Secretary: Part Two

Chapter Twenty Eight

And she isn’t going to do it. Not after what he did; but two things make her pause and stare at him, as she pushes back the hair that the rain’s decided to stick across her face so that’s she’s eating it. It tastes of sour windfalls, wasp-bitten and moldy now, so she spits it out and pushes it back.

Two things, and the first takes her a step towards him, and the second puts her ass on the seat.

Because he came after her. No one’s ever done that before. She must’ve run away from home a dozen times when she was little – always to Xander’s house, where his mother sniffed and made it say a hell of a lot for one sniff, and fed her milk and cookies and let her sleep head to toe in Xander’s room in a pair of his Spiderman jammies, because Xander always wanted to be the hero. And her parents never called, never came looking... and she and Xander would sit up late and watch the local news, waiting for her face to be on it, with her parents crying because their baby had gone... She found out years later that Xander’s mom called hers as soon as she saw her coming down the street, dragging a case that held all her clothes and dollies, but it didn’t wipe away the sting. And it didn’t stop her remembering that when she slunk back home the next day, there was nothing waiting for her but an indifferent stare.

And here was Wes, chasing after her like he cared... not enough, wasn’t half enough, but it was something, and once she’s taken that first step, she thinks of the mess his car will be in when she’s finished dripping filthy water all over the leather and she scrambles in.

His hand’s shaking a little on the wheel as he pulls out into the traffic again and she hopes it’s not because he threw back another drink or four before leaving the office. Even from here she can still smell the whiskey on him and she has to bite back a wave of sickness. Doesn’t want to make that much of a mess.

“Where are you taking me?” she asks, making it that, not, ‘Where are we going?’, because she wanted it on record that was the way it was.

“Home,” he says, his voice as flat and discouraged as she felt.

“No! No way. I go home like this and Mom’ll –”

“My home.”

Oh. And she doesn’t let herself hope he can fix this but she lets herself admit that she wants him to.

The house is as tidy as ever, even if he must’ve been up even earlier than she was. No dishes in the sink and she bets there’s no leftovers in that giant, steel-fronted fridge either. He waves at the coffee maker and says, “Please – start some coffee. I need to –” He lifts his hand to his cheek, where her nails gouged three shallow scrapes in his skin, and lets it fall.

She’s walking to him before she can stop herself, needing to do something before he gets all gunked up with antiseptic. He stands still, looking a little wary, but he lets her get close to him and trace the scratches with the fingers that made them.

“I’m not sorry,” she says abruptly. “And if I didn’t have this fucking skirt on, you’d be walking funny for a week, you bastard.”

“Is this your version of TLC?” he says, with a glimmer of a smile in his eyes.

“No. I’d kiss it better, help you clean it up, if I wanted to do that.” She doesn’t slap him, though she’s toyed with the idea and her hand’s itching to leave a mark; doesn’t touch him at all, just steps back. “Brush your teeth,” she says. “You stink of whiskey.”

Something flinches in him but she doesn’t back down and he leaves her in the kitchen, starting to shiver now as her wet clothes drag at her.

When he comes back, the coffee’s done, and she’s pulling open cupboard doors searching for something to put it in.

“Two door over, to the left,” he says quietly.

She turns and sees him in casual clothes, showered, hair wet, the red lines on his face the only sign of what went on. He’s in jeans – God, she’d have put money on him not owning any – and a soft dark green shirt. It throws her completely. Suits. He wears suits.

Then she sees that he’s got an armful of clothes. “You’ll want to shower and change yourself,” he says. “These should fit.” She must’ve looked freaked, because he adds, ‘They’re new.” And the freakiness just keeps on coming.

“Why have you got them?” she says.

He does that sigh, the one he uses when she’s fucking up something so simple a kid of three could get it right. “Just go through and get changed, Faith. There’s a shower at the end of the corridor.” His eyes track across the white-tiled floor. “And a small lake in here, by the look of it.”

She walks past him and snatches the clothes as she goes. Fine. She’ll get dry, and she’ll have a coffee, but then she’s going to tell him to take her home.

Except when she comes back, walking silently on bare feet, in a gray dress that clings softly and feels like wearing a warm cloud, he’s poured her a cup, the coffeemaker’s already been emptied and cleaned, and he’s jingling his car keys impatiently.

“Hurry up, Faith,” he orders, voice back to normal; cool and impatient. “We’ve got a lot of –”

“No.” She plants her feet, folds her arms across her chest and this time there’s nothing between them and the filthy look she gives him. “We’re not going anywhere, Wes. Not until we’ve had a talk.” She holds up her hands and makes a ‘T’. Might not get that, being English, but even so. “Timeout, Wes. Time fucking out.”

He nods at her coffee. “Bring it,” and turns on his heel.

She follows him into the room with the tall ceilings and the view. The clouds have swept in so low now that it’s dark in there, with the rain smacking against the glass wall as if it’s angry about something. He turns on a couple of lamps, makes a corner of the gray darkness warm and bright, and she sits down in a chair, curls her bare feet under her and sips at the best coffee she’s ever tasted as if it’s medicine.

The silence that follows isn’t uncomfortable. He watches her without hiding it, and she finds herself shifting in her chair, not aroused, not exactly, but aware of him to such an extent that when he clears his throat and leans forward, she jerks, spilling coffee on her hand.

He’s about to pass her his handkerchief, she just knows it, and she brings her hand to her mouth and licks it clean quickly. Only a drop, after all.

“Faith –” She knows what he’s going to say and she’s all set to tell him where he can shove his apology, when he finishes, “that’s most unladylike.”

“Screw that.”

“I’m sorry?”

Right words, wrong way of saying them. She gives him a sneer he’d be proud of and sets her cup down on a glass table, knowing it’s going to leave a mark. “You heard me, Wesley. Cut the crap and tell me why that bitch can get you so worked up you do that. To me. To me.”

He glances away and then back at her. “She’s – she was, my partner.”

“More than that,” she says flatly, knowing she’s right. “You fucked her, didn’t you?” She shudders thinking of Lilah in that bath, with Wesley’s hands on her, Lilah’s perfect hair spread out on the pillows of the bed.

“One normally does get intimate with one’s wife,” he says. “But the marriage lasted for a shorter period than you’d think.” He looks thoughtful. “I might have been willing to have our business arrangement continue, but Lilah’s always been an all or nothing woman.” He shrugged. “Flawed, though, and her so-called power lies mainly in her contacts.” The smile that curved his lips was cold enough to make her coffee ice over. “As lawyers go, she’s a good whore.”

“Jealous, Wes?” It slips out. God knows she doesn’t like the bitch but that was low.

Anyone else would have got angry, but he considers it and waves a dismissive hand. “No. Once, perhaps. Not now.” He smiles at Faith. “Today’s setback is down to you, you know.”

“Me?” He can’t be trying to blame her for –

“You met Lilah. She... formed certain conclusions about you.” He smiles again. “I’m not jealous, but I do believe she is. Congratulations, Faith. Even looking as... disreputable as you did that day, she saw you as competition.”

They’ve gone so far from where they started that she’s dizzy. “Forget her. Just fucking forget her. Wes, you tried to – you – ” And the tears well up and over. “And you haven’t even said you’re fucking sorry,” she hisses at him, struggling up to her feet.

He looks down at his hands, folded in his lap. “Would you believe words?” he asks.

