Secretary: Part Three

Chapter Fifty Six

Her heart does this leap and ends up right in her mouth as she stares at him wide-eyed. His hands are pressing down on the mattress so he can lean in and whisper in her ear: "I'm going to fuck your arse and your cunt and your mouth. I'm going to make you come so many times that you'll swear you've just seen God. I might even let you sleep occasionally. Is that all right with you, Faith?"

She's nodding because what the fuck else is she going to do when her entire body has just suddenly liquefied?

"Good," he says, straightening up. "But food first, I think. And you should probably have a quick shower."

She wills her brain to pass a message on to her legs to start moving but it isn't listening and all she can do is stare transfixed at him as he walks towards the door.

He suddenly turns round and she can feel herself getting all hot and cold as his gaze sweeps over her, both tender and so ferocious that she has to press herself back against the cushions to put some distance between them. "Three things before I forget."

There's a whole list of commands and orders that she's expecting. Positions he wants her in. Things he wants her to do. But that's not what happens.

"One, no matter how I might act, I never want you to think that I would hurt you or let you down. So, if you're having problems about anything, I expect you to come to me and let me help. Is that clear?"

The heart in her mouth thing is now having to compete with the lump in her throat. "Yeah," she whispers. "I'll do that."

"Good. The second thing, on Monday, you're to phone your friend, Xander is it? Apologize to him and try to explain our situation in a way that you feel he'll be comfortable with."

And even though he calls this, his sperm trickling out of her, the feeling of safety that he's gifted her with and which is going to take a hell of a lot of getting used to, a situation, she knows what it really is. Even if he can't say it.

She nods again. "What's the third thing?"

He gives her this slow, sultry smile that cranks up the heat. "There was a slip in your suitcase, a black and red thing, yes? I want you to put it on and be here on the bed when I get back."

Faith beats all world showering records and drags the slip on to her still damp body. It's one of her favorite thrift store finds. Dull red silk with black lace edges and if it's a little weird putting it on for him after watching Baby Doll a few hours earlier, then whatever. But if he even thinks about tearing it off her, then she's gonna get medieval on his British ass.

Which makes her wonder about exactly what he's going to do to her ass. She's had guys try to slip it in the wrong hole before and has been out of their cars or their rec rooms faster than a speeding train. But it's him and because it's him the thought of what he wants to do to her would have her crawling through broken glass on her hands and knees if that was what he wanted as a pre show.

As it is, she's already getting wet again as she races down the corridor, into his room and jumps on to the bed as she hears his tread on the stairs. When he pushes the door open with his foot, she's kneeling up expectantly.

He's holding a tray laden with bowls and plates that seem to have a lot of Chinese food in them if she's not mistaken.

"You went and got this out of the garbage?"

"Well, it was very firmly wrapped up. Besides, you were quite adamant that it was edible cold though I have my doubts," he says, stepping into the room. "Can you get the bottle, it's slipping?"

She retrieves the bottle of wine that he's wedged under his arm and looks greedily at the food. "Hey Wes, y'know that…"

"I know exactly what you're going to say," he interrupts. "That it tastes better out of the cartons but please, Faith you have to allow me some foibles."

"I'm just sayin'." There's only one pair of chopsticks on the tray that he places on the bed and she's suddenly starving. He firmly ignores her plaintive look and sits down. "Wes, I'm so hungry. You'd better be speedy with those chopsticks or we're gonna have a problem."

It would have been much quicker if he just let her shovel the General Tso's Chicken into her mouth herself but it wouldn't be so much fun. He lets her have two of the egg rolls as he opens the wine, then he's pushing the tray out of her reach and clicking the chopsticks together in a playful manner.

She sits cross-legged, in front of him; the slip pulled demurely over her knees and lets him feed her. Occasionally he holds the food away from her mouth so she has to pout and lever herself up, one hand on his shoulder to snatch a mouthful of rice away from him.

But what he said before, what he promised hangs heavy in the air between them. And she hasn't even had half of her share before she's closing her mouth and shaking her head as he offers her another egg roll. "Maybe I'm not as hungry as I thought I was," she tells him running her fingers over his cock, which is straining against the cotton shorts. "Not for food anyway."

He pops the egg roll into his mouth and chews ruminatively, then swallows. "If you think that I'm going to let you come as quickly as I did before then you're very much mistaken," he says throatily, his hand covering hers so they can stroke the length of him together, before he firmly removes her fingers.

He gets up and places the tray on the side table in the corner and walks back to the bed, his hands full of the gold foil-wrapped fortune cookies that he tosses into her lap. There's a gleam in his eyes that's connected on a trip wire straight to her clit, which starts pulsing frantically. "Now, Faith, we're going to play a little game."

Chapter Fifty Seven

She stirs them with her finger and looks up at him under her lashes, which is corny, but effective, because she sees him react to it with one of those quirky little grins she’s crazy about. “Never was too good at chess, or anything complicated, Wes. Strictly the Go Fish type.”

“Oh, the rules are very simple,” he says. “Open one and read it out.”

She tears at the foil and snaps the cookie in half, popping one stray piece into her mouth to crunch on, and unrolling the narrow strip of paper. “Hmm, let’s see. ‘In your quest for fulfillment, do not overlook the details.’ God, who writes these?”

“I rather like that one,” he says. “And stop eating the cookie. You said you were full, remember?”

“Sorry.” She gathers up the debris and squirms over to deposit it in a bowl on the table by the bed, ignoring his faint moan of protest. He’s the only person she knows who has bowls everywhere that stay empty and don’t end up overflowing with junk. It was either that or the floor, so he could just stop being so fucking fussy. “What now?”

“Ten words,” he says thoughtfully, scooping up the cookies that she’s still got and piling them on the table. “Tell me, Faith; how many different positions have you ever tried?”

She feels a flush creep over her. “God, Wes. Never really counted them up, you know? The usual.” She tries to think. Back of a car doesn’t let you get fancy... and most of the boys she’s been with haven’t exactly been Cosmo readers. “Four maybe?”

“There are dozens,” he tells her, “though most are variations on a theme.” It’s kinda freaky getting lectured about stuff like this in the same tone of voice her history teacher used to have when he was talking about Reconstruction but Wes could read the fucking phone book and turn her on, so she listens without complaining.

He pushes her back against the pillows and smiles down at her. “Count to ten for me, Faith,” he whispers, “and you can come at a hundred, but not before.”

A hundred what?

His hand pushes her slip up to her waist and bares her to his finger, running lightly over the smooth, shaved skin that she’s become used to now, and dipping inside the folds, testing her. “So ready for me, always,” he says and there’s a bit of wonder in there, as well as the satisfaction she expected.

“Yeah,” she says, and makes it sound challenging. “What am I ready for, Wesley?”

He’s in her again in another quick thrust and she’s going to cry real tears when he goes back to teasing her because she could get used to this. She’s all arched and rubbing against him, but he’s not moving. “What?” she says.

“I’m waiting,” he reminds her.

“Huh? Oh! One.”

“That’s better.”

His lips find a square inch of skin on her neck that she doesn’t think he’s kissed before and fasten on in a kiss that’s sweet and soft, and his hips do this lazy back and forth and he stops again. “This is going to take a long time, if I have to keep reminding you,” he says. “Not that I mind that, of course...”

“Oh, fuck. Two. Look, Wes, can’t I count in my head, or something?”

He nips at her skin with sharp teeth. “Absolutely not.”

The next thrust comes and she snaps out, “Three!” on the button, and gets another right away... and another... and she’s getting into a nice rhythm now and the counting’s becoming part of it, so she’s sighing out the numbers into his ear as he lets her hold him to her and it’s really fucking nice –

“You stopped!”

He’s sitting back on his heels, cock wet and hard, eyes gleaming. “You got to ten,” he says.

“Wasn’t it supposed to be a hundred?” She’s getting seriously grumpy now.

“Ten strokes in ten positions equal a hundred, yes.”

She’s rolling her eyes in disbelief, which she feels she does a lot with him. “You’re going to do this nine more times? Get me going and stop? Wes...”

“I’m taking care of the details in my quest for fulfillment,” he says, looking insufferably smug. “Now, this next one, I’m going to trust you not to go beyond ten... don’t let me down.”

He rolls to his back and gives her an expectant look. Fine. He’s not the only one with patience or a sadistic streak. She straddles him and wraps her hand around the sticky hot shaft, holding it in place and easing down on it slowly. “One.”

She draws it out in a way that has him biting his lip by five, rising up slowly and sliding back down in an agonizingly gradual descent that’s got her thigh muscles screaming. All the time, she’s running her hands over his chest, pinching his nipples to hardness, enjoying the chance to touch him.

“Going to tie you up one day, Wes,” she says, capturing his wrists and putting them over his head. “Three... God, yes, you look good like that. Keep them there? Perfect.” She scratches her nails down the smooth skin of his exposed underarm, feeling how soft it is. “Listen to you – four – beg me, the way I beg you.”

“It’s always good to have dreams,” he says dryly. “I trust you of course, but I don’t think –”

She doesn’t let him finish that, reaching around behind herself and brushing her fingers over his balls, tickling them until he glares at her even as his hips are lifting, just a little.

“Five...” And she throws him a curve and slams down on him in three blurringly fast bounces that drive him inside her and start off a tingle that warns her she’s too fucking close when they’ve got - “Sixseveneight...” - eighty –two more of these to go.

He’s got his fists full of pillow and his eyes are closed to slits as she makes the last two as slow as molasses dripping off a spoon.

She eases off him and smiles innocently. “How do you want me now?”

His hands move from where she left them and he pulls her to him, kissing her hard.

“I think after that little performance, we’ll have a short intermission,” he says and flips her over so that she’s lying face down across his lap.

“Hey, Wes! No fair!” She’s wriggling and giggling at the same time. “I didn’t break the rules.”

“No, you did an excellent job,” he assures her. “I just think you’re losing sight of one important fact.”

“What?”

His hand comes down in a slap that’s just hard enough to sting, but doesn’t hurt. “I make the rules. Count to ten.”

When he’s done and her ass is a pretty shade of pink, or so he says, he rolls her over so she’s looking up at him.

“Does that count toward the hundred?” she asks.

“Did it do as much for you as the other twenty did?”

It’s a serious question, which throws her a bit. “God, Wes...” She stirs against his lap, thinking about it but she’s only got to remember how she felt, ass up and waiting, to know what the answer is. “Yeah. Don’t know if you could make me come by spanking me –” And fuck, don’t his eyes light up at that idea... “But it turns me on. Yeah. I like it.”

And her face matches her ass admitting it but it’s worth it to see him smile and murmur, “Then we’ll count it.” His hand strokes at her grazed knees. “Are they too sore for you to want to get on your hands and knees for me?”

She shakes her head. They probably are, but the covers are soft and she’s not letting anything her father did interfere with anything Wes has planned. Even that thought’s enough to make her wince and Wesley sees it and frowns.

“They’re really not,” she says, pulling him down for a kiss that turns into her sitting in his lap, with her legs wrapped around his waist.

And, turns out, he’d had that position planned anyway, so they use up another ten with her moaning the numbers against his lips because he doesn’t stop kissing her the whole time and it’s so much fun, he’s half way into eleven when he catches himself and she’s laughing at him as he tries to tell her she’s lost count.

