in the mood to make myself wait," he says. "Sometimes, after I'd spoken to you, or you'd sent me one of your rather provocative e-mails, I would – I had no choice at work, after all – but not then. If you'd been here, you might well have been fucked as fast and furiously as your heart desired, my darling Faith, but of course you weren't..."

And wasn't that an opportunity missed, she thinks, but all her attention's on his cock, which she's managed to release from his pants so that it's there in her hand, shifting against her palm as he takes a slow breath, and so very fucking hard already. As she watches, fascinated by the subtle changes it's going through, he slips a finger under her chin and tilts her head up so that he can kiss her.

"You're here now, Faith," he says as her hand begins to move on him, slowly jerking him off. "But I don't feel inclined to rush I'm afraid."

"That's cool, Wes," she murmurs, speeding up for just a second and watching his eyes darken. "But don't stop there –" She eases right back, so she's holding his cock in the loose circle of her fingers, rocking her wrist back and forth slowly. "Or so will I."

"Minx," he mutters. "But really, what is there to say? I pushed my chair back, unzipped and did precisely what you're doing right now." His hand comes down on hers and he squeezes so her fingers tighten around his cock. "But harder." His hand begins to move, taking hers with it. "And much, much faster..."

She glances from his blurring hand to his set face, and she's seen Wes jerk off before, but just as she doesn't do it quite the same when he's watching, she guesses he didn't either. This feels closer to how he'd do it alone somehow, and it's so intimate it leaves her breathless. He won't let her hand slip free, staring down with an absorbed look on his face, but then he stops suddenly and gives her a distinctly predatory grin. "Like that. And I came thinking of you, my sweet, darling girl, came just from the thought of you wearing my collar, and I want to come now, but I'm not going to do it like this."

It feels like forever since she's come, felt him inside her, so she's all in favor of that. She's wishing he'd made her strip before he put the collar on her, too, because she wants nothing more than to shift onto his lap and lower herself onto his waiting cock, her slow descent guided by his hands and voice.

"Fine by me, Wes," she says, not even bothering to hide the eagerness in her voice, because he always gets this pleased look at the idea she wants him, which makes no fucking sense at all, because of course she does.

"And I'm not going to do it at all until midnight," he says.

She's had about as much delayed gratification as one girl can stand. "That's an hour away! Come twice!"

He makes a sound that she's positive is a snicker, even though he tries to turn it into a cough, and she glares at him. "You're winding me up, aren't you, Wes?"

"A little," he admits. "But tell me, Faith, if I promised that you could come whenever you liked, would you still be so concerned about my, possibly theoretical, self-imposed frustration?"

And it's one of those tricky conversations that end up with her hopelessly lost in a maze of Wes-logic, so she cuts right through it all by standing up and starting to strip.

"Tell you what, Wes," she murmurs, "Why don't you just sit there and let me give you one of those lap dances you seem to know a lot about?"

"Do you know how to?" he asks, eyebrows rising in polite enquiry even as he's staring at her tits, which, considering she's wearing the demi-bra that leaves most of them on display isn't all that surprising. "I think there's a certain amount of training involved..." He clears his throat as her lips tighten. "Or so I'm told."

She straddles his lap and leans forward so he's got a face-full of breast. "Training... yeah... but do they have my motivation?"

He's close enough to be able to lap gently at her nipple, making it pop up over the edge of lace that wasn't really covering it anyway. "And what is motivating you, Faith?" he says, glancing up at her.

"I want to make you happy," she says simply, guiding his hand to the ribbon ties on her panties.

"You do that always," he says gravely, plucking at the bow on one side so that the fabric parts for his hand to slip in and caress the indentation above her clit.

"I want to come," she hisses, squirming as his thumb finds the ideal angle and pressure. "Want to come..."

"So direct, so uncompromising," he sighs, undoing the other bow and tugging the dampened panties free. "It's quite charming really, now I'm used to it..."

His cock's flat against his stomach and she rubs herself along it, feeling the head bump her clit, each slow undulation of her hips leaving it slicker, making her wetter.

"Don't think I'm supposed to let you put this in me," she says, pouting regretfully.

His hands are on her breasts now and whether or not he's ever sat in some smoke-filled dive with a lapful of skank, he seems to know that she's cutting right to the chase, 'cause for all the way he's fondling them like they're his favorite toy ever, he's shaking his head slowly.

He leans back and gives her ass a smart, stinging slap.

"I'm not supposed to touch you either," he purrs, "but as this is such a sorry excuse for a lap-dance, I think I'm quite justified in expressing my displeasure."

"Hey!" she begins, but his mouth's taking on that slightly cruel curve that's never in the least bit assumed and she abandons her outrage and waits.

"Off my knee," he orders. "You're being far too precipitate, Faith." He glances down at his cock, chuckles softly and somehow manages to get it back inside his pants, lifting his hips and pulling up the zip carefully. "That's better," he says, although it really fucking isn't.

He looks her over and then tosses her panties to her. "Go and put on some heels and – yes, just for once, I'll permit you a thong. It's the correct attire for this and I wouldn't want to fly in the face of tradition."

She's got no one to blame but herself but she can't help giving him a plaintive look. It gets her no more than a bland smile, but as he stands and moves past her to put on some music he gives her ass a consoling pat.

And it helps that when she comes back in he's dimmed the lights and Nina Simone crooning 'I Want a Little Sugar in my Bowl' is loud enough to drown out her nervous, fast breathing and what she's sure is an audibly-thudding heart, but really, she can do this after all, because when the reward for every slow, exaggerated shimmy of her hips is Wes' tongue swiping across his lips, or his long fingers clenching, then it's easy.

Easy to sway and bend over him, so the soft, exposed curves of her tits get scraped by the prickle of stubble on his chin; easy to let the blaze of heat in his eyes guide her as she strokes her skin, touching lightly brushing fingers to her breasts and stomach and making herself believe they're his hands on her, so the moan that slips past her lips is heartfelt and real. Easy to strut and spin on her heels, knowing he's staring at the taut line of muscle running up the back of her leg and so very easy to let her hand return again and again to the collar around her neck, because every time she does, she swears she sees his control slip, and every time he regains it, it's with a look that promises retribution, in the form of his hand, is gonna fall on her defenceless ass.

And she wouldn't have it any other way.

When she's deciding that as careers go this is more tiring than she'd imagined, she stops teasing him with the almost-there kisses and just-missing thrusts that bring her thong-covered pussy inches away from his face. He hasn't tried even once to touch her now they're doing this for real and it's killing her. Her skin's craving the measured, deliberate caresses he gives it, the kisses that waken it in a dozen places until she's stirring restlessly, lost in need.

So she gives him a final sultry smile, turns and bends over, sliding her hands over her ass, parting it so he can see what has to be a soaked piece of satin barely covering her equally-soaked cunt, legs spread wide.

The track ends and he picks up a remote and mutes the one that follows before saying, "That was very nice, Faith."

She straightens and turns, eyes flashing because, damn, he can do better than that! Then she sees the look on his face and it doesn't really matter what he says, not when he's staring at her like that, with an almost frightening intensity.

She ends up just how she'd imagined it, across his lap, still wearing that bra because he won't let her take it off, thong and heels abandoned on the carpet, with his cock easing into her, an inch at a time, as he grits his teeth.

When she's got every inch inside her he bends his head to nuzzle into the shadowed curves of her breasts and then flicks a wicked upward glance at her.

"Dance, Faith," he whispers against her skin, his hands tight against her ass so every wriggle, every squirm brings her tender, bruised skin another reminder of the flurry of blows from the ruler earlier. "Don't stop –"

Chapter Three Hundred and Eighty

“No, never,” and her voice is so whisper quiet that she doesn’t even realize she’s spoken until after the words are out of her mouth. Concentrating on anything other than the comforting, hard weight of him against her —his hands on her ass, cock thrusting up inside of her, mouth brushing hungrily against her breasts— is so difficult, she just gives herself over to sensation. She still can’t quite believe that he’s going to let them come, not this early, but decides not to question it. Yeah, best not to, Faithy, just enjoy his slightly glazed-over expression, simultaneously dreamy and intense, the feel of his fingers flexing tightly against the reddened flesh of your ass—
 
She’s starting the uphill climb to her first orgasm of the evening, her head thrown back, hands clutching at nothing. She’s riding him without care or decorum, and it’s forceful and messy and graceless and she doesn’t care, she just wants the purity of a quick, unmitigated fuck —when Wes, the charming, viciously single-minded bastard— decides he has other ideas. She practically growls in frustration when he stills against her, cock still inside her as deep as it will go, and puts a peremptory finger to her lips. “Shh, it’s not time for that reward just yet, Faith. That was terribly, uncharacteristically rash of me,” he whispers, the low, insinuating timbre of his voice making her shiver with anticipation. “But I do so love to watch you get carried away with passion,” he continues, a slight smile on his lips as his eyes flicker over her body.

“Just fuck me, Wes,” she hisses, still writhing against him, totally not caring if he’s gonna take that infraction out on her —well, maybe not her ass, but on something. He responds by tipping her up off of him, his cock slipping slowly out of her as she practically squeaks with indignation.

“Eventually,” he drawls, his voice all detached, infuriating calm, way too fucking calm considering how hard he is, how ready, and she wonders if her frustration stems from the fact that she hasn’t been able to come or because she wants him to absolutely, unequivocally, lose it. She’ll never understand how he can be so fucking composed, while she’s so consistently undone, and so easily. But then, there’s a kind of symbiosis to it, a perfect symmetry. They really are a matched set.

Still a bit stunned, left wet and wanting and beyond frustrated, she sits back on her heels, not quite sure what he wants her to do but secure in the knowledge that he’d let her know sooner rather than later. She’s never known him not to have a scenario or three at the ready. It was just another of his many wonderful, maddening constancies.

“I do think your little outburst necessitates a change of scenery,” he lilts, and before she can protest to the contrary, he’s grabbed her by the arm and is dragging her to the bedroom. Practically flings her onto the bed.

Once there, he lies back against the pillows, arms sprawled out, looking so casual that Faith entertains her own momentary fantasy of throttling him. But then her eyes glance down to his erection, jutting against his stomach, its very emphaticness almost obscene compared to the supine, clothed calm of the rest of his body. It’s a picture-perfect moment, really; she swallows, trying desperately to ignore her imperfect desire to get off at any cost, or the lust that’s making it so hard for her to think. She can’t touch herself, or climb on top of him, so she just sits there, mutely, legs tucked up under her, trying to ignore the heavy, disconcerting wetness between her legs.

They’re at a standstill. It’s not an uncomfortable one, either, it just… is. He watches her discomfiture with growing interest, his fingers resting lightly on the tip of his cock. “You look displeased, Faith. I really can’t imagine why.”

“Because you’re a perverse, smug liar, that’s why!” she spits out, more pissed off than she’d like to be.

“Am I?” He looks equally affronted and bemused. “Did you really think I was going to let you come?”

“Thought… both of us… Jesus, Wes. I just want you, I don’t always want it to be complicated, not after… not right now.” God, she hears her voice and she sounds so fucking needy. Sometimes she hates what he reduces her to.

“I don’t appreciate your tone, Faith. It’s peevish. I’d like you to kneel on the bed, please. Facing the wall.”

And she does it, because she can’t not, and his tone is making her wet (correction: wetter) and she knows, knows that she’s going to be screaming his name at the stroke of midnight, and not a second before, because he’s that goddamn precise. She arches her back and juts out her ass, purely for his benefit. Not that he deserved it or anything, the—

“You’re slouching, Faith, stop it. Really, I’m amazed at how much you try to flout my good-natured indulgence of you. Now be a good girl and straighten up, that’s it.”

Thank god for corsets and nosebleed high heels, she thinks ruefully as she follows his order, knowing damn well that she could balance a goddamn book on her head if he chose to test her thusly. She’s feeling all kinds of smug at that when she feels his hands touching her back and he starts to lift her arms, crossing them behind her. She can feel the damp head of his cock resting against the cleft of her ass. She lets out a little “oh” of frustration.

“I’m going to tie your hands together now. You are absolutely to let me know if this becomes uncomfortable in any way. Yes?”

She nods.

“Out loud, Faith. I need you to say it.”

“Yes!” The “godammit” she mutters silently under her breath.

“Good.” That dark, insinuating drawl is back and he’s lashing her hands tightly together at the wrists with what feels like silk —one of the scarves probably— with her palms facing upwards. She sways unsteadily for a moment before finding her equilibrium. “Now” —is that a tone of bemusement she hears?— “Spread your legs, Faith. No, wider.” He taps her thigh imperiously and she complies, widening her stance as far as she can without strain.

She knows she’s not allowed to turn to look at him, so she stares at this fixed point on the wall in front of her. But she can feel the bed shifting, hear it creak slightly. For a few minutes the quiet is aggressive; the only sound in the room the muffled pop of shirt buttons being undone, the rustle of fabric, and her heart thudding in her chest. While he’s getting enticingly naked she stays perfectly, stock-still. Perhaps that’s worth a reward, however small…

Suddenly she can feel the heat from his body near and she wants nothing more than to lean into it, like a moth to a flame. But she doesn’t have to, because he’s there, his presence calming her even as she wonders what he’s got in store.

She doesn’t need to wonder any more when he starts to lift her leg so she can straddle his torso. He must know how unsteady she is without the use of her hands, so he positions her carefully, his hands gripping her thighs, as he pulls her backwards, ass first and rather awkwardly, until she’s positioned right over his mouth.

At the same time his cock —still hard, still red-tipped and full— comes into view once again. God, she wants it —wants to lean down and get her mouth on it, feel its heft, taste the delicate salt tang blooming on her tongue.

He must know that too, because he takes her by the shoulders and lowers her gently down onto it, careful to stop right before she’s choking on its length. She relaxes the back of her throat, taking it all in. She can’t use her hands to wrap around the base or cup his balls, so she settles for slicking him up with her tongue, feeling him tense up slightly underneath her.

“You have such an eloquent mouth, my girl,” he whispers, a little breathlessly.

He spreads her wide again, fingers dipping into her wet cunt. “You can’t see how beautiful you are, what a sight,” he tells her, his voice reverent. She doesn’t respond, just hollows out her cheeks, pistoning up and down along his cock. She goes slowly at first, her movements steady. But then she speeds up, stopping now and then to run the tip of her tongue down the underside, as he groans and thrusts up into her waiting mouth.

And so it becomes a kind-of push-me pull-you game between them, his tongue delving deeply into her pussy while she uses hers to circle delicately around the head; then she’d swallow him down again and he’d respond with more tongue, his fingers everywhere at once, the heel of one hand rubbing hard against her clit.

Somehow she manages to croak, “Fuck, Wes, I’m gonna come if you keep doing that, can’t fucking concentrate on your cock if you keep—“

“Shall I stop? You seem …nearly incoherent.” Only Wes could be frosty-cool when getting the blowjob of his life. Or one of them, anyway. On second thought, maybe it wasn’t that good after all, considering the fact that he could still string full sentences together. She redoubles her efforts, putting everything she has behind it. And that’s not easy, because without her hands as leverage she’s forced to hold herself up using any means necessary. It’s quite tiring, but she’s thankful for all those yoga classes with Dru that she bitched so much about at the time.

He’s not easing off either, but really fucking her with his tongue now. Nothing shallow about his thrusts while his deft fingers circle her clit and slip into her voracious cunt. She’s grasping around his fingers, wanting more, more, more, even though she’s nearly there. Nearly—

No. Focus. If Wes could do it then so could she. Desperately trying to ignore the orgasm threatening to crest, she gets back to work on his, using teeth and tongue and bingo! She’s rewarded with a sharp jerk of his hips and this needy-sounding groan as he fills her mouth. She’s not quite ready for it but she manages to pull back slightly so she can swallow it all down. She lingers on his cock for a moment before wrenching herself away.

“Mm. God, Wes, how do you do that? You always taste so fucking good. Is it diet? I’m just curious.” Suddenly she realizes that there’s been a cessation of movement where it counts. “And, you know, a little, uh, quid pro quo wouldn’t hurt right now…” She shimmies back a little, hoping to feel his questing fingers or tongue or all of the above any second now. But when she turns to look at him he’s back against the pillows, looking for all the world like the cat who just got the cream. And here she thought they were really going for the gold, or at the very least, bronze in the Simultaneous Orgasm Downhill Slalom. But then, Wes always was one step ahead of her. She’s shocked, but not exactly surprised.

“What the fuck, Wes? Don’t I get to come? And I thought you weren’t going to come before midnight, you liar—“

“I believe I was speaking about you, my willful little spitfire.”

“You are so full of shit, Wes,” she spits at him. “If my hands weren’t tied behind my goddamn back, I’d fucking bitchslap you!” She’s sorta kidding, but only sorta. If anyone’s earned an orgasm by now, it’s her. God, has she earned it.

Bastard doesn’t even change his tone of voice when he responds. “You’ll do nothing of the sort. And I do believe there’s a penalty for such impertinent language. And now that you’ve brought me off so beautifully, you won’t need that mouth of yours, which you’ve misused by spouting such obscenities…”

“No! I’ll be good, I promise…”

“Too late for that, I’m afraid,” and he sounds almost regretful as he reaches into the dresser drawer of the bedside table and pulls out another familiar black silk scarf. He draws it taut against her mouth, tying it tightly behind her head. She tries to call him a fucking pervert, but sadly, the effect is muffled beyond comprehension.
 
“I’m sorry Faith? Did you say something?” Now he sounds all kinds of bemused. And she’s working on that scheme to throttle him for real. Or at the very least to prevent him from coming for a couple of hours and see how he likes it. But it’s hard to glare daggers at him when he’s giving her his intense, steely gaze that gets her every time.

“You’re so eager for a quick release, Faith. It’s almost endearing. Almost. But I think I’ve devised a suitable punishment for you.”

She can’t do anything more than stare, wide-eyed, as he lowers her gently down onto the propped-up pillows and spreads her legs wide. “It’s a wonder there isn’t a small flood in here, Faith, you’re so wet,” he muses, tracing a fingertip from her cunt to her asshole, and she shivers, her anger slowly, predictably giving way to abject longing. He crawls up her body and kisses her through the scarf. It’s a slow, wet, indulgent kiss that leaves the fine material clinging damply to her lips and her more frustrated than ever. Especially when he breaks it off abruptly. He reaches into the seemingly bottomless drawer and returns clutching an equally familiar, purple, battery-operated monstrosity that’s really starting to piss her the hell off. She thought she’d put it in her case but he must have rescued it. No way on hell was he going to get thanked for that maneuver. He smiles warmly down at her. “I do believe Mr. Bunny owes you, Faith.” She shakes her head angrily, no, but Wes blithely ignores her.

“I’m not going to turn him on at first, Faith, I want you to be receptive. Although I do believe you’re quite wet enough.”

He slips the very tip of the vibrator into her, watching, fascinated, as it disappears, centimeter by centimeter. She groans against the gag, and she can’t help but arch her hips slightly so he’s got a better angle. “Do you want me to fuck you with this, Faith? I wouldn’t like you to be unwilling.”

She thrusts against it, and he pushes it deeper, looking quite pleased as she dilates around the glistening plastic. He’s watching her appreciatively, murmuring, “This does afford me such a marvelous view. It’s inspiring to watch, really. Although I can’t help but wonder if your poor clit is feeling neglected?” She gives him another shake of the head, no, as he thrusts the vibe in as far as it will go and flicks it to the lowest setting. She would have cried out then if she could have; instead she buries her head into the pillow with this silent scream and tries to exorcize the orgasm that’s been building up for almost an hour. She can’t contain it anymore, not with the fucking bunny ears flickering against her clit and the vibe pistoning in and out of her with maddening speed. Every muscle she has is taut, shaking with tension that’s only going to be released one way—

And then it’s over. The vibe slides out of her, leaving her empty and clutching at nothing, her whole body quivering with suppressed effort.

She still hasn’t come. And if she could actually think coherently, think beyond her nearly acute need for an orgasm, she’d marvel at Wes’ singular ability to surprise her, time after time. Before she met Wes she never would have guessed that waiting and withholding would get her so fucking hot. Although she’s really had enough waiting for one night. Her arms are starting to ache, dully. Her juices have dried sticky against her thighs, and she can barely close her legs because her clit’s so sensitive to the touch.

Suddenly, Wes’ arms are encircling her, cradling her. He unties the scarf that's gagging her, with uncharacteristically clumsy fingers, freeing her so she can sigh with relief; her worn out body sinking back against him. “My arms are aching, Wes, please…”

“You have a word, Faith.” It’s just a statement of fact and his voice is perfectly equitable; he’s not pushing her either way.

And she’s silent, because she doesn’t quite feel as though she’s at that point yet. She’s equal parts fearful and curious as to what he’s got planned next, and she can’t quite bring herself to say the word. Can’t or won’t? No, it’s not pride that’s stopping her —she’s beyond that now. It’s definitely curiosity. She wants to see this through.

“Not there yet, Wes,” she says, hint of pride obvious despite the shakiness of her voice.

“Well, you’ve been so good, perhaps you deserve a reprieve. And we are working against a deadline, after all.” He undoes the knots binding her arms; once they’re freed, he brings each unsteady hand to his mouth in turn, kissing each white knuckle tenderly, gently massaging the red, raw skin of her wrists. “It’s nearly midnight,” he says, almost regretfully. “I suppose the rest of my slightly diabolical plans for you will have to wait for another time.”

“What, you can’t beat the clock, Wes? You going soft?” She might be exhausted, but one thing she never grows tired of is trying to provoke him. With some effort, she raises herself up and straddles him. “Oh, apparently not.”

'That's a quite dreadful pun," he murmurs. He reaches out and turns the small clock beside the bed so that she can see the numbers flashing out the last few minutes of the year. It's 11.46.

"What did you do last New Year's Eve?" she asks suddenly. "Who did you spend it with?"

His eyebrow arches. "Who do you think?"

"I don't know," she mutters. "Did you, like, go into the city and –" She pauses, not wanting to think about Wes lost in the crowd she'd been part of, his eyes skimming the flushed, drunken faces of the young girls, looking for some spark of similarity and finding nothing but a quick, fumbled fuck at best.

"No." He pushes himself up to sitting and kisses her briefly. "I did not. I spent it alone." His arm wraps around her waist and she finds herself lifted off him. "Hands and knees, Faith. I'm going to spend what's left of this year fucking you." She wriggles into position and his hand comes down on her ass. "Amongst other things..."

"I'm still kind of tender," she says, gasping as she rides out the flare of sensation.

"If I tell you that I already know that, just from looking at you, and it's why you're getting spanked, would you be surprised?"

"No."

His hand comes down again.

"Would you be ... shocked?"

"No!"

"Would you be –" And each word's accompanied by a slap now, a fast, sharp smack that's hitting the same place over and over.

"No!"

No, she's not shocked, no, she's not angry, no, she's not going to tell him to –

"Stop, Wes – not there, not any more there, please –"

"Stay still," he says, letting the hot palm of his hand rest against the crimson imprint she knows he's left on her ass as she starts to squirm. "Quite still."

And it's so very hard because even that light touch is painful; but she's hurting everywhere, her whole body desperate for a climax he's withholding, so much so that she's crying without emotion, escaping tears trickling over her flushed cheeks.

"Oh, you're so very good, so very obedient," he murmurs and sometimes she doesn't think he means it for her ears when he says stuff like that, as if his thoughts are given voices and he can't help speaking them aloud. "And when you are, you deserve a reward, but I'm not sure we agree on what that should be."

"Fuck me," she begs, finding the words though the haze of arousal and pain. "Wesley –"

His cock slides into her even as his hand comes down again, in the exact same place, and she's not sure which makes her scream, but she does.

"How many strokes do you think it'll take me to come?" he asks, with deliberate ambiguity, repeating the swift surge forward of his hips and the relentless accuracy of his slap. "And given you can't have one without the other, do you still want me to stop, Faith?"

Her arms are trembling now but there's a blur of red off to her left and she blinks until the numerals sharpen. 11.56. Yeah. She can do this...

"Want you to fuck me, Wes," she says and gets another thrust, another spank, with his cock pulling part-way out of her even as his hand lifts up. "But you'd better come on the stroke of midnight –" She arches her back to snatch back an inch or two of his cock and grins triumphantly as he stays in place, allowing it. "And you better let me come then, or I'll –"

He leans forward, his cock in her to the hilt, bracing himself on the bed. "Oh, Faith, you can come as much as you like now," he says with suspicious generosity. His free hand slides up her back to tug gently at her collar and just that reminder that it's there is enough to make her cunt clench around him. He brings his hand around to cup her breasts, his hips not moving, so although she's filled with him, feeling the thickness she wants, it's not enough. He pinches her hard nipples with an approving murmur and then his hand skims down her stomach and his middle finger rubs hard at her clit, finding the exact place needed to make her world narrow to just that point; narrow and then explode outwards as she comes.

He stays inside her, still not moving, giving soft little groans as her climax hits and she spasms around him, and then, just as she's panting her way towards speech, though fuck knows what she wants to say, he starts to fuck her again, his hand slamming down on that blazingly-hot mark he's branding into her skin, his cock finally fucking her properly, in a series of uncompromisingly fervent strokes that give her nothing more to wish for than that this would never end, because although one more slap and her skin's going to ignite, one more deep, hard slide of his cock through the wet heat that's all she seems to be right now and she'll have forgotten how to say anything but 'Wes', it's still everything she wants.

He comes as the city sky brightens with celebratory fireworks, soaring and spluttering into cascades of sparks Faith sees mirrored behind her closed eyes, and his hand finally stills, his fingers curling around her hips as he drives himself inside her in a last flurry of desperate, mindless thrusts, all rhythm lost, reduced, like her, to a state where he's making hoarse, primal sounds.

Her arms give way and she slides forward, taking him with her, so that when his cock slips out of her they're left spooned together.

"Happy New Year, Faith," he whispers against her hair.

She turns, carefully, so that she can look at him as she says it back, their lips meeting in a soft kiss.

"That was one hell of a finish to the year," she tells him.

He considers that for a moment, then gives her a grin and a small shrug. "It was one hell of a year," he says.


Chapter Three Hundred and Eighty One

“Happy new year, my darling girl,” he murmurs in her ear as she stretches luxuriously, blissfully uncurling her limbs and batting her feet against his legs like she’s turned into a little kitten overnight.

“You said that last night,” she reminds him with a yawn, nudging his arm with the top of her head until he finally gets a clue and wraps it round her waist, pulling her closer towards him for what she hopes is some primo snuggle time. “My new year’s resolution is to make you cuddle me more,” she mumbles into the curve of his neck.

“I’m sorry, Faith,” he laughs softly, fingertips tracing the indent of her spine. “Could I have that again in English, please?”


She doesn't answer, just brushes her breasts against his chest and then pulls away to watch in fascination as her nipples harden. "So pretty," he murmurs in agreement, even though she hasn't said a word. "Shall I make them even prettier?"

He hauls her up so she's sitting astride his cock, which is all kinds of perky this morning, so he can lean forward and delicately trace round the aching tip of one breast with his tongue. And when she's squirming against his mouth and the hard promise of his dick, because he's suckling her now, using his teeth, and she's so very wet, he raises his head and gives her a ferocious smile.

"Put my cock inside your cunt, Faith," he orders her and she's never been so willing to comply, raising herself up so she can greedily impale herself with a satisfied grunt, legs splayed on either side of his.

And she loves these hazy, morning fucks when she's still chasing her dreams away. Yeah, she loves it when she's clutching the bedsheets and begging him to let her come and all of her is aching from what he's done and what he hasn't done yet but this is so uncomplicated. Just his cock slowly thrusting inside her, thumb gently resting on her clit, tongue working her breasts and when she comes in this never-ending series of little waves she's pressed so tight up against him that she doesn't think she'll ever be able to let go.

She’s barely got time to bask in the afterglow, before he’s yanking off the covers and dragging her towards the shower.