“They’d help! They’d be something! I was scared in there, Wesley.” Now she’s on her feet, the words come easier. “You were drunk, like him-”

“No. I wasn’t. Angry, yes, but not –”

“Fuck that! You were going to –”

“Rape you?” He looks up at her and it’s that toneless voice. “Force my unwelcome attentions on you? Hit you to hurt you, not just to -?”

And she thinks back and she wonders. Maybe not those things... but it doesn’t matter. “You crossed a line, Wesley.”

He stands up and comes over to her, hands loose at his sides. “And I can’t promise I won’t do so again. I told you, Faith, I warned you – this is what I am. Fucked-up, to use your words. I’m not safe –”

And his phone rings, just as she’s trying to find words and he steps back, taking a quick, ragged breath.

“Leave it,” she says, but it’s too late, he’s walking over to a low desk, in the darkness and she doesn’t need to hear him say her name to know it’s Lilah, because he’s rigid and stiff with dislike as he listens to her gloat and when he tries to answer a flood of spite screamed so loudly down the phone that Faith can hear most of it, he stammers, just a little, and it’s all she needs to make up her mind.

Three steps and she’s by his side, and as he grips the receiver white-knuckle tight, she leans in and kisses the scratches she left, tasting nothing but clean skin. He pauses mid-word and she takes the phone from his hand and drops it back in its holder.

“You were talking to me,” she reminds him. “And I’m still waiting for an apology.”

“I can’t just –”

“Yes, you can. I’ll know if you mean it, trust me.”

He frowns, as if she’s confusing him by making it that simple, and he’s right, it isn’t, but – he came after her, and when he tells her he’s sorry, she knows he means it at least, and she sighs and lets some of the tension leave her.

“You want to go back to the office and work now, don’t you? Dig up something you can use to get that client dumping her and back with you?”

“Presently, yes,” he says and he’s getting the confidence back, she can tell. “But I’d left the morning free –” And just like that she’s getting tingles spreading out, because she wants to know, if it hadn’t gone wrong, what did he have planned for her?

“So, it’s like, what? 10.45? What were you going to do? After breakfast I mean?”

He smiles, sending shivers chasing over her. “I was going to make you come at the table. Was I close?”

And if he wasn’t then, he is now.

But she doesn’t want to give in to it that easily this time, she’s determined. She ignores the arousal flaring up, doesn’t welcome or need it.

"You don’t even have to ask, do you?" she asks shakily, sounding as exhausted as she feels. She sits heavily back in the chair. "This is getting tiresome, y’know? I’m starting to see the pattern. Christ, everything in my life seems to form the same crappy pattern eventually. It’s like the fucking linoleum in my mom’s kitchen —the color of mud." She’s not going to fucking cry again, so she takes another sip of her cooling coffee and tries in vain to keep the edge out of her voice.

Then he surprises her by sitting down next to her. He doesn’t look at her directly, just takes her hand in his and brushes his thumb across her wrist, slowly, gently, like a little mantra. He doesn’t say anything, except: "I know."

"I won’t be a convenience to you. Not anymore."

"I know." She can see in his dark, clouded features that he does. He knows better than anyone. How fucked up is that? God, they’re like the masochist Astaire and Rogers, a fucking matched set. "Believe me, this isn’t what I wanted. I never—"

She cuts him off. "What, you never lost control of the game before? I’m willing to bet Lilah never even gave you that chance." She matches his flickering, increasingly evasive gaze with a look of burgeoning self-possession. "I’m sure as hell not giving you another one."

He seems to take this as some sort-of definitive declarative statement. "I’ll drive you home if you like." His voice is flat, expressionless.

"’Home.’" She turns the word over in her mind and realizes that it’s ceased to mean anything to her. She almost laughs. "Fuck, anywhere but there. Can I just stay here for a little while? God, I’m just really fucking tired."

"I’m sorry. That was rude of me. You stay. I’ll go back to the office and do some work."

"You look pretty exhausted yourself. Would you like to—"

He cuts her off with a curt ‘No’. "Help yourself to anything you like. I believe you know where the bedroom is?"

"I remember." She’s hoping against hope that she’s not blushing as she says it.

"Good. I’ll be back after lunch."

She doesn’t take another breath until she hears his car pulling away.


Chapter Twenty Nine

With the storm raging outside the house is dark and extra-creepy. She fights the urge to go snooping through his things, to peek into the library and unearth the naughtiest book she can find, or better yet, correspondence— but she resists it. In his own twisted way he’d been completely honest with her and she decides to give him that same courtesy.

And really, she just wants to sleep. A dreamless, deep sleep. It’s so elusive as to be practically mythical to her at this point.

As she climbs the stairs, her fingers brush over the curved banister where he’d carried her, and a little shiver runs though her. Did it even happen? She’s seen so many different versions of him that she’s not even sure anymore. It all seems so unreal now, like a fever dream.

She finally drags her exhausted body into his bedroom. She reflexively flips on the light this time, pleasantly surprised to find the room suffused with a lovely warm glow. It’s so…homey. She didn’t expect that. And of course the bed is perfectly made, again. There are plump throw pillows everywhere and she wants nothing more than to sink down upon them, pull the down quilt over her head, and sleep.

That’s when her eyes settle on the chair in the corner. The shirt that she’d worn that night is carefully draped over it, torn-off button still conspicuously missing.

In her wayward imagination she’d imagined that he’d burned it —burned all evidence of her in fact. Of course he’d done no such thing. It’s almost worse that he hasn’t, because that re-opens the whole uncertain question of attachment and entanglement and reciprocation.

She can’t help herself: she has to put it on. And she does, stepping out of the soft gray shift and wrapping the shirt around her, settling in to it. It’s soft and well-worn and still smells of him, just a little bit. She folds the dress carefully and drapes it in place of the shirt. Then she climbs into bed.

She doesn’t know how long she sleeps. It’s hard to tell with the storm raging outside. She hears a tree branch crash nearby and wakes with a start. Then the world is quiet again and she drifts off.

When she wakes it’s pitch black in the room. It must be late evening. She sits up with a start only to realize that he’s sitting there in the dark.

"Oh. You’re back."

"I am."

"I should, I should go." She throws the covers back, starts to get up.

"You don’t have to."

"No, but I should. My mom’s probably—" She stops, not wanting to say 'drunk herself into a stupor by now'.

"You were never a convenience to me, Faith. Please believe that."

She wants to believe it, more than anything. But she can’t trust herself to speak, so she just lets silence build between them.

The dark stillness of the room, of the two of them, becomes too much and she fumbles for the lamp on the bedside table.

He's still in the shadows once she's switched it on and she's in the spotlight, the warm glow of the lamp illuminating her as she sits with her knees hunched up, her arms wrapped round her legs.

"How old are you?" She's always wanted to know, can pretty much guess to within the nearest five years or so, but she's gonna go somewhere with this and it's important to hear him say it.

"37," he answers eventually. Another tiny nugget of information that she's had to mine.

"You've got nineteen more years than me of knowing how things work, of who you are, of how people fuck you over. Me? I've got a lousy eighteen years."

He's leaning forward now so she can see his face, how drawn and fucking exhausted he looks. And she can't help but feel that she's responsible for the dark smudges under his eyes, the tightness around his mouth.

"Do you think I've taken advantage of you; that I've preyed on your youth and inexperience?" It's not a question that's designed to titillate though if he'd said it another way, it might have been.

"Well, mostly you don't take advantage of me 'cause I let you, that's kinda the point, isn't it?" She's concertinaing the edge of the quilt between her fingers. "Have you done this with other girls? Did you do it with her?" She can't even say Lilah's name anymore. Like, she's subsumed his rage and hurt and injustice by proxy, which is so dumb it's not even funny.