The positions he puts her into start to blur and the laughter dies away as they’re brought to the edge over and over. She’d have given up by fifty, but he’s relentless, stopping, with a muscle jumping in his cheek as he sets his teeth, and pulling out of her; making her count when she’s close to forgetting her own name, she’s so lost in the feel of his body as it rests against hers or hovers over her, impossibly distant and out of reach.

They end as they began, with him between her legs, but he’s standing and the bed’s high enough that he doesn’t need to bend or crouch. He pulls her so her ass is on the edge of the bed and lifts her legs high onto his shoulders, so that when he pushes inside her he goes deeper than before, and it’s almost painful, but there’s no fucking way she wants him to stop. Her hands are gripping the edge of the mattress and he’s giving her stroke after stroke now, fast and hard and perfect and she’s shaping the word ten with lips that haven’t been able to do more than that for a long time now, when he comes with a hoarse cry, and falls forward, gathering her to him as her legs slip down and around his waist and he doesn’t stop moving inside her until she’s stopped writhing against him.

They end up sprawled across the bed, and she’s trying to decide if there’s any part of her that isn’t trembling, when he moves away and a second later a cookie lands on her stomach.

“Open it,” he says in a voice that’s still slightly breathless. “And I’ll pour us some wine.”

Chapter Fifty Eight

She just lies there for a moment, not wanting to move. The mere thought of having to reach for the cookie and actually open the damn thing is too much for her. "Holy shit, Wes, I think I’m…"

He’s pouring two large glasses of wine for them. "Yes?"

"Let’s just say I have a whole new understanding of the phrase ‘shagged out.’ And, to be honest, I’ve never even thought about it before now."

He looks at her with what might be classified as terminal bemusement. "You’re not going to get away that easily, I’m afraid. Wine?"

"Sure. Why not? As long as you’re not going to make me, like, get up to get it."

"Don’t be silly." He brings the wine over to the bed and hands her one long-stemmed glass. She does feel silly, and definitely self-conscious, sitting there naked, drinking wine out of a fancy glass. She’s more familiar with $9.99 box wines, sickly-sweet wine coolers, and the like, usually sipped straight from a Dixie cup. Now, she has Wes figured as someone who had his own freaking wine cellar. She didn’t even need to ask him, really —it was pretty much a foregone conclusion.

Problem is, the wine isn’t restoring her so much as putting her to sleep. Wes sees her head start to droop, and snatches the glass away from her. "Hey! I was drinking that!" she yelps, and tries to take it back from him. She doesn’t succeed.

He nods rather sternly in the direction of the by-now-forgotten fortune cookie, which had tumbled unceremoniously onto the bed. "I do believe that I charged you with a rather simple task, Faith. Now open it."

She reaches for the goddamn fortune, not with entirely good grace either.

"All right, all right." She cracks the cookie open and unfurls the tiny slip of paper. She reads it to herself, and just rolls her eyes.

"Do share, Faith," he says, with more than a little impatience.

"‘A surprise will titillate and frighten you, but you will accept it.’"

Wes just smiles. It’s a cagey, difficult-to-read smile, and Faith is suddenly dying to know what sort of devious plan he’s got in mind. Whatever the fuck it is, she makes a silent vow to get back at him one day.

"You remember what I told you before, Faith?"

"Yeah, of course." She swallows audibly, her mouth suddenly dry. "Why?"

"Don’t be afraid to tell me anything you need to tell me, all right?"

"Wes, what are you—"

He presses his fingertips to her lips. "Shh, Faith. Now, turn around."

His air of detached calm is making her nervous. "Wait, Wes, I need to know…"

"Just remember, Faith. I promise that nothing will happen to you that you don’t want to happen. Do you trust me?"

Now there’s a loaded question. "Y-yes." She says it again, this time with no hesitation. "Yes, I do."

"Good. Now, close your eyes." She does, and she can feel the nearness of his hands as they reach around in front of her and place a strip of cool fabric on her brow. He ties it tightly around the back of her head. Her eyes snap open reflexively. Of course she can’t see a goddamn thing.

"Hands on the bed, Faith. And keep them there."

She has no choice but to comply. She feels like she’s being readied for an inspection. And of course he’s making her fucking wait, expectant and more than a little anxious. What is he doing? She can’t even hear him. Stealthy bastard.

And yeah, the waiting game turns her on too. With her legs parted slightly, she can feel the cool air on her wet cunt. Then the bed tips slightly, and suddenly she can feel his proximity again.

Now he’s leaning over her, cock right up against the cleft of her ass, and that’s making her even wetter. "God, are you going to—" She’s practically breathless, just waiting for him.

"Shh, shh." His whisper is meant to calm her but it’s just more fuel for the fire and God, would he just—

But he’s just kissing her shoulder, pulling her hair aside so he can trail small kisses down her back. He raises his hands to her breasts, thumbs tracing agonizing little concentric circles over her aching nipples. He’s put her under some sort of spell where all she can do is make these little inchoate moans.

When he removes them suddenly, she almost collapses onto the bed with a startled cry. He’s leaning in so close to her that she can feel him take a breath, and he doesn’t let her fall. He steadies one hand against her stomach and the other slips to her neglected clit. She’s so wet that three fingers doesn’t seem like enough —she’s greedy and wants his fist inside of her, wants to work against all those muscles— but he seems determined to give her the slow and the agonizing this evening so she settles. His fingers still inside her for a moment, whispering again: "I’m going to let go of you now. Is that all right?"

"Y-yes."

"Good."

He takes his hand away from her belly but keeps working her clit.

Now his other hand is trailing down her back, slowly, slowly, ‘til she thinks she might scream. He stops short at the base of her spine.

"Take a deep breath, Faith."

She steadies herself, knowing what’s coming next.

But she’s surprised, because it’s not his cock sliding into her asshole but a finger. It’s still a shock and she gasps. There’s resistance, a sharp little pain that gives way to mild discomfort, but the lube and his ardent finger-fuck help mitigate that and she gradually starts to relax. As she contracts around his finger, he takes that as a sign to keep forging ahead. She’s starting to rub herself against him, and that’s even better, but it’s not enough.

"Does that feel good?"

She’s not feeling too coherent, but she manages a breathless, "Fuck, yeah."

"Anything else you want?" His voice is slurred just a little, not as in-control as usual. It’s so fucking sexy.

"Want your cock in me." And he’d better not be asking any more questions that require any answer other than "oh," or "fuck," because that took every ounce of concentration she had left.

"That’s what I thought."

She knows she should be relaxed, knows that will make it all easier. Hell, she had been relaxed until a few moments before. Those last words shoot straight through her -- Of course he knows exactly what she wants -- and she reflexively grabs handfuls of sheet, knuckles white, to keep from collapsing altogether. Deep, deep breaths, she thinks, trying to push all the anticipatory tension out through the soles of her feet, past her curled toes.

He slides around her back, finger still working in her ass, whispers in her ear: "Yes, I think you're ready now. Just... relax."

She nods, his voice -- his pretty, pretty voice blowing the nascent waves of tension away -- and shivers, involuntarily. All those times she's felt utterly boneless before have nothing on this. He runs his warm lips down her back again, planting a light kiss on that tiny bit of skin between the small of her back and the cleft of her ass, and that warm tingling finally hits her brain like a shower of stars.

He pulls away for a moment, leaving her there so very prone and adrift. But in the next instant, she has to stifle a near-hysterical giggle at the cold squelching of the lube on his cock; it's so much funnier than she expected it to be, after all that wine.

And then he's pressed against her again, one hand back to working her clit, gently, and the head of his cock lightly kissing her asshole.

"Take a deep breath," he orders again, and though he's so plainly in control, he sounds nearly as unhinged as she feels. And before she can be either surprised or titillated, he's gently slid in, just the head. Her fingers scrabble for steadier purchase on the sheets. They're both so slick with lube that for a moment she hardly feels a thing until he pushes in just a tiny bit further, and the shock of that unfamiliar sensation nearly sends her into a fit of feral growling, but instead it all comes out as a strangled little cry that catches in her throat.

"You're all right," he purrs at her, not asking -- he's telling her she's all right.

"Oh, Wes ... I'm ... more than all rig..." But she doesn't get the last syllable out because he's slid in another few centimeters, and she seems to have lost the ability to speak at all.

He moves deliberately, letting her adjust as she takes each slick inch in. She's pretty sure she's making some kind of noise, a kind of low, steady moan, but she's so far removed from that now. The only real sensation is his slick length penetrating her, sliding, it seems, into the dark places she didn't even know were there.

When he's finally all the way in, and he hovers there locked inside her, all she can think is that there's no way anyone else could ever possibly be closer to her than he is at that very moment.

It's a feeling that's almost too huge to be contained, yet at the same time so small and precious that she wants to hide it away in case it gets lost, or forgotten.

And it's probably not the best time in the world to realize how much you love someone when he's got his cock in your ass.

There's all these thoughts ricocheting through her head but the pair of them are still as statues, frozen in time and she knows that he's waiting for her to say something, to give some little sign that she's AOK but she wants to draw out this moment as long as she can.

Then his finger lightly circles her clit in an almost reassuring gesture and she can't help but shift her hips slightly in response and he's drawing back slowly and she can't bear it.

"No!" Her cry is pitiful and he's carefully pulling out and she lunges back sharply so he's firmly embedded in her again, groaning at her undulations to get him back inside her. "No! Don't leave me!"

"Shhh," he breathes against her neck. "I've got you, Faith."

When he starts slowly sliding out again and she's canting her hips to try and keep him there, his voice is like her lighthouse, guiding her away from the rocks. "Shhh," he murmurs again. "Let me take care of you."

So she does. And he begins this slow pull and push, dragging his cock out of her by the slightest of degrees and then pressing it further and further in so this deep, dark pleasure envelopes her and she's squeezing down on him and just wanting him to never stop.

His finger is pressing down harder on her clit, worrying at it and it's not enough. "I want more," she begs. "Want your fingers inside me now."

He gently probes her aching, empty cunt with one finger and it's not enough. "More!" she growls.

Then two fingers inside her, then three and he's slowly, very slowly grinding the heel of his hand against her clit and she's going to die right here on his bed.

It's so weird how she can feel his cock and his fingers at the same time. Weird but really, really fucking good so she stops thinking about love and loss and all that other stuff that just gets in the way. He's going too slowly, like she's made of finely spun glass and she's going to shatter at any minute, which is not even close.

The next time he starts to back out, she raises herself up on her knees so that just the head of his cock is inside her and then lowers herself quickly so he's deeper inside her than he was before. His hands clamp around her waist as she hisses between gritted teeth like he's worried that she's hurt herself but she repeats the motion, leaning back against his chest to steady herself.

"Like this," she groans, dragging his hand back to her syrupy cunt. "I want you to fuck me like this."

His three fingers are twisting roughly inside her again and she brings her own hand down to rub against her clit as she starts twisting her hips and sliding up and down on his cock.

"Such a beautiful girl," he purrs and he sounds out-of-focus, like he's a long way away. "Do you like getting fucked in the arse, Faith?"

"Yeah, fuck, yeah…"

He's all over her. One hand pinching her nipple in time to the thrust of his fingers in her twitching cunt and his mouth… Sweet fucking Jesus his mouth, dragging his teeth against the back of her neck and then sucking down hard on her skin. When the tips of his fingers skitter over that little bump deep inside of her she clenches every single muscle she has, a few she didn't even know about and he's thrusting up into her harder than before. His cock feels huge and relentless and she revels in it.