“You always take the first shower,” she grumbles, trying to dig her heels in to the carpet, like that does any good when Wes gives this really irritating chuckle and tips her over his shoulder like he’s a fireman rescuing her from a burning building. Not like fireman deliver stinging swats on the ass. “Wes! Think my butt has to be a slap-free zone today,” she hisses, as she wriggles down on to her own two feet and they both contemplate the slightly bruised, way reddened skin of her ass.

“It does look rather tender,” he says and his fingers brush against the biggest bruise, which looks like a prime contender for a Rorshach test. There’s this faint note of pride in his voice as if her butt just brought home a report card full of straight A’s. “I do seem to recall that you promised to get your arse Scotchguarded, Faith. I think it’s very unsporting of you to renege on the offer.”

“So if my ass is off-limits, what are you going to do if I misbehave?” she asks demurely, as he fiddles with the knobs on the shower.

“Well, I like to think that I’m flexible,” he murmurs and it seems like they both have to take a second to bliss out remembering some of the positions he had them in last night, but then he comes to and gives her a glinty-eyed grin, as he pulls her into the shower. “I hope I’m not getting too predictable, Faith,” he purrs, smoothing back her hair to make sure it’s wet enough for shampoo. “I’m sure I can find other places on your delectable little body that deserve a good spanking.” His hands glide down to her breasts, her tummy, the back of her thighs and she’s twitching away from that maddening, almost tickling touch.

“Don’t have to spank me, Wes,” she tells him, winding her arms round his neck so she can yank him in for a very wet, very long smooch. “Sure you can think of a whole heap of other way to punish me if I’ve been getting my naughty on.”

“I’m sure I could,” he agrees with this secret smile tugging at his lips but that might have something to do with the way one that one of his sneaky hands has delved between her legs so all she can do is clutch onto his shoulders tightly and get that mouth of his back on hers.

It’s an hour later that she wanders into the living room finally dressed (by him). Hair dried and brushed (by him). And a smile on her face (put there by him when he ran his fingers through her sleek fall of hair and told her that he was hoping there was some veracity to her theory that how you spent New Year was how you spent the rest of the year.) The smile falls off her face pretty damn quickly when she looks out of the window and turns to him with a mournful expression.

"Hey, where's the damn snow, Wes?" Man, she sounds whiny. "A couple of little flakes wouldn't be too much to ask for," she adds, trying to sound a little less like a toddler about to throw a full-on hissy fit.

He looks up from where he's rummaging through the sideboard drawers and gives her a placatory smile. "The snow really does have to come on its own schedule, Faith. Though I'm sure if it knew you were waiting so anxiously for its arrival, then it might put on in appearance."

"You think?" She wanders towards him so she can rub her cheek against his back. "What you doing?"

He reaches round so he can pat her hip absent mindedly and starts on the next drawer. "I have a terrible hankering for Eggs Benedict with smoked salmon so I thought we could order in from the hotel… oh, here it is!"

She peers curiously at the menu he's clutching in his hand. "We ordering breakfast? From the hotel next door? Don't you have to be, like, a guest?"

There is no way that he should be able to look that insufferably smug and still have her love him but he just about manages it. Even with the whole gloating thing he's suddenly got going on. "It's a rather wonderful perk of living here but residents are able to order room service from the Carlyle," he says with a trace of wonderment to his voice.

"What? And they just bring it right to your door?" she ask incredulously.

"They do indeed."

"Well, yeah, so does Domino's Pizza," she grins at him, kissing the affronted look right off his face so damn well that he doesn't even arch an eyebrow when she orders both the American and the Continental breakfasts for old-times sake.


And her piggy, little ways are definitely creeping up on Wes 'cause he puts away the Eggs Benedict and her fried tomatoes and her wholemeal toast and when he thinks she's not looking he tries to snag a rasher of extra crispy bacon off her plate and she has to send her fork crashing down on the back of his hand so he gets the hell out of her breakfast and lets out an indignant, girly yelp into the bargain. And God knows, she never gets tired of making him do that.

"I really think we should do the contract now, Faith," he tells her after some uniformed flunky has taken away the plates and she's prodding her belly to see if it really has just expanded a couple of inches. "In the study, both of us fully dressed and in complete agreement that we won't do anything untoward to distract the other party, yes?"

"Works for me," she says jauntily, primly pulling down her top and trying not to swing her hips in what could be misconstrued as a provocative manner as she leads the way.

But it's not as much fun as last time. And not just because there's no blow jobs in it. They both sigh heavily as he scores through the section on appropriate office behaviour, appropriate office attire and pauses with his pen poised over the section on comestibles.

"There's not much point, is there?" she asks him dully, resting her head in her hands. "Not like I'm gonna be here to moan about your smelly cheese stinking up the fridge, am I?"

He puts the pen down so he can squeeze her fingers. "Faith, darling girl, our imminent separation will just be a temporary state of affairs."

"But you won't be there to be completely unreasonable about how frozen yoghurt is a lame substitute for ice cream and my cute little corporal punishment table," she runs a reverent finger over section five, paragraph 3 sub-a, and looks at him plaintively, "it doesn't mean jackshit if we're not together. What are we left with? Just a section about emails and phone calls."

And it's completely in contravention of the new section 1, paragraph 1, sub section a about how the party of the first part won't unduly try to influence the party of the second part during contract negotiations but he pushes his chair back from the desk and pats his thigh. "Come here, sweetheart."

She doesn't so much climb into his lap as hurl herself at him. "I don't want to go, Wes," she wails and he's gripping her arms tightly and his voice is steely, cutting through her rising panic with no room for compromise.

"Stop it, Faith," he says shortly and she's pressing her fingers against the stern line of his mouth.

"Don't be mad at me," she begs, curling herself round him. "I know that I have to go home and give notice and listen to Darla cry, but I don't have to be happy about it."

"We'll have the weekends," he says suddenly. "Rupert is interminably persistent about work/life balance so I'll take Friday afternoons off and you can come here or I'll come to you. You'd like that, wouldn't you, Faith?"

She sniffs slightly, allowing herself to feel mollified and nods. "I guess. Or, like, hey, we could meet somewhere in the middle. What's between New York and Florida?"

Wes thinks about it for five seconds and then gives a shudder. "I believe it's Maryland."

"Bet they got hotels in Maryland though with beds and maybe they have the ones where you feed quarters into a slow and they vibrate." She gives him a shaky smile and gets rewarded by his lips pressing against her hot forehead "Wouldn't have to be every weekend if you were totally busy."

"Every weekend," he says firmly, picking up the abandoned contract and studying it intently. "How else can I make sure that you haven't fallen back into your wicked ways? So, I'm afraid Faith, that you little scheme to render section five, paragraph 3 sub section –a null and void has been unsuccessful."

She gives him a good, hard poke in the ribs for that little funny. "I so wasn't!"

"Good, then it stays as it should be: Orgasms, frequency of and allowances made during," he says decisively, shifting her on his lap so he can reach forward and pick up his pen.

They're bickering amiably about who gets custody of the collar during Monday to Friday and Wes is just about to cave on her cunning suggestion of alternate weeks when the phone on his desk starts ringing and he gives her a smarmy grin.

"Saved by the bell and don't stick your tongue out at me. It's very unbecoming, Faith."

She slides off his lap and hands him the phone. "I'll make you some tea if you let me have the collar for the first week."

He rolls his eyes at her and shakes his head warningly. "Hello? Yes, happy new year to you too. Good Lord, are you in a bar at, what, Midday, Doyle? Yes, I know it's a public holiday but even so."

Wes with friends who phone him up so he gets this bewildered look on his face like it's still so new to him is so fucking adorable that she wants to whip out a camera and record the moment. And when she comes back with his "lawyers do it in briefs" mug with his tea the perfect shade of American tan, which is just how he likes it, he's still on the phone.

"Much as I'd like to be steaming drunk while it's still daylight, Lindsey, I really do have to say no," he's laughing down the phone while Faith puts the mug down and wonders who the fuck Lindsey is. Texan, Wes' co-counsel, likes to do more than shake ladies' hands, she remembers and hovers by the doorway until Wes looks up and beckons her nearer. "Faith's only got two days left in town and I doubt she'd appreciate me leaving her to go bar-hopping with your two reprobates," Wes gives her this helpless look and holds the receiver away from his ear. "I'm sorry about this. I'll just be a moment."

"I don't mind if you wanna go out, Wes," she hears herself say and she thinks of the mound of presents that she needs to wrap and the card that she needs to write out and how she wants to pop out and see if she can get him a birthday cake and she realizes that it's true. And that makes it easy to lean over and snatch the phone away from him. "Hey, Lindsey, right? This is Faith."

There's an appreciative little chuckle. "How you doin', darling?"

"I'm doing fine," she squeaks because coming onto your co-counsel's girlfriend is kinda inappropriate. "You want Wes to come out and play, huh?"

"Faith…" Wes is all growly but she pushes the mug of tea at him and turns her back on his glare of wrath.

"Sure do, Faith. New Year's drinks, birthday drinks, not being at work drinks… Hey, Doyle! I'm talking to Wes' chick. She sounds hot."

There's a muffled thud and then there's someone else slurring down the phone. "And there we thought you were just a figment of Wes' imagination," says an Irish guy and he sounds enough like Liam that she's clutching the phone in a hand that's gone clammy before she takes a deep breath and says calmly, "Guess you're Doyle."

"And I guess you're the light of Wesley's life. You gonna come out drinking with us too?"

"Faith, please give me back the phone," Wes says wearily and she ignores him because he has friends and they're missing him which is just about the cutest thing ever.

"OK, Doyle, listen up," she says firmly. "I can't go drinking with you 'cause I'm like totally underage (she swears she just heard Wes mutter "fuck" under his breath but… nah!) but you can come round at 3 and then you and Lindsay can take Wes out for two hours and if you send him home drunk, then you're gonna have me to deal with? We clear about that?"

“Clear as the beautiful blue sky above,” Doyle says, and she can hear Lindsey in the background muttering something about how he's fucking blind as it's cloudy today. “So then, Faith, just how underage...”

“I'm glad we're agreed,” she says, cutting him off as Wes finally manages to wrap his hands around the phone and tug it from her grasp. “See you at three!”

She tries to give Wes a huffy look for ruining her fun, but now he's turned away, muttering, “No, Francis, Faith is not, as you so delicately put it, 'barely legal'...”

“Yes, I am too!” she laughs, sliding up to sit on the desk and swinging her legs around his waist, pulling him close even though he tries to wriggle away. She's got him trapped, all right, and to prove it plants a row of tiny, soft kisses along his neck. “You should go – I'll be fine, I swear...” she breathes in his ear.

“Very well,” he sighs, finally capitulating to the goading on all sides. “But only if you two don't drag me to that place on 33rd again, what was it...?” He's still doing a fine job of ignoring her even though she's untucking his shirt from the back of his waistband and generally being a nuisance. “Oh, you're there now? They let you back in after what happened...? Oh, yes -- if you reimbursed them for it, then you're perfectly within your rights.” She can hear Doyle chattering away loudly until Wes interrupts him. “And she said she preferred you with your trousers off? Well I suppose a round of congratulations is in order for that at least. Look, I've got ring off now – no, Faith isn't... Goodbye, Francis. See you shortly. Yes, three. Goodbye!”

He hangs up the phone with another exaggerated, belabored sigh and finally breaking free of her grasp. “They really are quite a force to be reckoned with once they start drinking...”

“They sound nice, Wes. Really do.” She bites back saying something about how a pair of rowdy lawyer types are way better than a certain chilly WASP princess with man problems, but thinks the better of it. “I'm glad you agreed to go out with them. I mean, I have some things I need to do...”

He raises an eyebrow in surprise as he carefully tucks his shirt back in. Maybe it hadn't been the best idea to divulge that little bit of information. “And what might that be?”

“Secret birthday business, mister. So don't even think you're getting more details than that!” she says, as he gallantly offers her a hand down from her perch. “And wait, what was Doyle asking you there at the end?”

“It's really best that you don't know...” he mutters, scooping up his mug and taking a long sip before settling back into his chair and flipping the pages of the contract. “Now, where were we?”

“You were just agreeing that we could have joint custody of the collar and take opposite weeks for visitation rights.”

“I was?” He sounds incredulous, as if she's pulling one over on him or something

“Yeah, remember? Before the phone rang. And then I made you the tea, and you promised...” She's really not above wheedling for this one clause, not at all.

“I did no such thing,” he says sternly, and actually has her fooled for a moment that he's genuinely pissed off until he breaks into a grin. “Very well, I'll let your appalling behavior on the phone pass for now and I'll agree to this clause -- but only as I've just realized Lindsay and Doyle, both owe me a round of drinks every Thursday for a month -- as you do indeed actually exist.”

“I guess showing them the pictures I sent wasn't exactly the best way to prove that, huh?”

“Not exactly, no...” He gives her a considered look, eyes narrowed, opens his mouth to speak and then thinks better of it.

“Spit it out, Wes,” she cajoles, leaning against him and touching her hand to the back of his neck where he’s so warm and soft. “You were about to spill the beans on something, I know you were."

He leans into her touch, closing his eyes for a second as she kneads her fingers against the big, old knot of tension that even several mindblowing orgasms doesn't seem to have shifted.

"I'll tell you later," he says imperturbably, gasping just enough to make her smile as her fingertips worry at his nape. "I'd hate to think that I may be accused of unduly influencing these rather fraught negotiations."

And that's Wes at his most irritating and, like, oblique so she's damned if she's going to carry on giving him a neck rub. "Wouldn't be fraught if you'd just let me have the collar first," she points out sweetly, sitting daintily on the chair opposite him and crossing her legs.

He steeples his fingers so he can give her a stern look, that she's not buying for a second, over the top of them. "Very well," he sighs, and she gives a tiny start because she never thought he'd give in so easily. "But there will be certain conditions attached. Or not, as it were."

Being Wes he can spin out a whole sub-section on exactly what she's allowed to do with the collar when she has custody and he expects nightly phone access to ensure that she's looking after it properly, which makes him drift off into this wistful little segue about buying her a camera phone so he can make sure that she's following his instructions to the letter.

"And so I can send you pictures of myself playing with myself," she adds with a smirk and he raises her twenty by putting a reminder on his Blackberry to look into webcams.

By the time they're finished and she's managed to have tickling absolutely, unequivocally and positively prohibited and he's been really unwieldy and mean about the topic of suitable subjects for email correspondence during work hours, the contract in front of them is a mess of margin notes, strikethroughs and appendices. Faith thinks it might be the prettiest thing she's ever seen.

"I guess this makes it real," she says wonderingly, picking up the sheets of paper and smoothing a proprietary hand over them. "That this isn't all a dream."

"It's certainly not a dream," Wes informs her stoutly. "Especially as I'd like you to type it up while I'm out. I'm curious do you have dreams about performing office tasks?"

"Only the ones where I end up bent over your desk with you fucking my brains out," she grins, before she pouts. "Hey, you're going out to get totally shitfaced and I have to stay here and be all 120 words per minute. Not fair, Wes!"

"I'm not going to get shitfaced, as you so charmingly phrase it," he begins indignantly, getting up from the chair, and snagging her hand so he can tug her out of the room. "I'm going to have a couple of drinks under duress before I come home so we can…"

"Fuck like bunnies," she purrs in his ear, wrapping her arm round his waist. "Only got me for two more nights and we have to go out with that Rupert tomorrow, so you better make the most of me, Wes."

"You get the most peculiar look in your eyes, Faith, when you mention my employer's name," he says with just a hint of something dark in his voice. "I hope we're not going to have a repeat of the other night."

She's just about to burst out with an impassionned protest when he cups her cheek. "Especially as I've told Giles how charming you are."

"I am, aren't I?" she beams, trying to pull him in for smooch but he adroitly side-steps out of her way so he can open the bedroom door.

"You have your moments," he concedes with a faint smile and then winces as she throws herself down on the bed. "Really, Faith, have some mercy on the springs."

She sits cross-legged on the quilt and just relishes the warm fuzzies she gets from an unspectacular conversation about what they're going to have for dinner and whether he needs to put a t-shirt on underneath his black shirt and there's this feeling in the pit of her stomach like a Christmas Eve kind of feeling that soon they can do this stuff every day.

And it's powerful enough to bring her to her feet so she can walk over to him and wrap him up this tight hug which says all the things she's too unwordy to say. "Don't you fucking dare go to a strip club," she mutters instead, rumpling the hair he's just combed.

"Now why would I do that when I've got my little Olympia waiting for me at home?" he enquires throatily and he's pinching her chin at the same time as he pinches her ass, coaxing a pained little gasp from her.

"Hey, that's a 24 hour exclusion zone," she yelps, returning the favour and his eyes darken and she knows he's just about to exact retribution when she remembers the conversation they were having before. "What were you going to tell me? About me not existing and showing your lawyer buds dirty pictures of me?"

"I would never let Lindsey and Doyle get their grubby little paws on those photos," he growls, then tilts her head up to look at his fierce blue stare. "I could hardly bear to look at them myself." His mouth twists wryly and she knows he's thinking of that last day they spent together when everything was sun dappled and she was high on hope and he was already living a lie.

"Doesn't matter, Wes," she whispers, fingers trying to rub out the furrows on his brow. "You got the real thing now."

He's letting her go so he can fumble in his back pocket and pull out his wallet, which is kinda random because this is Wes and it's not like he's going to her give her $20 and tell her to order pizza. "I wanted to show you… even when we were apart," he's muttering indistinctly and she's not really following until he pulls out a crumpled, dog-eared Polaroid picture and holds it up so she can see her scowly face, crossed eyes and hair going in a gazillion different directions. And man, she never knew it before, but she looks goddamn fugly.

"So beautiful," he breathes, snatching the photo away from her 'cause he can probably tell that she's seconds away from burning it. "And, my darling girl, the pout on your face is practically a perfect match."

That just makes her pout even more but she's saved from having to speak by a buzz on the doorbell.

Wes is calmly gathering up his scarf and keys and then she's hanging back as he strides out of the room. She hovers in the hallway as he opens the front door and if she just peeks round the corner, she can make out, well, not that fucking much until Wes turns and gestures with his hand.

"Faith?" she hears him call. "Come and say hello."

She's frantically smoothing down her hair and wishing that she wasn't wearing jeans and her What Would Joan Jett Do? T-shirt and maybe a whole Nordstrom counter of cosmetics as she sidles into the hall and vaguely waves her hand.

"Er, hey," she croaks and she's never been more grateful for the steadying, comforting weight of Wes' arm around her shoulders, even if it does mean she's got to, like, actually look up and shit.

"Faith, this is Lindsey MacDonald and Francis Doyle," Wes interjects smoothly and there's a flurry of handshakes and "Well, aren't you just the most gorgeous thing I've ever clapped eyes on?" from Doyle in an Irish accent that makes her toes curl into the carpet before she stumbles back against Wes. And he's a suave bastard, he really is, with the carefully cultivated, thriftstore chic and the big bouquet of roses that he thrusts at her. Lindsey's quieter and yeah, if he was six inches taller he'd be an absolute heartbreaker but he just looks at her and then at her hand clutched compulsively around Wes' arm and asks her quietly how she's liking New York.

"It's cool," she mumbles and Wes' arm tightens round her shoulder and she manages to summon up a fair to middling smile. "Wes gave me this two day guided tour that most people would, like, probably do in a week, didn't you?"

And then Wes starts talking about the exhibition at the Whitney and she can ignore the way Doyle's eyes scan her body before he turns to Lindsey with a smirk and pair of raised eyebrows in the direction of Wes.

"So you mind if we steal old Prycey away for the rest of the day?" Doyle asks her with another shit-eating grin as he lurches towards the door and both her and Wes snap in unison, "Two hours!"

"Aw, he'll barely have the time to make an inroad into a bottle of Jamesons," Doyle whines, scrabbling for the handle. "We'll bring him back in one piece, darling."

"I'll be back at five," Wes says firmly and he's bending down to give her a dutiful peck on the cheek which she completely derails by grabbing him by his coat lapels and giving him a proper smooch with tongues so she can show Doyle that old Prycey ain't no slouch when it comes to keeping his barely legal girlfriend happy.

Wes' expression is satisfyingly dazed when he comes up for air and it's totally worth the warning glare he gives her when she catches sight of Doyle's jaw falling floorwards and the look of awe of Lindsey's face.

"Two hours," she reminds him, shoving Wes in the direction of the door. "And don't be late or that's all you're getting from me tonight."

Wes looks like a fluffy kitten who's just had its fur rubbed the wrong way but he saves his thinnest smile for Doyle. "Not a word of this at work, Francis, or I'll have you filing litigation reports until you're ready for early retirement," he says pleasantly as they shuffle out and she stands at the doorway to see them make it into the elevator but not before she hears Lindsey say to Wes in the kind of hushed tone that people use in church, "You must have done something fanfuckingtastic in a past life, Pryce, to have that warming your bed every night."


Chapter Three Hundred and Eighty Two

And she's still smirking about that a half hour later even after the heart-shattering discovery that lit cigarettes and mittens aren't a good combination. Faith's figured that the contract is way down on her list of priorities 'cause she's got, like, ninety minutes left to finish her plans to give Wes the best birthday he's had in all his almost 38 years on earth. Not like she thinks that the beam has ever been raised that high in the first place.

Henri, the concierge at the Carlyle, is way obliging. In fact, she thinks he might be her new, best friend. He doesn't even bat an eyelid when she insists that the pastry chef ices the words, "Wes is da man" on the birthday cake. But she figures if she's gonna pay $75 dollars for a chocolate sponge with ideas above it station, then she can have what the hell she likes on it. And he doesn't get pissy when she tells him for the fifth time that breakfast has to be delivered at 8.30 sharp and that they're not to ring the bell, just text her on her cellphone.

Once that's sorted out she runs four blocks in gale force winds to the cute stationery shop to buy wrapping paper and then has to run all the way back when she suddenly remembers that she's forgotten to buy Wes a card. By the time she's trying to unthaw her hands enough that she can turn the key in the lock, she's got five minutes before Wes comes back and he better be only squiffy and not halfway to sozzled if he knows what's good for him.

She's just getting the feeling back in her fingers when she's completely startled, not by the click of his key in the lock, but by the quiet jangle of the phone in the study.

“Oh, he'd better not be...” she mutters, sprinting across the apartment in a few strides and picks up the phone before it rings again.

“Where are you?” Doesn't even bother with hello because she knows it's him when the first thing she hears is a wall of incoherent chattering and a roar of burly male voices yelling at what she imagines must be one of the New Year's college football bowl games on TV.

“Faith?” It's Wes, thank goodness. The soft-voiced, drawly, and slightly tipsy version of Wes, but at least it's not Doyle or Lindsey calling to tell her he's been squashed by a bus or something.

“Who else would it be?” she mutters, unsuccessfully trying to keep the impatient edge off her voice. “Where are you? And you know it's almost five, right?”

“Where've you been, my sweet, naughty girl? I've been calling for thirty minutes...”

“I told you, I had some things to take care of. Why didn't you call my cell?”

“I seem to have forgotten mine at home...” he says, distantly before trailing off. And yeah, she totally sees it sitting on the kitchen table. Good one, Wes. “Stupid of me, I know, but I seem to have also forgotten a few key digits in your mobile number...”

“Right. How much have they made you drink, then?” The obvious question, as she's pretty damn sure he knows that number backwards and forwards.

“Ah, yes...” he stammers. “I seem to have let peer pressure get the better of me... They seemed very intent on congratulating me for scoring such a hottie.”

Okay, yeah, she's kind of thinking maybe that whole thing about how he had friends who wanted to take him out for drinks wasn't so cute after all. “I should have known something like this would happen...”

“Don't be mad, Faith...” His voice is so plaintive it totally takes the edge off her annoyance. Hell, she'd done way, way worse. Plus, there's the fact that she's kind of not gotten around to typing up the new contract. And sure, usually she'd use that to make a play for a little spanky session, but she's totally thinking of extending that whole 24 hour kibosh on her ass for another day, 'cause any swats there now would still be kind of in the realm of not the good kind of pain.

“I'm not,” she sighs. And she isn't really 'cause there's definitely something about his voice right now that's helping warm her frozen extremities, and she wouldn't mind having a pliant, probably totally sozzled Wes to snuggle with until he sobered up a bit. Not at all. “I just want you to come home. Just tell the boys goodbye and thank you and get in a cab, okay? Or do I need to come get you...?”

“No, no. I'll be fine, really Faith. I'm only a few avenue blocks away... I could walk, even. Might help clear my head.”

“Hey, hey – Wes, listen to me. Don't walk home, okay? It's pretty freakin' nasty out there.”

There's a pause and then he says softly, "Are you taking care of me by any chance, Faith?"

And she wonders how long it's been since anyone else did, since anyone cared if he ate his greens, got to bed early, took a day off. No one but her, and when she thinks of how fucking <i>tender</i> he gets, and yeah, how agitated when she's sick, she's just about ready to go down to that bar and rescue him.

"Damn straight, I am," she says fiercely. "You take a cab and –"

"Faith? Is that you, sweetheart?"

She hisses with indignation because she doesn't need the sound of a scuffle to tell her that Lindsey's just totally snatched the phone off Wes.

"Yes, it is."

"Darlin', Wes can't wait to get back to you, and there's not a one of us who'd blame him for that –" She rolls her eyes because his voice is heavy with insinuation. "But you wouldn't want him to miss the end of the game?"

"I don't give a –" She takes a steadying breath. "If Wes wants to watch it, he can watch it here." She bites back the impulse to mention the widescreen TV: the last thing she wants is them turning up and settling in for the night.

"Faith, as soon as the game's over, we'll have him back with you, I promise."

"You promised you'd have him back by five," she says acidly.

"Well..." There's a chuckle. "We did, yes, but did you really expect him back on time?"

After a lifetime of watching Liam leave the house for 'one drink' and lurch back hours later? No. But she's still blinking away angry tears because dammit, Wes wanted to come back and they were stopping him.

"Listen up, Lindsey," she says steadily. "You make sure he gets in a cab, OK?"

"Course. Word of honor." She can almost see him smile. "You missing him that much already, then? Man's got hidden depths."

And she's so fucking tempted to say any one of the snappy, sassy retorts lining up and waiting, but Wesley works with him and she has a feeling he's going to be getting enough teasing about her as it is, so she settles for demure agreement, "Not going to argue with that, Lindsey," and waits until he's hung up before she growls.

She flicks through the channels, but there are at least three different games on and none of them look as if they're close to finishing. With a resigned sigh, she decides to make the best of it, and get on with what needs to be done.

It takes her half an hour to wrap his presents and the professionally gift-wrapped ones, like the tie, stand out because she's never been all that good at making neat corners and fancy bows. She studies the heap for a moment, wondering if he'll like them, before stashing them in the small spare bedroom.

The contract retyping still has to be done, but she discovers that she's starving, and it doesn't look as if Wesley's going to be in any fit state to cook the steaks he chose, taking nearly ten minutes to pick the perfect piece of meat until she'd been ready to go veggie just on principle. As he still hasn't given her any cooking lessons, she doesn't even try to cook one herself; just whips up a jaw-breakingly thick sandwich after shaking her head over the lack of mayo in Wes' fridge and the way-too-healthy bread he goes in for, all nutty and grainy and needing major chewing.

With that, a coke and the TV to herself, she's almost having fun, but not really, because every minute flashing by is bringing her closer to leaving, and for all the talk of meeting up at weekends, and schedules that have her back here way before spring, she's still feeling a sharp pang at the idea of saying goodbye.

Suppose Rupert and her totally don't hit it off, she thinks moodily, switching off the TV, and he invents all these reasons why Wes can't leave town to visit her. Suppose Anne comes calling and Wes is too fucking nice to make it really, really clear he's not interested...

She's on her feet at that, the silence and the loneliness stifling her. God, how had Wes stood it, night after night?

She glances over at the clock. It's 6.30 and her lips tighten. Fine. Lindsey and Doyle - and Anya, and Rupert bloody Giles all just made it onto her shitlist.

"And you can all stay there," she mutters, heading for the study.

Typing helps. She's so wound up at first that she makes mistake after mistake, the tension of sitting still making her fingers stutter and hesitate on the keys, but Wesley's presence is too strong in here for it not to calm her.