He steeples his fingers together and twirls his thumbs around each other before he answers. "There've been variations on a theme," he murmurs eventually and she knows he's groping for the right words, the right explanation. "But generally, no. There were certain contrived scenarios but nothing like this, like you."

She doesn't know whether to be flattered or offended. Does this mean she's special? Or just the one that he managed to separate away from the rest of the herd, because he could read her desire like a cheap airport novel?

There's this thing that she wants to ask him but it gets lost between her head and her mouth and she's still trying to spit it out when he gets up and sits on the edge of the bed, reaching for her hand and stilling her nervous, quilt crushing activity by closing his fingers around hers.

"It's very important to me, Faith, that you know that I would never hurt you or hit you in anger. It was never my intention to make you feel that you couldn't trust me to respect your boundaries."

But then her boundaries are pretty undefined. Six weeks ago, the thought of letting someone tip her over the desk, spank her, shave her and then spend an hour not letting her come would have rated fairly low on her list of ways to spend a day. And there are things that they haven't done that would normally fill her bruised little heart with dread but she knows that with him, she'd do them, like them, not be able to live without them.

It's hard to tell him that though. Especially when he's bringing her hand to his mouth and kissing the tips of her fingers. She doesn't know how to react to that little curveball so she sits there, with her head bent and keeps herself rigid so she doesn't do something completely lame like curling herself around him and asking him to hold her.

"My dad… he doesn't beat the shit out of me but he drinks and gets really mad and he used to end up lashing out at me." It's spilling out of her mouth and this is why he shouldn't sit there, stroking her hand, his head tilted so he's the picture of concern. "He's way bigger than me and he'd pick these fights about nothing and I'd end up getting caught between his fist and the wall. So this morning, when you were angry and you'd been drinking, it was like that. Like, it wasn't part of what we do, but you wanting to take it out on me because I was there."

His fingers tense and tighten around hers before he starts that steady, soothing motion again. "Do you think you can feel safe with me?" His voice goes up at the end of the sentence, almost shrill, almost panicked.

She throws him a break. "I feel pretty safe right now. But you got those nineteen extra years, Wes. I'm still figuring stuff out." And then, because it's too much effort not to, she bats her head against his shoulder like she's house-trained and almost purrs when his hand moves up so he can curl strands of her hair between his fingers.

When he kisses her, it's chaste and solemn. A simple pressing of his lips against hers. Like a first kiss that you give to a girl who's almost out of your reach and you're wary of frightening her off, making her run back to her friends.

And for once, her body isn't going into this hormonal overdrive, getting wet and heavy and ready for him. Instead, she feels light and insubstantial next to him, like he could be the person who'd do the strong stuff for a while and give her a rest.

It's all very soppy with the hair stroking and the leaning against him, until her stomach remembers that it hasn't had any food since breakfast and lets out an almighty rumble. The hand in her hair stills just in time for the next gurgle and then, fuck him!, he's actually laughing. At her.

"Oh God, that's totally killed the mood," she moans, her face flushed red with mortification. "I should get going. Could you drive me or, like, call for…"

"And have you expire from hunger on the way home?" He's still chuckling like she's the funniest thing since Bill Murray and he's not looking like a tragedy mask anymore but amused, indulgent, ready to be charmed by all the things she's not. "I think I should feed you, don't you?"

Chapter Thirty

He cooks just like she imagined she would, if her fantasies have veered towards the domestic rather than the erotic. He chops onions, mushrooms and tomatoes with military precision, pausing every now and again to wash his hands and peer critically at the saucepan that's simmering on the stove.

Her culinary expertise began and ended when her mother showed her how to nuke some ready made Mac and cheese in the microwave so when she picks up the garlic crusher, stares at it in confusion and asks if there's anything she can do, he gently steers her towards a chair and tells her to sit down.

It's actually pretty cool to watch him make dinner. He moves round the kitchen, opening cupboards and drawers, rifling through that huge fridge with this relaxed ease that she's never seen before. All that frightening intensity is focused on the sauce and the fresh egg pasta, not on her and it's been such a bitch of a day, that's it's sort of a relief.

Faith curls her legs up under her, wraps the buttonless shirt a little tighter around her body because flashing him when he's doing food stuff would be completely inappropriate and allows herself to watch him.

Every now and again, he looks up from grating cheese or chopping parsley with this wicked looking machete thing and flashes her a vague smile like he's forgotten she was there.

Soon there's this amazing smell of garlic and tomatoes wafting round and her stomach absolutely won't shut the fuck up.

"Wes? Can I have, like, a tomato to eat or something while I'm waiting?"

He picks up the firmest, ripest one from the counter and tosses it thoughtfully in the air. "No. You'll spoil your dinner," he says reprovingly, just the merest hint of a smile ghosting around his lips. "And you won't have any room for dessert."

And just like that, with a downward sweep of his eyelashes and the drawl back in his voice, she wants dessert and every fucking thing else that he wants to give her.

It's another stomach torturing five minutes before he pours a glass of wine and then picks up a serving spoon and carefully portions out a mound of pasta into a bowl and ladles out the aromatic, rich red sauce on top. He places it on the counter and she's sitting up expectantly, mouth watering.

"Aren't you having any?" she asks, her eyes fixed unwaveringly on the heaped bowl as he walks towards her.

"Of course I am! I'm positively ravenous," he announces with relish.

"Well, hey, what the fuck about me?" God, she sounds like some whiny kid who's just had their TV privileges snatched away from them.

He's fussing about now. The bowl's firmly out of reach and as she grabs for the fork, he taps her hand smartly. "Really, Faith, there's no need to be quite so greedy," he says, moving his chair way too close for some lying son of a bitch who's now withholding food as the next stage of his evil masterplan. "I said, I'd feed you, didn't I?"

"Well, yeah but…"

"Then stop pouting and open your mouth like a good little girl."

It's the best meal she's ever had. This delicate combination of flavors and spices that pops on her tongue so she has to close her eyes and savor the taste. Then she looks at him expectantly and he picks up the fork, carefully selecting the most tender morsels of chicken, the plumpest pieces of tomato and brings it to her mouth.

It's his turn. Then she's already leaning forward, lips apart, as he chooses pasta this time, soaking it up in the sauce and offering it to her. In between, he lets her have sips of wine from the glass they're sharing.

By the time there's one lonely little piece of chicken nestling on the plate, her shirt is gaping open, her legs slightly spread because this is the sexiest… no, fuck sexy, make it the most sensual experience of her life. He's cooked for her and he's fed her and if the way he keeps brushing the back of his hand, slowly and deliberately, against her hard, aching nipples as he lifts fork and glass to her mouth is anything to go by, he's going to fuck her too.

"It's your turn," she reminds him, as he spears the chicken and chases up the last dregs of the sauce with it.

"I know," he says and holds the fork up to her mouth.

She's still running her tongue over her teeth, trying to savor the last remnants of the mouthwatering meal when he pours another glass of wine.

"Are you even old enough to drink alcohol?" he asks, arching his eyebrow like a pantomime villain and holding the glass just out of the reach of her questing mouth.

He's close enough that she can run her toes up his calf, along his thigh and if she scooches back enough in the chair, yeah, right there, his cock, which has been hard, ever since he sat down.

"You're the fucking lawyer, you tell me," she growls at him, trying to catch the rim of the glass between her teeth. "You know, if you'd tried any of this six months ago, I'd have been jailbait."