All these separate and sweet sensations suddenly merge and she momentarily stills as it hits her with wave after wave that makes her toes and fingers curl up and he shoves his cock into her one final time, breaching his way through her spasming channel so she can feel his cock spurting deep inside her.

Afterwards she bursts into tears when he pulls out of her because it feels like something has changed or gone away and she doesn't even know what it is. Or, like, how to get it back.

He tugs her back into his arms so she's nestled against him and holds her while she gets tears and snot all over his pillow. When her sobs have subsided so all she's got left is the occasional tearful sniffle, she feels ridiculously shy. Which is stupid for someone who just let a guy fuck her in the ass.

"I'm such a fucking dork," she mumbles, rolling over so she can wipe her face on the pillowcase. She can feel his pained glare shooting daggers into her back even though he can't even see the smears of mascara on the snowy white linen yet.

"I'm not entirely sure what that is but I'm sure you're not." She raises her head so she can look at him; it's hard to tell what kind of mood he's in from his voice which has gone back to the mild setting.

He's propped up on one elbow and he looks sleek and satisfied like a well-fed tom cat. "Do you think I'm, like, a total slut for letting you do that?"

"I'm not even going to dignify that with a response." His fingers walk across the bedspread so he can stroke a path along her thigh. "I imagine it was a little over-whelming, yes?"

"You think? Wes, it was fucking amazing but kinda weird and scary too." She tries to explain it but she's not even sure that she understands.

"Too weird and scary?"

"You're such a guy some times," she sneers at him but she can feel this goofy smile spreading over her face. "You just wanna know if you're gonna get any more back door action from me."

He winces beautifully. There might even be an elegant little shudder in there somewhere. "Well, when you put it like that, Faith, how could I resist?"

She flops over onto her back and gives a tiny 'oh' as her ass connects with the bed. What with the spanking and the ass fucking, she's feeling a little done in.

"I imagine a hot bath would be rather welcome right now."

But before he can get off the bed, before he even has time to move more than one inch away from her, she hauls herself up and slides onto him, rubbing her breasts against the smooth, warm skin of his chest. Then she rolls them so he's on top of her and sore ass be damned. "Wes, I really need you to just hold me for a second, OK?"

It's probably the closest she'll ever get to telling him how much he means to her. So she lets her hands and lips do it for her as she strokes the back of his neck, lets her fingers tangle in his hair and places teasing kisses against the curve of his mouth.

Chapter Fifty Nine

After a while, he gives this regretful sigh and pushes her away gently. “I really do think we need to bathe,” he says firmly. Before she’s got time to protest, because she’d really been enjoying the chance to cuddle up against him, she’s treated to a nice view of his ass as he disappears into the bathroom and turns on the taps. Left alone, she starts to feel all sorts of feelings that aren’t rating high on the fun scale. There’s this dull ache deep inside and she’s got a horrible feeling that if she doesn’t get off it soon the bed’s going to have worse than mascara, snot and tears on it.

Wesley appears at the door, gives her a thoughtful glance and a wadded up bunch of tissues, and strolls out, calling out something about a snack.

By the time he comes back, she’s neck deep in bubbles and feeling better. Still sore, still moving carefully, but there’s this rich, dark satisfied feeling inside her that isn’t going away, because every time she closes her eyes she hears Wesley telling her she’s beautiful.

Maybe she is.

Wesley brings a small table over to the side of the bath and puts a tray on it, before stepping into the bath and flicking bubbles at her, in a move that has her mouth gaping open in shock.

“Wes, for you that’s playful,” she tells him. “Bring out a rubber duck, and I’m going to think the aliens took you over when I wasn’t looking.”

He narrows his eyes and does it again. “I can be playful,” he says, sounding hurt.

She snorts. “I bet you iron your socks.”

That gets her toes tickled and by the time she’s retaliated, the floor’s looking like a lake and Wesley’s glaring at her as if it’s all her fault.

“Feed me,” she says, to distract him, glancing over at the tray. It’s dessert time by the look of it; the last of the raspberries, a small bowl full of fancy looking chocolates and a larger one with vanilla ice cream. She looks for the spoon, preparing to play fledgling to his mamma bird, but there isn’t one.

“Very well,” Wesley says. “I suppose keeping your energy levels up is in my best interests, after all.”

She dimples at him and watches a smile ghost across his face as he reaches for a raspberry. He makes her part her lips so he can place the berry in her mouth and takes one for himself. “I used to pick wild raspberries as a child,” he says. “I’d stand there and eat them off the bushes and try not to get my fingers stained.”

“Why?” she says, glancing at his hand and seeing the red juice dappling his fingertips.

He brings his hand to his mouth and licks it clean. “My nanny was convinced eating fruit that hadn’t been cleaned first, until it tasted of water and soap, was dangerous. She tried to... dissuade me, but until you’ve tasted them like that, you’ve never tasted them at all, and I was always a little stubborn.”

It’s a tiny glimpse into his past and it’s all she gets, because he fills her mouth with a chocolate that’s a bite of heaven and by the time she’s swallowed, regretfully, he’s reaching for the ice cream.

“You forgot the spoon,” she tells him.

“I don’t forget things,” he says, sounding impossibly stuffy. His finger digs into the creamy mound and he studies her before moving, with a mini tidal wave of bubbles, to kneel between her legs. Brushing aside the bubbles, he lets the dollop of ice cream fall onto her nipple, smiling as she squeaks.

“Cold! Wesley, that’s fucking cold!”

Her breasts are flushed pink from the heat of the water and the ice cream’s like an icy kiss, peaking her nipple even as it melts and starts to slide over her skin in a sticky, chilly stream.

“Really? I’ll have to write to the manufacturers and complain,” he murmurs, leaning forward and tracing his tongue through the coolness. “’Dear Sir, your ice cream is cold. This must stop immediately...’”

She snorts with laughter and then gasps as he does it again on her other breast. “Don’t I get to eat any?” she says.

He pulls out the plug and the water begins to drain away. “Not just yet,” he says, watching the level of water. When it’s low enough that her belly’s exposed he smiles and replaces the plug, and she starts to whimper. “Nooo! Wesley, I’m hot and that’s fucking freezing–”

He stares at the hands she’s waving around in protest and says firmly, “Place your hands on the sides of the bath, Faith.”

Pouting, but knowing it won’t save her, she obeys him and feels her stomach muscles clench as he drips on a pattern that he tells her is a heart, as if that makes it warmer. Besides, it’s a fucking pathetic attempt at a heart. Looks more like a butterfly. His tongue’s stopped being comforting now, because it’s as cold as the ice cream and she’s shivering and moaning as he ends up just where she knew he would, with the last dollop landing and slipping down over her clit, drizzled in a torturous, teasing dribble that has her wishing he’d brought up two bowls because he’s swirling his tongue all over the place, with his sleek, wet head bobbing up and down as he chases every drop.

Finally, when she’s gone up the scale saying his name, he sits back and scoops up handfuls of water and washes her clean.

“I think I’m developing a sweet tooth,” he says thoughtfully.

“Yeah,” she mutters. Her eyes widen indignantly as she glances at the bowl. “It’s all gone! Don’t I get a turn?”

Dark eyebrows climb in surprise. “All gone? Really? Dear me.”

There’s a pool of ice cream in the bowl and she gives it a speculative look before picking it up, pushing him back and tipping it up, painting a line down his chest and stomach and running her finger around the bowl so the very last drops land on the head of his cock.

He’s yelping and squirming, but she sneers, “Suck it up, Wes, you baby,” and works her way down him, taking her time.

When she gets to his cock, the water’s going cold and her elbows and knees are suffering but he’s hot and hard in her mouth and she’ll never say vanilla’s boring again and demand chocolate.

Chapter Sixty

He helps her out and wraps her up in one of those towels that’re so heavy and thick she can barely lift them, drying her off carefully and then watching her as she sits before the mirror and yanks tangles out of her wet hair with a ruthless efficiency.

“Do I get to sleep now?” she says, throwing a glance at him. He’s put on a robe but, as ever, he makes it look as elegant as one of his suits.

“Are you sleepy?” he asks.

“Not really. Night owl, me.”

That gets her a smile. “I wasn’t going to let you anyway,” he says. “But I think we need a little time to recover.” He stands up. “Follow me.”

He takes her hand and they skitter barefoot across the cold black slate floors of the hallways and common areas up to library.

When they reach the red lacquer door again, Faith pulls back a little, clears her throat. She hasn't been inside since that first night they were together -- when he read to her and he still wanted her in those ridiculous but dead sexy clothes. And her mother had called. The rest is kind of jumbled in a blur, that whole night. Good -- no, very, very good to a point, then sickeningly bad once the light of day shone in all its dark corners.

Of course, things now couldn't be more different -- she's clad in one of his extra robes, for starters and then there's the fact that she's actually living here now -- but it still makes her heart skip a beat to think of them back inside the warm, red heart of the house, with its musty books and naughty pictures and soft lighting. To her the whole room seemed as cordoned-off and intangible as the man himself.

His hand pauses on the heavy doorknob when he feels her pull away; he turns quickly and looks her straight in the eye.

"I believe you said something about 'making out'... that is what you said earlier, yes?"

She knows she's pink up to the tips of her ears -- she'd heard all too well the slightly sardonic emphasis he'd placed on her words, repeating them back. "Well, yeah, Wes, but ... I didn't think, like, that would be your speed." She's screaming at herself on the inside not to fuck this up. Would he pause for longer than a few minutes to hold her, kiss her, tell her it's all gonna be all right?

"Well, were we to pause for such an interlude, don't you think this would be the appropriate location?"

She wants to say no, she wants to say, let's take in the view. Or show me the rest of the house -- or how about a cup of tea, instead? or something. But he's cracked the door open now, and both he and the throbbing redness of the decor are drawing her in.

"Only if you ..." she sighs, resigned. Remembering the one way she had felt safe in that room.

"Only if I what -- my dear, bossy Faith?"

Her voice is nearly imperceptible, eyes lowered. "Only if you read to me."

"Oh, Faith, really. You needn't be shy about asking for that, remember?" He tips her chin up and plants a soft kiss on her full lips. "Honestly, that wasn't quite what I had in mind for us. You'll be fully tired of my yammering on once it comes time to run over my arguments for the case Sunday evening. Now come in, please -- you remember -- this is the room where I chop up my secretaries before I dump them in the river after I've alienated them from their family and friends and invite them to live with me..."

She smiles then, backhands him on the arm with a generous dose of eye rolling.

The glowing wall sconces throw a dim light new addition to the room, a plump chaise lounge where the two chairs had formerly been. She slides up to it, throwing herself dramatically across the plush velvet upholstery, sighing. He's fiddling with something hidden in shadow along the far wall, something that turns out to be a stereo. She jumps when a speaker and subwoofer hidden behind the chaise lounge hum with a rasping cello.

"Handel. Passacaglia." he says, slightly pleased with himself, joining her on the chaise, leaning heavily against her propped-up legs, languid and relaxed, and she tries not to become completely unhinged by that slightest touch of familiar intimacy.