His pen's lying on the desk, capped and neatly aligned with the edge of the desk, ready to scrawl brown-ink notes and it's so very much like him; the precision combined with individuality that she can't help smiling.

After she's typed up two copies of the contract, read them over and placed them on his desk, ready to be signed, it's almost eight and she's back to being alternately steamed and worried.

Because she's seen Liam leave and come back bloodied and bruised too, caught up in a fight that was never his fault, oh no, and although Wes isn't the fighting sort, she can think of half-a-dozen ways he could get into trouble.

By the time she's dreamed up a scenario where someone takes exception to his accent – oh God, have they taken him to that Irish bar, Doc Watson's, over on 2nd Avenue? Wes had said they might - and maybe decided to refight a battle, she's chewed three nails down. She goes out on the balcony in the frosty-cold air to smoke her eighth cigarette, staring down at the busy city that's swallowed him up and won't give him back and waiting for the phone to ring.

But it's his key grating in the lock at - fuck- nine o'clock, that brings her worrying to an end.

She's running across the room and flinging herself at him, breathing in the smoke-chill hanging around him, feeling his cool cheek against her face as he gathers her to him. "Missed you so fucking much," she mumbles. "Not even going to get on your case about how late you are."

He kicks the door shut behind him without releasing her and gives her a long, hard kiss. "I've been trying to get back to you for hours," he says. "I really do have to develop a better line of threats because none of the ones I came up with seemed to work at all."

She can't help laughing. "Hope you didn't try any of the ones that work with me, Wes," she says, helping him out of his scarf and overcoat.

He frowns, thinking it through way too seriously, and then shakes his head. "Of course not. Really, Faith, that's a ridiculous notion."

He slurs 'ridiculous' just the tiniest bit and she narrows her eyes, trying to work out just how drunk he is. "Are you squiffy?" she asks. "Tell me where you are on the Brit-scale of drunk."

He sits down heavily on the coach, toeing off his shoes – which tells her plenty as he's usually meticulous about removing them at the door and putting them away inside the closet.

"Legless? No. He's an elf." That seems to strike him as funny and he starts to giggle, but catches himself. "I'm rather too drunk to be able to do what I want to do," he says solemnly, beckoning her over. She sits beside him and he pulls her onto his knee. "My darling Faith," he murmurs. "They're going to regret this, I promise you."

"Yeah?" she says, smoothing back his tumbled hair. "What're you gonna do to them, Wes?"

"For rendering me incapable of fucking you?" he says looking stern. "For a crime of that magnitude, it has to be –" His face falls. "No. It was my fault," he says. "Totally, completely and utterly my fault."

"No, it wasn't!" she says indignantly. "They're the ones who –"

He gives this sad little shake of his head. "I'm a grown man, Faith," he tells her. "I could have walked out of there at any time, but –"

"But what?" she prompts, nestling in closer so she can put her hand over his heart where it's thumping away steadily.

He turns his head so the blue of his eyes – and his whiskey-breath –are right there in her face. "I want them to like me," he says, with this puzzled, questioning look on his face, as if he's trying to make sense of it. "They're so different – they're playing all the time, Faith, but they're good at what they do, make no mistake about it. In court they're formidable, despite their youth."

"Not as good as you, Wes," she tells him, with a certainty that goes beyond loyalty. "And they do like you. They kept you out to piss me off – and, yeah, you too, but they really wanted you out there with them. You do that a lot, do you?"

He shrugs. "We go for drinks after work once or twice a week," he says. "And meet up for hockey games, although I can't say I enjoy that as much as they do."

"Tehn I don't think you have to worry about them liking you, Wes," she says gently. 'Sounds like they already do."

He shoots her a sly, little grimace. "They like you," he informs her. "Francis got quite lyrical about your tits."

"Yeah, well, he can keep his fantasies to himself," she snaps. "And his hands."

Wesley lifts up his hand and pats her breast. "But I don't have to," he says, sounding smug but in such a sweet way she can't do more than smile.

"Never mind you touching me, Wes," she tells him.

"Because you're mine," he says. "My Faith. My darling, sweet girl."

"All yours," she agrees, shifting around so that she can lean his head on her shoulder. He sighs and relaxes, his breath slowing until she wonders if he's fallen asleep, but not caring because this – being with him, being able to hold him -is still so much part of her dreams that she can't accept it's reality now.

Chapter Three Hundred and Eighty Three

And he does fall asleep for a little while, mouth pressed against her neck and ewwww! There's a little bit of drool going on along with the whuffly sound of his breathing and when she tries to shift off his lap because she's getting a crick in her neck, he makes this faint sound of protest and clamps his hand over her breast.

As evenings go, she's had better ones. She's pleased he's got friends, she really is. And she's pleased that he's gone out and found himself a life, but fuck it! It's her second to last night with him and he's sleeping off his drunken stupor.

The longer that she sits there, the more she's aware of the teeth gnashing grind of resentment that she's coasting and it's giving her tummy ache and she's playing back every single minute that she sat and waited for him and every single fucking minute of last night when he wouldn't let her come and she's sitting there on his lap with hot, angry tears leaking out of her eyes.

She struggles off  him, digging her nails into the hand on her tit so he lets go, opens his eyes for a second and then snaps them shut, stretching out on the Faithless sofa with a contented little sigh. For just one second, she's reliving the whole throttling him fantasy from last night but instead she has to make do with a choked little sob of pure fury before flouncing out of the room so hard that she stubs her toe on the door jamb.

There aren't many places to storm off to in Wes' apartment so after making a pitstop in the kitchen where she takes great delight in pouring herself some of his precious Scotch from his precious Rupert Giles and liberally mixing it with a good few inches of diet Coke because he's too busy drunkenly snoring on the couch (he so fucking is!) to wince and give her a lecture about the goddamn religious experience that is single malt whiskey.

Just thinking about Wes and alcohol and how she should have insisted on a clause in the contract about him never being able to drink it ever again is enough to send her headfirst into the fridge so she can cause havoc with his stupid, anal system for chilling his condiments (and just how many jars of mustard does one man need when he hasn't even got any mayo?) before kicking the door shut and trying to decide where she's going to flounce off to next.

She ends up in the bathroom, after slamming practically every door she can find. Even that isn't enough to stir him from his slumbers. As she lights the scented candle that was in Darla's cache of bathroom goodies and chucks half a bottle of green tea bubble bath into the hot stream of water gushing from the faucet, she tries to calm down.

It's not like her and Wes are joined at the hip. And it's not like he could carry on being the weird loner guy who never went out and just stayed at home with his stash of dirty books and the files he brought home from the office. But they've got, like, 38 hours until she gets on the plane that will take her away from him and when it comes down to counting time in hours and not days anymore, then every second is precious. 'Sides, they're going to have to spend at least three hours with Rupert so-called Giles tomorrow and Wes is going to be drooling on the sofa to morning… Faith does some not so rapid mental arithmetic and by the time she's sitting in the tub, glass of whisky and coke clutched forlornly in her hand, she's sobbing all over again for the 14 hours that they've got left together.

"Faith…?" She looks up, out of red-rimmed eyes to see him lurching through the doorway. "My darling, sweet, little zabaglione - what on earth are you crying for?"

It's so like him to have the nerve to be all cute and call her after Italian puddings when she's so fucking angry with him. Picking up the sponge and throwing it violently across the room so it hits him, dead eye, right in the chest is this, like, total reflex. And she waits for his to kick in too; the tightening jaw, the righteous fury in his eyes and yeah, he's opening his mouth so he can spit out some icy threat and…

"Good Lord, the Knicks could have done with you on their bowling side," he mutters, looking puzzled at the damp splodge down the front of his shirt. "Stay there, I have just the thing."

She stays there, sliding right down under the bubbles, not because he wants her to but because she's miserable and she's a girl and miserable girls have long, soaky baths with scented candles. There's probably a law and if she wasn't so pissed with Wes, she'd ask him about it. She can hear him clattering about in the kitchen and then something falling on the floor. Probably his jaw, she thinks with an evil smirk, because he's seen just how utterly she's fucked his fridge shit up.

He's staggering back down the hall, nearer and nearer, and she's just debating whether to give him the finger or tell him to fuck right off when he starts in on her, when he appears again like some drunken genie and she's been knocking back too much of the Scotch because he's standing there with a sheepish smile and the tub of triple chocolate fudge chunk ice cream in his hand.

"What's that for?" she asks sullenly, propping her elbow up on the side of the tub and making sure she doesn't flash him her breasts because no way in hell is he getting a treat like that.

"It's for you," he tells her, like it should be obvious. "Because you're sad and I'm sure I read somewhere that chocolate ice cream has beneficial effects on beautiful girls who sit in bath tubs crying."

OK, maybe after that little speech she's not quite so mad at him. Especially because his evil masterplan is to be about as fucking adorable as it's humanly possible to be. "Don't try and sweet talk your way out of this, buster," she snarls, flicking bubbles at him as he creeps closer. "I'm mad at you."

He doesn't so much as sit down on the bathmat, as collapse in an ungainly heap with his chin resting on the rim of the bath so he can gaze at her with eyes that seem way bigger and bluer and well, bloodshot than she's ever seen them. "I wanted to come home to you, Faith," he says softly. "I did. I really so very truly did but the game went into extra time and Doyle and Lindsey were so insistent on me having one more for the road."

"You were four fucking blocks away!" she points out tartly and while her mouth is still hanging open, he deftly pops a spoonful of ice cream into it.

"I know, I know," he says sorrowfully, trying to rub his head against her shoulder and the only reason she doesn't squirm away from him is because he'd probably collapse and bang his head on the side and then she'd have even less time with him because she's have to call 911 and spend the rest of the night in the ER. Well, that and it feels kinda nice.

"But they kept asking me about you and…" he frowns and squints at the same time before giving her a conspiratorial smile, which she almost returns. "I enjoyed it," he says dreamily. "Hearing them talk about you, about how sexy and beautiful you are and I haven't been able to… I'm so proud of you, Faith. That you chose me and there's never anyone to tell and well, tonight there was," he finishes simply and then mistaking her anguished expression for something else. "I didn't… I would never betray our secrets, Faith. No matter how drunk I was."

"No, Wes. God, I know you wouldn't," she yelps frantically, scrambling to her knees so she can cup her wet hands round his face. "I was just… I was sad and angry with you 'cause we've only got a few hours left before I have to go."

Her long garbled explanation about advanced mathematics seems to be hard for him to follow in his liquored-up state but she guesses that he got the gist of it. "My poor, neglected darling," he coos, stroking the hair back from her face. "I could phone Rupert and cancel, would that take the sulky, little pout off your face?"

It totally would but she's got poise now, allegedly, and it's not very girlfriendly behaviour to totally alienate Wes' boss even if he is a shit-stirring, match-making pillock. "You don't have to do that," she says, feeling all kinds of magnanimous. "Just you're not going to go to sleep again, are you? Not 'til I do."

He doesn't answer at first, because he's too busy spooning a dollop of ice cream into her mouth but when she's let it slide down her throat, he presses a tiny, apology of a kiss to her lips.

"I think I'm getting my second wind," he tells her gravely. "Enough to realize that it looked like there'd been a hurricane sweeping through my refrigerator."

"Yeah, well you totally deserved it. And see this glass? It's got your fancy Scotch in it and I mixed it with diet Coke. And I'm taking back all your birthday presents tomorrow and not giving you a single one," she finishes with a huff that's not quite so huffy as before.

Now it's his turn to pout. "Not even a little one?"

"Nope, you don't deserve any. But if you wash my back then I might give you a birthday kiss tomorrow," she concedes and as he burrows eagerly under the water for the flannel and manages to tickle every silken inch of her that his questing hands can find, she realizes that he's turned the tables on her again. The only predictable thing about him is his stunning ability to always leave her guessing and (as his fingers graze the underside of her breasts) wanting. The last of her bad mood is melting away like the bubbles, as he helps her out of the tub into the fluffy embrace of the towel he's wrapping her in.

"You're so pretty," he murmurs, kissing her eyebrows, the tip of her nose, clumsily bussing against the corner of her mouth. "Such a pretty girl and you're all mine, aren't you, Faith? Even when you're furious with me?"

"Maybe I'm not quite so mad at you," she squeaks as he scoops her up and almost slides on the wet floor. "But if you drop me then I'm going to have to rethink that."

"Would you be mad at me if I confessed that I'm suffering from this horrid affliction known as brewer's droop?" he tells her candidly, flushing up prettily, and she stares at him in disbelief, waiting for the subtitles to flash up. "I may have some trouble, er, performing…" he admits and the flush has upgraded to full-on crimson.

"You saying that you're too drunk to fuck me?" she demands and her voice is so high pitched, she swears to God she must only be audible on Mars. "For fuck's sake, Wes!"

And he really must have sunk a skinful because usually when she's stuck on the querulous setting, it's his cue to threaten her with a sound thrashing at the very least, not squinch up his face like he's about to burst into tears. No, that's usually her job.

"I'm so sorry," he mumbles, putting her down on the bed and when she's ready to scramble away from him so she can roll herself up in the quilt and sulk until Easter, he's quickly unraveling her from the towel, hands greedily sliding over her skin without his usual finesse but a hell of a lot of fervor.

"Don't you be starting something that you can't finish," she hisses, batting his hands away, but he's already sliding to his knees and yanking her legs apart.

"Please, Faith, don't be angry with me," he practically whines, which is enough to make her eyebrows shoot up towards the ceiling, even as she's trying to clamp her thighs shut, arms crossed over her breasts. "I'll make it up to you, I swear. Just lie back, please, let me see you. See your beautiful tits and your beautiful, wet, little cunt."

"It's not wet right now," she snarls, but it's starting to slick up from the insistent pressure of his hands spreading her knees apart and she gives up and slumps back on the pillows with an unwilling, little grunt.

"Maybe that's something I could assist you with," he sighs, leaning in close between her legs so she can feel the warm gust of air across her pussy lips. "Would you like me to bring you off with my mouth, fuck you with my tongue and my fingers because I'd so very much like to do that?"

She's starting to think that maybe Lindsey or Doyle dropped some LSD into Wes' beer because he's bringing new meaning to indulgence. And, hey, if he's offering then she's going to take advantage. Like, hello! She might be mad at him but she's not fucking stupid. "I want to come three times, Wesley," she decides and what do you know? She's bringing new meaning to imperious. "At least."

"My little bitch goddess," he purrs fondly and then he's snaking his tongue out, fingers holding her open and if his technique is lacking his usual precision, she's not going to complain about the way he's dragging the flat of his tongue across her clit, before dipping into her suddenly dripping cunt, pressing in as far as he can go while she grinds her whole pussy into her face.

He doesn't do anything fancy. Just pulls back so he can thrust three fingers into her demanding, damp hole and flicker his tongue against her clit in this relentless rhythm that has her coming suddenly with a harsh cry of surprise.

"Did you like that, Faith?" he asks her anxiously but his hands are sure and strong as she's barely got time to nod a reply before he's flipping her over. "I'd fly to Florida every day, just to have my mouth on you, tasting you…"

"Yeah, well…" she starts to say that dissolves into giggles because he's stroking his tongue over the soles of her feet before sucking her little toe into his mouth, which should be kind of gross but it tickles in a really good way.

"So sorry I left you," he murmurs again and again, kissing his way up her legs and pausing to investigate the sensitive skin behind her knees. "Sorry that you have to leave. Sorry that I won't be there when you go to sleep and when you wake up."

His tongue is causing havoc along her thighs and she's squirming under his touch. "Sorry I hurt you here," he sighs against the bruise on her ass and she's reaching round with her hand so she can fumble for his hair.

"Don't ever have to be sorry for that, Wes," she tells him softly. "Not ever."

"Good," he drawls and it's clear and distinct like she just imagined the drunken slurring. "Now get on your hands and knees so I can kiss your beautiful arse."

For one second she's starting to wonder just how drunk he really is but then he's pulling her cheeks apart, trailing his tongue along the cleft of her ass and and she's not thinking of anything but dragging his hand down to her clit so he can rub it hard while his tongue rims around her puckered flesh and this should never feel as good as it does.

She collapses on her tummy as the second orgasm pulls her under then rolls over so she can yank him up and on him, reveling in the way he's pinning her into the mattress. "Fuck me!" she orders, and he's not so pissed now because his cock is half hard under her busy hands as she unzips him and strips him off with ruthless, practical strokes. "Want you inside me fucking now, Wes!"

"Bossy little bitch, aren't you?" he grins, trying to steal a kiss but she shoves his head down towards her tits because it felt fanfuckingtastic but he's just had his tongue in her ass and that's a whole 'nother use for her safe word right there.

"You'd better fucking believe it!" she growls but her hands are gentle as she winds her fingers through his tousled hair. "Y'know, Wes, I kinda like you drunk. You turn into this big, old pussy cat."

He glances indignantly up from where he's painting her breasts with his tongue and he's hard enough, leaking pre-cum so her hand can move faster along his shaft, that she can get him inside her with a shimmy of her hips that makes him groan around her nipple.

She can feel him swelling inside her, getting harder, getting bigger and her mouth opens in a gasp of wonder. "See, know that you wanted to fuck me," she whispers, wriggling against him and spreading her thighs wide, feet planted firmly on the bed.

He gives an experimental thrust that has her legs clamping round his waist but he frowns even as he starts to move in her with these choppy strokes, which are so different from the way he usually moves. "I might not be able to come," he confesses, even though he's doing a pretty good job of hitting her g-spot every time he pushes inside her.

"Well, then you'll have keep fucking me until you do, won't you?" she tells him, narrowing her eyes and waiting for him to get bored with the whole drunk act and start fucking her godholy.

Instead she gets another frown. "I'll give it the old college try."

It's so different from all the times that he's never let her come before and she's been the one clutching the sheet and gritting her teeth. This time she's getting all the good stuff; these steady thrusts that hit right where it matters every time, her fingers rubbing against her clit because poor, old Wes is up on his elbows and needing all his powers of concentration. She just needs a little something more…

"Wanna come, Wes?" she asks him softly. "Wanna come inside me, huh?"

He nods his head frantically and her hands slid down the curve of his spine, settling on his jerking hips so she can roll them over.

"You just lie there, I'm gonna do all the work," she promises, sitting up but keeping his cock still inside her, sliding almost all the way out and then swallowing him whole with her cunt.

He gives her a dazed little smile. "Hmm, that feels lovely. You're so lovely, Faith."

She rewards him for that little poem with the first real smile she's given him since he got home and throws in a little shake of her chest which makes her breasts bounce so his eyes follow their trajectory like he's watching a tennis match. "Gonna feel even more lovely, Wes," she grins, tightening round him with everything she's got and then some, and hanging on tight as he arches up off the bed. "Got muscles you never even dreamed of."

And it’s starting to feel like she's moving underwater, rising up and then ebbing away so slowly, hands spread out on the sweat-sheen slopes of his chest, feeling him take deep breaths every time her cunt clasps him in a deep embrace. Eventually his hips start rising to meet the challenge and her hand's moving down to her clit to start this fast, circular motion and she only has time to hiss, "I fucking love you, you bastard," before she's closing her eyes and falling forward as his hands hold her still so he can slam into her with one, two, three hard thrusts and cry out her name.

He's still not sober enough to put up much of a fight when she hauls him into the shower and stands next to him, hands on her hips, until he drinks half a bottle of water and cleans his teeth. It's a bit like having a Wes-shaped zombie who's happy to be tugged around the apartment and does exactly what he's told. And yeah, it's a nice place to visit but she wouldn't want to live there.

She thinks he feels the same because when she finally lets him get back into bed, because she's feeling really sleepy, and curls round him, he suddenly says clearly and distinctly, "I think I shall be very angry with you tomorrow, Faith. I do believe you've taken dreadful advantage of my inebriated state."

"Don't think you will, Wes," she smiles, burrowing against his side and hitching her leg over his. "You're not allowed to get mad on your birthday and 'sides it's my last day and so you have to be extra special nice to me."

He makes this harrumphing noise and then pulls her closer so he can steal another clumsy, nose-bumpy kiss. "I'm sure we'll work something out," he mumbles against her cheek and she smiles at the darkness.

"I'm counting on it."


Chapter Three Hundred and Eighty Four

Wesley's birthday – and fuck, 38 is, like, scarily old and she wants to cry when she thinks of how much of his life has gone that she wasn't part of – begins way too early for him. The text message that breakfast is ready comes when he's still snuffling into the pillow, looking totally wiped-out.

She's feeling pretty fucking perky herself, even if it is her last full day with him. Slipping out of bed and tucking the sheets around him, because the pampering can't start too early, she heads for the door to rescue the breakfast, knotting her robe tightly so she doesn't flash an unsuspecting neighbor.

The hallway's empty but there's a small folding table supporting a tray, and beside it, a white cardboard box festooned with thin strips of silver and gold ribbon that has to be his cake.

She carries everything through to the kitchen and nibbles her lip, wondering whether to wake him. The cake can wait. Wes isn't going to want it for breakfast, not the way he's going to be feeling –

"Good morning, Faith."

She spins around and squeaks. "Wes! Get back to bed!"

He yawns and rubs his hand across his forehead. "Not unless you join me." He gives her a puzzled look. "It's not like you to be up this early." His eyes widen at the sight of the covered dishes. "And is that – did we order breakfast? I don't recall..."

She rolls her eyes. "It's your birthday," she says. "And that means you get breakfast in bed, so get back into bed or I'll toss it."

"I really hope that you don't," he says. "I'm famished."

"No hangover?" she says.

"I don't get them," he replies smugly, and she's seen enough of his morning afters to know that's true up to a point.

She moves over to him. "Happy Birthday, Wesley," she says softly, kissing him and feeling the prickle of stubble against her chin. "Want to know what your horoscope says for today?"

His arms tighten as he drops a kiss on the top of her head. "Does it involve beautiful dark-haired girls fulfilling my every wish just by existing?"

She smiles, tilting her head back so she can see his eyes, clear now and looking more alert with every minute. "You peeked."

"It's possible," he allows. He glances at the tray. "Can my first wish be coffee?" he says hopefully.

"Yeah, sure it can," she tells him, giving him a final smooch. "But only when you're tucked up again."

"Actually, I've always considered breakfast in bed to be slightly over rated," he begins, looking longingly at the table. "Crumbs. Spills. No room to –"

"Wes!"

"Oh, very well," he sighs. He studies her. "Why do I have the feeling that for once it's you who has the inflexible schedule?"

"Because I do," she says smartly. "And you just get to relax –"

"To the inevitable?"

"If that's what you want to call me, yes. Now shoo, birthday boy."

But he insists on helping her with the tray, giving the cake box an interested look that she counters with a hissed order for him to get his ass out of the kitchen, like, now, or his birthday spanking might arrive early.

A flicker of amusement sparks in his eyes at that but he's surprisingly meek as he leads the way back into the bedroom.

"Put it all down there," she tells him, pointing to the bedside table.

"You really do seem to be in a most demanding, bossy mood today," he complains, discarding his robe and crawling back into bed. She waits until he's got the pillows arranged behind him before pouring him some coffee and shrugging out of her robe. That means she gets an even more intense look than the cake box did.

"Aren't you going to join me?" he asks, shifting over a bit.

She shakes her head. "Nope. Gonna feed you your breakfast first."

"Really." And there's all kinds of promise and speculation in that single, drawled word, so it's no wonder her nipples are already hard by the time she's knelt beside him on the bed and reached for the first plate.

The fresh raspberries make him smile. "Aren't these more your favorite than mine?" he enquires.

She balances one precariously on top of her nipple and gives him his arch look back with interest. "Don't know, Wes. You're sure you don't want one?"

He sets his coffee cup down and then reaches out and rescues the raspberry from falling and pops it into her mouth. "Yes, I do." His eyes gleam. "Very much –"

She lets him go to town on licking and nibbling at her tits until she's in danger of forgetting that they're on a plan here and it doesn't involve Wes fucking her while his breakfast goes cold.

"Hey, hey!" she says, pushing him away. "Glad to see you're back to normal, Wes –"

"Oh Lord, I suppose you're going to tease me unmercifully, aren't you?" he sighs. "Shall I apologize again?"

"No I'm not!" she says indignantly. She purses her lips. "Though, have to say, Wes you're really fucking lucky that you're so adorable –"

"I'm not in the least – will you stop describing me in words better suited to a kitten?" he growls.

She smirks. "Not planning on stopping any time soon, Wes."

"Not even on my birthday?"

And his hair's sticking up and he's going to freak when he sees himself in a mirror because he's the poster boy for scruffy what with all the stubble that's left her breasts pink where his chin scraped them, but he's still so pretty she's melting like the ice cream they totally forgot to put back in the freezer.

"I promise I won't call you 'pretty' in front of Rupert," she says generously. "Now have some bacon. Open up!"

Feeding him's kinda tiring funnily enough, and she's not as good at it as he is, so she's there, fork poised while he's still chewing, way too often. Her tummy starts to make protesting noises halfway through so she grudgingly allows him to insist that she starts to eat as well.

"So, do you have any freaky traditions about not opening presents until after lunch or something?" she asks, swallowing the last of the raspberries.

"Not that I recall," he says. "But it hardly matters, does it? I believe you said all of mine were going to be returned." He heaves a sad sigh. "I didn't get any last year either," he says wistfully.

She gives his shoulder a solid thump. "You are such a crybaby," she says. "And you know damn well I won't take them back." He grins smugly and she contemplates making the next punch harder but then relents. "Time for you to have a bath," she says, standing up and clearing the dishes away.

"I do feel as if I need one, despite the shower you forced upon me," he admits. His hand rasps over his chin. "Not to mention a shave."

"That you can do yourself," she says firmly, "but once you're in the bath, I don't want you to lift a finger, got it?"

"I don't think I've ever been pampered with quite so much determination," he mutters. "It's rather intimidating."

She wraps her arms around him as he heads for the bathroom. "Don't want you to feel that way, Wes," she tells him earnestly. "Just want today to be special."

He slides his hands up her arms. "I know," he says softly. "And please don't think I'm not very touched by the trouble you've gone to. The breakfast was lovely, and quite unexpected."

"Not like I cooked it for you," she says gruffly.

"That's not important," he says and he's a breath away from telling her it's the thought that counts, or something equally lame so she wriggles free and goes to start the bath.

She doesn't join him at first; just kneels beside it, scooping up handfuls of water to wet his hair so she can wash it.

"You did this to me, remember?" she tells him. "Brought me upstairs that first time and bathed me..."

"Of course I do," he says, closing his eyes as she empties a jug of water over his head and spluttering because this is something else that obviously takes practice and she needs it. He swipes at the soapy water running down his face and then, ignoring her glare, submerges his head in the water to rinse it clean.

"Get in, Faith," he says when he's surfaced and dried his face off on the towel she had ready. "You'll find it easier, I assure you."

As she's pretty much drenched anyway, she decides she might as well, but she snatches the sponge out of his hands and lathers it up with a martyred air.

"What is it now?" he says. "Why are you giving me your very best pout?"

"I wanted to take care of you!" she says. "Spoil you, the way you do me, and you're not letting me."

"Yes, I am," he says, adding with a brutal frankness, "you're just not very good at it."

"Presents. Going back," she hisses.

"Nonsense," he says softly. "And stop sulking. It's my birthday and I absolutely forbid it. Just as I forbid you to ever be quite as bossy as you were last night, although I do appreciate that it was - well, perhaps there were mitigating circumstances. But even so..."

And Wes is back, no doubt about it, and she might have known that once he sobered up he'd remember that she'd totally managed his ass into that shower and been kinda pushy about the three orgasms and fucking her, and -

"Perhaps we can make this a little easier?" he suggests, breaking the slightly sticky silence. "Take the sponge and start with my feet, Faith..."

And with him giving her orders, in a pleasant, conversational tone – 'scrub a little harder, Faith, I won't break – ah, but not there, no, gentle circular motion, yes, exactly, good, very good...' it turns into a treat for Wes, if not quite the way she'd planned it. He reclines, quite at ease, in the hot water, smiling at her through the faint wisps of scented steam, totally loving having his own little bath slave to get to all the hard to reach areas.