His cock twitches underneath the caress of her toes. "Yes, thank you, Faith. I'm painfully aware of that," he says wryly, a rueful smile twisting his lips.

"Would you still have fucked me…?" She doesn't get to the end of the sentence, though it's pretty much out there because he scrapes his chair forward and tips the edge of the glass, so she can take greedy gulps of the wine, which tastes of grapefruit and peaches and sunshine.

She traces the hard length of him with the sole of her foot until he firmly grabs hold of her ankle and gives it a gentle tug so he can see her glistening and open. Her cunt clenches around nothing at the look in his eyes as he feasts all over again; eating her with  his eyes, his tongue teasing at the corner of his mouth. He looks so fucking hot.

"Wes…? Can I have my dessert now?" she asks plaintively, making her eyes go big and jutting out her bottom lip. It never worked on either of her parents but Xander was always a sucker for it. "I've been a very good girl."

His thumb brushes against the swollen tip of her breast. "I rather think you've been a very wicked girl." His voice is gravelly grave. "But I suppose you have behaved yourself, more or less."

He pushes his thumb into her mouth, slowly like it's his cock, and she slicks it up with the pink swipe of her tongue so that he can glide it over her nipple and admire how pretty and shiny it looks.

"What do I get for dessert then?" she asks between gritted teeth, parting her thighs wider and daring him to just sweep everything off the table, like they do in the movies, and fuck her on the surface.

He looks up, takes his own sweet time before he gives her a reply. She even gets a little lip nibbling as he gives her question proper consideration. "Let me see. We're going to go upstairs, I think we'll take the wine with us, and then you're going to lie down exactly in the center of the bed." He can't help that clipped preciseness that creeps back but as his own fingers know, it only makes her wetter. "I'm still deciding whether or not to tie you up but I'm utterly adamant that I'm going to see how many times I can make you come. Does that sound agreeable or would you like some fruit instead?"

Chapter Thirty One

She’s laughing as she says, “Strawberries, please,” just to make him frown, but her heart’s doing this thudding thing that makes her notice it’s there, which she doesn’t normally. Tied up? How many times... God, she’s thinking double figures, but her mind’s stuck on ‘tied’ and she touches her fingers to her wrist as if there’s already something there, holding her open, keeping her still while he does... anything he wants to.

His fingers rest against hers then move to circle her wrist. “If I say I don’t have any, will you ask me for raspberries or cherries... which I do have, or will you start to walk up the stairs to the bed?”

She twists her hand slowly, not trying to break free, just seeing what it feels like, and his grip stays exactly the same but his eyes are watchful now as if he’s waiting for her to panic or tell him ‘no’.

And she might have if he’d tightened his grip.

She smiles at him instead as his hand drops casually away. “So, just out of interest, Wes, what number are you aiming for?”

He snags wine bottle and glass in one hand and holds out his other hand to help her stand, not letting go of her when she does, so that they walk towards the stairs holding hands.

“If I knew the answer, I wouldn’t want to solve the problem,” he says.

“Oh, I’m a problem am I?” she says, teasing him as they reach the bedroom door.

He pushes it open and lets her walk in before him. “In many ways, yes, you are, Faith.” He sets down what he’s holding on the bedside table and she looks at the deep, wide drawers in it and wishes she’d spent a little bit of time snooping after all. “And I find that doesn’t matter very much now.”

And she wants to know what that means, but he nods at the bed and there’s no time for anything but remembering how to breathe when he’s taken the air out of the room with just that gesture. “Take off my shirt and lie down, Faith. In the center of the bed, on your back, for now.”

She almost hates to lose the feeling of his shirt against her skin, which is crazy when she’s going to have his hands on her soon, but even so, she slides it off regretfully, holding it bunched in one hand as she walks to the bed, like it’s a fucking security blanket or something. He takes it from her as she passes him and puts it back on the chair.

She crawls onto the bed, still rumpled from her nap, and positions herself as she’s been told to do and waits. He’s still dressed and still standing, looking down at her, spread out naked on his bed.

“Hands by your side, palms up... move your legs apart, no, a little further, please, Faith.”

He’s lost in this now, voice cool, but there’s this link still there between them and he says her name like he’s kissing it as it slips past his lips. That English voice of his makes everything sound so proper and correct.

“Pinch your right nipple, Faith, as hard as you can bear it.”

Well, OK, maybe not everything....

She lifts her left hand and it’s like moving underwater. She can feel her cheeks getting hot and his eyes never leave her face until she’s rolling her nipple between her fingers.

“Harder,” he says in a voice that’s almost casual.

She brings her fingers and thumb together and it’s like invisible fingers are teasing her clit, and doing it so well that the sensation there’s stronger than the one the flesh between her fingers is feeling. She gasps and her hips lift up a little and her legs split open.

“You broke position,” he says and she tries to relax, but the only way she can do that is by easing off on what her hand’s doing and he notices that even faster. “It’s very simple, Faith,” he says, chiding her. “You stay still, apart from the movements I tell you to make. Try again.”

She’s got just enough willpower left, as her fingers clamp down on a nipple that’s already starting to feel tender, to say, “I thought you were going to make me come, Wes.”

He pours a glass of wine, brings over a straight backed chair and sits down at the foot of the bed. He takes a long, slow sip of the wine and says, “What makes you think I’m not? Keep doing that and run the fingers of your other hand across your stomach. Oh, lighter than that, Faith. Try again...”

By the time he lets her spread her legs, one knee bent up, she’s so wet her finger slips over her clit as if it’s encased in ice and it almost hurts to touch it, it’s so swollen. She’s making soft little sounds and he’s talking to her all the time now, arms folded tightly across his chest, eyes glittering as he watches her fingers curl inside her, thumb rubbing against her clit, middle finger deep in the slippery heat of her cunt, ring finger teasing at her asshole until he tells her to push it inside her and she’s so wet down there that it slides in farther than she’s gone before and he tells her to come, but she already is, and her hands won’t stop working her body until he comes and puts cool fingers against them to still them and peel them away from burning skin and kisses her into calmness.

Chapter Thirty Two

She’s chilled and feverish at once, and the cool touch of his fingers does little to change that. And she’s still coming down —muscles still out of her control, breathing still ragged, eyes still shut tight. There are tiny goose bumps standing up on her arms and as he brushes her skin with his fingertips she shivers involuntarily. He pauses for a moment, concerned: "Are you cold?"

It takes a moment for her to find words. Any words. "N-no, just…" Another tremor passes through her. "Ah. I’m fine." She fights the urge to curl up on her side and slip into sleep. Her eyelids flutter open and she smiles. "So, that’s number one. Is there a scoreboard somewhere or will you be approximating?"

The look he gives her is one of mock effrontery. "I never approximate."

"That’s what I thought." This feels good, this easy banter. It was hard-won enough.

"We seem to be drifting off-topic, don’t you think?"

Before she can speak, his hand strays between her legs. As his fingers slide deep into her for the first time since that disastrous breakfast, all she can think of is how different and lovely, almost uncomplicated, that this is, and that she’d let him do it all night if he wanted to. He just sits there, utterly still, watching the play of arousal across her features with a kind of rapt fascination.

She's amazed at how quickly he can always seem find that one spot, that one elusive bit of her inside that shoves her right up to the edge of coming again immediately. "Wait... wait..." she murmurs, shivering again as another wave of pleasure runs over her super-attenuated flesh.

"Wait?" he says, amused, still working his long, now-warm fingers inside, reeling her in. "You want me to wait?"