She doesn't say anything, just pulls him close, swinging her legs over his lap, and gives him one of those deep and hot classic movie kisses. His hands try to wander, but she slaps them away, slips out of the kiss, murmurs in his ear. "Hey, we're still on first base here, Mr. Best Things Come To Those Who Wait. Watch the hands!"

He looks at her in mock disbelief. "Your game has rules?"

She knows that her expression of aggrieved hurt is absolutely perfect; she's had years to work on it after all. "It has bases, Wes. And y'know, technically we're still in the middle of our first date so I don't know how far I should let you go."

And then she kisses the incredulous look right off his face.

It's everything she wanted and never got in High School. Better because it's not some sweaty jock or fucked-up stoner shoving his tongue down her throat or groping her breasts like they're made out of Play-Doh. This time it means something.

Yeah, he might think it's a game but he's playing by her rules for once and she finds the part of virginal sophomore ingénue frighteningly easy to slip on. Maybe that's why her hands are shaking slightly as she cups his face and kisses the sharp curve of his cheekbones. As she shifts awkwardly on his lap like it's entirely new territory to her, she can feel his hard-on pressing against her, which just adds a delicious fucked-up role reversal to the whole thing. Gonna teach him a thing or two about how it feels to wait for the good stuff.

He's behaving himself; keeping his hands lightly clasped around her waist, following her lead. But when she opens her mouth to sigh dreamily, his tongue slips between her lips and she draws back with an outraged gasp.

"Hey! What do you think you're doing?"

His lips purse as he gives her the old eyebrow arch and tightens his hold on her. "We're playing that game, are we, Faith?"

If her eyes get any wider then they're going to pop out of her head. "It's just y'know, you're like way older than me and all experienced and stuff. I've never French kissed anyone before."

He's smiling now like he really doesn't want to but he just can't help himself. "What, never?"

She shakes her head and bites her lip, before she decides that maybe she's laying it on too thick. "Maybe… you could… show me how to do it?" And then she wriggles extra hard on his lap so she can feel the pulsing of his cock even through the thick velour of her robe. "Just the French kissing 'cause…"

"Yes, it's our first date," he bites out. "I believe you did mention it once or twice."

And then like she's the jumpiest virgin this side of a Mormon Debutante's Coming Out Dance, he gently slides his hand round the back of her neck so he can tug her closer. "It's very simple, Faith. I'm going to put my tongue in your mouth and stroke it against yours."

Turns out she's a natural at French kissing. Who'd a thunk it? She's literally swooning in his arms as he traces the roof of her mouth, the inside of her cheeks and the tops of her teeth with the tip of his tongue.

They do nothing but kiss for what seems like hours and her mind drifts off to this place where life is simple and there was never anyone else before him. When he finally lets go of her tingling mouth, she can't help but bury her head in the curve of his neck and hug him tightly to her. "Wes," she whispers against the salty sheen of his skin. And if he thinks it's just part of the game, then she knows different.

Then she's getting some primo hair-stroking before his hand slips along her neck and down and down…

"Oh my God! Where is your hand, Wes?"

She knows full well where his hand is. It's currently cupping her breast, his thumb rubbing against the cloth-covered nipple. "I think you're ready for second base," he drawls into her ear, as she arches into his palm.

"I don't know, Wes. You might get the wrong idea about me." This time she has to duck her head so he doesn't see the smirk.

One of his fingers has joined his thumb in gently tugging at the hard point of her nipple. "Why don't we try it for a little while and you can see whether you like it or not," he suggests calmly, though his eyes are glittering like the window display in the fancy jeweler’s shop in town.

"Second base, you mean?" That quivering note of outrage should get her a frickin' Academy Award. "Well, only if you promise not to tell anyone that I let you."

And she had this whole speech prepared about how he wasn't allowed to go under her clothes but when he starts pushing the robe off her shoulders so he can bend his head and suck her nipple into the wet heat of his mouth, she kinda forgets her next line.

His mouth is so talented that it should have its own show on the WB. She keeps promising herself that she's going to find her motivation but then he'll do something sneaky like drag the flat of his tongue around her areola and it's forgotten. But when his teeth start to graze, give her that sweet edge of dark pain that has her grinding into his cock, she grabs his hair and yanks hard.

"Hey! Hey!" she squeaks indignantly. "Just what kind of girl do you think I am?" And she pinches the hand that's creeping up her thigh so hard that he whimpers like a big girl. "No way, no how, am I going to third base, Mister."

He's really giving her the evil eye now like he wants to turn her to stone. "Faith," he says quietly, warningly. "You shouldn't play games, if you can't remember your own rules." And he looks pointedly at her gleaming breasts.

Chapter Sixty One

It'd be the easiest thing to back down or strip off her dressing gown, lie down on the sheepskin rug and beg him to fuck her. But she deserves this. Deserves it for all the times she got treated like shit by some lousy guy who only wanted her for one thing. And she deserves it from him because she knows they're on a clock and as soon as her novelty value wears off, or he comes to his senses, then she's gonna be out on the ass that he just fucked.

Besides, hasn't she played all his games? Followed his rules even when it was obvious he was making them up as he went along? If he thinks that he can glare her into submission, then he's gonna have blue balls for the rest of the fucking night.

She wraps the robe firmly about her, folds her arms and pouts at him. "I'm sorry, Wes. I didn't mean to lead you on or nothing." If she concentrates really hard, she can make her bottom lip wobble alarmingly. "Does this mean you're gonna break up with me?"

"No," he drawls, "This means I have to try a new tack. If at first you don’t succeed…" He flashes her the most insinuating smile in his arsenal. She tries not to quaver in the face of it but it’s tough. She wraps the robe around herself a little tighter, hoping she’s not overdoing the defensive virgin act. The defensive bit is suitably method, at least.

She’ll be damned if she’s going to let him beat her at her own game.

He must see the determination in her eyes because he adds a quick, "I’ll be good, I promise." He wraps his arms around her waist and pulls her towards him. "See? My hands are staying put."

She’s back in full mock-effrontery mode. "Yeah, well, I’m not so sure I can trust you when you say that." She swivels on the chaise and crosses her legs with what she hopes is firm —no, unswerving resolve.

"Frankly, Faith, I’m hurt." In response, he starts peppering her exposed neck with these devastating little kisses that are so goddamn sweet but they’re still turning her insides to mush. "Might there be any way I could make it up to you?" he asks huskily, in between. And yeah, his hands still haven’t moved from their spot at the small of her back, haven’t even strayed to her ass once.

Her voice softens, like she’s reconsidering her stance. "Maybe?"

He looks dreadfully amused at her indecision. "Really, Faith, you can do better than that."

She considers that for a moment. "You’re right." She plucks his hands away from her and wriggles free of him. "Now, I’d like you to sit back. Hands at your sides. And don’t move until I tell you to." He complies. She gets up off the chaise and crosses the room to the seemingly endless row of bookshelves. As her fingers drift lazily over the their worn and cracked spines, she wonders if he remembers when and where he was when he bought each and every one. She smiles to herself —she knows the answer to that one, easy.

She starts to slide a random book off the shelf but stops short and puts it back. She turns to find him sitting stock still, watching her with interest. "So, Wes, I’ve got a tough one for you. If you had to pick one book, and one book only, which one would you pick?" He practically blanches, as though she’s asked him to encapsulate the meaning of life in one short pithy phrase, and she knows the satisfaction of a job well done. And they haven’t even gotten to the fun part yet.

“One?” He shakes his head and looks firm. “I couldn’t. Not possibly.”

“I said it was tough,” she reminds him, making her voice inflexible.

“It’s impossible!” he says, with the words bursting out of him indignantly. “Do you know how many I own? And they’re all special, for different reasons. I can’t choose one from the thousands and I won’t.”

His mouth’s set or she’d suspect he was pouting. “Gotta pay a forfeit then, Wes,” she says, making her voice regretful, though there’s a fountain of giggles wanting to spray out of her mouth.

“I really don’t.”

“You really do,” she says mockingly, mimicking his voice perfectly. “I’ll give you an easier one now though; where’s your first book?”

He relaxes. “Not as easy as you might think; do you mean the first book I bought, or the first I owned?”

She shrugs, coming to lean on the back on the chaise and running her hand through his hair. So soft, and for all the severe cut, it’s long enough to curl her fingers into. “Whichever you still have.”

He laughs. “That would be both of them,” he informs her. “I don’t – or very rarely – give away my books. The exception being an expurgated version of The Three Musketeers with Lady de Winter conspicuous by her absence. That, I got for my birthday from an aunt, and passed onto the village jumble sale three days later, which led to me getting in all sorts of trouble when my father found out, but it was worth it. Cut or condensed books are an abomination.”

She doesn’t ask what his father did to him for that little act of generosity. “So where are they?”

“For someone who doesn’t like to read, you’re very interested in my library,” he murmurs. “They’re in here.”

He stands and walks over to a door she’d never really noticed, set into a dark corner. She’s past thinking there’s a secret pleasure room filled with exotic... stuff, because the whole house feels that way to her now. Every table’s one he could bend her over, every counter top’s the right height for her to sit while his tongue teaches her how to beg, every square foot of floor’s made for her to lie, strut or crawl on or over. Her Wesley doesn’t need special rooms; he just has to fucking walk into one.

So finding it full of more books, brightly colored spines gaudy against dark paneling, isn’t a shock, though the giggles won’t stay inside when he hands her a copy of Biggles Goes Alone and tells her he bought it with his Christmas money at the tender age of six.

“Kids books? All of them?” Her eyes wander around the small space and she shakes her head. “Wes, you’re kinda weird, y’know?” She turns to the flyleaf and sees a bookplate pasted in.

“Ah...the follies of youth,” Wesley says. “I was too young to appreciate the fact that I’d just taken a third off its value by doing that. I learned better as I got older.”

His name’s written in a careful, neat script in faded navy ink, a world away from the slashing scribble he writes in now. She brushes her fingers against it, seeing him, bare scabbed knees, in shorts, with his blue eyes looking out at the world under a thick fringe of hair, and she melts a little.

“You look positively maudlin, Faith,” he says, twitching the book from her hands. “Will it reassure you if I tell you that they’re all insured for a considerable sum and are quite an investment? The P G Wodehouse school books alone... never mind.”

“Have you got any photos, Wes? Of you as a kid?” It’s the one thing the house is lacking, she realizes; not a single photograph on any of the walls or tables. Even her parents had a cheap frame for her school picture, and kept it up to date, until the year she missed photo day because she had a bruise on her face from her father’s fist, swung wildly as he argued with a neighbor over a broken fence panel. Her thirteen year old face still grinned out from the family room wall.

“No.” It’s said with too much finality for her to question it and she follows him back into the main library with a familiar sense of having blown it and ruined the mood. Fuck.

Chapter Sixty Two

He sits back on the couch but there’s a sense of patience running thin now and her mind’s scrambling to get them back where they were, when he sighs and looks up at her with narrowed eyes. “Am I released from my forfeit then?”

It’s that languid drawl of his and she shivers even as she’s going over to him. “No, Wes, you’re not. You got the second part but until you tell me which one you’d pick –” She lets it hang in the air, but he gives her a cool glare so she shakes her head in reproof and carries on, “ – you have to uh, suffer the consequences.”

“Which would be?”

There’s a muscle jumping in his cheek and she can’t tell if it’s because he’s angry, amused or aroused. Though with him, all three tend to go together sometimes.