She's not entirely pleased that he's kinda turned her plans on their head, but really, when she thinks about it, having him there to touch, her hands slip-sliding over chest and stomach, cock and legs, is just too much fun. She does his back by squirming into his lap, feet bumping the sides of the bath so they're both laughing, and reaching over his shoulders, abandoning the sponge and making swooping, wide circles across the strong, flat muscles with her soaped-up hands.

"Enough," he says finally, combing his fingers ruthlessly through his wet hair. "I think I've lost a layer of skin and you're starting to look positively shriveled. Out."

She contemplates changing his mind but really he's right; the water's warm now, not hot, and although it sounds good in theory, fucking in the bath doesn't really compare to what Wes can do on dry land, so she climbs out obediently and he stands still as she dries him, not showing any signs of impatience the way she does when he gets obsessive about mopping up every clinging drop of water.
 
Snuggling up to him for a kiss when she's done, with his hands warm on her still-slightly damp skin, she says, "Do you want your presents now, Wes?"

She can feel his cock hard against her, and she's waiting to be told the presents can wait, but he smiles.

"Yes, I think I would. Well, one in particular." His hand moves down and comes to rest on her tattoo. "I'd like you to put on your watch... and my collar –" She's sure he's going to insist she spends the day wearing nothing else, but he continues, "and get dressed." His fingers run along the words he can't see. "I've waited long enough for one of my presents, I think."

And it's weird, 'cause she'd made this whole fuss about being naked when he wasn't, but wearing her collar like this, so casually, half-hidden by her shirt, is getting her more aroused than when she wore it when she was naked.

"Can I keep it on all day?" she says. "While we're in here?"

His smile gets a dark edge to it that makes her think she dreamed the wistful, adorable Wesley of the night before – but she knows she didn't, that they're both him, and more; that he's never going to be capable of being summed up, because if anyone's mercurial, it's him.

"If you only knew how much I'd like to take you to the restaurant tonight wearing it," he murmurs.

"I would," she says, and she means it. "If you wanted me to, I would."

"I shall have to find something better than a scarf to act as a reminder," he says thoughtfully. "Something you could wear that would raise no eyebrows but which would still – A torc, perhaps, in silver -"

He goes off into this little contemplative space and she rolls her eyes and goes to get his presents, because only Wes could stand there on his birthday thinking about something else to get her.

Chapter Three Hundred and Eighty Five

It takes a few minutes to stack all the presents so she can carry them all in one trip, and when she passes by the bedroom, she sees that he's efficiently cleared up all the detritus of their breakfast.

“Hey, you didn't need to do that,” she says, finding him waiting expectantly on the sofa. “Like, it's your birthday and you shouldn't have to lift a finger...” She arranges all the presents on the coffee table before climbing into his waiting lap.

“Not even when I take you to bed later?” he laughs, pulling her close and brushing a few stray damp tendrils of hair off her neck. “I forsee some problems with this particular indulgence...”

“Whatever, Wes! I'm not gonna even acknowledge that with a response,” she says, handing him the envelope with her card. “Just open your presents, buster, and be grateful...”

“Oh, Faith...” He smiles, but his eyes are sober, and so deep she might just fall right in and never come out. “You'll never know how grateful I am. For you, for this, for everything.”

“Hey, hey. Don't get all sappy on me -- you haven't even read the card yet!”

She thought of snagging the tackiest, most disgustingly romantic gold-leaf-and-script “For my darling – on his birthday!” card Hallmark had to offer, but of course, cute stationary stores on the Upper East Side didn't exactly traffic in that kind of thing. The card's from some boutique letterpress company and simply reads 'Happy Birthday' in black on crisp, thick paper.

“Very striking,” he says, flipping it open and smiling at the sentiments she'd carefully written inside, about how he's everything to her and how she hopes that today is his best birthday ever, but that she can make each one she spends with him a little better than the year before.

Watching his reaction as he reads makes her remember the other stuff she'd written in the flurry of wrapping last night, and it makes her blush a little, and yeah, ok, she's gotta swallow down the lump in her throat as he pulls her close for a kiss. “This is already the best birthday ever...”

“Wes, stop it,” she says, shoving a small box in his hands to open first. “Don't jinx it! Or I won't be around to throw you a big-ass party for your 40th!”

“My darling girl, you really shouldn't be quite so superstitious.”

“Can't help it, Wes. I really don't want our whole star-crossed lovers thing to end up in tragedy, y'know?”

“I sincerely doubt it will come to that -- if this gift is just a prelude of what's to come.” He's finished unwrapping the box and is examining the silver and jet cuff links in the sunlight.

“I nearly forgot about those! I bought them out shopping with Spike and Dru, like ages ago, and I knew I had to get them for you.” The chintzy antique store and everyone and everything back in Florida, for better or worse, seem so very far away at that moment.

“They're exquisite, Faith. I can't believe you found them in that town. Bloody tourists always seemed to clear out all the good vintage haberdashery.” He winks at her, and she pulls a face in return. “Now, darling, your face will freeze like that if you persist in contorting it in such a fashion. Will you replace that horrid grimace with a pretty smile if I promise I'll wear them tonight?”

And, well, yeah, with a promise like that, she'll do anything. “Since you're letting me dress you, open this one next,” she says, handing him the long box that holds the tie. She's pleased as punch when he fingers the thick silk reverently, clearly touched. “Thought I'd get you something to wear around your neck,” she giggles. “And it matches your eyes. Not like that was the only reason I bought it or anything...”

“It's just perfect,” he says, gathering up her hands in his and dragging his lips across her knuckles. “Just perfect.”

And she's pretty sure he's gonna start running out of superlatives to heap on her and the gifts, especially when he rips the paper off 'The Death Rays of Ardilla' and lets out a little gasp of surprise. “Faith! How did you...? Where did you find this?”

And his intense happiness makes her blush and forget everything except the smile on his face. “Looking Bookwards. It's in midtown somewhere, can't remember the cross street... The man said you might not have it. You don't right?”

“If I do, it's at my mother's house, probably buried in a box in the basement somewhere. Or sent off to a charity jumble sale years ago.” He squints, as if trying to see all the way across the Atlantic Ocean.  “My father wasn't much for Johns' science fiction books – so I just have the firsts of the Biggles books -- but this! I read this all in secret in an afternoon one summer, hiding in the thicket behind the house, with an apple and some cheese and a bottle of lemonade for provisions...”

The thought of little Wes, hiding in the lush greenery with his perfect little snacks laid out, the warm summer breeze ruffling his hair and the teeny furrow between his brows as he reads as fast as he can and still savor every word... It's just too cute to bear. Which totally reminds her...

“Oh! Open this one! And I've got provisions for us!” She hands him a cylindrical-shaped package that was really freakin' hard to wrap without totally giving away the contents and leaps to her feet, tossing him the bag from Economy Candy as she dashes past and heads for the fridge. “Bet you didn't even notice 'em in there, even with your crazy reorganizing fit.”

“Didn't notice what? In where?” he asks, popping a fizzy lemon candy in his mouth.

“There was extra stinky cheese in fridge. And some truffles! You're so uptight about your like, eighty kinds of mustard, I knew I could hide this stuff in here and you'd never even notice.”

She brings both back to the living room, and finds him staring at the can of rice pudding like he can't believe it actually exists, that it's actually quite a good birthday present under the circumstances. “Faith, you remembered...”

“Of course I did – I do listen to you sometimes, you know!”

He laughs and examines the truffles and cheese she's holding in outstretched hands. “Oh, Faith. These are both perfect -- we'll have them at lunch. That is, if these delicious things don't ruin my appetite!” He holds out the bag to her. “Fizzy sour lemon shark?”

“Don't mind if I do, thanks!” She pops it in her mouth and winces at the tangyness. “Okay, there's two presents left, and I'm not sure what order I want you to open them in...” She picks up the flat package containing the photograph first, and hangs on tightly to the little box holding the biggest surprise of all. “This is the one I made you wait for," she says and yeah, there's a certain amount of satisfaction in her voice, which he acknowledges with a wry twist of his lips. "Was going to give it to you for Christmas so that's why it's, uh, got holly berries on the wrapping paper...”

“I wonder what it can be," he says with a grin, taking the parcel from her and cautiously shaking it. "It's rather heavy…"

She gives him a cuff on the arm and then rubs it better before he can start with the aggrieved looks. "You know exactly what it is! Go on, open it."

He carefully unpeels the sticky tape with his thumb and reverently folds back the paper, frowning when all he uncovers is the wooden back of the picture frame. "Well, that's no fun," he murmurs with a tiny smile and then rips right into the paper, chuckling as her mouth opens in a little 'o' of surprise as he takes great delight in carpeting the floor with a forest of holly berries. "Oh yes," he breathes as the monochrome curve of her ass, the arch of her spine, nine perfect words bisecting them both come into view. "This is beautiful. Show me the original, Faith, I'd like to do a compare and contrast."

She's already wriggling onto her knees and pushing her shirt up as she feels his fingers hook into the waistband of her jeans and tug then down just enough that he can trace over the words on her skin. "You like the photo, don't you, Wes?" she asks him anxiously. "You going to put it on the wall?"

He doesn't answer because his lips are ghosting over the love letters he's uncovered. "I love the photo and yes, of course, it will takes it rightful place in my bedroom," he says and he sounds almost reverent. Then he clears his throat. "I've a good mind to sneak in to the Met under cover of darkness so I can hang it there but that would mean I'd have to share my picture with half of New York…"

"Yeah and I don't fancy all those tourists staring at my ass," she finishes for him, turning her head so she can see the blissed-out look on his face for herself. "So do you want your last present?"

His eyes are still stuck on the strip of skin that she's got exposed but now they flicker to the small box that she's still clutching in her hand. "You've spoilt me beyond all my wildest dreams, Faith," he says softly. "I really can't remember when I received one birthday present, let alone all these wonderful gifts." He swallows compulsively, then reaches for her hand so he can press fervent kisses to her knuckles. "My darling Faith, what ever did I do to deserve you?"

She shifts round so she can climb into his lap again and curl her arms around him, letting their noses bump together and feeling her insides turn to gloop when he closes his eyes and smiles crookedly. "You had to spend all that time alone 'cause you were waiting for me. 'Cause nobody else would be able to love you as much as me."

"Don't, Faith," he begs, arms wrapping round her so she feels completely enveloped in Wesness. "I'm one breath away from cooking up this ridiculous scheme to keep you here and not let you go back."

"You can if you like," she whispers in her ear. "'Cept Darla would get on a plane so she could give you a slap upside your head and I'd have to phone Monty and he'd sound all hurt and unwanted."

"Well, yes, there is all that," he admits unwillingly, then gives her a plaintive look, which really doesn't suit him. "So this last present? Will I be getting it any time soon?"

"Well, yeah, but it's kinda like when you got the Neruda book. It's a present for both of us and I was going to let you unwrap it but maybe I should just show you…" she trails off because the idea's only just come to her and it's a fucking good one.

"It sounds intriguing. I confess I'm quite curious and also incredibly suspicious of the smirk on your face, Faith? What have you been plotting?"

"I haven't been plotting anything," she exclaims innocently and completely ruins it by dissolving into a fit of giggles. "Just there's one other present you need to have before you get what's in here," she adds, tapping the box with her index finger.

"You're being very vague, Faith," he sighs. "But I'll play along. What's the other present."

"You have to stand up for it." She shifts off his lap and gets to her feet, pursing her lips so he thinks he's getting another of those big, old birthday smooches. "Come on, Wes, shake a leg. Gotta schedule here and it says that you're slacking."

"Very well," he says rising in one smooth, fluid motion and leaning in, eyes drooping shut because he thinks they're gonna get all kissy kissy. Which is even better because he can't see the sudden movement of her arm as she reaches round him and gives him a good, hard swat on his ass.

His eyes snap open immediately as he jumps back, almost cannoning off the coffee table. "What the hell was that for?"

"It's time for your birthday spanking!" she crows, darting away from the hand he's just shot out and landing another good slap on one firm buttock. "Only got another 36 to go, Wes."

He's suddenly frozen in position and when she catches sight of his pinched lips and his nostrils flaring, she falters slightly. "It's, like, a birthday tradition isn't it?" she offers hesitantly, trying on a pout to get round him as he looks sour enough to have mainlined the whole bag of fucking fizzy sour lemon sharks. "A smack for every year." The pout isn't doing jackshit so she aims for a winning smile instead. "Wouldn't want you to have bad luck, Wes." Her eyes are so wide she thinks that they might just fall clean out of their sockets.

"Well, no we wouldn't," he murmurs thoughtfully, eyes narrowing in a way that never leads to anything good. Well, not the good kind of good. More like the bad kind of good and she's edging slowly away from him. "It's very sweet of you to be so concerned about my wellbeing."

"I'm only thinking of you… Fuck!" The sentence mutates into an anguished squeak because all off a sudden she's been upended and the world looks really strange upside down.

Looks way better when he's practically flung her over the back of the couch and has one hand pressing down on the small of her back so she goes from wriggly to limp and pliant in a nanosecond. "As you're so solicitous of my needs, Faith, I'm sure you won't mind having my birthday spanking for me."

"It doesn't work like that," she protests but even to her ears it sounds kinda half-asssed, which is a really lame pun when Wes' hands have snaked round to unpop the button on her jeans and drag down her zipper.

"On the contrary," he purrs, pushing down her jeans and panties around her knees and flicking a finger and thumb against her cheek. "Remind me to buy you a copy of The Whipping Boy. It's really very convenient as I wanted to get you a gift to say thank you for all my lovely presents."

"Aren't you giving me a present right now, Wes?" she snaps, arching her back so her backside is thrust out just the way he likes it.

"I'm not going to count those two pathetic taps you gave me," he sniffs, then gives a chuckle that would have Dr Evil sueing him for copyright. "In fact, I'll add them to the tally and bring the number up to an even forty. I do so like it when things are orderly. Count, Faith!"

She spits out one to ten as he slaps the backs of her thighs slowly and deliberately, scoring his thumbnail down her legs whenever the fuck he feels like it. "I'm not going to spank that impertinent little arse of yours, Faith," he says when it's time for eleven. "It's still a little tender."

"Want you to," she mumbles and she does because the first ten were only the pre show and she's barely warmed up.

"No," he says firmly. "I'm going to smack you there tonight and I can't let anything interfere with that. Stand up."

Eleven to twenty are a precise series of blows across her breasts, the flat of his hand connecting with the heavy flesh, fingers grazing over her hard nipples and she's arching her pelvis against thin air with every smack.

"You love it, don't you?" he asks her and he sounds more curious than anything.

"Yes, yes, you know I do," she moans, shaking her head and waiting expectantly for his next order.

"I think the last 20… yes, I want you to lie on the table," he decides, nodding his head decisively. She's staggering slightly as she kicks off her jeans, hands cupping her tender tits, but intent on getting to her destination, as he taps her ass and tuts. "C'mon, Faith," he purrs. "I thought you were on a schedule."

"I am… I was." She perches on the edge of the table and then slides backwards, looking at him with a frown. "Is this right?"

He shakes his head. "No. I was perfectly clear that I wanted you on your back. Flat on your back, Faith. That's it. Now spread your legs as wide as they'll go."

The tendons in her thighs protests as she drapes her legs over the edge of the table, knowing that she's wet and so spread open like this.

"Oh yes, you do love it," he says like there was ever any doubt. "Now count again, Faith, please."

He does 21 to 40 in one session, alternating between her left flank and her right, making her skin sting and sing as he rests one hand on the table for balance so he can put everything he's got into making her cry out each number in a voice that's veering towards a scream.

When he's done she can hardly close her legs because everything's smarting and all she'll need to do is squeeze gently, get some pressure on her swollen clit and she'll come. He takes one shaking hand and gently tugs her upright so he can brush the hair back from her face.

"Thank you for my birthday spanking," he says with a straight face and then strokes a heavy finger along her rosy red, inner thigh, smiling when she bites her lip and whimpers. "Would you like me to fuck you, Faith?"

"Yes." It's said simply, plainly. Stating a fact. "But you have to wait for your last present."

He glances over at the box, which has long since been abandoned on the couch and then gives her a slightly incredulous smile. "You're passing up the opportunity for a fast and, oh Faith, a very furious fuck so you can give me my last gift?"

She closes her eyes and tries to will her mouth not to open on a frenzied plea of "yes, yes, fuck me now." And when she opens them again, he's caressing the hard outline of his cock and giving her a knowing smile.

"Sorry, Wes," she sways sweetly. "You're just gonna have to wait. I'm going into the bedroom and I'll tell you when you can come in." She presses one warning finger against the bulge in his jeans, feeling the flesh jump underneath her touch, watching his eyes darken to navy. "Tsk tsk, Wes. Always so ready for me, aren't you?"

And before he can haul her back for another forty slaps, she's hobbling as fast as her protesting legs will let her, scooping up the box en route and calling over her shoulder, "Don't you just love delayed anticipation?"


She's ready in three minutes but she makes him wait. Not because she's getting off on that little role reversal, well not much. Just that the delicate pressure of the clamps on her painfully aroused, just freshly spanked nipples is almost too much. She has to sit on the end of the bed, taking deep breaths until she gets used to the constant, tugging sensation before she carefully eases on the black, almost there bra from Agent Provocateur so her breasts are framed by nothing but satin-covered underwire and that frivolous bow. Then she slips on that lovely shirt with just the one button missing, parts her legs and calls out to him.

 

Chapter Three Hundred and Eighty Six

He takes his own sweet time about coming in and when he sees her, he pauses and – it's as if the light in the room's all coming from him, although he doesn't smile, doesn't say a word.

She watches him and it seems that it's taken them a long time to get here, to this point where he's got no choice but to accept that asking her if she loves this, all this, is as redundant as asking him if he does, but now that they have it's all going to change.

He's got to say something, she thinks, do something besides stare at her, and she's so ready, so close, that she thinks he could make her come with a word; her name dragged out, drawled out or one of those orders of him, where the blunt, uncompromising words – fuck yourself with your fingers, Faith – become impossibly elegant because of his accent.

His hand is resting against the door that he'd pushed open and the spread fingers contract into a fist, tightly curled, as if it holds all the impassioned words he won't say because it's not the way he does this.

Slowly, with a deliberation that has to cost him, he strips, still so far away that she can't reach out to him, and then walks over to the bed. He stands at the foot of it and his gaze travels from her flushed face and fiercely-bitten lip to her breasts, half-hidden by the shirt and down to the glistening folds of her cunt, open and waiting for him.

He places his hands on the bed and crawls towards her, staring at her face now, until his head's level with her pussy. Then, without touching her with anything but his mouth, he leans forward and –fuck! – it feels as if his tongue's everywhere, and his teeth, licking and tasting her in an avid, voracious attack that has her coming in helpless surges, ass bumping against the bed as her hips lift in a reflex that has her grinding her soaked cunt against his hungry mouth.

As she collapses, panting, ragged moans breaking the silence, he raises his head and moves so that he's over her, his hands planted on either side of her head. He kisses her mouth then, and she tastes herself on him as his tongue thrusts forward, demanding a response she's only too willing to give.

His head lifts and there's an intensity in his eyes that's making her shiver, but she can't look away and she doesn't want to.

"Are they hurting you, Faith?" he says and she jumps a little, as if a spell's been broken.

"Yes..."

He doesn't do anything but smile at that, bracing himself on one hand so he can push back the shirt, revealing her breasts, skin glowing still from his hand, her swollen nipples hidden behind the black clamps.

His finger hooks under the wide flat links of the chain connecting them and he gives it a slow, gentle tug. The sound she makes isn't one she's sure belongs in the daylight, but a flash of pleasure lights up his face and he shifts so that the head of his cock nudges her opening. She tilts her hips slightly, imploringly, and she's so wet that's enough to get him slipping inside her, just a little. He doesn't rebuke her, or move away; if anything he encourages her as if she's earned it, shifting again so that his cock slides into her in a deliciously slow thrust. Before she's had time to moan out her appreciation of just how fucking good that feels, he's pulled back out again, so that just the tip of him is inside her.

She hasn't quite got the nerve to glare at him but it's close and he's never been slow at reading her expressions.

"Patience, Faith," he says softly picking up her hand and moving it to her neck, where his collar's resting snugly. "And keep your hand there."

She's frowning, but then he tightens one of the clamps, with a sure, knowing touch, and she gives a hoarse cry as the pain, sudden and sharp splits her in half, so she's positive she wants to beg, but whether it's for him to stop or to do it to the other one, she isn't sure. Her fingers are clutching at the collar, just as he'd known they would.

"I think that's enough for now," he murmurs. "I'm going to fuck you, Faith, because you really do deserve it, my darling, but I'm going to take them off first –"

"No," she says weakly, even though the throbbing's upgrading to a hurt that's almost tangible, a warm, red cloud of pain settling over her breasts. "Want you to leave them on, Wes."

"You don't know how it's going to feel when they come off," he tells her. "It'll hurt so much more..." And there's absolutely nothing in his voice to let her know how he feels about that, about her hurting, but he pushes inside her again, as if he can't help it, and for a second the taut lines of his face break up as he groans softly.

"God, Faith," he says, "Oh, you don't know how you feel right now –"

His hand's shaking slightly as he releases the clamps, holding them cupped in his hand for a second, before tossing them aside because she's started to writhe beneath him and he needs both hands to hold her down as he starts to fuck her, his long fingers tight against her wrists.

The feeling as the blood rushes back into the pinched, compressed flesh, forcing it to swell to fullness, is overwhelming, just as he'd warned her it would be, but with Wesley there, right there, cock in her, hands on her, eyes watching her, she rides out the waves of sensation, and she's starting to feel pretty fucking proud of herself for dealing, when he moves and sucks one aching, hard nipple into his mouth.

She screams then because it feels good; the warm, soothing lap of his tongue, but it's too much, too fucking much –

His head lifts, eyes blind, glazed and then he smiles down at her and does it to her other nipple until she takes a fistful of his hair and tugs at it.

"Don't – please – don't –" she begs, and for once he listens and she gets a kiss, swift and hard and she doesn't care how much it stings her thighs as she wraps her legs around him, how much it hurts her breasts as she pulls him down on top of her, she just wants to hold him, cling to him as he fucks her with a steady, relentless series of thrusts that break down as she comes, crying out, her nails scraping at his back, giving him the same edge of pain she's feeling. As she arches under him, feeling the warmth spilling through her, racing to every part of her body, he says her name as if it's all he wants to say, all he needs to hear, coming as she does, his head thrown back, his mouth open in a final, gasping repetition of that single word.



Afterwards when he's slathered her breasts and thighs in soft kisses and half a tub of the arnica cream, they have an impromptu picnic lunch on the living room floor.

Well, she has three slices of birthday cake which is really more-ish until she realizes she's gonna puke if she eats any more and Wes has these tiny little portions of the stinky cheese and truffles she's got and then has to be talked out of making the creamed rice.

"It's perfect winter comfort food," he protests when she tells him that it's gross looking and she's definitely going to barf if she even has to look at it. "I've got some Tiptree strawberry jam that will go perfectly with it."

""You'll need comfort food tomorrow, when I'm not here 'cause you'll be all mopey and missing me," she insists in the face of his skepticism. "Hey! You'd better be mopey and missing me or we're gonna have a problem."

Wes wipes a smudge of chocolate from around her mouth with his thumb and then thinks better of it and kisses her, tongue snaking out to make sure she's squeaky clean. "I'll be bereft. And I shall, how do you say it?, work your last nerve by phoning you up constantly to pester you with obscure queries about popular culture references in crossword clues but really I'll just want to ensure that you're thinking about me."

"You're being adorable again, Wes," she warns him with a grin, wrapping her arms round his waist so she can give him a beguiling look when he glares at her.

"I thought we were going to have a moratorium on that particular adjective, Faith," he reminds her silkily.

"Stop being adorable and then I won't say it. Mind you, you're still gonna be pretty even when you keep giving me all those doom and gloom looks," she smirks, standing up on tip toe so she can stop his next threat with an enthusiastic kiss. "Wanna snuggle up and take a nap?"

He pushes her gently away, keeping one hand on her shoulder like he can't bear to lose contact for less than a second. "I wanted to take you somewhere this afternoon. Though we should probably have one of your famous power snoozes when we get back."

He gives her questioning look a leer. "I have plans for tonight which really don't feature you getting much sleep, my little nymphet."

"But Wes, what with you being a whole year older an' all, do you think you've got the stamina to go all night?"

And he slaps her ass all the way to the hall for that little jibe, even getting some sly tickles in and he even has the audacity to stick his tongue out at her when she squeaks that he's violating the contract.

He won't tell Faith where they're going as he bundles her in a cab and then she's too busy kissing him to look out of the window, until she emerges with pink cheeks and kiss-sore lips onto a street of elegant brownstones, while Wes tells the driver to leave the meter running.

"Is this…" she asks but she already knows and he merely nods his head and points in the direction of a house a couple of doors down.

"I thought you might want to see it as you were so curious," he says, then pauses. "Are you sure it won't be too upsetting, Faith?"

She shrugs. "Sort of but I'm kinda curious too." She looks up at the shuttered windows with little flower boxes on the sills. "Looks big."

"It's three floors and a basement," he replies taking her hand and leading her a few steps down the street so they're standing right outside. "It would have needed a lot of work. The bathtub was far too small for those long soaks you like and the kitchen was an absolute travesty."

She peers in through one of the windows but gets nothing more than a sense of shadows and space. "Don't think anyone's living there though. What was the main bedroom like?"

He sighs. "Darling, let's not. Come on, let's get back in the car. This isn't our final destination."

"Wes, I want to know!"

"I was afraid of this. In the car and I'll tell you, Faith."

And as they head across town, he tells her that the main bedroom took up the whole of the top floor and had a dressing room and bathroom off it and that it caught the morning sun and that the ceilings sloped all the way into the eaves so he'd probably bang his head if he ventured into the far corners.

"Will you…" she mumbles. "I mean, it doesn't hurt to ask, does it?"

He's fumbling in his pocket for his wallet as the cab pulls into the curb. "I'll call the realtor when I get back to work but you're not to get your hopes up. There are other places we can live and most of them actually have decent sized kitchens with working stoves."

"But I want that one," she pouts, tossing her head back so he gets the full weight of her most mournful look. "If it's still available. And… oh, hey! I read about this place in my guide book."

"Bloody tourist," he grins, wrapping an arm round her shoulder. "It's one of my favorite places in New York and since you've become quite the bibliophile, I thought you might enjoy spending some time here."

Then he opens the door of The Strand bookshop and ushers her inside. She stands gobsmacked for a while inhaling the musty scent of old books and letting her eyes travel round the over-laden shelves and tables, all piled up with volume upon volume. "Fuck!" she breathes, turning to Wes in time to see him wince.

"Not in front of the books, Faith," he implores her, then gives her a pleased smile. "It's rather impressive, isn't it?"

"You got that right? Didn't know there was this many books in the world. And I need something to read on the plane anyway." She heads for the first set of shelves and stands there, eyes darting over the spines. "Don't really know where to start."

"Well, I expect you to read to me when we get home," he purrs in her ear. "As one of my birthday indulgences. And I expect you to read to me alternate nights when I call you, remember?"

She nods, already reaching for the new David Sedaris. It was one of the new clauses in the contract that they'd read to each other for at least five pages every evening. And not just dirty books either. Wes was totally unrelenting about that. "Sir, yes sir!"

He gives her rump a proprietary pat because he can't seem to keep his hands off it even in public places. "How charming to have you in such an obedient mood for once, Faith. I'm going off to browse, I'll come and find you in a while."

Half an hour goes by in no time at all and she's clutching a little pile of treasures to her chest, including a copy of The House Of Mirth, mainly because it's a cute little hardback from the 1940's, and two Douglas Couplands which have been marked down so much that they're practically giving them away.