"You ... wicked ..." But she can't finish for the sound that's being pushed out, from somewhere deeper than her voice, her heels involuntarily digging into the bed, straining to slow herself down somehow, as if that would help at this point.

"Wicked what?" he teases, dipping his head to catch a nipple in his teeth, sucking on it languidly, while gently gliding his thumb over her white- hot, over-stimulated clit, leading her to unleash a new round of moans.

She can't say anything, just shakes her head. It's like she's being turned inside out, slowly, then thrown back into her skin, over and over -- in a good way. In a very good way.

Now she can't help it, as shudders rack her body, snuggling up close to him, moans subsiding to little mewling sounds. "Two..." she whispers as he brushes her hair away from her face with his moist and spicy-scented fingers that have just  been inside her.

He chuckles quietly, now raking his fingers across her flesh, raising a shiver when just the lightest touch is run up the inside of her arm or over her belly; he traces along the edge of her ear, down her neck, dipping in the hollow of her collarbone. She's lost in the feeling -- that familiar surge of safe and comfortable -- leaning into his chest.

"Perhaps I should give you some time to recover before we move on." His voice washes over her, and it’s all she can do to nod lazily. The wine and pleasure have given everything an even softer glow and what she's sure is a completely idiotic grin is plastered to her face.

She shuts her eyes for only a moment, surprised that she's so very, very exhausted so soon, she'd slept so long -- but there was the food and the wine before this...

***

"Faith. Faith, wake up..." He's stroking her inner thigh, gently.

Her eyes flutter open -- he's still in the same position, but there's something different. She squints up at him, questioningly.

Her legs are spread wide open -- cool air hitting her pussy; it's still moist and throbbing lightly.

"I hope you don't mind..." He's got that honey-dripping tone again. "I took the liberty of preparing a bit for the next round while you were resting..."

And now she understands his particular affinity for this bed. It’s heavy, substantial, with two slats on either side of the headboard perfect for …well, many things. As she slowly regains consciousness, she finds herself held in place, held open. She tries in vain to shift position only to find her efforts are met with an equal, firm pressure keeping her there. She doesn’t need to turn her head and look to know that she’s bound hand and foot to the bed-frame. Reassuringly, the bonds are loose enough to be comfortable, but she’s still pretty immobilized.

She gives him a slow, wry smile. "So, I guess you decided to tie me up after all."

He doesn’t answer, just leans forward to blow cool air on her nipple and watch it contract into hardness. She shivers, and tries in vain to stay still. Doesn’t want to thrash. He places the flat of his palm against her belly, drawing it slowly along the slight curve, down towards the vertex where everything converges. He traces the periphery of her still-swollen clit with one long finger, and she can’t help but emit a tiny "ah."

"Still so wet. Lovely," he murmurs, as though he’s talking to himself. Then he looks up, directly at her. "Have you ever been tied up before, Faith?"

She shakes her head.

"Good. That’s good. Now," —another pause while he rolls her nipple idly between thumb and forefinger— "I don’t want you to come too soon this time. What do you suggest?"

She’s not sure how to answer, especially with his nimble fingers still darting between her parted thighs.

"Really, Faith. I’d have hoped you’d have progressed a bit farther than this by now. I’m asking you a question."

She tries to think through the inchoate pleasure starting to tear through her again in small, powerful waves.

Suddenly, she knows. She looks lovingly at him, so intent and serious about his task, and smiles. Her voice is calm and clear.

"Read to me."

Chapter Thirty Three

She hasn’t surprised him often enough to have become used to the way his eyes light up with such genuine, unforced pleasure when she does. His face warms with a small, delighted smile that’s less a curve of his lips than a subtle change in the way he holds himself.

“You’d like that?”

It’s said with a trace of doubt that makes him vulnerable and that’s always when she feels the connection between them is at its strongest. It’s what’s brought them here, to this place, to this space where she’s posed and positioned at his whim, and knows that no matter how many kisses her thirsty skin soaks up, she’ll always need more from him...and that he’s not just going to give her kisses. She wonders if she’d have still asked him to read to her if she’d been lying on her front when she woke up, and just what it would be like to have his hand on her because she’d asked him to hurt her, just a little, just enough.

But that could wait. “Yes. Yes, I would. Anything. You choose.”

She expects him to leave her and fetch something from the library, but he only walks as far as a small bookcase in the corner. There are books all over the house, she realizes, as if he can’t bear to have them too far away from him. He crouches down and she cranes her neck, watching his hand stray over the spines of the books, touching them with a familiarity and assurance that makes her remember how he touches her and makes her shiver.

He stands and walks back to the bed, holding a book in his hand. It’s wide enough that even with her lying in the center, he can still sit beside her comfortably, and he does, crossing his legs, and holding the book in one hand, while the other rests against her hip. It’s the most relaxed she’s seen him, and it’s easy to forget that she’s tied, with her wrists softly chafed by black silk again, as they were once before, thick, wide bands of it, doing exactly what he wants them to do; arousing her without alarming her; holding her without hurting her.

He starts to read, and it’s not until he’s two lines in, that she realizes he’s reading it in French.

“I can’t understand that!” she protests.

He pauses. “It sounds better this way,” he says firmly, tapping his finger against her clit in a rebuke that makes her want to protest again. “Listen, and I’ll translate it afterwards, if you insist.”

“You can do that?”

He arches an eyebrow. “I wouldn’t read it to you if I didn’t know what it meant,” he says, sounding a little sniffy about it. “I could be reading you something completely inappropriate.”

She can’t help laughing, just a bit, as she tries to think what would be inappropriate at a time like this, and his eyes darken, though she doesn’t think for a moment he’s really angry. Still holding the book, he moves to kneel between her legs, resting the open book low down on her belly. It’s so old that the spine’s cracked and it stays as wide open and exposed as she is, the dark print trailing over the dim page.

“I think you’re losing sight of what the objective is here, Faith,” he murmurs. “The book is not to move, you understand?” He shifts down the bed a little and props himself up on his elbows. Leaning forward he runs his tongue in one teasing flickering tickle through all the wetness and the heat, until he gets to her clit and he pauses and recites the first line again, not even bothering to look at the book because, as she should have known, he knows it off by heart.

Each line is punctuated by a kiss, a lick, a nudging pressure of teeth behind lips and she’s gasping, the muscles in her legs taut and stiff as she fights not to move. The book’s light and the cover’s smooth with age and ready to slide off the gentle curve of her belly if she so much as takes a deep breath, and she wants to do more than that. She wants to writhe and twist, arch upwards and rub herself against his mouth and she wants to do it now. And his voice is doing just as much as his tongue. He forms words with his mouth so close to her slicked, swollen lips that each letter that forces his lips to push forward earns her a fleeting touch and his breath itself is enough to be a torment, warm and stirring the air that clings to her wetness like the silk is clinging to her damp wrists and ankles.

The final word is spoken and his tongue darts inside her, eager and fast, lapping up the juices she’s spilling and she’s so close to coming she screams when he pulls back, tugging against the scarves as if she can break free, and looking at him with disbelief.

“Why did you stop?”

He reaches out and catches the book as it slides off her body and kisses her thigh hard, sucking the skin into redness before answering. “You wanted me to read to you in English, Faith. I wanted your next climax to wait. It’s nice when we’re both aiming at the same mark, isn’t it?”

Speechless, she’s about to tell him what he can do with his book, when he starts to read, this time in English, and each word matches and mirrors what she heard before, what she felt as he was reading, so that without touching her he’s still making her body feel what he did to it.