“First date’s nearly over,” she says, avoiding the question. “We watched a movie, we ate and we made out up to half way to third.”

“I’m so glad my teenage days are behind me,” he says, rolling his eyes.

“You don’t like just kissing me?” There’s a hurt at that thought that she can’t keep from her voice, and he soothes it like a kiss and a band aid do a skinned knee.

“Kissing you is rapidly becoming one of my favorite pastimes,” he says and knocks her breathless because his eyes drop to her lips as he says it and he smiles, just a little. “I’m just out of practice at an evening ending there.”

“Not ended yet, Wes,” she tells him. “You’ve got to walk me home, like a gentleman –”

He glances around and she expects him to tell her she is home but he stands and offers her his arm, elbow crooked. “Very well.”

She lets him take her out of the library but when he heads for the stairs, she digs in her heels. “Where are we going?”

“I’m taking you back to your place,” he says, urging her up the stairs. “What happens then? I’m sure there’s more.”

When they reach her bedroom door she gets it. Cute. “You kiss me goodnight and thank me for a lovely evening,” she says.

Or you promise to call, cut me dead at school the next day, and spread stories about me so every group of boys I pass snickers and leers.

“I see.”

He reaches for the handle and opens it, then takes her hand. “Thank you for a delightful evening, Faith. I hope we can see each other again very soon.”

Then he kisses her and makes it a bumped nose, clumsy, closed mouth kiss, that shouldn’t make her knees weak but it does, and somehow it melts into sweetness and his hands stay above her waist and he doesn’t lean in close and it’s the kiss she would’ve got from him at fifteen, sixteen and she wishes...

It ends and she floats inside, giving him a shy, dazzled smile and closes the door in his face. Forfeit time, Wesley...

The room’s dark and she flips on a light and flings herself across the bed, kicking her heels and waiting for him to tap at the door or call her name so she can tease him for, oh, five minutes maybe. The room still smells of the flowers he gave her and she feels a dark wave of sleepiness tug her under. Pulling up the quilt, she waits for Wesley to knock and falls asleep still waiting.

Chapter Sixty Three

When she wakes, she’s sharing the bed with three roses, stems damp, petals shading from gold to pink, anchoring a folded piece of paper to the bed.

She tugs it free, smiling and probably looking really fucking sappy, and unfolds it.

‘You now cease to remind me of the princess who slept on a pea and instead bring Sleeping Beauty to mind. Breakfast is waiting.’

It’s signed with a ‘W’ and a squiggle that she can’t quite make look like a cross no matter how hard she squints at it.

Still, even if he didn't sign off with a kiss on paper, there was the matter of the roses, which look and smell as though they're filled with sunshine. She unfurls her sleep-stiff limbs into the patches of high winter sun streaming on to the bed through the giant plate-glass windows, brushing the petals over her face.

Which is when she realizes he'd won. He's won her game, that bastard. She mutters a few choice obscenities to herself, tosses the roses down on the mattress, annoyed. She was supposed to stay awake and he was supposed to come back. Hadn't that been clear? Had he come back, and found her asleep? Or had he not come back at all, not till this morning? And, if she was Sleeping Beauty, then how come he didn't wake her with a kiss? Oh hell, she'd probably needed the sleep, after all. She groans at the barrage of complex thoughts before coffee and heaves herself out of the bed, deciding to take a shower because if it's already -- she checks her watch on the bedside table – 9.00 am, its mere presence tamping her anger just a little bit -- he can sure as hell keep waiting for her appearance a few minutes longer.

But it's not like she takes her time exactly, and she's pink and scrubbed and dressed (after a brief skirt/trousers debate she decides on another cute tee/skirt combo), albeit still a little damp, in less than 10 minutes. She's jonesing for a kiss, some coffee, a cig, and some kind of food. In that order.

She tries to keep her footfalls as quiet as possible, tiptoeing over the cold slate to the kitchen. And she's thinking to be stealthy, he doesn't even look up when she slips into the common area.

He's sitting in the glassed-in great room that's suffused with bright gray late-winter sunlight, orderly stacks of the Sunday paper stacked methodically around him, intently doing the crossword. Must be the New York Times, she thinks. He'd never take the local; fifty percent of the Sunday bulk was the want ads, the other half was Wal-Mart circulars and coupons, and she inwardly snickers at the thought of him methodically clipping coupons and keeping them precisely ordered in a tiny accordion file.

She clears her throat, softly and immediately he looks up. And he's smiling, melting away the last of her fussy resolve to at give him shit about the end of the evening. "Good morning," she says, voice still gravelly with sleep.

"Good morning to you too, my sleeping princess." She can't believe she heard that correctly, and within moments, he's in the kitchen and is fixing her a cup of coffee. "Sounds like you could use this." He's so disgustingly sunny. She remembers, ruefully, taking a big swig of coffee that he's a morning person, annoyingly so. Well, most of the time, anyway.

The coffee's warmth and caffeine hit her with a jolt of clarity. "Did you come back last night? To my room?"

"Last night? Why would I have done that?" His voice is completely flat, but it seems like he could be joking, she can't tell. She gulps down more coffee, hoping that will shock the last sleepy edges off her brain.

"Oh," she says, slightly forlornly, having decided in a split second to go with the pity angle, and not the anger one. "I just thought that maybe you came back, and I was asleep. And if I was, I'm..."

He returns to standing in front of her, kisses the top of her head, slides his lips over her hair, down to whisper in her ear. "Oh, Faith. Drop the act." It makes her extra shivery, that disconcerting way he can see through her, right through her like that.

She sticks her out her lip, pouty. "I mean it, where'd you go?"

"Directly to bed! As I suspected you did as well. By the way, did you sleep well? Does your bed meet your exacting specifications?"

"Yes, thank you -- hey, wait!" She chugs down the rest of the coffee in the mug. "Don't try and distract me."

"Oh Faith, really. Now, go grab the magazine section of the paper and get your jacket and shoes. We're going out for breakfast." He's already slipped into a dark leather jacket and is digging in the pocket of his wool overcoat for something, keys probably.

"Are you sure that's entirely safe?" she says, padding across the great room, finding that he'd nearly completed the massive, sprawling crossword. In pen. One clue catches her eye, and she laughs to see it's the one he's not filled in. "Especially after last night? Shouldn't we stay holed up in here till Monday morning?" She thwacks the magazine down on the counter, just as he discovers his car keys, secreted away in an inner pocket. "67 across is Timberlake, by the way."

"I'm relatively sure that where we're going, we won't encounter any of our unsavory mortal enemies, mutual or otherwise. Besides, I haven't anything to cook. My supplies on hand are generally rather spartan; you were lucky the other night." He squints at her in that endearing way of his, shakes his head a little. "I'm sorry, did you say something about 67 across?"

"Yeah, I just gave you the answer. The clue's '"Back" woods boy?' It's Timberlake. As in, Justin Timberlake?" She expects a flicker of recognition at that, but he gives none. "Jeez, Wes, nice rock you live under. Cozy?" She laughs, and he looks a little pained. She smoothes it over, without a second thought. "Hey, that's kinda cute actually. It is!" She plants a peck on his protest-laden lips. "Let me just get my shoes and we can go. I'm starving!"

Chapter Sixty Four

They drive out of town, and she’s expecting some classy place, tucked away in a picturesque setting, known to only a chosen few... instead, he pulls up after ten miles, next to a mom and pop diner set back just far enough from the road to let half a dozen cars park in front of it. There’s one space left, and he eases into it and turns off the engine.

“Here?” she says in an incredulous voice.

He gives her a sidelong glance. “Yes. Any objections?”

“Depends,” she answers, letting her seat belt slide back and running her fingers through her hair.

“On what?”

“Place like this is going to do killer fucking pancakes; you try and make me have a salad and I’m going to get –”

“Does every second word out of your mouth have to be that one?” he interrupts, and he’s sounding as pissed as she’s going to be if she’s faced with something you can’t put syrup on.

“What, I’m offending your delicate sensibilities or something?”

Criticism. She doesn’t deal well with that but Wes tends not to care.

“It’s a perfectly good verb, Faith. It’s also a useful curse. Save it for begging me to do it to you, or when you’re angry, and I won’t say a word. Interject it into your conversation with the tedious regularity you’re so fond of and I will.”

“Fuck off, Wes,” she tells him, with a pleasant smile as she opens the door. “And that’s allowed because I’m fuck- I’m angry, OK?”

She slams the door and stalks over to the diner feeling bruised. So she wasn’t fucking good enough for him? Not news, Wesley, really it wasn’t. No fucking need to rub it in...

The door swings open just as she’s reaching for the handle and she collides with a beer gut the size of Texas and has to step back a pace.

“Sorry,” she spits out, tilting her head back with a glare all ready to go if he looks even a little bit out of line.

Brown eyes in a forest of facial hair stare back down at her. “Take it easy, little lady. I didn’t eat all the waffles. No need to rush.” Before she’s worked out the perfect retort, and she knows there is one, the eyes are staring over her head at Wesley, who, if this guy’s greasy jeans and plaid shirt are anything to go by, is way overdressed for this place. Shit. It’s amazing how protective she feels all of a sudden, but it turns to shock as the first words out of his mouth are, “Wes! Didn’t think you were in town. What time do you call this? Elsie’s already on her third pot of coffee and you know she just adds water to the grounds –” There’s a yell of protest from inside and he grins.

“I think you’ll be paying for that with cold toast for the next month,” Wesley says from behind her, and this is some kind of fucking dream, because Wesley’s launching into a conversation with the guy who just has to be the owner of the red pick up truck with a bumper sticker saying, ‘Hoot if you like hooters’ and they’re like, long lost buds, the way they’re chuckling.

Finally, when a voice from inside screams to Chuck to shut the door because she’s not paying to heat the outside, they get to go into a steamy warmth that’s so thick with good smells, Faith can’t help lifting up her nose and snuffling them in.

“You look like a Bisto kid,” Wesley says in her ear and she gives him a blank, cold look of what the fuck? and twitches her ass into a booth seat and grabs a menu.

“I normally sit – oh, never mind, this will do.” Wes slides in opposite her, doesn’t even glance at the menu, and there’s two cups of coffee in front of them before she’s got time to start drooling over what’s included in the all day breakfast.

“Morning, Wes. Usual?”

Faith gives Cindy points for not quite shoving her tits into the coffee she’s just put down on the table when she leans over to adjust the sugar shaker, but still managing to make sure Wes gets an eyeful.

“Yes, I think so. Faith? Need a little longer?”

“Not hungry.”

Her stomach growls and Cindy smirks. “Honey, if you’re dieting, I can bring you some dry toast, maybe.”

“She’ll have the same as me,” Wesley says firmly. He gives her one of those assessing looks. “Orange juice, not grapefruit.”

Faith’s doomed to never get off any of the remarks she’s got boiling up inside, because Wes cuts her feet from under her by leaning forward and saying softly, “I come here most Sundays, Faith and I’ve always come alone up until now. Please don’t make me regret changing one of my habits because I commented on one of yours.”

She only forgives him because his usual is a stack of blueberry pancakes drenched in butter and syrup with fluffy scrambled eggs and bacon crisp enough to snap. The hand that reaches under the table and strokes the inside of her knee gently has nothing to do with it.