She wanders down the stairs into the basement to find Wes among the eight miles of used books. He's nowhere to be seen, until she turns into a slightly deserted corridor and finds him perusing the art books with a dreamy little smile on his face. God, he just won't quit being damn adorable today. Faith takes a minute to completely check him out because she's going to have to live on memories of him for a few days. How tall, how lean he is. How elegant his hands are as he reaches for a book from the top shelf and turns it over to read the back. How the hard lines and angles of his face soften out when he glances around and sees her standing watching him.

"There you are!" he exclaims. "Show me what you've found."

She hands over her little pile of books. "I think I'm about to have a whole contemporary literature thing going on," she tells him, as he picks up the Douglas Couplands. "And this turn of the century erotica phase," she adds as his eyebrows shoot up when he sees The Delta Of Venus and Little Birds there too. "What did you get?"

He's got a couple of things tucked under his arm. "Oh yes, shall we find a secluded corner?"

"Wes? You gonna make out with me in the stacks?" she teases, as he rolls his eyes at her. "In front of the books? I'm shocked. Actually, dude, I'm appalled!"

"Stop being a brat or I won't share my discoveries with you," he tells her firmly, pulling her into a dusty little alcove and, yeah, moving in for a sneaky little kiss. "I must confess it's always been one of my little fantasies to fuck you in here, up against the shelves, with one hand over your mouth so you won't make those lovely little whimpers of yours and have all the staff running over."

She's so tempted to just lean back against the wood and paper, unbuckle his belt and see how quickly they can make it to the finishing line but then she catches the eye of a sweet old lady who's perusing cookery books and turns back to him with a wistful smile. "Thinks that's going to have to be one of your fantasies that I file in the Neruda folder," she says regretfully and he gives her a wolfish grin, one finger under her chin, tipping her head up so she can see the gleam in his eyes.

"Never say never, Faith. It's so… defeatist. Maybe we'll come back just before closing one day."

"Whatever, Wesley. Gonna show me your goodies? Like, your book goodies."

He brings out the first book and she traces her fingers over the title. "Manet's Modernism: The Face Of Painting In The 1960's," she reads and he tuts.

"Don't look at the words, Faith. Look at her, look at Olympia," he orders her softly, flipping through the pages and her eyes are drawn to the woman that he's showing her, reclining on a bed with this secret, self-assured look on her face.

She smiles herself because one more piece of the puzzle is slotting into place and he chuckles. "A perfect match. Look…"

His fingers caress the upturned thrust of her breasts, the sloping curve of her belly, the place where her hands covers the mysterious juncture between her thighs. "See, it's you. My Olympia, my Faith…"

And she suddenly gets the deal about the whole art thing. That it's not what you see, but how it makes you feel. And this painting, this girl who lived and died before she was even thought of, was just an ideal, an idea for Wes before he met her.

"I'm prettier than her though, right?" she says before she can stop herself because she's never gonna be Sister Wendy.

"You're the most beautiful girl in the world," Wes insists and there isn't a hint of teasing in his voice. "One day I'm going to have you painted just like this. Even Manet himself would decide that you were infinitely lovelier than the original. Would you like that, Faith?"

"Yes, I'd love to look like her, have you look at me and know that all the time it was being painted, I was thinking of you," she covers his hand where it's splayed over her namesake and squeezes his fingers. "One day we'll have to go and see her, y'know, say hello."

"Oh, you're clever as well as beautiful," he murmurs, showing her the other book. "Or psychic, maybe."

She takes the Virgin Guide To Paris from him and almost shrieks. "Say fucking what?"

"I'm taking you to Paris this Spring if you absolutely promise not to swear in public."

"But we can't… we need to find somewhere to live and we'll have to move in and man, I haven't even got a passport," she babbles, hands creeping over every inch of him she can reach. "And I can't speak French!"

"Je t'aime. Je t'adore, Je t'embrasse toi," he drawls, picking her up so she can wind her arms round his neck, wrap her legs around his waist and rub against him, because if he keeps on with the French, the really fucking sexy French, the sweet old lady is just going to have to have a heart attack. "Ma petit Faith, mon amour vrai."

"What does it mean?" she whispers, kissing the plump lobe of his ear.

"I love you," he translates, pressing his mouth to her neck while she squirms with the overwhelming romanticism of being in Wes' arms, among the books, and the French which her brain might not understand but her heart seems to. "I adore you. I embrace you."

"I adore you too, Wes," she sighs happily, pulling him even closer. "What about the last bit?"

"Ma petit Faith, mon amour vrai?" he repeats, smirking as she practically swoons. "It means, my little Faith, my one true love."

"Say something else," she begs, but then she's kissing him, stroking him with her tongue so he's not doing much of anything but turning her around so he can press her against the shelves.

"Ma fille chérie et belle, veux-tu m'épouser ? " he breathes against her lips and she's frowning at him.

"What does that mean?"

"Young man, if you don't put down your girlfriend immediately, I'm calling a member of staff," says a fractious voice and they both turn to see the sweet, old lady looking at them like a bitch on wheels. "In front of the books too. Disgusting!"

"I'm terribly sorry," Wes says politely, carefully placing her on her two shaky feet. "I was carried away by the beauty of my girlfriend. She's lovely, isn't she?"

The old bag doesn't seem to think so because she looks at Faith like she's some two-bit floozy who turns tricks in the art book section of the Strand and turns away still muttering under her breath about how the "young today have no respect."

"So what were you saying back there?" she asks him when they're all snug in the back of a cab, bags of books on their knees. "The last thing?"

He gives her his most maddeningly obtuse smile and pats her thigh. "I'm not telling you," he says with this smug little smile that never fails to make her eyes flash. "You'll have to work it out for yourself. You have an excellent memory for languages as I recall. It shouldn't present a problem so stop pouting."

And even though she wheedles and nags the whole way home, he keeps shaking his head, eyes glinting with amusement and won't tell her.

"God, you're so mean sometimes, Wes," she complains bitterly as she follows him inside the lobby and waits for him to open his mailbox. "Give me a clue!"

He pauses from checking through a wad of envelopes and gives her the most evil smile she's ever seen. "How's your Italian?"

"Like, non-existent."

"Such a pity," he sighs. "So you won't understand if I say volontà lo sposate either? Shall I try it in Spanish?"

"Wes!" she growls, bumping him angrily. "Just tell me."

"¿quieres ser mi esposa?" he laughs and she doesn't want to encourage him because he's being so fucking annoying and a smartass to boot, so she just turns her back on him and marches off to the elevator while he calls after her, "¿Adónde vas, mi florcita dulce?"

His arms snake around her waist and he kisses the side of her neck when he catches up with her.  "The last thing I said was, where are you going, my sweet little flower?"

"I think you meant to say your pissed off little flower," she grits out and then digs him in the ribs. "Not going to be mad at you 'cause it's your birthday but stop teasing me."

He gives an outraged little gasp as he closes the door of the elevator and presses the button. "Me? Tease you? That's a terrible accusation, Faith!"

She rolls her eyes so hard it's wonder she doesn't dislocate something. "What-fucking-ever." Then she spies the clutch of post in his hand and changes the subject. "Are they all birthday cards?"

"They appear to be," he admits with a bashful smile. "Though I think one's my Visa bill."

"Sucks to be you," she grins, leaning over his shoulder to sneak a peek at the brightly colored envelopes and a couple of interesting little packages. "Ooooh! English stamps. Guess that means birthday greetings from the mother land."

"And from my mother," he says, brandishing one of the packages at her. "I recognize her handwriting, though it seems to be addressed to someone called Faith."

Who'd a thunk that birthdays would make Wes so mercurial? Or capricious? Or suck a fucking, irritating pain in the ass? He won't even let her look at, like, her package until he's had a cup of tea and told her to get undressed and into bed.

Not like there's anything on the agenda but a book before bedtime. "I want you to get some sleep," he says icily over her furious protests. "You'll be thanking me later, I quite assure you."

"What? When you haven't let me come for a gazillion hours and it's four in the morning," she asks sulkily but she's pulling off her jumper anyway.

"Faith, haven’t we had many a conversation about putting ideas into my head?" he asks her smoothly and she sticks her tongue out at him as she kicks off her jeans and yanks back the duvet.

"I'm in bed," she huffs, folding her arms and giving him a mutinous pout. "Want my package now… please."

He perches on the edge of the bed and winds a lock of her hair round his finger. "Well as you asked so charmingly."

And she ignores the sarcasm oozing from every syllable because he's finally giving her the damn thing and watching with an amused smile as she rips into it and gives a tiny cry of glee when five Orange Kit Kats tumble out along with a perfect picture postcard of a little English village that looks like something out of one of those costume dramas on BBC America.

"Cute," she decides, holding it up and showing Wes. "Is this where your Mom lives?"

"It's about five miles from her house. But that pub does a good ploughman's," he grins. "That's where we ended up after the hike I told you about."

"Five miles?" she echoes, with an incredulous shake of her head. "Don't you have cabs in England?"

"No, Faith, we're still using horses and carts to get from A to B," he says with a poker straight face, which she ignores because she's reading what Sylvia has written.

Dear Faith

It was so nice speaking to you on Christmas Day. I hope you had a lovely holiday and that you didn't take any nonsense from Wesley. I'm planning a visit to New York before summer so maybe we'll have a chance to meet in person. I hope you enjoy the enclosed chocolate. Wesley brought back some American candy when he was over –ghastly stuff!

All the best

Sylvia



"Well, it seems like you've charmed my mother," Wes murmurs, not even attempting to hide the fact that he'd totally reading over her shoulder. "Would you like to help me open my cards?"

And she so would, snit forgotten as he tells her who they're from, which is mainly his truckload of cousins, though there's a home-made effort with something that might be a cow on it from his little brood of micro-sized relatives addressed to "Onkle Wesslee", which makes her burst into a fit of giggles as Wes reads out all the spelling mistakes in his prissiest voice.

She's still chuckling feebly when he places the cards on the nightstand and turns to her. "Now, Faith, what are you going to read to me?"

"Shouldn't you read to me if you want me to go to sleep?" she argues. "And maybe stroke my hair while you're at it."

"No, it's my birthday and I seem to recall that my every wish was to be granted."

"OK," she says grudgingly, then snuggles down under the covers. "But we have to cuddle."

And she starts to read Girlfriend In A Coma to him 'cause it seems appropriate with the whole nap thing even though she's completely not tired but by the end of the first page, he's started smoothing her hair with careful, deliberate strokes and she's fighting to get through to the end of the chapter, managing to mumble, "Destiny is what we work toward. The future doesn't exist yet. Fate is for losers" before her eyelids droop and she gives a huge yawn and rests her head on his shoulder so she can let sleep claim her.


Chapter Three Hundred and Eighty Seven

The books are stacked precariously high in The Strand of her dreams. Okay, yeah, it's not much different than the real place, but all the hipster clerks are standing around her with foreign dictionaries and looking at her peevishly.

“What do you mean you can't remember exactly what he said?” a girl with spiky black hair and too much eyeliner snaps at her. “We can't help you if you don't know what you need to look up.”

She's just about to snap something at the stupid girl, break her neck maybe, when Xander suddenly appears.

“Try and remember, Faithy.” He looks far too serious and is holding a giant French dictionary that's not full of words but elaborate schematics of what appear to be shoes surrounded by mathematical formulas. “Rupert will be disappointed if you don't have all the right answers.”

Anne sidles through, arm in arm with Spike , and throws her a Portuguese dictionary.

“Wes didn't mention Portuguese. I don't need this one,” Faith says, tossing it to the floor. Bursting into flames, the book turns into a pile of Agent Provocateur lingerie, all too small.

“You might now,” Spike winks and he and Anne disappear into the film section.

“Never underestimate Wesley's abilities!” Anne calls over her shoulder with a laugh, and all the peevish book clerks join in nervously.

**

She wakes with a start. The room is dark, save the glow of the bedside lamp and she rubs the crust out of her eyes. Everything wobbles into focus as her eyes adjust to the low light.

Wes is perched on the edge of the bed, his hand caressing her right breast, thumb teasing the nipple erect through layers of fabric. It isn't sore, surprisingly, despite the abuse it took earlier in the day, but his touch feels weird, like when she bumps her funny bone. Tingly and numb at the same time, and it's a little nauseating.

“I think you let me sleep too long, I feel really gross. Plus, I had this really fucked up dream...” she mumbles and shoves his hand away. The weird churning in her gut ceases, but it's replaced by a swirling nervous energy as she realizes that they'll probably need to leave for dinner soon. And that's piled on top of the residual angst of her really obvious anxiety dream and the sticky weirdness of waking up after a too-long nap. As she struggles to prop herself up on her elbows, his hand slips into the space between her back and the mattress, coming to rest on her tattoo. Usually she'd totally be yearning for the soothing balm of his touch, but his hands aren't warm and steadying, they're cold and a little clammy to boot.  Or maybe she's the cold and clammy one. “What time is it?”

“Six o'clock. An hour to get ready, darling girl. But not if you persist in lolling about,” he says, pushing her up into a sitting position, leaning in to plant a little kiss on her pouty lips.

“Please tell me that you've made some coffee then,” she says through a stifled yawn.

“But you've already had your two caramel lattes for the day, Faith. I'm afraid I'll have to cut you off. Wouldn't do to have you jittery over dinner.”

“Well, I'll be face down in the cheese plate if I don't get some caffeine stat, Wes.” She collapses melodramatically against his chest and could totally fall right back asleep right then, and yeah, so she'd miss out on all the late-night fucking Wes has planned, but God, it might be worth it to avoid the Rupert Giles appetizer special.

Instead of cradling her in his arms and letting her get back to sleep already, he jumps to his feet, sending her crashing face-down into the mattress with a muffled harumph.

“Really, Faith,” he says, a twinge of annoyance edging into his voice. “We don't have time for a melodramatic display. You'll feel better once you've had a shower. Come along!”

Somehow, he manages to pull her to her feet, and she unsteadily stumbles after him into the bathroom. And, okay, yeah, once she's moving, she's feeling a lot better, and by the time he's joined her under the hot stream of water, she's totally at like 85% at least and rising as he carefully shampoos her hair and then briskly scrubs every inch of her still sleep-pliant body with a loofah.

“You're not stripping paint off me,” she huffs as he attacks her backside with gusto, but he just replies with a little snort and scrubs a little harder, or maybe she's just imagining it. And even though she's secretly pleased he's clearly going taking care of the little details of the evening, it doesn't give her anything else to think about but how to greet Rupert. Shake his hand? Give him a hug? No, only if he makes a move first, she decides. Though, the point is probably moot as he's probably not all into that kind of physical intimacy. Probably a good thing, 'cause in her mind he kind of looks a little uncharitably like all the jowly old English actors she knows from movies, like Ian Holm or Jim Broadbent or something. Maybe she'll be lucky and he'll look more like Alan Rickman...

“Faith...” Wes' voice pulls her out of her weirdly spiraling thoughts. “Are you all right? Even for someone so sleepy you're very quiet...” He pushes her gently against the wall of the shower stall, tangling his legs in hers and gives her a long, slow kiss that finally seems to kickstart her brain and she's suddenly overcome with a warm rush of desire. “Are you nervous?” he asks when they part, gently pushing away the wet tendrils of hair that are plastered to her cheek.

“Are you kidding? I'm fucking mortified, Wes...”

“Everything will be just fine,” he says, turning off the taps and grabbing a towel. He briskly dries off before wrapping her in a fresh towel and wraps her hair up in another, piling it on her head like a cute little turban. “Rupert doesn't bite. At least, I don't believe he does...”

“You don't know that! He's totally gonna want to eat me alive. He won't approve, won't like me...” She knows her voice is edging towards whiny hysteria as she follows him into the bedroom, but there's nothing she can do to stop it. “He probably talked to Anne and she told him all about how I'm some ... some drunken white trash skank...” She plops down on the bed dejectedly.

“I can assure you that Anne most certainly didn't tell him that.” And oh, she really envies his strength, she does. He's carefully and methodically laying out her outfit, all in order from underclothes and stockings, to her new black dress and matching shoes. The fact that he's in so control should make her feel better, but it doesn't. It makes her feel like a petulant teenager – which, of course, she kind of is. But that makes her feel even more like a big fucking baby 'cause she's making a big deal out of this when he's obviously not even slightly worried.

“Well, whatever. She probably couched it in some nicer words that mean the exact same thing!” Her voice slides into a fair imitation of Anne's perky chirping. “'Oh, she's just so young, Rupert. You must convince our Wesley that he's making a horrible mistake...'”

“Faith, you're being completely ridiculous and getting yourself worked up for no reason. I assure you she did no such thing. Now, please, please just try and remain calm...” Well, okay, she was wrong about him not being worried, there is a tiny bit of an annoyed edge to his voice now, underneath the concern. But she's momentarily stunned into silence as he dresses, choosing a black wool suit that's perfectly tailored so as to accentuate his lanky frame. And yeah, it is a little soothing to watch him in this reverse strip tease as he pulls on one sock, then another --  to watch him slip into his trousers and then slowly button his shirt. He catches her eye in the mirror, pins her with one of those patented Wesley looks that could melt lead or something as he slips the cuff links on, fastening each French cuff shut and then makes a great show of slowly knotting his new tie that's totally turning her into the pile of gushy romantic goo formerly known as Faith.

Without turning to look at her, he asks, through his reflection, “I'm going to dress you now, Faith. Would you like that?”

“Yeah,” she breathes, heart knocking against her chest as he crosses over to her and unwinds the towel from her hair. God, she hopes this feeling never fades, the exhilaration that comes the moment they're slipping into a game. “Really would, Wes.”

His fingers trace along her neck, where the collar would rest were she wearing it. “But you're to calm down, is that clear? I don't want to tell you again.”

“Yes,” she croaks as all her anxiety is funneled away by his touch and turned into the heavy, wet weight of desire between her legs. His hands slide down reverently over her body, an eyebrow quirking when one hand slips over her damp pussy.

He leans in, voice rasping in her ear. “What was it that made you wet, Faith?”

“You,” she says simply. There's too much to explain, she'd be there all night.

“Nothing in particular?” He looks suspicious, but that doesn't stop him from slipping his fingers inside her cunt, dragging the moisture up to lubricate the little circles he starts to trace around her clit.

And she can't speak, only moan softly as the his fingers curl and tease over her sex, never resting in one place long enough to really get her going, just increasing her desire exponentially with each shift of his fingers.

“What was it? Tell me...”

“Just you being you, Wes,” she manages to force out of her gritted teeth, throwing her arms around his neck and pulling him down into a kiss.

And she's totally not ready for the way he scoops her up into his arms and brings her down to meet the mattress, the wool of his trousers leaving a trail of friction as he pries her legs open with his knee. “You wicked girl, I'm fully dressed and all I want to do is get out of these bloody clothes and fuck you here and now...”

“Nothing's stopping you, Wes.” But he's miles ahead of her, his hand's fumbling for his belt and she arches under him, hands slipping down from cradling his head to loosen his tie – when she catches sight of the clock. The clock whose hands are starting to inch precariously towards 7:00. “We can be a little late, right...?”

Which, in retrospect, is probably not the wisest thing to say at that moment.

His head whips around and it's like he's hit the circuit breaker when he sees the clock. “Oh fuck,” he mutters. “<i>Fuck<i>!”

“Hey, hey Wes. Chill. It's okay. We still have half an hour.” And it's so horribly wrong that she's the one calming him down now as he obsessively fusses with his tie in the mirror, leaving her to yank on her clothes faster than she really should. It's amazing, really, that she doesn't bust a hole in her fine denier stockings as she shoves her feet in and gracelessly yanks each one up with a few sharp tugs.

“It's impossible to get a cab going downtown at this hour. How did that slip my mind?” he mutters to his reflection. “Idiot!”

She slithers into her dress, but can't quite get the zipper up all the way alone. “Wes, just call down to the doorman and have him start trying to snag one now,” she says, hastily slipping into her shoes while still trying to pull the zipper up. “But hey, like, can I get some help here first?” But he's out of the room and halfway down the hall at that point, muttering something about finding the phone.

Giving up on the zipper, she briskly towels her hair dry and drags a brush through it, but it's still way too wet for going outside on a cold night, and it's totally gonna get smooshed flat under her hat and look like crap by the time they reach the restaurant, she's sure of it. Fuck it, she thinks, it's just hair, it's not like she ever styles it that much anyway – but she gives it another go-round with the towel just to be on the safe side.

She can hear him in the other room barking down the phone line at the doorman on duty as she whisks on some mascara, eyeshadow, a coat of dark plum lipstick, and a couple strategic smudges of Stila all-over shimmer in a quick attempt to pull off some semblance of an acceptable evening makeup look. And amazingly, her hair doesn't look quite so bad now, and she actually looks pretty freakin' gorgeous under the circumstances. Except for the fact that she's only half zippered into her dress, but that can be fixed, easy.

Wes is markedly less freaked out when he returns to the bedroom, her coat draped over his arm, and he finishes zipping her up before she can even ask again.

“There's a cab down there for us now,” he says, slightly out of breath. “I'm sorry, Faith. I'm sorry I made us late. This is all my fault.”

“Wes, chill, really – we're not late yet...” She shoves her lipstick and cigarettes into an evening clutch and links her arm through his. “Believe me, I know. We're totally cool...”

“This is Manhattan, Faith. At the tail end of rush hour. We'll only just make it. It's not the optimal situation but...”

“It's gonna be okay, Wes, really. We're both nervous. But we're gonna get through this,” She stops him in the doorway as he fumbles for his keys, stroking down a stray bit of hair and kissing him softly. “How the hell did I end up the calm one, huh?”



Then again, she's not really so sure she is the calm one once she's in the cab, but she puts up a good front anyway. They both do, really -- hands clasped tightly, spines ramrod straight, and hardly speaking a word to each other the entire way to the restaurant.


Chapter Three Hundred and Eighty Eight

Some measure of assurance returns to Wesley as they arrive at '21' only seven minutes past the time he'd arranged to meet Rupert. The deferential nod of recognition from the maitre d' doesn't hurt either and she can almost see him relaxing now he's here, safe in his world, where a dropped fork will get picked up by someone else, a glass refilled as soon as it's almost empty.

"Mr Giles is waiting for you in the lounge," they're told as they hand over their coats. "Your table is ready when you are - you're dining in our Upstairs room, I believe? - but he thought it would be pleasant to have a drink first."

Wesley smiles a thank you and she copies him, although his drops away after a moment and she feels as if hers is stuck to her face, a grimace of panic that won't go away.

"Wes, I can't - I think I'm gonna - look -"

Wesley doesn't take his eyes off the waiter who's been delegated to lead them through the warm, light rooms to where Rupert's waiting, like a hungry spider, to get her tangled up and fucked up, suck her dry and spit out her bones - and OK, now she's really not hungry...

"Faith, I'm here," he says in a bare whisper of a voice. "Please stop being so ridiculous."

The slightly exasperated tone and the arm that comes around her shoulder briefly, pulling her out of the path of a couple who're too busy talking to watch where they're going, settle her enough that when they reach their destination her desperate smile's disappeared, leaving a faint ache in her cheeks as a reminder.

Rupert's managed to get a booth; the curving sides providing some privacy, and the open side a view of the people, though at the moment all she's conscious of is a surge of noise from a hundred voices, a dazzle of color, and the oddly-homey smell of food in the background. The waiter vanishes and a tall man stands up and steps out to greet them.

Faith blinks at him, the confusion dropping away as she finally has one single thing to focus on, and then returning in a rush because he's so not what she was expecting. She knows he's a decade or so older than Wesley, knows a handful of facts about him, dry-pea-dancing around in her head - likes chess, whiskey, is English - knows she's got her other hand full of grudges over Anne and the fact he's muscled in on her last night with Wes.

None of that helps her now.

Rupert Giles is, well, she reluctantly admits he's not bad-looking. Older, yeah, but one of those men who just get better-looking with every birthday. He's got kind, green eyes, a charming smile, going-gray brown hair brushed back off a wide, lined forehead, and a voice that's so like Wesley's she feels a tiny bit of her hate chip away.

He gives her one, quick, amused glance and greets Wesley first, as if he knows she's too freaked to be capable of anything coherent, shaking hands the way men do, murmuring the usual commonplaces.

Then Wes clears his throat, slips his hand inside her arm, giving it a reassuring squeeze, and says, without a tremor, "Rupert, I'd like you to meet Faith."

Wesley's hand slips away and she stares at Rupert who gives Wesley a quick smile and then takes the hand she's automatically extended, raises it up and bends his head to kiss it. It's a proper kiss, brief but warm, leaving a lingering sensation on the back of her hand.

"My dear, you're every bit as beautiful as Wesley told me."

He straightens as she snatches her hand back, face burning because getting kissed in front of Wesley, even on the hand, feels weird. "I'm delighted to meet you at last."

She gives him a suspicious look but he's just smiling at her and Wes is starting to stiffen up as if he thinks she's gonna do or say something he won't be able to smooth over.

"Nice to meet you too, Mr Giles," she says politely. "And thank you for arranging this." She glances around and suddenly she can see it all properly, high ceilings, huge flower arrangements, the glitter of lights on glasses... "This is really something."

There's a twang of snapped tension and before she knows it, she's seated between them in the booth, with Wesley's hand finding hers for an approving, supportive pat and Rupert telling her all about the famous people who've dined here and the secret wine cellar in the basement, dating from the Prohibition days, that's now a private dining room, with the walls covered with racks of wine bottles.

"The senior partners," Rupert says, with a twist of his mouth, mocking the solemnity of his words, "which would just be Quentin and myself, always have a small dinner in early March and invite the partners - and their partners of course. The cellar room seats 22, so it'd do nicely. A little far ahead, I know, but would you be able to join us for that, Faith?"

All the suspicions that receded when Rupert begged her not to ever call him 'Mr Giles' again - although she got the idea he was kind of pleased she had at first - flood back. Because she might not be back then and if he thinks he knows just the perfect person to take her place, he can fucking think again.

She opens her mouth to say something along those lines but Wesley gets there first. "I'm sure she will, Rupert, as I very much hope she's living here by then, but if she isn't, I'm sure I can prevail upon Anya to accompany me."

And she's just about to get on his case, because when she meets Anya there's going to be a really interesting conversation about secretarial solidarity and how it means you don't refuse to put people through and be, like, totally rude, when Rupert winces and flings up his hand.

"Wesley, you can be a complete bastard at times," he says and she remembers Wes told her once that Anya had the hots for old Rupert - not so hard to believe now she's met him - and realizes that Wes just won that round with a knockout.

"I'm sure Faith would agree with you," Wesley says with a chuckle, just as the waiter arrives with a bottle of champagne and three flutes.

Wesley raises his eyebrows at Rupert who smiles. "I took the liberty of ordering for us. Not perhaps a traditional aperitif, but it seemed appropriate as we're celebrating so much tonight." He nods at them both. "Your birthday, Wesley; a bright new year - and Faith's first visit here."

The waiter opens the bottle, and Faith recognizes it as that same pretty, flower-wreathed one she once drank in Wesley's bath. She gives Wesley a quick, anguished glance because she's kinda stuck; not drinking it, when it probably cost a fortune in a place like this, is going to look rude, but Wes had been pretty specific about her staying sober. Of course, he'd been pissed-off at the time, and she was certain he didn't really mean she had to stick to water, but even so -

"Just a half-glass for me," she says.

The waiter's hand freezes in place and he shoots her a slightly incredulous look that she meets without flinching.

Rupert gives the waiter a tiny nod and the bottle's placed down and she's handed a glass with about three good swallows in it, which is such a shame because she loves this drink, loves the light, dry bite of it, the sparkle and the shimmer of the golden liquid in the glass, irrepressible and sophisticated all at once.

"Let me propose a toast," Rupert says, lifting his glass slightly. "To Wesley, on his birthday -" He turns and smiles at Faith, "To Faith about to make a fresh start - and to me who counts himself fortunate to have made a new friend - hopefully two."

And she's not going to capitulate that easily, no matter how hard he's trying to be nice, so she settles for a noncommittal murmur and a smile before taking a ladylike sip as Wesley and Rupert exchange friendly looks and down half their glasses.