“As each thing moves me, I know not
If one seduces more than all the rest
She dazzles like the blazing Dawn
Consoles me like the restful Night;
The harmony is too sublime,
That governs all her body fair,
For powerless analysis
To note each of its sweet accords.
O mystic metamorphosis
Of all my senses melted into one!
Her very breath is made of song,
Just as her voice becomes perfume!”

He finishes reading and leans over, dropping the book carefully to the floor.

“You may come now, Faith,” he says.

She’s just got enough strength left in the quivering tremble of need that he’s turned her body into, to look calmly triumphant. “Already did, Wes.” She closes her eyes. “You had me at, ‘Si quelque chose me séduit.’”

That gets her a soft chuckle. “Your accent needs work, but your memory’s excellent.”

“Yeah. Thanks. So, that’s three for the home team, but what about you?”

Chapter Thirty Four

She can just lift up her head enough to see the bemused expression on his face.

"What about me?" he echoes softly.

She wishes that the silken ties would momentarily unfurl themselves so she could give him a good hard prod in the ribs. Not that it would make much difference on the pain scale because he's been hard ever since the whole erotic feeding time deal and that was hours ago. He must be in agony.

"Don't you want to come?" she asks curiously.

He's propped up on his elbows again and it makes him seem boyish almost, if he didn't have a bird's eye view of her snatch.

"This is about you," he reminds her gently. "About giving you what you want."

It sounds all kinds of reasonable until she remembers that she doesn't even know what she wants until he forms the thoughts in her head.

He's scoring a line up the inside of her thigh with his thumbnail, staring transfixed as her skin visibly quivers underneath his touch.

"I want you to come," she says, her voice quiet and resolute. "It's not fair if you don't get to come too." And anyway if he doesn't get inside her soon, she's going to dissolve into a sticky little puddle, which would be a bitch for him to get out of his 300 thread count sheets.

He places a lingering kiss on her syrupy cunt, his tongue delving deliciously for a few blissful seconds before he drags himself reluctantly away and pulls himself up. His lips glisten with her.

"Very well," he agrees and she can't quite work out the challenge that she's picking up in the mild tone of his voice. "Why don't you return the favor?"

If he's not going to fuck her, then he can bet that she's going to give him the mother of all blow jobs. Suck his soul right out of the end of his cock. Especially when he looks so pretty as he rocks back on his haunches and slowly begins to unbutton his shirt.

"So, did you have anything particular in mind? I'm sure I have a copy, I have a very extensive library."

What the fuck?

"I thought you wanted me to suck you off," she says indignantly, once again pulling at her bonds, until he raps his knuckles lightly against her knee.

"Delightful as that sounds, I don't know how you're going to manage that if you're reciting poetry," he points out.

The one poem that she could recite from memory begins with the line, There was a girl from Nantucket, which would be a bit of a buzz kill. Shit, the only books in their house are her mother's Harlequin romances and a car manual that her father left behind.

She can't do this. She's not like him and she's struggling properly now, against the ties that bind her. She's ruined it all again, simply by being Faith, by wanting to surprise him and earn one of those blinding, carefree smiles that he so rarely gifts her with. Like her blowjobs are that good anyway.

He pauses before pulling his shirt off his shoulders. His skin looks tanned and taut in the muted glow of the room and in any other circumstances, she's be eating him up with her eyes, cataloguing the sense memory so she could pull it out on a darker day. But now, she's turned her head away from him, angry tears spilling down her face.

"Faith," he begins carefully. "It was just a suggestion. There are a thousand and one other things we can do that involve me..."

And then she remembers it. Of course, she does. She had to spend three hours after Ms. Gernstein's English class memorizing it after she got a detention for lobbing spitballs at Buffy Summers' shiny blonde head. And after about one hour in, when she'd already committed the words to memory, she suddenly got what Ms. Gernstein had spent two years trying to drum into her and sat there in a daze, awed by the simple beauty of the words.

"I know… there is a poem I know," she interrupts in a small voice and he doesn't call her on it for once. "But you have to promise me that you won't read anything more into it, other than it's a really cool poem."

He looks ever so slightly pissed off. "I wouldn't dream of it," he says dryly. But his hands have stopped moving because she can kill a mood as quickly as she can type his letters.

"Wes?"

"Faith."

"Will you do two things for me first?"

He treats her to just the merest hint of a sigh. "You're being terribly demanding tonight. Very well. What would you like me to do?"

"Can you take the rest of your clothes off and, well, will you… you should kiss me."

The bastard just gives her a curt nod and then he's shifting off the bed and stepping into the shadows so she can only hear the chink of his belt buckle, the rasp of a zipper, rustling sounds as he strips off.

"I still don't get how you're going to come," she remarks, twitching slightly as he comes into view and presses his hands down on the bed by her feet, so she gets the faintest hint of a lean chest, the indentation of his hipbone.

He places his knee on the bed and begins a long, slow crawl over her body, his cock leaving a slick trail against her skin. "It's really not your problem," he assures her, pausing to place a hot, open-mouthed kiss on her nipple. "You just have to lie perfectly still and recite your poem."

His weight is heavy against her pelvis, as he straddles her. Too high for her to really feel the benefit of his cock where she needs it most and he's so hard that it's almost flat to his belly as he leans over and tickles the closed seam of her lips with his tongue.

She puts everything she is, everything she wants to be for him, in the kiss. Wishing her hands were free to hold her to him, wind her fingers through his hair and mess him up just a little bit. His tongue is sinuous in her mouth, stroking hers and she tugs his bottom lip between her teeth when she feels him begin to pull away, desperate to have him just a little bit longer.

He reaches behind him and she cries out as he swipes the flat of his hand against her still sensitive, still soaked cunt.

His hand is slathered with her juices and she frowns as he anoints the inner curve of her breasts with the sticky glaze. Then his hand is gathering up more and more and more so she tries to arch her hips and grind against his palm but he's focused on his task, tutting at her, and soon her breasts are gleaming in the lamplight.

When he moves up her body, cupping her tits in his hands and squeezing them together, all she has to do is lower her head and she's perfectly placed to lick the head of his cock lasciviously. Been so long since she tasted him and the salt tang on the tip of her tongue makes her moan slightly as he closes his eyes tight and moves his shaft away from her hungry mouth.

"Please…" she whines plaintively.

He doesn't answer, just clutches her breasts tighter and pushes his cock into the damp channel between them while her mouth falls open in disbelief.

This shouldn't be sexy. The one time she did this before was in the back seat of the football captain's best friend's car after she absolutely refused to give him head. But now with Wes' thumbs brushing against her tightly budded nipples on the down stroke and the hotsoftwet feel of him pushing and pulling between her breasts, she totally gets it. Feels herself getting wetter and wetter, as the head of his cock slowly comes towards her, leaving a silvery trail on her chest.

"Oh God," she breathes. "That's so fucking hot."

She gets a choked laugh as he flings his head back. He's gone without far too long and if he'd just let her take him in her mouth, she could…

"I'm waiting, Faith." Only he could sound so in command, so in control as he fucks himself between her breasts.

She has to close her eyes because all she can see is him in front of her. All that burnished flesh rearing up and then retreating is kinda distracting.

"I don't love you as if you were the salt-rose, topaz
Or arrow of carnations that propagate fire;
I love you as certain dark things are loved.

She doesn't have his gift of making words sound like kisses but the words mean something to her. More so now than when she clutched them to her and they were a secret that no one else knew about. Her voice is nothing more than a rasped whisper as he makes a small noise of surprise and thrusts unsteadily before finding his rhythm again.