“So, Wes, spill.” He takes a long sip at his juice and gives her a puzzled look that sends her foot out to kick his shin. “I mean it; tell me.”

He relents and answers her. “I do pro bono work now and then; the owners had a problem and I resolved it. I called in one morning with some paperwork, discovered that Elsie makes coffee just the way I like it and started to come here for breakfast. Not really a mystery to it.”

“And that guy at the door?”

“Same thing. Some developers wanted to knock down his home and he was only too willing, as it was on the verge of falling down, but they were offering him a fraction of what they should have been.” His eyes gleam. “They were judging him on the way he looked, you see. On the way he spoke. They didn’t anticipate that he’d have the intelligence to realize he was being cheated.”

“I get the message, Wes. God, did ‘subtle’ just get left out when they made you?”

The bill arrives and he pays it at the counter, chatting with Elsie for a few minutes. Faith sees Elsie stare at her and forces herself to smile when she feels like growling.

“She thinks you’re going to give me trouble,” Wes tells her as they go back to the car. “I told her you already had and she says to tell you good luck.”

“What with?”

Wes holds open the door for her and walks around the car. “I really can’t imagine.”

She’s full, and she’s dying for a cigarette, but she doesn’t bother asking if she can smoke in the car. “You trying to break me of smoking too?” she asks, “because I’d be in a sweeter mood when I’ve had one.”

“Oh, well, how can I turn down that incentive?” He nods at the great outdoors. “Five minutes, Faith, no more.”

She’s about to ask him what the hurry is, when he pulls her lighter out of his pocket. “Here.”

The cool weight of it feels odd in her hand after weeks of using matches or cheap disposable ones but she’s not interested in doing anything but use it to light up. She leans forward and kisses him, licking teasingly at a sticky spot of syrup on his lips and pulling back when his mouth opens under hers. “Thanks, Wes. Back in five.”

Chapter Sixty Five

When they’re driving again, she starts to recognize familiar signs, and realizes he’s swinging around in a circle and taking them back into town. “So what do you do next, Wes?”

Somehow she knows he does something; structure, routine; he’s not going to be able to switch that habit off easily, not if his reaction to being taken out is anything to go by.

“Shop,” he says. “And now I have you to feed, I suspect I won’t be going through the ten items or less checkout.”

“We’re going to the supermarket?” She giggles; can’t help it. “Wes, there’s some places I just can’t picture you, y’know? That’s one of them.”

“And I’m supposed to do what? Get supplies delivered? Live on fresh air and takeaways?”

He’s sounding defensive and she pats his knee. “No. I dunno; a little delicatessen where you hand pick each olive and the cheese is imported just for you, maybe?”

He snorts. “Sorry to disappoint you, but I push a trolley around and curse when I have to queue behind someone who’s apparently shopping for a family of ten, just like everyone else.”

“So, do I get to pick stuff too? Because, no offence Wes, but I got needs, you know? And they include snack food.”

He pulls up at a red light and turns to stare at her. “I hate to think you have needs I can’t satisfy, Faith,” he says in a sarcastic drawl, lips twitching into a smile. “Even ones that require chemical-laden, nutritionally deficient –”

“They’re called Twinkies,” she says. “And chips. And, yeah, I go for caramel popcorn and –”

“Enough.” He pulls away with a stamp on the gas that has her curling her fingers around the edge of the seat. “We’ll see.”

Watching Wesley choose a cart and begin to push it down the first aisle has to be the most incongruous sight imaginable. Seeing him walk behind it sedately drives her mad. “You’re doing that all wrong,” she says. “Empty aisle; no eggs in the cart – you need to take it for a spin, show it who’s boss.”

“What?” He’s looking at her as if she’s mad as he throws in a bag of fresh pasta.

“The wheels lock on you, don’t they?”

“Sometimes,” he agrees cautiously. “I imagine the maintenance done on them is minimal, and –”

“Nothing to do with that,” she interrupts, bumping her hip into him and taking over. “Watch and learn, Wes.”

It’s a skill she’s mastered at the cost of skinned elbows, ripped clothes and bruises but it’s worth it to be able to send the cart skimming over the floor as she jumps up on the back, riding it, and balancing her weight just right so it doesn’t flip.

She brings it to a gentle halt and turns around, only to see Wesley standing where she left him, arms folded, looking like the Wrath of God in person – and she starts to say her prayers.

Just for a second, she's tempted to push the trolley round the corner before he can get to her with his long, angry stride and ride the trolley down the next aisle and out of the automatic doors. Another look at his frostbitten gaze and her feet are already groping for the metal bar.

"Don't even think about it," he warns her with a very unWes-like growl. She's paused for flight but he seizes on her deliberation to seize her round the waist and place her back on the ground before snatching the trolley out of her grasp. Bet he'd hog the remote control too, if he actually had a TV, she thinks to herself.

"Fuck, Wes, you never ridden a grocery cart? It's right up there with well, a whole bunch of other stuff I guess you've never done." She pins a bright smile to her face and tries to ignore the way that the temperature has just dropped to below zero.

"I can't say I have, Faith." He picks up a jar of sun blushed tomatoes and places it neatly in the cart. "I'm sure I must seem very boring to you but I rather value the full use of all my limbs." And then he drops the mild tone and flashes her a face of righteous fury. "You could have fallen off and smashed your head against the side of a cabinet. Or the trolley could have spun out of control and you could have fallen underneath it and crushed a few ribs. Then again, all of this pales into insignificance compared to the utter embarrassment of watching my… you behaving like a five-year old."

He finishes with an angry intake of breath but she doesn't care. What she cares about is that he's all pissy at the thought of her hurting herself. Where she comes from, there isn't a day goes by when she hasn't added another bruise, another graze, another scar to her collection. Add in that little pause just after 'my' when she'd bet her last dollar that he was going to call her his girlfriend and all she can do is link her arm with his and rub her head against his shoulder.

"I fail to see why my disapproval is delighting you quite so much," he says huffily but he doesn't seem to mind that she's hanging on to him like he's her own personal monkey bar.

"Nah, I guess you don't, Wes," she agrees with a smirk and then wrenches free of him. "Hey! Alphabetti Spaghetti! Fuck, we have to get some of this!"

Wes takes it out of her hand and places it back on the shelf. "Absolutely not. If you promise to behave yourself I may allow you some small treats, but I forbid you to put any junk food in this trolley that you think actually constitutes part of a well-balanced meal."

"But Alphabetti Spaghetti is part of a meal," she protests. "You have your hotdogs, you have cute fucking pasta letters; you're good to go."

"Yes and then you die of rickets several years later," Wes supplies smoothly. His gaze skitters down the length of her legs in way that isn't totally appropriate for Aisle 14.

She rests her hand on her hip and sticks out her chest. "Aw, c'mon Wes. Let me have the Alphabetti Spaghetti and there's a blow job in it for you."

He pushes the trolley past her and taps her neatly on the ass. "Nice try, Faith, but now that you mention it, there are certain conditions attached to everything you put in the trolley." He grinds to a halt by the bottled water and selects a case of San Pellegrino.

She hoists up a six pack of Diet Dr Pepper and looks challengingly at him as she holds it over the cart. "Yeah? Like what?"

"Well, if you're going to have treats, then it's only fair that you pay a forfeit."

She drops the six pack into the cart with a resounding thud. "But, Wes, those forfeits of yours kinda work out pretty well for me." And then she smirks because she's so got him.

He peers at the Dr Pepper quizzically. "Six cans? I wonder if you'd be able to last six hours without coming. Especially if I made you bend naked over my desk for the duration and let you touch yourself for six minutes at a time. Hmm, it could be an interesting experiment."

Faith yanks the Dr Pepper out of the cart and practically hurls it back on the shelf. "You can be such a twisted fuck sometimes," she snarls at him, because there's delayed pleasure and then there's just being fucking sadistic. "I don't even like Dr Pepper that much."

She's aware that she's sulking as she marches alongside him, her arms folded and the mother of all pouts on her face. He keeps shooting her these amused little glances as her expression gets extra sour with each thing he puts in the cart. It's OK for him to have his digestive biscuits and his fancy Belgian chocolates and how the fuck can he even think about eating that stinky cheese?

By the time they get to the deli counter and he takes a ticket and waits patiently in line, she's vibrating with the injustice of it all.

"Do you have a preference for olives?" he asks her, like she gives a fuck. "The green ones stuffed with pimento are rather good."

"Whatever," she bites out.

"And I suppose you don't have an opinion on Bresola ham versus Parma?" And he's wrapping a sneaky arm around her shoulder so he can draw her in and brush his lips against her cheek and it's like she's melting against him. "You're being an absolute brat, you know that?"

And it's true. She seems to have regressed about 15 years. "But it's not fair. You're not being fair," she whines. "I have my own money and I…"

"You're a guest in my house," he insists, his fingers brushing against her neck. "It would be entirely unacceptable for me not to provide for you."

And wow! Talk about loaded statements. "I want to pay my way. I'm not mooching off you, Wes."

"Well then we find ourselves at an impasse because I refuse to let you pay for any groceries," he murmurs into her ear. "Even if they are positively laden with noxious additives and carcinogenic chemicals."

"But…" She's groping for a winning argument but he's the lawyer and his lips are just lightly grazing her earlobe and it's like her cognitive thought processes have suddenly short circuited.

"Besides, you bought dinner last night," he adds, gently disentangling himself as his number is called. "Go and get three things to put in the trolley and meet me back here."

And she doesn't even bother asking him about the forfeits because she knows that he's already got a myriad of positions and games that he wants her to play and this is just an excuse to use them. Six hours or six minutes – he's still gonna make her come so hard that she forgets her own name.

It takes her a long time to choose. The whole forfeits thing really makes her prioritize her junk food needs. Gotta be worth whatever torture he's planning on inflicting on her after all. The Cheetos are a no-brainer but Twinkie or Hostess Cupcakes is a dilemma worthy of some fucked up game show. But then she sees that they have a special offer on Peanut Butter Twix so she grabs a family-sized bag, which means her chocolate craving is covered and the Twinkies are go.

She's mentally counting the number of depraved things he could do with just one Twinkie as she reaches the deli counter and sees him still peering through the glass and pointing at various tubs of gloop. The sales assistant is laughing at something he's said and she hangs back for a second.

Every time. Every fucking time she thinks she has him pinned down like one of those frogs they used to dissect in Biology and he has to show her that she don't know shit. He's like an onion. She's trying to peel away the layers, even though sometimes it makes her cry because there's always another one and another one. Trying to find all the pieces of Wes so she can steal them and lock them away so that he never leaves her.

"Faith!"

She obediently hurries over as he turns and sees her. "I got my stuff," she says with enough defiance to cover the sudden flip-flopping of her stomach as he takes in the bags in her arms with an almost gleam in his eyes.

"Give them to me," he orders and she didn't just imagine the way his tongue, all pink and wet, just swiped across his bottom lip.

"I'll share them with you," she offers sweetly as he scrutinizes each item before tossing them into the cart with a lot less grace than he showed his stinky cheese. "So you don't feel left out."

"Oh, I intend to get immense satisfaction from these… Cheetos." His lips are practically smacking together and he's eyeing her up like she should be displayed, all glistening and fresh, in one of the white bowls behind the deli counter.