Hmm. maybe she's not the only nervous one...

They chat about nothing much for a few minutes, with Rupert apologizing for having to drag Wesley in over the holidays and Wesley shrugging it off as unavoidable, and then Giles glances over at a couple of men deep in conversation.

"Wesley? Weren't you saying you wanted to meet David Nabbit?"

"Yes," Wesley says, staring at the short, slightly overweight man who's looking harried and, against the perfection around him, really under-dressed, although his suit and tie are expensive enough. "Anne mentioned that he was involved in a charity project I've been doing some pro bono work for, but really, I'm not sure this is the best time; he's obviously busy."

"I'd describe him as harassed myself," Rupert says. "And I really don't think he'd mind being rescued. Besides, he told me only the other day that he heard good things about you. Let me -"

Rupert catches the man's eye and Faith sees an almost comical look of relief pass over Nabbit's face as he gestures eagerly for Rupert to join him.

"Faith, would you excuse us for just a moment?" Rupert says, standing up.

"Uh, sure," Faith mutters.

Wesley hesitates, gives her a 'what can you do?' look and slips out of the booth. "Would you like to come too?"

"Oh, I'll be back to keep her company, don't worry," Rupert says. "I'll just introduce you and then -"

Somehow, and it's really fucking neat if only it wasn't going to leave her in a one-on-one with him, Rupert sweeps Wes over there, gets rid of the other man, and has Wes and this David guy chatting away like bestest buds, all without doing more than smile and say a few words. Faith watches him work with a sinking feeling, and finishes her champagne in one, defiant gulp.

When Rupert sits down beside her again she's ready for him.

He doesn't say anything at first; just picks up the bottle and refills his glass and then, before she can stop him, takes, tilts, and fills her glass too.

"I told you," she blurts out. "I'm not allowed to drink it."

"'Allowed'?" Rupert says, frowning slightly. "Odd choice of words. From my impression of him, I'd say Wesley was more inclined to spoil you than be strict with you?"

How about them being one and the same thing? she thinks, gripped in an icy-calm now, because she's got to be so very careful -

"I mean allowed because I'm under-age," she explains carefully. "Got nothing to do with Wes." She smiles sweetly and plays an ace. "You're a lawyer; should know that one."

Turns out to be a joker. Rupert says softly, "Then why did you have any at all? I'm afraid that argument doesn't hold water." And as she scrambles for a reply he asks, "Just how old are you, Faith?"

"Nineteen," she says. "How old are you?"

There's a surprised pause and she can feel Wes staring at her from across the room, as if he's listening to every word, although that's impossible, and then Rupert starts to laugh.

"Sauce for the goose? Quite right. It was rude of me to ask, wasn't it? I'll be fifty this year; impossibly old, I know." He taps his finger against her glass. "I won't let you get drunk, Faith, and you don't, you really don't, have to be quite so on guard around me." He holds her gaze and gives her a slightly mischievous look. "You're so very determined to hate me, aren't you?"

She stares at the glass without touching it, watching the bubbles rise in an endless flow. "Did you arrange this?" she asks bluntly. "Getting us alone?"

"Good Lord, you're so direct," he murmurs. "You'd make a dreadful lawyer, my dear."

"Good job I'm just a legal secretary then, isn't it?" she answers. "But I'm guessing you know that already. That I was Wes' secretary, I mean."

He nods without showing any signs of being flustered. "Oh, yes."

"You didn't answer my question," she reminds him.

"Did I arrange for young Mr Nabbit to be here? No. Hardly. Was I fairly certain that there would be someone here tonight Wesley wanted, or needed to speak to, giving me the chance to talk to you alone? Yes. That's practically a given at a place like this."

She folds her hands in her lap and sits up straight, back not touching the cushioned wall of the booth. "Talk about what?"

He clears his throat. "Two things. First, an apology; both Wesley and, more recently Anne, have been at pains to make it clear that I'm not to play Cupid again, and I understand that my actions, well-intentioned, I assure you, caused you some dismay and led to -"

"Me being all kinds of rude to Anne at the ballet," Faith finishes. "Yeah. But that was my fault." She nods at the glass. "And drinking most of a bottle of that didn't help."

"Ah, I see why you're so insistent on sobriety tonight," he says. "But I'm still convinced I'm mostly to blame."

She sighs and lets her resentment go. "No. You didn't know I existed and you thought you were doing Wes a favor, right? Setting him up with someone when he was new in town and all alone, someone you thought he'd like..." Rupert clears his throat again, looking uncomfortable, and she frowns. "What?"

"I didn't know about you as an individual, but I knew something untoward had happened in the time between offering Wesley the job and his first day," he tells her. "He'd mentioned when we met that he was involved with someone who'd be coming here with him, but not gone into details. I didn't know him well enough to ask for any, and it really didn't seem important; one expects a man his age to have someone, no matter how dedicated to his profession."

"Yeah," she says softly, her gaze drawn to Wesley who was writing something down in a notebook, and talking at the same time, his face animated. "That was me. I was supposed to come. We had a house picked out and everything -" She turns her attention back to Rupert who's giving her a really odd look. "Now what?" she snaps.

"Your face -"

"What about it?" she demands, because she'd been in such a rush when she got ready - oh God, had she smudged her mascara or - no, Wes would've noticed -

He picks up the champagne cork, turning it in his fingers. "When you're glaring at me, you're still very pretty, if a little fearsome, but when you look at him you're quite impossibly beautiful, you know." He looks up and meets her startled eyes. "It's rather disconcerting."

"I'm not -" She's stumbling over the words, blushing now, because, sure Wesley says she is - thinks she is - and she knows she's pretty, but -

"Oh, you are," he says quietly, "but I shan't tell you again if it bothers you."

She gives him a grin, relaxing for the first time. "Bother me one more time."

And she gets why Anya's after him, totally gets it, because when he leans forward, picks up her hand and kisses it again, murmuring, "Faith, you're quite enchantingly beautiful," he's giving Wes a run for his money when it comes to sending tingles all over her.

Then he leans forward, still holding her hand, and says in a confidential whisper, "Wesley looks about ready to challenge me to pistols at dawn."

"He does?" She slants her eyes over to him and yeah, he's not looking happy. She can't help it; she giggles, pulling her hand free.

"And you're amused by my imminent demise because you're still not ready to forgive me?" Rupert asks mournfully, sipping at his drink.

"No," she says. "Just don't think you're in any danger. Wes likes you."

The pretence drops away and she sees the edge beneath the kind eyes and charming smile. "I like Wesley too," Rupert says evenly. "My first memory of him is as a seven-year old throwing up behind the stables because he was so bloody terrified of getting on the horse his father had chosen for him - a brute of a beast, far too strong for him. I was the only one who saw that - and ten minutes later I saw him get on the horse without hesitating."

"Wesley said you knew his mom a bit but he didn't say much else," Faith says, feeling the weight of her pity for Wesley and her equally strong hatred for his father. "I kind of thought you were more friends with his dad, but -"

She hesitates, doubtful because the picture in her head of Roger doesn't match the sort of man Rupert would like, not now she's met him, and he confirms it by shuddering. "And were you still harboring an urge to punish me for the Anne debacle, that insult should balance the books nicely. Dreadful man. No; I really didn't know the family well at all; after that day it was years before I saw Wesley again; thirty to be precise."

"When you offered him the job," Faith says slowly. "But not because you knew him from way back?"

"It didn't hurt," Rupert said frankly. "But, no, he's a very talented lawyer and it was more than time he remembered that. I don't wish to be rude, but he can't have had much scope in your home town."

"No," she says, remembering how she'd wondered what he was doing there, why he stayed.

"So I offered him the position," Rupert continues, "and looked forward to working with him." His head turns and Faith follows his gaze. Wesley's looking restive now and as if they both sense that they don't have much time to finish this, Rupert's voice quickens. "And he arrived in May, completely changed - alone, withdrawn, a polite, cold shell and I wanted to ask what had happened, but I didn't really need to, did I?"

"No," she says, feeling her throat close up at the thought of those first weeks after he'd gone.

"No," he agrees. "So I gave him time, put him to work with people like Lindsey and Francis - whom I believe you've met?" She rolls her eyes and he grins. "Yes. Hard to be withdrawn and brooding around them, wouldn't you agree? And then -"

He sits back and stares at her thoughtfully. "You don't have to answer this, Faith, but I confess I'm curious: what happened on the thirteenth of September?"

And it's so out of the blue that she's lost for a moment, frowning at him in perplexity. Then it clicks.

"I emailed him," she says. "Got back in touch with him. And that's all I'm saying, because it's between us."

"I see..."

Wesley's shaking hands with Nabbit and turning away.

Rupert pushes her glass towards her. "Thank you, Faith."

She doesn't pick it up. "For what?" she asks bluntly.

Wesley's threading his way through the crowd now, moving with a restrained impatience.

"For being honest - and admirably discreet - and, according to Sylvia, who is someone I like, despite her poor choice of husband, the indirect cause of his reconciliation with his family."

And if he had one question, she's got a dozen after that, but there's no time. Wesley and a waiter arrive at the table simultaneously and Rupert stands up, shrugging off the intensity of their brief, loaded conversation as he does so, and giving Wesley a bland smile.

"Shall we go to our table then? Faith? Are we done here?"

She looks, not at Wesley, who's really on edge now, as if he never intended her to be alone with Rupert for that long, but at Rupert who's asking so much in four words. Holding his gaze, she reaches out for her glass and drinks from it, a long, fizz-filled swallow.

"All done."

She moves to the edge of the booth and slips her hand inside Wesley's, standing and smoothing down the wide skirt of her dress with fingers that have stopped shaking now.



Chapter Three Hundred and Eighty Nine

Wesley holds her hand all the way up the stairs to a much smaller room where a circular table, tucked away in a corner, is waiting for them. It's not until he releases it so that she can sit down that she realizes his thumb's been moving restlessly against the place Rupert kissed, as if to erase it.

She's been in too many restaurants with Wesley to get overwhelmed by them, even though this one is off the scale when she compares it to the ones around her home, but the menu, handed to her with a flourish, makes her blink.

"Wes?" she hisses, leaning forward. "What the fu - I mean, what's red kuri? And when they say 'oxtail', it's like your mincemeat with no minced meat in it, right? They don't mean an actual tail -"

"From an actual ox?" Rupert says, his eyes twinkling. "I'm afraid they do."

"That's -" She's about to say 'gross' but she thinks better of it. "Different. Think I'll pass though."

"Red kuri is a type of squash, Faith," Wesley says in a cool voice, not lifting his eyes from the menu. "But I notice that the foie gras comes with broccoli puree if that's more to your liking."

And he can be mad at her if he wants, though she's not exactly sure what she's done, but there are limits.

"Really isn't, Wes." She scans the appetizers and decides to go for the tuna. It's raw, which means she's not gonna be eating it, but it comes with sourdough chips, so score.

Wesley emerges from the menu only to start an earnest discussion with Rupert over the wine. They make a token effort to involve her but she shakes her head. "I'm good with whatever you guys pick. Really."

She's full of approval for the dessert menu (chocolate mousse cake? So saving a corner for that!) but she's reduced to profound gratitude that with Rupert there, Wes can't insist on ordering for her, or feeding her, because she has the feeling that in the mood he's in she'd be tucking into the lamb, which comes with some stuff she doesn't really want to think about, (artichoke stew? ) such as the horror of a Brussels sprout emulsion.

In fact, when he taps the menu with his finger and gives her a long, considering look, she's certain he's contemplating 'suggesting' it, in a way that doesn't give her any choice but to obey, but before he can say a word, the waiter arrives, turning to her first with a bright smile.

It's with deep satisfaction that she orders the sea bass with truffle potatoes and champagne sauce, meeting Wesley's ironic look and -barely - resisting the temptation to stick out her tongue.

After they've ordered and the wine's arrived, Rupert excuses himself, threading through the tables to the washroom and getting stopped so many times as he does, that Faith can't help wondering if that was more the objective than a need to pee.

He's barely out of earshot when Wesley takes a gulp of his wine, sets the glass down with a thump and says, "I'm sorry that I had to leave you alone for so long earlier, Faith."

"I wasn't alone," she says. "Rupert was there."

She gets a look that promises her she's gonna be flying home with a stinging ass. "I'm well aware of that, Faith."

"Look, Wes," she says, relenting because it's his birthday after all, "I was nice to him, OK? We had a talk about the whole Anne deal and we got stuff sorted out."

He winces. "I hope you weren't - Faith, Rupert's very important to me, both as a friend and an employer - you didn't -"

"Wes, it's cool," she insists. "He was sweet and stuff."

"Yes," he drawls, changing moods in the blink of an eye. "I noticed him being... sweet." And he's just so close to pouting that she can't bear it.

"Wesley, if you think for one moment -"

"Give me your hand," he says, interrupting her.

"What?"

He extends his hand and raises his eyebrows. "I don't think I was speaking in a foreign language this time, Faith, so I see no reason to repeat myself."

She places her hand in his and he stares down at it for a moment and then turns it over and brings it to his mouth, kissing her palm and then her wrist, leaving her breathless because there's so much heat in his eyes as he watches her react, his thumb resting against the pulse hammering in her wrist.

"You - Wesley -"

"Tell me you love me," he says with an intensity that's emphasized by his lowered voice. "I want to hear you say it."

And she's just about to, because usually it's her asking for that reassurance, and she knows how it feels, how sometimes it just needs to be said, to be heard, but Rupert picks that moment to slide back into his chair with a genial, all-encompassing smile, and the chance is lost.

"Faith, do tell me," he says breezily, "when you were working for him, did Wesley have some of the bad habits Anya's trying to break him of? Or has he developed them recently?"

She's so very glad she swallowed her mouthful of wine as soon as she realized she was going to have to be ready to answer a question, or she thinks Rupert would've ended up wearing it.

"Such as?" she asks cautiously. "'Cause the only thing I had a problem with wasn't a habit as such; it was just the way he had this total hate on when it came to printers and computers and I know he's gotten over that."

"I simply prefer -" Wesley begins, but Rupert's throwing back his head and laughing.

"He didn't make you use a typewriter did he? With carbons and ribbons?"

Wesley's glaring at them both at this point, and she nudges his foot - least she hopes it's his foot - with hers. "Yeah, but you know, I kind of liked it myself," she says loyally. "The straightforward typing anyway."

"Anya's never quite recovered from the time you hauled her over the coals for correcting your spelling." Giles purses his lips. "I do sympathize, Wesley, but when in Rome, you know -"

"I simply pointed out -"

"And he's had the poor girl running all over the place looking for the tea he wants and insisting on a -"

"Freshly-cut thin slice of lemon, resting on the saucer, not in the tea," she finishes dreamily. "Yeah, I remember." She takes a sip of her wine and gives them both a demure look. "Maybe I should come in one day and give her a few pointers?"

There's a moment's silence and then - thank fuck - they're both laughing, with Wesley's bad temper disappearing as fast as the wine.

And it's like all that tension has finally cracked and she can start to relax, though she's always aware of Rupert's eyes on them, taking everything in, like the way Wes brushes away a strand of her hair which is clinging to her face or how she covers his hand which is resting on the table and squeezes his fingers gently as he's telling Rupert about the time she made him drink the vodka milkshake.

"Really, Rupert, it was quite possibly the most revolting concoction I've ever tasted," he says with a shudder and she giggles.

"Whatever, Wes," she snorts, nudging him with her arm. "This from the guy who's like the king of stinky cheese."

Turns out Rupert's big with the stinky cheeses too – must be a British thing – and he and Wes regale her with tales of stinky cheeses they have known while she pulls disgusted faces until the starters arrive.

Her tuna arrives and looks every bit as raw as she feared, though she's more preoccupied with Rupert's oxtail, which doesn't look quite so tail-y as she thought. But the sourdough chips are yummy and when Wes asks her if there's something wrong with her tuna, she gives him her most serene smile.

"It's kinda raw, Wes, and I want to leave some room for my pudding," she explains in her most poised voice. And there's nothing he can do about it but purse his lips. Either way she doesn't have to eat it, and either way, he's going to be spanking her ass at some stage tonight so it's win/win.

As it is, she's really getting into her role as the perfect lawyer's girlfriend, asking Rupert about how he came to work in the States and listening attentively when he tells her about the big case he and Wes have been working on. She can't help but shoot Wes a proud smile as Rupert tells her about the corrupt slum landlord that he totally annihilated in court.

"Only saw Wes in action once," she chimes in, seeing that dusty courtroom in her mind's eye, "but he pretty much rocked."

"Oh, Faith, I'm afraid that a career as a court reporter sadly does not beckon," Wes says sorrowfully, shaking his head and sharing an amused look with Rupert, which any other time would have her snarling and getting all paranoid that they were making fun of her but Wes has slipped an arm round the back of her chair, the side of his hand warm against her neck and it steadies her, keeps her calm and her smile natural as the starter plates are cleared away and she takes a good chug of her water so she doesn't get too drunk. As it is, she's maybe halfway to mildly squiffy.

Thankfully her sea bass isn't too covered with yucky garnishes and she's actually feeling kinda accomplished as she revels in the chink of glasses and the expensive tinkle of silverware on fine bone china. She hasn't sworn or had to spit her food out and Wes keeps flashing her these encouraging little smiles, which make her feel completely cherished. Man, if the folks back home could see her now.

She even manages not to stab Wes with her fork when the waiter comes to take their orders for dessert and he gives her a wicked grin and asks her if she wants the cheese plate.

"I want the chocolate mousse cake, Wes, like you didn't already know that," she hisses and then lowers her voice so Rupert can't hear, though he's watching them like they're a new episode of The Osbournes. "Don't be mean to me on my last night."

"How am I being mean to you?" he enquires archly, raising an eyebrow and she taps her finger meaningfully on his thigh.

"You're trying to deprive me of chocolate," she squeaks indignantly.

"Wesley, leave the poor girl alone," Rupert orders and then gives Faith one of those disarming smiles, which she imagines he uses to great effect when he's grilling some poor sap in the witness box. "So, Faith, what are you planning to do with your time when you move to New York?"

Thank God, he's started off with an easy one. "Gonna get a job," she says firmly, ignoring the way that Wes has straightened up. They haven't talked about it but she's going to get a paying job, give him money towards her board and he can just fucking deal with it. "Maybe find another Monty and be his assistant."

"Although you may go back to school," Wes adds stiffly, refusing the wine bottle that Rupert's offering him. "Really, Faith, you're incredibly bright, I don't think you should dismiss the notion of further education out of hand."

"I'm not! But I'm so over, like, homework and tests and I want to pay my way," she finishes angrily and then tries to find her poise again and get Rupert to stop looking at her like she's a specimen under the microscope. "Might become a lawyer though, Wes, a few years down the line and then I can kick your ass in court."

"We'll see," Wes mutters and he's removed his arm from the back of his chair and she just wishes he'd stop being so fucking mercurial.

"I hate to contribute to your little domestic disagreement but I was talking to one of the professors at NYU the other day," Rupert smoothly interjects and they both turn to him in relief. "His assistant is leaving to have a baby in April and he's anxious to find some cover. I could put a word in for you, Faith."

She beams at him and then at Wes but thinks better of it when he gives her a sour look in return. "Thanks, Rupert, I'd really appreciate that," she says sweetly. "Maybe I could email you my resume to send to him."

"Though I'm not sure that Wesley would approve of all those lecherous law students coming into close contact with you," he adds with a sly look at Wes and she fucking swears she can hear him grind his teeth.

"Wes doesn't have to worry about stuff like that." And she strokes his leg under the table, just so he's sure on that point. "So, Rupert, where did you go to school?"

Turns out that Rupert was quite the hellraiser when he was at college. He belonged to this British version of a frat called The Scoundrels and they got up to all sorts of bad boy shit. She barely registers her chocolate mousse cake arriving but digs in without really noticing because Rupert's telling her about these, like, completely debauched drinking games they used to play and how they'd lure impressionable freshmen girls back to their pad…

"And really, my dear, modesty forbids me from continuing this rather lurid tale," he laughs when he's just got to the good bit.

"Aw, c'mon, Rupes," she begs. "Don't hold out on me."

"I can see what you meant when you told me how persuasive she is," Rupert tells Wes who hasn't said a word for, like, ten minutes. "Though you forgot to mention just how winsome that pout is."

"If it was that winsome you'd totally be spilling the beans," she says plaintively, wriggling away from Wes' hand on her back because she's really hot and it's distracting her from getting Rupert to 'fess up. "Tell me! I won't tell a soul so your rep as a big, important lawyer dude stays all intact."

Rupert has gone all red-faced and giggly, which is actually kinda cute and he puts down his napkin and throws his hands up in the air. "I'm sorry, Faith, but there are some secrets that will be buried with me."

"Not cool," she opines sadly as he pushes his chair back.

"There's someone over there, Mr Delmonico, Wesley, you remember? I must go and press the flesh."

The second he's out of earshot, she turns to Wes with a big grin. "It's going really well, isn't it?"

But from the pissy look on Wes' face like he's just been sipping hydrochloric acid, you'd think it was the worst dinner in the history of worst dinners.

"What are you looking at me like that for?" she asks him worriedly. "Did I fuck up? Thought me and Rupert were getting on like a house on fire."

He leans in close to her, so his breath is warm on her neck and she's feeling shivery now, not hot. The good kind of shivery because his thumb is pressing down on the jut of her lower lip.

"I thought that your winsome pout was reserved only for me," he whispers in her ear and all she can do is stare at the intent, almost savage look on his face. "You're such a provocative little tease, Faith. And the only reason I'm veering ever so slightly towards leniency is because I don't think you quite realize how desirable, how fuckable you are. I know Rupert thinks so."

And she should maybe be ewwwing because Rupert's a nice guy but no way in hell would she ever even think about that. Not, like, in a gazillion years but she's still stuck on the small print.

"Lenient?" she asks him in a tiny voice just before he pushes his thumb slowly and deliberately in to her mouth.

"Well maybe not quite so lenient," he decides with a wry smile. ""Do you want to know what I'm going to do to you when I get you home, Faith? Should I blindfold you and tie you to my bed? Use that pretty whip on you, watch you flinch and squirm as you try to guess where it'll land next? A hundred flicks with it, just kissing your skin until it's alive and flushed and warm to my hand and you're begging me to hurt you properly, end the torment, but you'll have to beg so very nicely for that, Faith, because I do so love to make you wait."

All she can do is stare at him mutely, not even giving in to the urge to squirm longingly on her chair because she can feel her nipples tingling, her cunt moistening and the gentle thrust of his thumb in her mouth.

But he hasn't finished and he gives her a sinister, sultry smile and his other hand is under her dress and resting on her knee now, heavy and warm through the silk of her stockings.

"And we haven't really explored the possibilities of my birthday present, have we? Where else would you like to feel them, Faith?" he purrs, hand sliding up her leg so fucking slowly that she's almost whimpering around his thumb. "Do you think you could bear one on your clit, just for a moment, applied so carefully after I've spent an hour licking and sucking at it but never letting you come? Would you come then, Faith, just from that sharp, exquisite pain? And would I be merciful and allow it, excuse it, because really, I ask so much of you, don't I, my darling girl? Oh, I think not... and you'd cry if I did, wouldn't you? Because I'll give you anything and everything my love, but never mercy, never that."

He pulls his thumb away from her mouth, where she's been slicking it up with her tongue and she doesn't even have to think about it. "Don't want mercy, Wes. Don't ever want it."

His hand is just ghosting the satin between her legs, where she's damp and craves him the most, because she's just soaked through another pair of $50 panties.

"I know exactly what you want, Faith," he tells her harshly, at odds with the way his fingers are gently pressing the wet scrap of satin against her clit. "And I can promise that you're going to leave tomorrow aching, Faith, every part of you. You'll leave covered with bruises I won't get to see flower under your skin and fade, and I'll regret that so very much that I'll make them marks that will last for days, left in a dozen secret places..."

She's arched towards him, the hum of the restaurant fading away because all there is is him. All she can hear, all she can see, all she can touch. "Want to go home now," she pleads. "Don't want to leave you, Wes. Just wanna stay…"

"And you're never to come, ever, Faith without my express permission while we're apart," he continues, voice and fingers relentless. "If you do, if you dare - oh, I'll ask you and I'll know if you have, if you've lain there in bed, fingers pressing against skin I know better than you do, dipping into wetness, into the heat that my fingers and mouth and cock know so well..."

She shuts him up, because she's going to dissolve into a puddle right there if he keeps talking, by kissing him. And he lets her, tongue sliding into her mouth in a promise of all the things he's said, all the things she knows he plans to do when they're alone. She doesn't care that Rupert could come back at any second, that they could get kicked out by the maitre d' for a way too hot public display of affection, all she cares about is his mouth on her and when he pulls away she makes this inarticulate sound of need, which makes his face light up, even as she feels the sting of her panties tearing, the elastic cutting into her skin before giving way.

"Huh?" she murmurs dazedly.

"Take off your knickers, Faith and give them to me," he drawls, turning his head to where Rupert is shaking some fat guy's hand as a prelude to coming back to the table. "Preferably before Giles gets here."

"Wes, please…" she implores him but she's already lifting herself carefully off the seat and trying to discreetly tug down her ruined panties. Rupert has already started walking back when she shoves the scrunched up pink satin into Wes' waiting hand. "You're such a fucking bastard," she mutters and there's no heat to her voice, just a furious blush staining her cheeks.

Wes has only just slipped them into the inner pocket of his jacket as Rupert arrives back with a slightly inquisitive gleam in his eyes. "I thought I'd leave you two lovebirds alone for a while," he says and she's sure he knows. But there's no way he can so she lifts up her head and manages to give him a tremulous smile.

"I was just telling Faith how much I was going to miss her," Wes says with a tiny, self-satisfied smirk. "As you can imagine."

Rupert is nodding his head sagely as he signals to a hovering waiter and makes the universal sign language for "can I have the bill?" "Well, I was going to suggest that you came back to my apartment for a nightcap – I've just acquired an Augustus John lithograph that I wanted to show you, Wes – but I'm sure you'd rather be alone."

He's got that right and Wes is already getting to his feet and helping her up because she's sure that standing when her clit is tapping out the Morse code for 'fuck me now' is going to be a problem. He strokes a hand down her hot face and then turns to Rupert with what she hopes is a regretful smile. Wouldn't do to tell the boss that he can't wait to get her home and make her scream.

"That sounds lovely, Rupert," he purrs, his hands surreptitiously smoothing over the curve of her ass. "Faith was just saying that she doesn’t want the evening ever to end."

Chapter Three Hundred and Ninety

If she could totally shoot real daggers from her eyes, he'd be so dead right then. On the floor, bleeding all over the fancy marble walkway. But, since that's not an actual possibility, Wes continues to exist, smiling at her with more than a hint of smugness.

Takes two to play that game, she's pretty sure of that. So she's only got one course of retaliation. And yeah, it's probably not the best idea to play on his jealous nature, but there's no other strategy's jumping to mind.

“Well, I am having a fantastic time -- with Rupert.” There's a barely perceptible pause in her phrasing as she smiles back through grinding, gritted teeth and swoops past Wes, linking her arm with Rupert's because she's still not feeling too steady on her heels. "I just need to powder my nose," she murmurs discreetly as they reach the restrooms and even Miss fucking Manners herself couldn't fault her goddamn poise, she thinks to herself as she scrubs at her treacherous pussy with a paper towel before splashing her face with cold water and trying desperately to calm the pounding in her veins to a dull roar.

Rupert and Wes are waiting for her at the coat check and she manages to hold her head up high, find a beatific smile from somewhere and let them usher her out the door into the chilly New York night. There's high thin clouds streaking across the moon, and the wind's picked up. But that's not a concern for long as the restaurant's doorman already has a cab waiting and they all pile in, her in the middle, book-ended by British guys.

She knows leaning heavily against Rupert with a tiny sigh of relief as they settle into the back seat is probably going a bit too far – and just in case she hadn't realized that, Wes' vise-like grip on her wrist is enough to let her know that he at least thinks so. She's trying to work out if the whisper-light brush of his thumb across her palm that follows is a threat or a promise when Rupert leans forward over the front seat to give the driver directions.