Secretly, between the shadow and the soul.
I love you as the plant that doesn't bloom and carries
Hidden within itself the light of those flowers.

His head lowers and he's nuzzling her neck, sucking the tender patch of skin behind her ear. "Oh," he sighs. Then "oh" again.

And thanks to your love, darkly in my body
Lives the dense fragrance that rises from the earth.
I love you without knowing how, or when, or where.
I love you straightforwardly without complexities or pride.

She can feel him shaking, trembling, the muscles in his arms rippling as his hands tighten painfully on the soft flesh spilling between his fingers. He draws back, still straddling her, and begins to jack himself off. Long elegant fingers moving hurriedly along his length, twisting over the damp head and all the time his eyes are burning into hers. Like he can't tear his gaze away.

All she can give him right now is these words, tumbling out of her.

I love you because I know no other way,
But this, in which there is no I or you

He shouts her name as he comes, his seed spurting out, adorning her chest and neck and he's still hard, as he collapses next to her on the bed and rests his head on her shoulder.

So close that your hand on my chest, is my hand.
So close that when you close your eyes, I fall asleep."

Her words hang heavy in the air, still wanting to make their presence felt as she tries to kiss the top of his head.

"I think you should untie me now," she says finally, when his breathing has evened out and he's sprawled on his back, one burning hot hand splayed out on the pooch of her belly.

"I think that's a very good idea," he replies gravely. And then he leans over, trapping her with one arm so he can give her one of those devastatingly sweet kisses. "Thank you. That was beautiful."

"I told you it was a cool poem," she says with a certain degree of smugness which gets her a rolling of his eyes and a sly tug on her nipple.

"Yes, you did. And I recall that I was conducting an experiment before I was so rudely interrupted," he kisses the curve of her shoulder, the damp skin of her neck, stroking her hair out of the path of his questing mouth. "Three orgasms seems like rather a paltry sum."

Chapter Thirty Five

She can feel the insistent nudge of his still-hard cock against her hip, as he stretches over her and unties one wrist. "Yeah, it is kinda lame. I was expecting double figures at the very least."

And he’s coming now too, the last thrust of his hips driving her sharply into the pillows where her drawn-out moan gets lost. He collapses against her, his breathing ragged in her ear, and it’s all she can do to hold them up. But she can’t hold it —she’s too exhausted— and together they fall into a rather inelegant, sweat-slick heap upon the bed. His body is satisfyingly heavy against hers, his spent cock still inside of her. He shifts slightly, wrapping his arms around her, and she doesn’t move, just luxuriates in the feeling for a moment.

If she were a cat, she’d purr, but instead she just sighs happily.

He kisses the top of her shoulder. "I think…"

"Mmm?"

"I think we should abscond to the shower."

"’Abscond’? I think I need a Wes-to-American-English dictionary. And you have a shower?"

"Of course. You think I take hour-long bergamot-scented baths every morning?"

"Good point. It’s just, I’m not so sure I can move just right now."

He laughs. "No."

He shifts again, and she knows that he’s going to slide out of her, and she almost cries out but she bites it back.

He rolls onto his side and she does the same, so that they’re concave against one another. She’s starting to drift towards sleep again, and she’s fighting it.

"We should get up."

"We should. You’re right."

"Mm-hmm."

And then they’re drifting together.

Chapter Thirty Six

When they wake it’s impossible to tell how much time has passed. It’s dark, probably the middle of the night. They’re still in the same position, wrapped around each other, and it’s so lovely that Faith almost forgets—

"Fuck. My mother is gonna—" She’s still mostly asleep; it comes out as a whisper.

He just pulls her closer and kisses her neck and she can feel his half-hard cock pressing against her. She shifts closer to him.

"Shh. It’s late. It’ll only be worse if you go home now."

She can’t disagree with that. She just lies there, trying to will herself to consciousness. Her body seems to be resisting. Even with the bed there to support her, she feels deeply unsteady.

"I want to move, really I do."

He swats her ass playfully. "We are getting up."

She rolls towards him, propping herself up on one elbow. "Oh, yeah?"

He sits up and in one swift motion pulls the covers off of them.

"Fucking bastard!"

"That’s right. Now come on." He’s standing by the bed now.

She tries to move her recalcitrant limbs. He extends an arm to help her up. She stands with all the conviction of a new foal.

Wes just slides his arm around her and leads her towards the bathroom. She’s almost amazed to find it’s not a figment of her imagination after all. But it’s solid, all gleaming tile and porcelain and that lovely, elegant claw-foot tub. She almost blushes scarlet when she sees the shaving implements lying out on the pristine marble countertop.

He doesn’t notice. He’s got his back towards her, kneeling as he turns on the taps and tests the water, trying to get it just so before they get in.

"Perfect," he murmurs before he turns on the shower. He gets in and holds the shower curtain back for her while she steps in.

And it is, and she just stands there for a moment, letting the water wash over her face and shoulders. He’s already tipped some of the sandalwood shampoo into his hands in order to lather up her hair. She leans into him as he massages it evenly into her scalp. It’s delicious; she’s not used to being pampered like this and she never wants it to stop. She can picture the look of rapturous intent on his face as he’s doing it.

"Would you let me…?" she asks, almost shyly.

“What?” He’s not really focused on her voice, she realizes; he’s concentrating on making sure none of the bubbles are sliding down into her eyes, fingertips circling and digging in and doing it firmly enough that it both relaxes and invigorates her.

“God, your hands...oh, that feels good.”

Free to move now, she shimmies against him, reaching behind her to touch him, running her hands over his hips as he tilts her head so the fragrant foam rinses out to swirl around her feet.

“Let you do what?”

“Mmm? Oh, yeah.” Deciding that it’s easier to just do it, than ask, she turns around and reaches for the bar of soap, rotating it between her palms until they’re thickly coated and dropping it back into the holder. “This...”

She wants to get to know this body. He’s seen her – God, has he seen her! – and she still hasn’t had chance to really look at him properly. It’s all been heat of the moment and desperate, and he’s been dressed most of the fucking time, or behind her. Indignation rises, as she considers what she’s been deprived of, and she fixes him with a challenging glare, as her slick hands slap against his collarbones, instead of the sultry, seductive smile she’d had planned. Probably just as well. She hadn’t practiced that one in front of a mirror and it might have made her look totally dumb.

“Stay still,” she hisses and makes it scary enough that he does, though she can see a flicker of amusement lurking deep in his eyes. Which reminds her...she leans forward, nose-tip to nose-tip and has a good, long look at his eyes as her hands start to rub against his skin. “Pretty, blue eyes,” she says appreciatively.

“Faith,” he whispers, as she starts to work her way down one arm, sending one exploratory hand up into the hollow of his armpit and trying not to tickle him. “I think I warned you once before about applying that adjective to any part of me. Don’t make me do it again.”

As threats go, it’s backed up nicely by the memory of what he can do when he’s that kind of pissed-off with her, and she pouts at him. “Can’t help it if I think they’re –” His eyebrows pull together in a frown and she backtracks. “Stop talking, Wesley. I’m trying to concentrate.”

“On what?”

“You.”

She’s at his hand now and she pauses to get more soap on hers before taking it and threading her fingers through his, feeling them clench and hold her tightly. Strong hands with long, elegant fingers and she shivers thinking of them inside her, on her, holding her.