Her gaze rests firmly on the rounded toes of her Mary-Janes. "So we done yet?"

"Almost. Just fruit and vegetables."

He steers the cart and his arm is back round her shoulders and she can't help it. She drifts off into another one of her perfect couple fantasies where they're living in England and they go to the supermarket and they buy weird British food like Yorkshire puddings and custard…

"Stop day-dreaming and go and get some fruit. Raspberries, as you seem to like them so much, cherries, oranges, the small sweet ones, and apples. Make sure they're crisp."

He shows the same attention to detail when it comes to fruit as he does to just about everything else.

His hand at the small of her back gives her a gentle nudge.

"Yes, sir," she snaps smartly because it's almost like he's back in office mode and she goes off to get fruit that doesn't come in cans or as flavor on a packet of bubblegum.

When she gets back the trolley is full of green stuff. Like, loads of green stuff. Lettuce, celery, peppers and some stuff she doesn't even recognize.

"Whoa, Wes! That is a fuck of a lot of vegetables. You planning on running the marathon or something?"

He's picking out mushrooms one by one, making sure that they come up to his impossibly high standards. They're gonna be here for hours at this rate. And he'd said last night that he was going to fuck her for thirty six hours; didn't mention that about thirty of those hours were going to be spent in the fresh produce aisle.

"Stop being annoying. Otherwise I'll make you eat nothing but vegetables all week."

She pulls a disgusted face like she can already taste them in her mouth and he laughs.

"You wouldn't fucking dare!" she grins. "I'd sleep in my room every night."

"I doubt that very much, Faith," he says but he's smiling too. Though it's not exactly one of his pretty, I'm-going-to-turn-Faith-into-a-puddle-of-girl-shaped-mush smiles, which has her stomach somersaulting again in a way that she can never decide is bad or good or somewhere in between.

She follows him along the aisle and watches with just the faintest hint of boredom as he starts selecting zucchinis. "You know the forfeits?" he says conversationally, which doesn't really explain why she's just popped out in goose bumps.

"What about them?"

He's got a zucchini in his hands. Keeps turning it this way and that, stroking his fingers along its nubbly length and she can't tear her eyes away.

"I think for one of them, yes… I'm going to fuck you with this while you're begging for my cock. But I won't let you have it, instead I plan to keep fucking you with this until you come."

"Wes..."

"Yes, I think that would be a very suitable forfeit for eating junk food."

Color is staining her skin. She can feel it sweeping down from her hairlines, across her chest and down to her toes. "You shouldn't say fucking stuff like that," she murmurs weakly.

"Why? Is it getting you wet, you dirty little girl?" he drawls and then he tosses the zucchini into the cart and starts striding off, while she trails red-faced in his wake.

Chapter Sixty Six

He's in an insanely good mood on the drive back. He let her pick an oldie station on the radio and he's humming along to the big band numbers while she sits there in an erotic daze. Her entire body feels hot and heavy and she's painfully aware of the stickiness between her legs. Seems to spend all her days wet and ready for him. She presses her hot face against the window and stares unseeingly out as the houses and offices make way for green open spaces and the large expanse of gray sky.

"You're awfully quiet, Faith," he remarks and he knows, because one hand comes to rest on her knee and then he's sliding it up her leg, pushing her skirt out of the way.

"I'm just thinking," she gasps and she knows she should stop him because Mr. Don't Ride On The Trolley would probably think that finger-fucking her while he's doing 70 on a side road is just dandy and she doesn't want the emergency crew to have to cut them out of the wreck and find his hand still wedged in her snatch. So why is she sliding down on the seat and parting her legs just to make it that little bit easier for him?

"Now, now," he says prissily, giving her inner thigh a quick pinch before taking his hand away. "Everything comes to she who waits, Faith. Surely you've learnt that by now?"

"So I gotta pay three forfeits?" she asks curiously. "Or do I have to pay a forfeit every time I eat something that isn't part of the five major food groups?"

She'd love to wipe the smirk off his face with a pan scourer. "The first lesson I learnt in law school, Faith, was to always check the small print," he tells her with a sickening amount of smugness.

"Just answer the question, counselor!"

"If I were you Faith, I'd be less worried about the forfeits and more concerned about your punishment for repeatedly swearing when I'd asked you not to."

"Say fucking what?" It's out of her mouth before she can even think about it. "You are fucking kidding me!"

He sighs really heavily as he makes the sharp left onto the driveway. "You know it's for your own good. You used various permutations of 'fuck' eight times in the last hour."

"So?" As the car stops, she's shooting him the most baleful glare she can muster. "I swear. It's no big deal."

"It's a very big deal," he says simply.

"Yeah, because I'm not fucking good enough for you and every time I open my fucking mouth, you're reminded of it." She's hissing now, like she's an angry cat with her fur standing up.

His fury matches her own. Really, really pissed. All the color draining from his face as if someone's turned down his contrast button. "You think I care about things like that? I care that you make no attempt to better yourself, to realize your potential and to rise above all the things you claim to hate about your life."

"I do."

"Then why do you persist in constantly swearing? You're an intelligent girl, yet every other word out of your mouth is…"

"Don't! Please, Wes, don't…" She doesn't know what's at the end of the sentence and she doesn't want to. 'Cause he's getting closer and closer to all the reasons why this will end. Which is why she's clutching his hand, trying to smooth the taut, white skin off his clenched knuckles "I'm sorry. It's just a habit is all."

"And one that I intend to break you of," he says, and the frigid, icy note is back in his voice. "You've said it ten times now and unless it's something that you'd like me to do you, then I don't want to hear it coming out of your mouth."

When he says it like that, wrapping it up in a lovely promise and punctuating it with a clinging, tender kiss, then she knows that burning stuff isn't the only thing she's going to give up for him.

"OK," she says, against his mouth. "I'll try. I'll really try."

"Very well. Now help me unpack the groceries and then… well, I'm sure we can think of something to do to pass the time."

Wes is as particular about putting the groceries away as he is about everything else. His kitchen is neat as a pin and possibly the most orderly room in the house, which is really fucking saying something when she considers the rest of the house. Everything has its proper place. Disorder doesn’t seem to exist here.

His extensive collection of spices and powders has its own cunning little rack hidden on the door. Most of them she’s never heard of. Hot paprikash and crushed fennel and thyme and… OK, curry she knows, but only because her mom went through this drunken experimental cooking phase that ended with the most vile curried lentil dish the world will ever see. She likes the gentle, slightly pungent accretion of smells, though. It’s oddly pleasant.

When she’s putting things away, she tries to follow his organizational strategy. The cans and jars and tins stop just short of alphabetization (that’s a relief, she thinks, ‘cause he’s anal enough already), but are grouped by type. She’s not really sure where Marmite goes, so she stashes it near the anchovies.

And Jesus, she hasn’t seen one dust mote or speck of dirt the whole time she’s been in the house. She positively cringes when she mentally compares this to her kitchen at home. The grease spots on the ceiling alone…

He must have noticed her reverie, because he touches her shoulder. She almost jumps. "Are you all right, Faith? "

"Oh, yeah. Just… yeah, I’m fine. "

"I think we’re done here. Now—" He brushes the hair away from the nape of her neck and kisses her there. "I seem to recall we were in the midst of a rather… heated… discussion. You were intent on behaving like a spoiled brat."

"I said I was sorry." She tries not to sound pouty, even if she feels it.

"Well," he pauses, as though he’s thinking about whether to dole out praise or not, "You did a lovely job putting everything away. For that, I might even be willing to temporarily forgive your little problem with favoring certain expletives." She can’t help beaming, like she’s gotten the fucking gold star for the day. And he says it in such a honeyed tone, his fingertips straying closer to her slightly parted thighs, it’s particularly impossible for her to resist. She’s been wet for him ever since she got in the car and she just wants him to touch her again.

Then he just unwraps his arms and steps away from her. "I have some work to do for a little while. Can you entertain yourself until I’m finished?"

It’s like a switch has been thrown. His tone is curt and business-y again. She’s thankful that she’s turned away from him, because her face practically crumples. She doesn’t even know why she feels so hurt. She’s a big girl; she can be on her own for a few hours. Hell, he doesn’t have to babysit her. So how come she can’t take it when his attention falters for one second? What the fuck is wrong with her?

She doesn’t want to cry, not now. She blinks back tears, trying to keep it together until he leaves the room. But he’s not leaving —she can feel his gaze on her.

What the fuck is wrong with him, that he can just turn on a dime like that? Suddenly she’s really fucking angry, and she whirls on her heels to face him. He’s leaning against the butcher-block side table, arms crossed over his chest, looking really fucking smug. She’s never wanted to haul off and slap him more than at right this moment.

He takes note of her barely contained flash of anger and gives her one of his slow, glacial smiles. "Save that for later, will you, Faith? Now, come on. I haven’t shown you my study, have I?"

And she finds herself falling into the old pattern again, like clockwork: he beckons and she follows.

Chapter Sixty Seven

His study is on the other side of the house, past the living room and up a half-flight of stairs. The hallway leading up to it is lined with still more bookshelves, heavy law tomes all. What Wes probably considers light reading, she thinks ruefully.

She expects another inner sanctum —a dark place filled with heavy furniture and an even heavier atmosphere— but she’s pleasantly surprised. The room is sunny, with big picture windows and a large, uncharacteristically cluttered desk in the center. No typewriter or computer anywhere, she notes.

He sits down behind the desk in his very expensive looking leather chair. She just stands there, a bit awkward, looking for somewhere to sit and not finding anything. "So, uh, do you want me to take a memo or something?" she offers, half-heartedly, desire and disappointment washing over her in alternating waves.

"I do not. It’s your day off. I wouldn’t dream of it." There’s that chilly efficiency again.

This is one game she cannot for the life of her figure out. Where did all those dark promises go? It’s as though he’s been body-snatched by All Work and No Play Wes.

She’s still just standing there, expectantly, and he finally takes notice of her discomfort. "I’m terribly sorry. I seem to have an appalling lack of chairs in this office. Well. I think there’s only one place for you." He slides the chair back a little bit, away from the desk. "Come here, Faith."

She blanches, unsure of what to do. He'd needed to work, he said. And surely that took precedence over any forfeit, any little game he had planned. Right?

A few moments later, she was rapidly losing confidence in that idea as they stared each other down, neither one flinching or looking away.

"Faith. Come here." His biting voice, glacial before, was now like sheets of ice careening off a pitched roof.

She takes a tentative half-step back and takes a deep breath. She feels oddly calm, considering what she's about to do. "No."

He's a little stunned, as if this latest round of her willfulness wasn't expected. Part of her swells with pride, but the rest sounding warning bells she can't ignore as his cold, thin smile turns to a sneer.

"I believe you're in enough trouble without being defiant now, Faith. Now, come here. I'll not tell you again."

It's an order, not a question, and he's hooked her with that, just needs to reel her in now. She finally looks away and sighs heavily. "I thought..." This was easier if she wasn't looking at him, and she hated that. "You have work to do, Wes. I can just... go read the paper or something. Really. I'll leave you alone..." She tries to take another step back, but the frosty silence she receives in response to that suggestion drags her feet forward, and she gives up fighting it.

"That's a good girl." He's turned on the honeyed charm again, pulling her closer with just a tiny modulation of his voice. "Now, come stand here."