Wes is never one to miss an opportunity to gain the upper hand, and he takes the opening as if he were tearing into a tiny hole in a defense witness' story. She knows he has the ability to make the way he touches her look innocently affectionate to the casual observer, not drawing any attention to the fact that he is indeed driving her mad with some other subtle action – but pulling that off in such close quarters? With Rupert's back to them, he's got the advantage, but he's still so very sneaky.

Gently pulling her hair back away from her cheek, he leans in for what would appear to be a sweet kiss. But he's barely brushing his lips across her flesh as he murmurs, “You're certainly intent on insuring that your flight will be quite an uncomfortable one – any leniency I might have considered earlier in regards to sending you back home with your every single inch of your flesh still throbbing is null and void -- just you wait until I get you home.” Hidden by the deep shadows of the cab and the folds of her coat, he's able to slip his hand halfway up her skirt, letting his fingers come to rest on her inner thigh, as she squeezes her legs tightly together, which just makes her clit slowly come pulsing back to life.

With perfect timing, Rupert leans back at that moment, so she doesn't have time to bite out the tart retort that's waiting to burst from her lips. Never mind that her ministrations in the washroom and the cold tamped down the spark of her neediness, it's back in full force now. And she tries not to think about how her current state of undress is probably ruining her gorgeous designer dress, and wonders if Manhattan dry cleaners are blasé and cosmopolitan and don't even bat an eye at that kind of thing.

“So, Rupert, tell me about your apartment,” she says, turning to the older man and wondering if he knows that she's using him as a human shield, her thighs clamped viciously shut against Wes' marauding hand. “I take it you also live on the Upper East Side?”

“Yes,” he says, taking off his glasses as they pull away from the curb, carefully polishing them with a crisp handkerchief pulled from his suit pocket. And woah, without the glasses he's definitely got some hotness going on. She's momentarily captivated by his methodical, precise motions – they're not that dissimilar to some of Wes', actually. Which, if she'd noticed that under other circumstances, would've kinda of weirded her out, maybe – but wrapped in a warm buzz of champagne and squished up next to him in the back of a cab speeding uptown with Wes' hand up her skirt, well, these circumstances could make her see lots of things in a different light, she decides. Rupert gives her a little smile as he replaces his glasses and continues. “I admit, it isn't exactly what I had in mind when I pictured myself having a Manhattan bachelor pad, but it meets my needs adequately – even if it is a bit...”

“Pretentious?” The subtly flirtatious edge to her voice suddenly appears of its own accord now, like her body knows how to get exactly what she wants from Wes even if her head doesn't think it's a good idea to goad him any more than she has done. Right on cue, Wes' fingers flex in a silent order and inexorably she obeys like he's trained her to do, relaxing her posture so he can press just a little harder into her thigh, and she takes the bait. “Ostentatious, maybe?”

Rupert laughs. “Faith, you really do have a remarkable talent for directness – how refreshing! I admit, those are the two words that crossed my mind the first time I saw the place after the decorator had worked her wicked magic on the place. Wickedly expensive magic, I might add.”

“He hired Anne's sister for the job,” Wes adds, voice dripping with forced pleasantry. “She's already helpfully offered to find a place for us in her busy schedule should we require her services.”

Jeez, there was a sister, too? Would her punishment never end? “But Wes, remember, we'd decided that I'd handle the decorating decisions?” Well, they hadn't really, but it's more helpful to remember it that way...

...as it forces him to play along. “That was in the previous property, darling -- who knows where we'll end up this time. I'm quite fond of this part of town...”

“I'll be happy to look at places up here, Wes. But I have some pretty exacting standards, remember?”

“How could I forget, my sweet?” The lilting bite to his question is followed by the slight glide of his fingers further, ever further, up her thigh. “But of course, I just want you to be happy with your new home, wherever it may be.”

“Hey, Wes, we could live in a trailer and I'd be happy, as long as you were there with me.” And really Rupert can't be buying any of this bullshit, but he hasn't even so much as given a half-quirk of an eyebrow at the conversation. “But Rupert was talking about his apartment, Wes. I'm sure that it's totally boring for you as you've been there before, but I wanna hear all about it before we arrive.” And, just to show that she's not flustered by the proximity of his hand almost at the bulls-eye of her twitchy clit and because she's got a death wish the size of Texas, she traces her fingertip coyly over the back of Rupert's hand before resting her fingers lightly across it, her wrist and forearm draped across his thigh.

Rupert glances down in surprise then with a wicked grin in Wes' direction, only half glimpsed in the darkness of the cab, he pats the back of her hand in a not completely avuncular gesture. "I'd hate to ruin the surprise," he murmurs. "It really does have to be seen to be believed. By the way, Wes, before I forget did you make any progress on the Clarkson case?"

And after that she sits there in silence, half-lulled into this dream-like state by the rhythmic movements of Wes' thumb as it finally comes to rest on her clit and the dry legalese and cumbersome Latin phrases that fall out of their mouths. And she guesses she must have become like some kind of lawyer groupie because all the plantiff this and in forma pauperis that is making her light-headed and infinitesimally grind her pussy into Wes' waiting hand.

No wonder that when the cab pulls over, she's clinging onto Rupert's arm for dear life as he helps her on to the sidewalk. Doesn't help that Wes gets out the other side and walks round to them, absent-mindedly prodding his thumb with the tip of his tongue like he's lost in thought.

"There's no need to hold onto Giles quite so hard, Faith," he says amiably, the very picture of charm. "I feel quite left out."

Rupert laughs softly, as he holds out his hand to Wes. "We can't have that, Wesley. There's more than enough of me to go round."

And the dirtybadwrong fleeting thought of being in the middle of a Rupert and Wes sandwich pierces her dulled synapses just long enough for her to snag hold of Wes' sleeve so she can trap his hand in her spare one. "Don't be silly, Wes," she says, her voice shrill with nerves because there should be an NC17 rating slapped on the way he's looking at her. "Know you're the only one for me."

"That's very sweet," Rupert murmurs, as he holds the door open for her and now she's clutching on to Wes, hand greedy as she slides it over the rigid sweep of his spine.

When Rupert takes her coat, she's surprised to find that she's still got her dress on because she feels naked. Maybe it's the way Wes is looking at her like he can totally see through her black dress to where her nipples are hard and aching and her cunt is wet and messy -  just how he likes it.

The uber gilt and chintz of Rupert's front room only momentarily blindsides her and she blinks disconcertingly as the side lamps get snapped on and she's dazzled by the light reflecting off all the ormolu.

"OK, like, no way are we getting sister of Anne and her swatches within fifty miles of our new place," she snaps out decisively, voice firmer than it's been in an hour. Wes makes this tiny hissing sound and she realizes that dissing your host's décor is very not cool. She gives Rupert an apologetic smile and decides she'd better upgrade it to her most beguiling pout. "It's lovely, really it is, Rupert, but it's a little traditional for me and Wes; we kinda have this whole modernist vibe going on."

"Well, I must admit, my own tastes are rather more Catholic," Rupert says, wincing at a freakishly well-endowed, gold-plated cherub holding a lampshade aloft. "Maybe you could help me redecorate, Faith."

"Maybe I could, Rupes," she giggles, because she's guessing that Urban Outfitter rugs and vintage drapes really wouldn't go down too well and with a sideways look from under her lashes at Wes, she can see that her girlish trilling hasn't gone down too well with him either. She's gonna have to ask the flight attendant for extra cushions for her poor ass when she gets on the plane tomorrow, and just the thought of how tender it will be, like he's still touching her even when they're miles apart, makes her up the stakes. "Hmm, I'm thinking that you need to make this place a bit more sexy, Rupert," she purrs, flinging her arm out to encompass the room. "Y'know for when you bring ladies back."

Rupert gives a delighted chuckle and practically rubs his hands together with glee. "Have I told you how much I like you, Faith?" he smiles. "You're a girl after my own heart. Now, Wes why don't you show your utterly charming girlfriend the view and I'll sort out some drinks. Brandy?"

The minute that he's left the room, Wes is at her side in two angry strides and she's already lifting her face for the furious, devouring kiss he gives her, tongue thrusting in her mouth, hands cupping her ass and gripping tightly.

"Faith…" he growls, like some bespoke-suited caveman and she smooshes against him with a smirk.

"You jealous, Wes?" she taunts, almost burning her fingers. "Gonna do all those things you talked about in the restaurant? Gonna make me scream? Gonna make me beg?"

He doesn't say anything just reels her back in for another savage, lip-biting kiss and yanks her hand to where his cock, hidden by his jacket, is hard underneath her palm.

"Does being jealous turn you on, Wes?" she asks him and she's half curious, even as she stands on tiptoe so she can whisper in his ear. "Makes me wet, y'know. I'm. So. Fucking. Wet."

And she doesn't know where she was going with this, other than over his knee when they get home but she didn't expect him to push her away so he can bunch up the skirt of her dress with his hands, while she frantically tries to bat them away.

"Show me, Faith," he insists, his movements implacable so she can feel a gentle draught gusting round her legs. "I want to see just how fucking wet you are."

She glances over her shoulder at the doorway, expecting to see Rupert standing there with his mouth hanging open and his spectacles falling off. If she strains her ears, she thinks she can hear the distant chink of ice cubes. "He could come back at any time," she says frantically and then he places his impossibly warm hand over her pussy.

"Do it, Faith, now."

And there's no way she can deny him when he's drawling the words out, making them sound impossibly languid. So she's stepping away, pulling up her skirts so he can see what he's already felt, his head tilted to one side, the faint sheen of her arousal glowing on her mound.

"And if you look over there, my darling, that tall one with the lights on, that's the Empire State Building," he says conversationally and she thinks her brain has just broken but when Rupert walks into the room two seconds later, she's cradled in the circle of Wes' arms, dress demurely back in place as he points out the different, neon-lit landmarks.

She doesn't let go of Wes' hand after that – she's not sure she could, even if she wanted to. They sit side by side on Rupert's couch and she sips her Calvados brandy and smiles and nods every now and again like she's totally following the conversation, when all she's really doing is being killed slowly and softly by Wes' fingers caressing her wrist. When he lifts her hand to his mouth so he can kiss her knuckles, she has to bite down on her lip hard to quell the needy whimper that's rising up in her throat.

"Rupert, I'm afraid that I'm going to have to get Faith home now," he says finally, either taking pity on her or picking up the telepathic messages she's been sending him of 'Get me out of here. I need you to fuck me right the hell now.'

And the two kisses that Rupert gives her on each cheek as they say a hurried goodbye in the lobby is worth at least ten blows from the whip landing on her poor, defenceless skin, she decides, giving him her most blinding smile and saying throatily, "It was so lovely to meet you, Rupert. Hope I get to see you soon", just to make doubly sure.

Which is probably why she spends most of the elevator ride with her back against the wall, Wes' thigh hard between hers, hands tangled in her hair, as he ravishes her mouth.

Which is probably why he gives the driver a $100 bill as soon as they get into the cab and she spends the entire ten minutes of the ride home straddling him, her breasts bared as he sucks and bites at her nipples.

And it's probably why the second, the split second, that he slams the front door shut behind him, he turns to her with glittering eyes and the most fucking scary look she's ever seen on his face and says very slowly and precisely, "Hands and knees, Faith. I want you to crawl to the bedroom, you beautiful, little bitch."


Chapter Three Hundred and Ninety One

He watches her crawl into the center of the bedroom, and she can feel him watching, the weight of his regard pushing down on her so her hands drag slowly over the soft carpet. He tells her to stand, on legs that feel shaky, close to collapse, and begins to undress her. He's forbidden her to move until instructed, so each piece of clothing is taken from her to the accompaniment of a fleeting touch from his fingers, a calmly-voiced command.

Exactly as bidden, she raises her arms, bends them; steps out of the pool of black her dress makes as it drops to the floor, until she's standing naked in front of him. He's still dressed, only his overcoat discarded, his dark suit severe against the white shirt and blue tie.

She's trembling, but all it takes is a single, meaningful look to make her stop and leave her beautifully calm, perfectly poised. She's still a quick heartbeat away from writhing against him begging to be fucked though, and they both know it.

"Do you think I'm overly possessive, Faith?" he asks finally, when he's looked his fill. "Think that it's ludicrous of me to mind another man kissing your hand, making you smile, flirting with you and getting hard when you flirted back, pursing those full lips of yours so he couldn't help but imagine kissing them, feeling them on him – do you?"

She frowns because he knows she wouldn't – not ever – "Wesley, all that – it wasn't – it didn't mean anything. You know that."

He nods. "I do. And so does he, I'm sure. It changes nothing, Faith. And you didn't answer me. Should I apologize for how I feel when you're touched, desired by someone else?"

"No!" she says. "Because you know damn well I feel the same way about you, Wes. That's why when Anne, when she –" Her voice breaks and she swallows, glaring at him. "You're mine, Wesley," she says with a soft vehemence. "Just the way I'm yours."

"You're the only one who's ever wanted that," he tells her, and there's no anger in his voice now. "Ever wanted to belong to me, ever wanted me."

"I'll never stop," she tells him.

"I hope not," he murmurs. "But as I said, it changes nothing. You're still going to be punished."

He sits down on the bed and studies her for a moment, eyes narrowed in thought. "Fetch your hairbrush, Faith."

She walks past him into the bathroom, not looking at herself in the mirror because she knows what she looks like; how her face is flushed, her eyes dilated, her breathing deep and fast. When she's given him the brush he takes her hand, linking their fingers, and pulls her down across his knee.

"I don't have an exact figure in mind," he says, "so there's no need to count tonight. I'm simply going to spank you until I think your arse is red enough that when you arrive home tomorrow it will still be hurting." The cool flat side of the brush comes to rest against her skin, making her shiver. "And, as always, Faith, you can stop me with a word."

"Please..." she whispers and he chuckles.

"That's not it, but since you're so eager to begin –"

The brush smacks down hard and the stinging burn becomes too much to bear in silence after a very few strokes. She's panting, trying to hold back the sounds, but he sighs as if she's being impossibly recalcitrant and concentrates on one cheek, one spot, until she breaks and cries out, giving him what he wants, all the tears, the curses, the promises, the pleas.

When he's done, he turns her over and rocks her in his arms as she twists so her ass isn't touching his pants, now feeling like fucking sandpaper, not wool. His lips press kisses on her hair and her wet face until her sobs quiet down, tear marks brushed away by his handkerchief, deftly wielded as always. Then his hand slides between her legs to tease at her clit, pinching and twisting it with a remorseless gentleness, letting his fingers slip inside her, bringing them out glistening with her juices for her to lick clean again and again until she's forgotten everything but how much she wants him, and his cock, solid and aching behind too many clothes.

"Fuck me," she begs. "Please, Wes –"

"Not yet," he says and there's a curious expectancy about him now. "On the bed, on your back, Faith. Spread your legs for me."

Any hope she might have felt that he's about to relent end as he lashes her wrists and ankles to the bed and, after a moment's thought, drapes a final scarf across her eyes.

"I'm going to fuck you soon, Faith, because I want to, so very much, but I haven't dealt with your disgraceful behavior to my satisfaction yet."

"Do anything," she says hoarsely, feeling her hips lift off the bed an inch in an involuntary invitation. "Wes, I need you, need you in me..."

His hand comes to her mouth, caressing it, and she hears him chuckle, the sound lacking its usual indulgence, as she kisses it, frantic pushes of her lips against fingers that move away too fast, brushing the tender skin at elbow and neck, cupping the weight of her full breasts and pinching her swollen nipples with a delicate cruelty.

"I'm not going to be doing anything, Faith," he murmurs. "You are..."

"I don't understand," she says, her head moving restlessly against the pillow so the scarf catches and tangles in her hair.

"I want you to tell me a story, Faith. A fantasy, just like the ones we shared when we were apart."

She frowns. "Well, I'll try –" she begins doubtfully, because it's easier to write than to say, easier to say when you can't see – oh. She closes her eyes, even though the blindfold has already made him an indistinct shape above her.

"Before you begin, Faith, I'd like to give you some... guidelines, if I may."

She rolls her eyes, because she might have known it wouldn't be as easy as putting some of her starring Wesley Wyndam-Pryce as himself dreams into words. "Go ahead, Wes."

"I want you to describe, in detail, an hour or two with you...  and me... and Rupert, with him – I'm still speaking, Faith, you will be silent, please – with him in a position of authority over you, as much as I am."

"That's – no! I won't," she spits out furiously. "Wes, that's just fucking sick! He's your friend! You can't make me – and I'd never be able to look at him without remembering –"

"I imagine not," he says imperturbably. "Good. It sounds as if it will be an excellent way of ensuring that you don't repeat this particular transgression. And I wouldn't be too concerned over Rupert's finer feelings. I'm certain he's going to be thinking of you tonight as he jerks off – and yes, Faith, he will, and that doesn't please me, although I can't blame him. You really are so tempting and so very beautiful."

She clenches her bound hands into fists, eyes wide open now, staring into dim, shifting darkness because he's turned off the main light, leaving the room illuminated by a lamp in the corner. She hears him start to undress and she still can't think, can't decide –

"This is difficult for you, isn't it?" he asks kindly.

"Really is, Wes," she says, trying not to whine. "I just – I can't –"

"Perhaps you need a little help," he says. The familiar weight of her collar is slipped around her neck, comforting her at the same time as it heightens her arousal. "You're wearing my collar, Faith, and I've given you an order. It's very simple." There's a pause and he adds softly, "Isn't it?"

And when he puts it like that, yes, it is.

"He's – you're both watching me," she begins and his fingers drag slowly down her stomach as a reward for her obedience.

"Watching me strip for you..."

She builds up the picture for him; the two of them, sipping at drinks, sharing a couch, their eyes on her, only her, as she spins out the movements that leave her bare.

"And then I go to him – to Rupert," she says because she knows just how she's going to play this and if Wesley thinks he can win every battle, she's going to just have to remind him that she's a pushy fucking bottom, not a pushover...

"Go to him and he's smiling at me, telling me how well I did, and he pulls me down on his knee and kisses me while you watch – and it's different. He tastes different and he's gentle enough but I can feel how hard he is and when his hand comes up to my breast his tongue slides in past mine and I feel him moan – "

"And what am I doing, Faith?" he says in a toneless voice.

"You take my legs, pull me so I'm lying across both of you and while he kisses me, touching my tits and telling me how they're the perfect size and how much he wants to suck on my nipples, feel them harden and yeah, use his teeth and he's asking if I'd mind and I'm telling him no –"

Wesley sighs and brings the flat of his hand sweeping in an arc that ends between her legs, the sharp sound of the slap diffused by the soft, wet skin it meets. "Do I need to tell you how you earned that?" he asked, with a thread of annoyance that makes her smirk inside, where even he can't see it.

"No, Wes. You're - yeah, you're holding my ankles and pulling them apart, telling me how wet I am, how much you want to taste me, touch me, and you're both telling me that, but you don't do it and I'm starting to struggle, starting to beg... You look at each other, and it's like you've planned all this, and you're both smiling. Then Rupert reaches down, unzips himself, gets out his cock, and he's hard, so very fucking hard, just like you are now, Wes, isn't that right?"

"You know it is," he says indifferently. "Carry on, Faith... I'm sure this is going to get interesting soon..."

"Oh, you bet it fucking is, Wes. Because you roll me over onto my front, still lying across your laps, so I can be the one doing the tasting, and I want to, I really do. I've got my hands free so I can hold him in place – and his cock jumps when I touch it and he's already wet on top, so I start with that, cleaning him up and swirling the tip of my tongue around and around until he's making these little gasping sounds –" She can hear his swift intake of breath and that last slap's left her cunt throbbing and she's not sure she can think and talk if he does it again, so she hurries on –

"You push me, lift my hips, so my ass is sticking up in the air and I wish you were going to fuck me, push your fingers in my cunt, up my ass, but I know you won't, not yet, and I have to pull away from Rupert – did I mention how he tasted so good I just couldn't help it, and I had to take him in as deep as he'd go? – but I know you're gonna spank me, Wes and I can't risk biting him, so I go back to licking him, and when your hand lands on me and I whimper I hear him say, 'Good Lord,' in this quiet voice and I swear I can see his cock get harder still, because he likes it, likes watching you spank me –

"And then he stops you, reaches out his hand and touches you, says your name, and I'm crying and he's made it stop, and I don't know if I'm mad at him or grateful, but he wants me to suck him, suck his cock again, so you have to stop, Wesley. Have to watch me, and you do, shifting closer to him so you can see my face, tucking my hair behind my ear so you don't miss a thing –"

She's squirming now and she can't stop. "Touch me, Wes," she begs. "I need it –"

His hand comes down hard across her breast and he grazes her nipple with the back of his hand while she's still absorbing the jolt of welcome pain.

"Well?" he says harshly.

She turns blind eyes towards him. "Thank you, Wesley,"

He reaches out, a rough caress she's sure he didn't plan, curling his fingers around the curve of her jutting hipbone. "You haven't finished."

And it's so close to a question that she wonders if he wants her to end this, but she's not going to use her word, not for this –

"And his hand's stroking my hair and he's saying my name, telling me he- "

"And I'm lifting you off him, Faith," he says, "because I'm not pleased with your eagerness, not pleased at all by how wanton you must appear. I'm sure Rupert agrees with me that your lack of decorum needs addressing." There's a dark satisfaction in his voice as he takes control of the story. "And we decide that you should sit across from us in a wide, low chair, with your legs hooked over the arms, so you're open to us, utterly and completely. On display, my sweet, shocking Olympia ..."

His fingernails scratch lightly over her inner thigh, moving upwards, a maddening tickle she knows isn't going to go anywhere near where she wants it to. "Just as you are now for me."

And she is. She can feel the slow trickle of wet heat between her legs, her body readying itself to be fucked, and the fact that like this she can't hide that, can't pretend, just makes her arousal deepen.

"We might watch you for a while, Faith, telling you to touch yourself, lift those rounded, perfect tits, pluck at your nipples until they're so tender you're making the most delightfully plaintive sounds of pain, but we keep telling you to do it and you're trying so hard to be good for me –"

"For both of you," she says with all the clarity she can muster. "Isn't that right, Wes?"

And he's so pissed at that, she can tell by the annoyed grunt and the way his hand leaves her, but he can't really argue, now can he?

"You can't resist me for long, though, Wes," she continues, snatching back the reins. "Not enough to just watch me, not when you could be touching me, feeling how hot I am, how much I want you. So you come to me, both of you, and you're kneeling between my legs, and he's crouched beside me, and you're both doing all the things you said you would."

She's talking rapidly now, the pictures in her head cascading in an endless loop, her fingers clutching at empty air. "So fucking good, Wes – got him kissing me, hard kisses, all tongue and teeth,  and I push his head down to my tits and he's holding them, cupped in his hands, totally going to town on them with his mouth, and he knows they're kinda tender, but he's like you, that just makes him hotter so –"

The bed creaks as he moves between her legs, running his spread fingers up her inner thighs until his thumbs are digging into the skin on either side of her cunt, his fingers caressing her smooth mound. "I'm starting to feel neglected again, Faith," he purrs. "Perhaps I can give you some incentive to include me in this? Tell me what I'm doing as I kneel in front of you. I can't think I'm happy to just look at your wet, hot, little cunt, not when I could be -?"

"You're – oh you're touching my clit," she says, gasping as he does just that and a white-hot flicker races over her skin. "Light little touches, 'cause you know I'm gonna want more and you like it when I beg –"

"I love it when you beg," he corrects her absently. "The triumph of hope over expectation."

Whatever.

"But you can see me, how I need more than that –"

"Yes, I can," he murmurs. "I can see perfectly well – all these intricate folds of flesh, flushed and swollen. You look... ripe, Faith. So ready..."

"And you want to know the next moan, the next whimper's because of you, not what Rupert's doing, so you shove your fingers in me, two, no, three – "

"Keep talking or I'll stop," he says, driving three fingers into her with a ruthless twist of his wrist that turns her careful instructions into babbling.

"Wes – oh God – harder, you – you don't stop and you're staring up at me and I'm looking over his head at you and then you lean forward and I feel your mouth – on me – it's –you're –"

"Oh, that really won't do at all," he says, tugging his fingers out of her, although she does get one brief fervent press of his lips against her clit – which doesn't help calm her down at all. "Perhaps I should continue?" She peers through the layer of silk and watches him kneel back, his hands resting on his knees. She can see the jut of his cock and her tongue comes out to touch nervously at her dry lips.

"You're so perilously close to coming that it counts as a slip, I'm afraid. The fine tremors racing through your body, the noises you're making all give you away, and – well, we simply can't allow something that flagrant to go unpunished. So we move away from you again and although Rupert's cock is still out, and the poor man's so very hard, his hand passing over it in restless, eager strokes, we ignore you for a while, finish our drinks, while you pout and your eyes fill with tears I've forbidden you to spill."

And her eyes are prickling now but she blinks them clear, listening, catching every word...

"Then I beckon you over, make you kneel, hands behind your back, in front of Rupert, who's waited so long, and he wants your mouth on him again, so I allow that, but only for a moment. Then you feel my hand in your hair, pulling you off him and you turn to look at me, questioningly, so I slip my hand around the back of your neck – do you know how you go still when I do that, how utterly compliant you feel in that moment? – and hold you, so no matter how much he wants it on him, your mouth's an inch away from his cock.

"Then I nod at him and watch as he works himself, that strong hand of his so tight around his cock, and he's panting now, hoarse gasps because his eyes are on you and your lips are parted, tongue sweeping over them, and I take his hand in mine so we're linked that much at least, all of us, as he comes, feel his fingers clench around mine, feel you shudder as his come paints your lips, your face –"

The scarf across her eyes is torn away and she stares up into his furious face, blue eyes blazing, lips thin. "But he doesn't get to come in you, Faith, not when I haven't, not when you haven't touched me once – he doesn't ever –" He kisses her then and it's a clumsy, ferocious kiss and she can feel his heart hammering against her.

But when he lifts his head and moves so that his cock's rubbing against her mound, in the slick cleft where her clit's throbbing insistently, his voice is like ice. "And perhaps the next time you're tempted to flirt, you'll remember that you're mine, Faith and I don't fucking share –"


Chapter Three Hundred and Ninety Two

“Not something I’m gonna forget anytime soon, Wes. Now, are you gonna fuck me or talk my fucking ear off?” she hisses, ‘cause if he wants a pushy bottom he’s going to get one and then some. She’s trying in vain to angle her hips to take advantage of the slow drag of the tip of his cock against her clit, but he answers her impertinence by going completely still. “Rewards need to be earned, Faith, and you’ve done nothing but push the limits of my good will all evening.”

“Yeah, but it’s not like you didn’t get off on that. You can’t deny how hard it got you. God, I love it when you almost lose it, Wes, you know I do," she adds, breathlessly and more than a little frustrated.

She’s left with a sinking feeling of emptiness as he slips out of her with deliberate, agonizing slowness. He rocks back on his heels—roundly ignoring her tiny, furious gasp— and tuts coldly under his breath. “Oh, Faith,” he sighs wearily, as though his infinite patience has been tested for the last time. “You seem to think that my displeasure with you isn’t real, but it is.”

Her mouth twists into one of those cruel little smiles he seems to have perfected and she manages to grit out, “Yeah, I think I got how real it was when you pinned me up against the wall in the elevator. And, oh yeah, practically fucked me in the cab. We’re running out of time, and I really need you to—“

He looks a little startled. “And are you in a position to issue ultimatums, Faith? It certainly doesn’t look that way from here. Although I can’t say I’m not enjoying the view.”

She doesn’t even try to buck against the silk holding her down, keeping her open. Just says, calmly, coolly, “No. You’re right. I’m not. But I’m leaving in the morning and I’m tired of waiting. Just this once, Wes, please, don’t make me wait. Please, don’t."

She stops mid-sentence not because she’s gone too far —although she has— but because of the look on his face —as though she’s struck him, or like he’s snapped out of whatever trance he’s been in. He looks diminished, and not a little sad. His fingers brush lightly alongside her cheek.