He’s still keeping her hand captive, and she tugs. “Give it back, Wes. Water’s going to go cold before I’m done.”

“No, it won’t,” he says, with the assurance of someone who doesn’t have to worry about bills or boilers older than God, “but I still haven’t quite grasped your agenda here.”

“There are bits of your body I haven’t seen, let alone touched,” she says fiercely. “Do you think that’s fair?”

His grip loosens. “I – it never really occurred to me that –” He blinks away the water that’s gathering on his eyelashes and gives her this puzzled look.

Fuck, not the stammering, lost for words, Wes. She can’t resist leaning forward to kiss him, with the water washing the taste of him away, so she has to send her tongue deep into his mouth to get at it and when she does, she doesn’t want to stop kissing him, ever.

He’s got his arms around her, which is just as well, as this isn’t the safest place for a kiss that’s making her knees weak, and he’s smoothing his hand over her back, pulling her close –

“Ow!” The sting from the slap on her backside is less than normal because she’s so wet, but it’s enough to break the kiss. “What was that for?”

“You won’t wait with any degree of patience and now I find you get distracted too easily,” he says primly. “I believe you were washing me and taking the opportunity to acquaint yourself with my body. Kissing me falls under neither of those headings.”

She smiles at him, glittering and bright. “Turn around, Wes.”

When he does, with an ironic, indulgent lift of his eyebrow that’s so going to cost him, she goes to town on his back, tracing each muscle, running a thumb down his spine and back, letting the water rinse away the heart she’s drawn in soap, ignoring his sucked-in breath as he figures out what shape the edge of the bar’s inscribing on his skin.

She crouches down to study his legs, stroking the skin behind his knees and watching it jump, stroking a finger over a thin scar high on his outer thigh and waiting for him to tell her where he got it. He glances down at her hand and says nothing, so she leaves it and leans in to bite his ass instead, getting a surprised yelp that makes her grin. From this angle, with his legs spread a little, it’s an...interesting view but she gets an attack of shyness that makes her bite her lip. Shit. She wants to do this, but...

“Shall I turn around?” he asks and there’s nothing in his voice but a question, but it sounds like a dare, and she pushes back her wet hair and kneels up, feeling the slippery hardness of the porcelain warn her that this isn’t going to be comfortable for long.

“Not yet,” she says.

She brings up her hands to rest against his ass, rubbing her thumbs in tiny circles and then shifting her hands so her thumbs are at the top of the cleft dividing his ass. Soapy as they are, it’s easy to bring them down firmly, parting his cheeks and running her thumbs inside and across his asshole, not pausing, bringing them down as far as she can reach without moving her hands, and doing it again, bolder this time. He’s letting her do it, spreading his legs a little wider, relaxing muscles that could have kept out this tentative invasion if he’d chosen.

She does it once more and her courage leaves her but it’s left her aroused, more by him letting her do this than anything. She slides her hand between his legs and cups his balls, feeling their weight against her palm, squeezing them gently, and then stands up because she can’t stand the pain in her knees any more. One last application of soap to her hands and she wraps her hands around his waist, kissing his shoulder blade, and lets her hands drop down to his cock.

He’s not just hard, he’s rigid, and at her touch he shudders.

Chapter Thirty Seven

"I think you're already quite familiar with that territory." He's not pushing her away, exactly -- after all, she'd just had her thumb up his ass a minute ago, and he does have a hard-on. But ... she realizes she's hit a nerve with her voluntary ministrations and attentiveness to him.

She pauses with her sudsy hands around his cock, boldness fading fast again. Rather suddenly, like a punch to the gut, she further realizes that her appreciation, her goddamn devotion to him -- in spite of things he's done that would turn her heart sour if they'd been done by anyone else -- she can only show those feelings to him by shoving his beauty and his fucking desirableness directly in his face, making him look at it without flinching, without turning away or putting up his emotional walls, or any of that tired crap. Like when she was seven, she thinks rather unromantically, and her father rubbed her new puppy's head in its own piss when it made a mess on the furniture. Something like that -- but less gross. Every battle with him on this front is going to be unpleasant -- she can't forget that that nagging detail -- but she's gotta take a chance. Like when she held him, let him cry on her.

She tilts her head up, kissing him lightly -- just grazing her lips across his. "That doesn't mean that it deserves any less attention than the rest of your..." she pauses, pulling up the courage, realizing she's holding the trump card, as it were. But whispering now, "...pretty body."

And before he can protest, she snatches his mouth into a deeper kiss, wrestling her tongue against his and squeezes his cock tightly, running her slick hands up and down the length of him, pausing only to swirl her thumb around the head, milking his precome over her fingers. He moans and she can feel his conflict in her hands. Part of him is trying desperately to pull away, and the other part wants her to do this, is leaning into her grip, pulling her closer, hand pressing against the small of her back.

She breaks away from his lips, smiling. Before he can stammer out whatever it is he looks like he's about to stammer out -- because, yeah, she's still got him in the stammering place, not the yelling one -- she decides to lay it all out for him. Her eyes are locked on his and her chin is tilted with what she can only hope is telegraphed as overt defiance. All the while she hasn't let up the pressure with her hand, still stroking him even though the last of her foamy lubricant has been washed away.

"Wesley Wyndam-Pryce, Esquire," she rolls the last bit around in her mouth, drawing it out gently. "You. Are. Pretty." His eyes are suddenly heavy with what she can't decide is pleasure, anger, or a little bit of both. She picks up the pace of her strokes, in time with her voice: "Your eyes are fucking pretty. Your ass, it's pretty. Your hands -- those long, perfect fingers -- so very pretty. And your voice. Oh, God, Wes. Your voice may be the prettiest thing of all."

At that last bit, he just whimpers and pulls her close, slumping against her, his hot and slick come hitting her belly before it's washed away by the soft cascade of the shower. His head is resting on her shoulder now, and she slides her lips up his neck to his ear, whispering, "Don't forget this."

He nods, nearly imperceptibly and whispers back, "Thank you, Faith."

They stand there, clinging to each other under the jets of water, letting it run over them for what seems like an eternity. Finally, he lifts his head and sighs, "Well, I think we may actually use up all the hot water after all at this rate." But he's smiling, and she steps out of the shower first, grabbing a towel and wrapping it around her before she carefully and tenderly rubs down every inch of him. However, she totally stops short of carrying him to bed -- just leads the way and yanks the come-soaked sheet off, tossing it to the floor, along with her towel.

"We should actually, you know, get some sleep, maybe," she says, pulling him on to the bed with her. She's forgotten what day it is, and even if they have to go into the office, but that doesn't matter. She's exhausted and she can tell he is too. He doesn't reply, just leans over switches off the lamp by the bed and spirits up a huge, soft cashmere blanket from the foot of the bed that he wraps around the two of them, like a luxurious cocoon.

Chapter Thirty Eight

She wakes to find herself alone, with a faint light seeping through the curtains to tell her that it’s daylight. She’s as rested as it’s possible to be, clear-headed and, though not inclined to throw back the covers and bound out of bed singing, she’s feeling, yeah, energetic.
But she’s alone and if this is going to be a, rinse Faith out of your hair and pretend nothing happened, repeat of the last time, she’s not sure she can take it. Her feet are on the floor at the thought of it, and she’s looking around for something to wear a second later, when she realizes that what woke her wasn’t him leaving, but the sound of him coming back. She scrambles back under the blanket feeling absurdly guilty.

“Good morning, Faith.”

And yeah, if she’s getting a smile from Wes, she guesses it is.

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Part Three

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