“Tell me that I give you what you need, Faith. Tell me—"

“Is that what this is about, Wes? Because, really, how could you even think—? You do, always. You know that, don’t you?” She makes an executive decision to change tacks, going from plaintive to flippant on a dime. “And right now I just want one thing from you, you charmingly single-minded bastard…”

“Ah, we’re at the name-calling portion of the evening.” The veneer of control is back, and she practically sighs with relief. She can’t be the one keeping things together —it’s altogether too much of a burden.

She gives him what he wants, plays up to him. “Might be a wicked epic two-parter if you keep me tied up and un-fucked for much longer.”

“Oh really?” he asks. Is that an eyebrow arch she sees? She’s going to get back at him, she really is.

“Yeah. Gonna give you everything in the book, Wes. Real loud, too, so your proper, upper-fucking-crusty neighbors can hear what a cold-hearted sadist they’ve got living next door. ‘It’s always the quiet ones,’ they’ll whisper, and…”

“Faith.” God, that steely voice of his will cut through just about anything she can dish out. “Once you’re through being so charmingly immature, I daresay I might fuck you. But your very impertinence deserves some sort of response. What should that be, Faith? You’ve already enjoyed the hairbrush —I’m not going to spank you again with it so soon. Would you like the flat of my palm instead? Something subtle like that?”

He sounds so casual, like he’s asking her what she’d like in her coffee, but she knows damn well he’s just toying with her. She’s absolutely determined that she’s not going to beg for his cock, no matter how much he pushes her.

“Want your hands on me, Wes. Now.” The last word comes out as a feral-sounding growl, and Wes smiles.

“Very well.” He starts to move slowly towards her with such controlled, feline grace that she lifts her head to watch him appreciatively.

“You have a kind of …elegance, you know? Anyone ever tell you that?”

“Shh, Faith. Don’t make me gag you. Or add yet another forbidden word to the contract." He sounds annoyed but she can tell from the gleam in his eyes that he’s amused.

“We’re so not even going there, Wes. Not tonight.”

“No,” he whispers as he kneels down, so close she can feel the gentle exhalation of his breath against her neck. “Not tonight.” He leans across her, kissing her forehead with such chaste sincerity that she’s taken aback. Then he kisses each cheek, reverently, in quick succession, like he’s paying her a tribute. And, finally, her lips, but the chasteness is gone now, replaced by the hunger she knows he’s been holding back, by everything he doesn’t need to say to her. All his love, all the neediness he hides under that carefully composed exterior, all of it is there as he tips her chin up so he can kiss her properly. One hand strays between her legs, fingers ghosting around her clit with maddening restraint. All she wants is to hold onto him fiercely and not let go, but she can’t. So she kisses him back with everything she has.

“Untie me, Wes, please,” she murmurs.

“You’re impossible, Faith. Is that why I love you so very, very much?” He sounds breathless, awed.

“Is that a no?” She tries to be flip, but she can’t keep the shakiness from her voice, because his fingers are doing marvelous things to her. The room around her is starting to grow indistinct; that remorseless, throbbing heat between her legs is all that matters.

He doesn’t answer, just continues trailing kisses down her body, his fingers slipping deeper into her cunt all the while. “Shh,” he whispers again, kissing the flat of her belly, moving closer to her pussy.

“Yes,” she hisses, so ready to come she can’t stand it anymore. Every muscle she has is strained with the effort. Wes just ignores her discomfiture, taking his sweet time to lower his head down between her legs. He presses another lingering, wet kiss to her poor clit, which sends a shudder through her. “God,” she practically growls, sounding slightly desperate. But she knows that’s hardly going to gain his sympathy. He grips her thigh with one hand to still her as his tongue thrusts inside her.

She’ll never quite get used to the intense attentiveness he shows her cunt, the voraciousness with which he goes down on her. It’s overwhelming, and it certainly is now, when she’s so very close.

Which is why she's nearly crying and screaming again when he starts to slow down, until he's just lapping at her with long, slow strokes. And then just grazing his fingers up and down her thighs.

“Why...why are you stopping? Don't stop...” she gasps.

“I need to think, Faith. Do be quiet for a moment,” he snaps, and she flinches at the vehemence of his words. He must have realized his tone, though, because he returns to tracing his fingers along her flesh before he dips his tongue into her again, not fucking her with it as before, but just being a damn tease, and she can feel the first burgeoning waves of her climax stretch out long and thin and then dissipate in her groan of frustration.

“Do you think I'm being cruel, Faith, making you wait like this?”

“Yes,” she hisses. “You fucking bastard...”

“Yes, yes, Faith -- I know all about that charming side of my personality. But I believe you'll be thanking me shortly -- you'll scream just as you promised – loud enough to disturb the neighbors.” He slides down the bed between her legs, untying her ankles. “As much as I like keeping you restrained this way, I require a different view now.”

As soon as he's freed her legs, he makes quick work of the knots holding her arms splayed out and before she can shake the blood back into her fingers, he's pushing her over roughly.

“Hands and knees, Faith,” he barks at her, and it's a struggle to pull herself up into the position after being left weak-limbed and light-headed and on the verge of coming.

“That's better,” he sighs, settling in on his knees between her legs, rubbing the warm center of his palm in long, lazy circles around each ass cheek. “I just can't bear the thought of not seeing as much of your lovely arse as possible before you leave me tomorrow.”

And when she feels that old, familiar displacement of cool air before he smacks her still-tender ass – once, twice, five, ten times -- she's transported -- back to when all she lived for was this. The simple act of his hand striking her ass over and over as they teased out their darkest demons and but then foolishly, naively shoved them aside. That was before they really and truly understood it all, understood that this was what they were, this was what they could continue to be and still end up with love – even after plumbing the depths of two lifetimes of heartache and then dragging all that pain to the surface. This is what has saved them both, and she knows he's just as grateful for that discovery as she is.

And in the tingling aftermath of those strokes of his hand against her ass, he pets her tattoo, his usually soft, warm fingertips blistering hot against that tender patch of skin. “We really don't know any other way, do we, Faith?” And before she can squeak out an answer, he pushes down on the center of the tattoo that covers the small of her back -- sending her crashing to the mattress on her elbows. Her back arches, her ass springs up and she's pulled wide open – and he holds her there even though she wouldn't dream of moving so much as a centimeter at that moment.

There's a fleeting moment that cool air flows across her wet and aching cunt before the head of his cock is bumping against her, the odd angle making entry harder than usual, and she screams – yeah, really honestly lets out a wall-shaking wail when he shoves himself inside her roughly. And she's so tight, so very tight, that he can hardly thrust against her – which is probably for the best because even the slightest movement makes her feel as if she might pass out, come instantly, or both at any moment.

Bracing his hands against her ass for leverage, he pushes her down harder into the mattress to open her up a little further, but to no avail, they're trapped this way, in a sort of extended state of concurrent pre-orgasmic bliss until she tilts her hips back just the tiniest bit and he lets out a long, low groan that that's somehow escaping from somewhere deep and dark inside him and sneaking out between his clenched teeth, his tightly-locked jaw.

And in the split second after the sound dissipates, his hands are smacking against each ass cheek over and over and over until he manages to jolt her just the tiny bit more open and his frustrated thrusts recoil from an excess of inertia as he hammers into her cunt, cock pistoning harder and deeper with each thrust, leaving her groaning into the mattress.

“Touch yourself now, Faith. You can reach that insistent clit of yours.” And it's so easy to obey because it's not a question but an order, and without even having to think about it, her hand snakes awkwardly under her belly until she reaches her clit, throbbing and raw and tender to the touch. But she's so wet, she only has to flick her finger up the tiniest bit to soothe it with a smear of the commingled juices that are flowing out of her cunt, and she can't help but give a little whimper as her fingers circle around her clit -- because she's thrown right back to that spot – right when she was about to come a handful of minutes before. Only it's as if there's a small neutron bomb going off now that she's rubbing her clit furiously in time with his thrusts, with each slap on her ass. And yeah, there's a little part of her brain that's wishing that she could lock eyes with him, that he were pinning her down and holding her thighs open. But there is something to be said for being held face down to the mattress by strong one hand as he alternately slaps and fucks the living daylights out of her.

And he certainly was right, it's not long before she's screaming his name and her voice echoes out of the highest corners of the ceiling, his hands now both hanging on tightly to her hipbones as the momentum of his orgasm sends him slamming into her as she comes once, then again, all in a blur with him as he presses his way deep inside, jerking against her thighs for a few long moments before he's finally still. Letting out a long ragged sigh, he leans heavily on to the backs of her legs as her quivering cunt holds tight to his cock. It's not the most comfortable position in the world, but God, she wishes she could just stay that way for as long as possible.

And it seems like hours have passed when she finally lets out a tiny whimper of discomfort as her back is starting to ache. When he finally slides out, he wraps his arms around her, pulling her down off her hands and knees and cradling her so she’s nestled against him -- and it’s as comforting as always. Still breathing hard, she gives him this slow, exhausted smile. “You’re a sick fuck, Wes.”

He regards her coolly. “I believe you’ve said as much before.”

“Yeah, well, you always surprise me, that’s all.”

His head drops to her breast, his tongue darting out to circle her nipple. “And I would say that feeling is entirely mutual, my beautiful girl.”

Chapter Three Hundred and Ninety Three

He lets her sleep for a little while with his spunk still inside her, wet cock twitching between her legs, hands clutched possessively round her breasts, but she's barely closed her eyes before he's snatching her away from dreams, rolling her into her back so he can gaze down at her with a tender gleam in his eyes.

"I wasn't asleep," she mumbles and then ruins that little lie with a bigass yawn.

"Yes you were," he grins, and like he can't stop himself his hands are back on her breasts, cupping their weight, thumbs grazing over her nipples and although she's had two monster orgasms she's already arching up into his touch. "You like that, don't you? Love me touching your beautiful tits?"

"Love you touching me anywhere," she says and of course he's trailing his hands away because it's what he does.

"And I love it too," he says, tucking his hands behind his back as he stares down at her. "But I love to look at you too, Faith. Show me."

She's already parting her legs for him, the last vestiges of tiredness disappearing as she feels the sharp throb of desire start to settle in her tummy and what the hell, now it's her turn to play the indulgent card. "Want me to make myself come, Wes?"

"Oh, yes," he breathes, stroking his fingers along her inner thigh, just, just, just avoiding her come-soaked folds. "So many things I want to do to you tonight but watching you fuck yourself would be a wonderful prelude."

She scooches back on the bed, piling the pillows up behind so she can prop herself up and gives him a sly look. "Might have to tell me what to do, Wes. Think I've forgotten how."

"Forgotten how to bring yourself off?" he snorts, settling on his stomach between her spread thighs. "I don't imagine that day will ever arrive. Maybe you'd like to try again, Faith?"

She reaches down so she can ruffle his hair because he's exasperating sometimes. He really fucking is. "OK," she agrees equably, wriggling a little as he blows gently on her sticky skin. "Want you to tell me what to do, Wes. Want you to tell me all those filthy things that we've done, all the really filthy things that you want to do. Just want you to talk to me."

"Always so imperious," he sighs, another gust of air hitting her pussy and she can see the change in him, how his face goes from dreamy to resolute in the blink of an eye. "What I'd really like you to do, Faith is to stop prevaricating and get your fingers on that tender clit. Just your index finger for now. I want you to rub it softly, like that. That's very good."

She's so wet that her finger keeps slipping off the mark and she knows that she's going to have to build up to coming, a long, slow burn. "I want you to thrust two of your fingers inside your tight, little cunt. Hard," he suddenly barks, snapping her out of her reverie and they both make a pleased noise as her hips lift off the bed.

"Talk to me," she moans, nudging his shoulder with her knee and he she can feel him smiling against her skin as he presses a kiss against her thigh.

"Three fingers, Faith," he purrs. "Maybe we'll work up to four in a minute. You're so hungry for it tonight, aren't you? And in answer to your little request, I have so many games for us to play. I want to see another woman use her mouth on you, fuck you with her tongue while I tell her exactly what to do. I want to have you in cuffs, bent over my office desk while I fuck you in the arse. I want to use those delightful clamps on your clit and you know that I will, Faith and that you'll love it. You'll coast the space between pleasure and pain and you'll beg me to hurt you, won't you?"

"Yes! Yes," she groans, head thrashing from side to side, heels digging into the mattress.

"You're not to come, Faith, not for a long time," he hisses, pulling her hand away and staring at the juices clinging to her fingers. "Suck on them."

"Meant to be fucking myself so I should get to say when I come." And she knows that he's not going to let her and she's going to let him not let her. It's how they play this, so she's not surprised when he slaps her flank hard enough to sting and glares at her.

"I said suck on them," he repeats icily and she's just snaking out her tongue, making her fingers more messy as she tastes herself and him before she obeys the challenging quirk of his eyebrow and sucks them into her mouth, just like they're his cock. "Of course, no recounting of our past triumphs would be complete without a guest appearance from our mutual friend," he adds with a sly little smile. "I am going to miss the little chap while you're away."

She flops back on the pillows, fingers now squeaky clean, and folds her arms. "Mr Bunny is sleeping, Wes," she says primly. "He's got a long day ahead of him tomorrow with the flight and all."

"Amusing as it is to give it a personality, Faith, I should remind you that Mr Bunny is a vibrator and I'm going to take great delight in watching you fuck yourself with it and if you perform… adequately, I might even let you come."

He's already uncoiling from the bed and she grabs onto his arm. "Rather you fuck me, Wes," she begs, hauling herself up she can press against him, hand skittering down the clenched muscles of his stomach so she can curl around his cock, which is starting to perk up no end. His fingers enclose hers and she looks up at him, suspicion flaring as she sees that devious little smile flicker across his face for a second before he schools his features into this shaky approximation of stern as he firmly removes her hand.

"What now, Wes?" she asks him warily. "You're totally plotting something."

"I don't plot, Faith, I devise," he says grandly. "I devise these dark tableaux with you in the starring role and you were adamant before that you wanted to know my favorite of all the depraved acts I've visited on your willing flesh. Would you still like to know?"

She nods frantically because there's been so many and she can't even slow down the slideshow of images; his wet-tipped cock twitching against her lip, her hands clenched into the sheets, his hands stroking the rosy red blush of her ass after he's spanked her. And the soundtrack of "fuck" and "cunt" and "bastard" and "let me come, please let me come, I'll do anything if you let me come."

"I thought you might." He holds out his hand so he can help her off the bed. "Go and stand facing the wall, eyes shut, and you're not to turn around until I tell you."

As commands go it's as specific as it's vague, but good things come to girls who obey. She knows that by now. Sure as hell don't come to those who wait. And she's already trotting in the direction that he's pointing to, swinging her ass as she goes and not giving into the temptation to see if he's left her with a leaving present of his fingermarks pressed into her cheeks, ready to blossom into bruises.

"Good, that's very good, Faith," he says and he sounds pleased enough that she reckons he'll let her come in, say, half an hour if he's feeling generous.

She doesn't know what he's up to but she hears the bedside drawer get opened, then one of the drawers of the bureau and finally the sound of something heavy being dragged across the carpet. She's getting the tingles now. Or, like, more of them: this curious combination of excitement and anticipation and this dark desire which is a close cousin to fear.

"You can turn around now, Faith," he says from the opposite corner of the room and she whirls round so fast that she almost falls over. He's sitting in the over-stuffed easy chair, the big cheval glass pushed to one side and on the end table next to him is a bottle of lube and in all his purple, plastic glory, Mr Bunny. "My two favorite scenarios, Faith," he reminds her with a look that's purely amoral. "Can you guess what they are?"

She smiles triumphantly and brushes the hair back from her face so he can see the "don't fuck with me, unless you're gonna fuck me" look in her eyes. "So, Wes, if I guess right, do I get a reward… I haven't finished! And is that reward going to involve fucking me until I come?"

"Oh, I'm sure we can come to some mutually beneficial arrangement," he drawls and he beckons her closer with a crook of one long finger and she already knows where it's going to go, how it's going to make her scream.

She settles herself down on his lap, relishing the feel of his rigid cock settling into her slick folds and winds her arms round his neck, breasts bobbing against his chest. "You fucked my ass at the same time as you fucked me with Mr… my vibrator," she amends and he chuckles and bends down to gift one nipple with a slow suck of his mouth. "And you fucked me in your bathroom, in front of the mirror, so I could see."

"Perfect recall," he compliments and then his hand is sliding down her back, fingers spanned against the words etched there and his thumb just pressing into the cleft of her ass. "But you can't have your reward until you tell me exactly what I'm going to do to you to achieve it."

It's hard to talk because she's suddenly paralyzed with toe-curling, skin-shivering, nipple-hardening waves of lust. "You're going to fuck my ass," she chokes out, squirming against the dark promise of his cock. "And you're going to fuck me with Mr Bunny and you're going to let me watch."

"Such a clever girl." His hands tangle in her hair, not gentle as he pulls her down for this demanding, insistent kiss and when she's free of his hungry mouth, gulping air in, he gives her another of those disconcerting smiles. "Pick up the lube, Faith and get me ready."



By the time she's standing in front of him, bent over, hands clutched tight on her knees, his fingers are dripping with a mixture of the lube and her own juices because he can't seem to resist sending them knuckle deep into her cunt.

And then the waiting's over because he's pressing the tip of one finger against her puckered hole, pushing it in slowly while she encourages him with this long whimper that seems to last an eternity, thrusting her hips against the pressure because she wants his cock as fast as she can get it and she can't help the growl of satisfaction because now there's two fingers and he's so very pleased with her.

"That's my beautiful girl," he sighs. "So relaxed, so ready to be fucked in the arse."

She's not even waiting to be told, but shifting backwards, straddling his legs and clamping her sticky hand around his cock, which she's already got lubed up and good to go. Then she's lowering herself down in a faster than the speed of light gulp and turning round to give him a grin. "Sorry, Wes, forgot it wasn't meant to go there," she chirps, tightening those well-exercised Kegel muscles of hers around him before he can spit out dire warnings about her appalling behaviour. Then she's lifting herself up, letting just the tip of him stay and staring at their reflection in the glass.

He leans forward so he can see too and then shockingly capitulates. "Oh, very well," he agrees. "But only for a little while and you're absolutely not to come."

She hasn't even got time to rest her feet on the floor so she can rise up and sink back down before his hands are tight round her waist and he's lifting her up and impaling her on his cock so blurringly fast, nudging that maddening little bump inside her every time so she's saying his name over and over again, getting louder, getting…

"You fucking bastard!" she howls, when she's belly down over his lap so quickly that the room is spinning wildly. "I want to come now."

"And I want to give your arse a good, hard spanking for such flagrant disobedience so we find ourselves at an impasse," he says pleasantly, just before he lifts his hand and there's no waiting, just a volley of slaps that make her shriek and kick her legs and want so desperately to be fucked.

"I love you. I want to come. I want you to fuck my ass," she moans when he hauls her up upright, almost incoherent with the mess of emotion between her legs. "Please, Wes. I won't mess around anymore."

"Good," he states quietly, finger tracing the edges of her cunt. "Good, because one more trick like that and you can forget about coming at all. Is that clear, Faith?"

"Yes." She lifts up her face for a kiss, which she gets and he can't be that mad with her because he cups her face in his hands and says so sweetly, "I love you so much, my darling girl. Now put my cock inside that delectable arse of yours."

She slides down onto his cock slower than honey dripping out of a jar. Pausing every inch to grit her teeth and get used to the heavy velvet feel of him, letting the smooth, unhurried cadence of his voice ("that's good, Faith, you're all right, take your time, my darling little girl") guide her. He feels huge and relentless and it's almost too much but when she thinks about stopping, about saying her word, she realizes that she'll die without this.

Her eyes droop shut and she's drugged with the heat even though little shivers are rippling over her and his hands stroke her arms as she gives a tiny, experimental shimmy and cries out at the wonder of it.

"I don't… Wes, I can't… help me," she whispers and he's smoothing back the tangled fall of her hair so he can kiss the pounding pulse in her neck.

"Look in the mirror, Faith," he orders her calmly. She's pursed tight around him and his beautiful fingers rest for a minute on her thigh before he circles her clit. "Look at my beautiful girl," he murmurs. "Do you see how pretty she is?"

She wants to move now, grind against his knowing hand, watch his cock slip out of her just a fraction of an inch then press deep into her again. It's getting easier because the Faith in the mirror wants it so badly, enough that she lifts her head and shoots her an imploring look and Wes is lifting her up again so she can drape her legs over his and now her hand is feeling what her eyes could see, reaching to where they're joined and touching the over-sensitized flesh.

"Please…" the girl in the mirror mouths at her and she's reaching over, moaning quietly because his cock bumps inside her and it shouldn't ever feel so good and her hand fumbles for and finds the thick silicone of the vibrator.

"Good girl." Wes' eyes meet hers in the glass and then they're both looking as she moves the blunt head of the vibrator to her entrance and teases just the tip of it inside her.

"Not gonna last much longer, Wes," she warns and there's a frantic edge to her voice now which he tries to soothe away with tiny kisses and his fingers rubbing faster against her clit.

"I know, Faith. But I don't want you to come until it's inside your cunt. You can do that."

It seems like they're both holding their collective breaths as she pushes the thick shaft into her cunt, fighting against the constriction of her channel because of the way his cock is twitching in her ass. "Last time… could you… when you switched it on, could you feel it against your dick?" she stammers, wriggling up so he's not so deep inside her and she can slide Mr Bunny home.

He lets out this really weird hissing noise and then bites down hard on her neck, the tiny sting distracting her, making her squeak as she sinks back down on his cock. "Yes, I could feel it," he tells her in a strained voice and she pauses to look at herself, both holes filled and it should be obscene, like a picture in one of the really gross porn mags that her Dad used to keep stashed away in the garage. But it doesn't.

"Looks hot," she mutters to herself and then she takes a deep breath and flicks both switches on.

She goes from painfully aroused to coming in two seconds tops. Between Wes thrusting gently in her ass and the corkscrewing motion in her cunt and those fucking bunny ears pressing against her clit, she gives this ungodly wail and jerks like a kite in a stiff breeze, flailing wildly but managing to keep a relentless grip on the base of the vibrator, aiming it for the strip of skin that separates it from Wes' cock.

"Fuck," he growls and his arms wrap tight round her and he manages a couple of half-hearted lunges before she feels the white-hot burst of him spilling inside her as she wrenches the vibrator out of her cunt and throws it as hard as she can across the room.

She can't do anything after that. Not anything that doesn't involve curling up on his lap and having him rock her tenderly from side to side, while he kisses the faint tracks of her tears away.

"We need to have a bath," he says gravely when she's stopped shuddering from the aftershocks and she gives a tiny moan of protest.

"Can't move, Wes. Really, really can't."

"Nonsense. You don't have to move if I do this," he says and he's standing, scooping her up with him and walking towards the bathroom.

She still grumbles when she has to stand, propped against the sink, as he runs the bath but finally she's leaning back against his chest, in water so hot it's a couple of degrees short of ouchy and sipping the hot chocolate he's made her.

"Are you all right, Faith?" he asks her, one hand splayed out on her belly, the other rubbing concentric circles at the nape of her neck.

"Oh yeah. But this plan of yours to stay up all night? Don't think I can rise to the challenge, even if you can."

"I'll let you sleep for a couple of hours," he promises with this tiny, wry chuckle. "I'm feeling magnanimous and I'd hate for you to be too tired for another round with Mr Bunny."

It takes a huge effort but she manages to turn her head enough that she can glare at him. "I think I just killed Mr Bunny," she confesses with grim satisfaction. "And I don't think I can come again, like, ever."

"We'll see," he says, kissing the damp slope of her shoulder. "Did you have a good vacation?"

"Yeah, don't want it to ever end." And just like that, she's reminded that they're on a clock and this time tomorrow night she'll be alone and unable to sleep in her narrow, single bed.

"Don't think about it," he says softly. "Please, Faith… And we have weekends in Maryland to look forward to. I've heard that Chestertown is absolutely charming and there's Washington College…"

"Whatever," she says but she's too tired to really hit the beat on the last two syllables. "You're not gonna have time to be a history geek."

"But plenty of time to be a cold sadist?" he quotes back at her and she pats his hand.

"Counting on it, Wes." She shifts so she's tucked against him, water threatening to slosh over the sides, but this way she snuggle into the crook of his neck. "Gonna miss having baths with you and gonna miss you cooking me dinner, not gonna miss you trying to force me to eat gross vegetables," she mumbles in a sing-song voice and he laughs.

"Is that your only regret?"

"Well, it didn't snow and…" She sits bolt upright, elbow digging into his rib so he makes a pained little "oof" and narrows his eyes at her. "Hey! Hey, you never told me what you were saying before when you were being all sexy and foreign," she hisses, wagging her finger at him. "What were you saying?"

"I'm not telling you," he says loftily and throws in this really infuriating smile. "Maybe later."

"Won't be able to sleep until you do," she pouts.

"I don't think you're going to have any trouble on that score," he says, leaning back and shutting his eyes so he can't see the mournful expression that she's trying to work.

But after he's dried her and carried her to bed, letting her sprawl on top of him like his very own Faith patterned quilt, he falls asleep before she does.

He doesn't stay asleep though. She wakes fitfully every now and again to find his mouth softly sucking at her nipples or his fingers tracing the dampening flesh between her legs or his tongue lazily flickering over her clit and when she makes an inarticulate sound of dazed pleasure to let him know she's awake, he stops and soothingly strokes whatever bit of skin he's nearest to.

"Ssssh," he whispers. "Ssssh, go back to sleep, darling."

The room's still dark when she comes to with a start to find his fingers gently curving over her ass, tracing the pattern of bruises fading and those that have yet to appear, his cock hard against the small of her back and she rolls over so she can touch the sharp planes of his cheekbones.

"Love you, Wes. Love you so fucking much," she rasps.

"I love you too," he whispers, taking her hands in his. "I love you because I know no other way, but this, in which there is no I or you. So close that your hand on my chest, is my hand. So close that when you close your eyes, I fall asleep."

In the dim light of the room and even though her eyes are starting to tear up she can still see him looking at her expectantly. "Not going back to sleep, Wes," she says gruffly, because she doesn't want to ruin all the moment left by crying. "Don't want to waste the time."

"My sweet girl…" He clears his throat. "Thank you, Faith."

His fingers are already smoothing out the frown on her forehead. "What are you thanking me for?"

"For loving me," he punctuates the words with a clinging kiss to her cheek. "For forgiving me." And another. "For accepting me." And another. "For wanting me." And another. "For needing me."

She stops the solemn vows with her mouth, kissing him as fiercely as she can, wondering if her kisses say as much to him as his words do to her and she decides that they can't even come close so she's slithering over him, caressing the wet, hot length of him as she slowly guides him into her cunt.

"Don't want to come, Wes, just wanna be close to you," she says, starting a slow, soft grind of her hips which kinda belies her good intentions.

He raises himself up on his elbows, the movement settling him deeper inside him and gives her one of those morning-bright, sweet like sugar smiles, which turns crooked when her tears start splashing down on to his chest.

"I can't leave," she cries, hair hanging over her wet cheeks. "Can't leave you, Wes. Please, don't make me go."

"Faith," he says helplessly, sitting up so he can take her in his arms and kiss the sobs out of her mouth, brushing his fingers over her sticky, wet face and she risks a choked little laugh because there's gonna be snot soon and he's not packing a hankie. "You'll go and you'll come back and I'll be waiting for you. I love you."

"You promise that you'll never stop loving me?" she begs and his hand flattens out over her heart.

"I promise," he says, hugging her so tight that she can barely breathe. "I could never stop."

"I couldn't either," she assures him frantically, clinging to him as he coaxes her into lying down, mewling when his cock pulls out of her. "Don't…!"

"It's all right," he murmurs, rolling her onto her side, arm snug around her waist, as his fingers glide along her leg and he slides his cock slowly inside her. "I'm back where I belong. Now go to sleep."



Part Sixteen

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