She's standing close by his chair now, on the left, his knee brushing hers.

He doesn't even try and catch her eye now. "Take off your skirt."

She does directly, doesn't even hesitate, and he immediately slips his hand down the front of her panties, flashing that feral smile. "Your body never lies to me, Faith -- even when your wayward mouth makes a lame attempt at doing so." She tries not to make a sound as he slides a finger over her wet pussy, pausing to lightly nudge her clit teasingly, but a stifled whimper escapes. And then she's trying to grind into his fingers when he slips his hand out, one glistening finger hooked on the elastic waistband of her underwear.

"Remove these as well. And then the rest of your clothing."

She tries to slither gracefully out of everything, but her fingers go clumsy and she spends an extra few seconds struggling to unhook her bra.

He slips his hand up over her back, pulls her hand away. "Let me do that..." He's quieter now that she's near him, less cold. Her other arm falls slack by her side as he deftly pops open the wayward hooks with one efficient flick of the wrist.

"Ahh, yes, that's better,” he sighs as it slips to the floor alongside the rest of her clothes. After taking in a long eyeful of her hardened nipples, he picks up a large black fountain pen and begins scribbling notes on a legal pad and sends his other hand back to stroking her, laying feather-light caresses on the smooth skin and occasionally slipping a finger in to run teasingly over her clit. "Now stand still. You were so concerned that I needed to work, and the only way I can accomplish that is if you stay perfectly still."

Her knees turn nearly useless, and she tries not to lean against the edge of the desk. "Wes, please..." There's no way she can stand there, stock-still as a statue, even with only half -- or less of his attention on her.

"Mmm?" He doesn't look up. Just keeps writing and, taking advantage of her shifting stance, suddenly plunges two fingers inside her, thumb still working her clit.

A hoarse cry flies from her throat before she can stop it, her left hand grasps at nothing, in a vain attempt to hang on to the edge of the desk for stability.

He tilts his head 'round to peer up at her, "Faith, I can't possibly get anything done here if you don't stand still. Now please... you must try harder."

Her breath escapes slowly from her gritted teeth as she practically locks her quivering knees in place, presses her arms to her sides, fingernails digging into the flesh of her thighs. She knows better than to say anything, but her mind is teeming, fighting every twitch of her limbs, every word she can't say, every begging request, every moaned endearment.

She's in a trance now; the only thing she can concentrate on is his ambidextrous capacity: those warm fingers that were curled inside and around her pussy and the others that were directing the scratching of the pen's fine gold nib across the page.

After an eternity, she gets sufficient control to be able to breathe deeply enough for it to actually give her body some oxygen, and her vision clears. She’s perfectly still but for the tiny quivers as her cunt clutches greedily at his fingers, infinitesimal shudders and spasms that she can barely feel, but which must be plain as print to his fingers.

Which reminds her... what the fuck is he writing as his fingers invade and retreat like an indecisive general? She slants a glance down at the desk and discovers she can’t focus on the dark scrawl because seeing his fingers bent and curled around the pen as his other hand is bent and curled on her makes her lose what turns out to be a tenuous hold on control. She moves, sways, thrusts her hips forward – oh, an inch, no more, but when you’re playing statues, it’s enough to get you taken out of the game and sent to stand and watch...

“Really, Faith.” The scolding tone in his voice is like sandpaper on her skin. “I’m disappointed in you.” And it’s just part of his game, it’s not real, but there’s still that scalding sense of shame and God, they’re so fucked-up, because she doesn’t even need to shift her gaze to know he’s hard and being told off like that is making her so wet his fingers must be coated thick and sticky, as if he’s got his hand in honey.

She gets to see that for herself as he pulls them out and yes, they’re glistening from root to tip, and he didn’t have them that far in her...

The pen’s laid down across the words she never got to read, and she feels herself tense and get ready for whatever he’s got planned, but she never is.

“Kneel down, Faith.”

He always says her name when he’s giving her these orders, and it makes it so fucking personal somehow. No one says it the way he does, no one makes it sound precious, special, pretty.

The carpet’s soft for now as she kneels beside him and looks up expectantly.

“Open your mouth.”

One wet finger slides past her lips, then the other, and she can taste herself on him and she doesn’t have to be told what to do next. She keeps her eyes on him as she sucks and licks at the long, elegant fingers that she’s felt on her and in her so often and she sees his face soften, the way it does when he’s pleased with her.

But he’s not forgotten why he stopped fucking her with his fingers, has he, and she doesn’t really think this is what he’d class as punishment, and she’s right.

“I think you need a lesson in remaining still, Faith, don’t you?”

He waits for an answer, but she can only nod, and he lets it go and smiles; one of those cold, baring of the teeth smiles that he’s so fucking good at.

“In the corner. Ten minutes, and we’ll see how you manage. If you move... well, let’s cross that bridge when we...”

He carries on speaking, but her ears are buzzing. He’s putting her in the fucking corner? Like a kid in a Victorian school or something? Though, thinking about it, that was just about his style.

She stands up, her heart thudding and gives him this desperate, imploring look that makes his smile wider.

“That corner, I think,” he says, nodding over at it. It’s to the left of his desk, and it means he can carry on writing and still have his eyes on her. She’s not going to be able to scratch, or shift position, without him noticing.

“It’s a little easy, you think?” he asks as she starts to walk over there, every step making her cunt throb and leak. She pauses, waiting. “Hmm, perhaps you’re right.”

Hello? She hadn’t fucking said a word! As ever, it’s the anger that gives her the strength to stay still and the anger that makes it not so very likely that she’s going to be able to keep quiet.

“Don’t stop, Faith.” His voice is mild now. “Get into position.”

She stops, facing the wall, and makes sure she’s comfortable, though even ten minutes is going to make any position unbearable. The wall’s a plain primrose yellow so there’s nothing to look at; no cracks, and whoever painted it was fucking good, because there’s not a single drip to stare at.

She hears his chair scrape back against the carpet and a drawer pull open. There are the small noises of someone searching and then he walks over to her. “I really do have to concentrate on what I’m doing,” he says, oh so fucking pleasantly. “So this will help us both accomplish what we have in mind.”

And he places a book on her head, with a careful precision and steps back. “Oh, yes. Your ten minutes starts now, Faith.”

And she’s been in the corner for at least ninety seconds, so she’s starting off with a gutful of resentment already.

It’s easy at first. The book isn’t all that heavy; he’s chosen it well, in fact; enough weight not to shift easily, not so much that it’s hurting her head. She keeps her breathing even and she keeps her neck steady.

There’s a satisfaction in doing this and proving to him that she can get something right. She closes her eyes to shut out the yellow and concentrates... and finds that with her eyes shut, she starts to lose her balance, and has to open them again, with a panicky feeling sending cold ripples down her back as the book shifts, just a little.

Once it’s not exactly where he put it, it all becomes so much harder. The muscles in her neck begin to ache as she tilts her head slightly to compensate for the change in position and she’s starting to sweat slightly.

It’s so fucking quiet that she can hear her heart beating and his pen scratch against the paper. Beat. Scratch. Beat – oh fuck it’s slipping! Is moving allowed, if it keeps the book on her head?

“You moved, Faith. That means an extra minute, I’m afraid.”

She knows that voice well enough to hear that he’s turned on, for all the coolness and it hits her just what a view he’s got; her hands, fingers extended and trembling slightly, as they press against her thighs, her ass, curved and waiting for whatever he decides to do it today, if there’s anything left...

Another minute. Which makes it more than likely she’ll move again, which’ll add another minute, which’ll mean... She recalls a math problem about a frog jumping out of a circle and each jump was half the size of the one before, and somehow little froggy never got to leave the circle, though it’s a fucking stupid idea as of course he could if he wanted, just like she could walk away from this, throw the book at him... but she knows she can’t. She’s feeling like that frog now. She’s going to be in this corner for ever, getting hotter at the thought of Wes staring at her ass, getting – the book slides, with a finality that’s inescapable, and thuds to the floor.

“Oh!” And the frustration she feels is made worse by the fact that she’d wanted to say ‘Oh, fuck’ and remembered just in time, but he doesn’t know that, so she’s not going to get any credit for it.

“Dear me, and you just had twenty seven seconds left... well, that wasn’t too bad an attempt, all things considered.” And why does that small amount of approval make her feel so fucking pathetically grateful? “Come back to the desk, Faith.”

And the way he phrased that should have warned her, but it doesn’t, so when she turns, so glad to be moving again that she’s smiling, and sees him standing in front of his desk holding a long ruler, it’s almost enough to send her to her knees.

“Twenty seven seconds,” he says, in a considering voice. “I think we should deal with that small disobedience now, don’t you? How many times do you think I can strike you in that amount of time? Or would you rather have twenty seven strokes? It’s an interesting choice, isn’t it?” He beckons her with a crooked finger. “Well, Faith? Which shall it be?”

Chapter Sixty Eight

It's not an interesting choice. It's a fuck of a choice. It's one bigass ruler so she's not even going to have the tiny comfort of his hand on her skin. Just the sting of the wood. And, besides, doesn't matter what she chooses, he's still going to make it work for him.

If she chooses 27 strokes, he's gonna drag 'em out so she wishes she'd gone for 27 seconds. And if she chooses 27 seconds, he'll cram as many strokes in as is humanly possible. Makes the whole Froggy jumping out the circle deal look as easy as ABC.

"Come on, Faith, I'm waiting," he says patiently and then slaps the ruler against the palm of his hand for emphasis.

"Gimme a second, OK?" she blusters and before the words have even left her mouth she knows what his answer will be.

"Very well, but I think it only fair to warn you that every second we wait is an extra stroke or an extra second on your final tally," he says with this Cheshire cat grin.

She's done thinking. "27 seconds!" she hisses and gives the ruler a wary look. At least she can deal with a time limit. No way is she going to be bent over him, the desk, what the fuck ever, for what could be hours.

"See that wasn't so difficult. Let's call it a round thirty," he suggests silkily. "Now, what would be the best position for you, do you think? Over the desk? Maybe on your hands and knees?"

It's so much easier when he decides. That way she doesn't have to do anything but feel, but be this thing that's made solely for his pleasure. Giving her an opinion isn't doing much of anything but making her wonder why she's standing here in nothing but her Mary Janes and giving serious thought as to exactly how she wants him to beat her.

And she knows the answer to that. In Elementary, her and Xander had a weekly appointment with the Principal for their daily misdemeanors and she'd always ask them the same question, as they squirmed in front of her desk and tried not to giggle.

"Really, you two," Ms. Frobisher would say sternly. "If either of you asked the other one to put your head in an oven, would you?"

They'd turn to each other and grin and know they would. It's pretty much what's going on here.

"Across your lap please, sir," she says and it slips out of her mouth so easily now and he's beaming at her, gesturing for her to come closer and she's sliding towards him just to duck and have his hand glide over her shoulder.

"An excellent choice, Faith."

She shifts her weight from foot to foot, her nipples peaked and puckered, her cunt oozing as he sits down on the leather chair and then pats his thighs temptingly.

He's achingly hard. She can feel the rigid length of him as she drapes herself over her legs and lets him arrange her more to his liking.

"Spread your legs please, Faith," he murmurs and she wriggles on his lap as she hurriedly complies, getting herself ready to take whatever he wants to give her. "That's perfect."

She tenses up, waiting for the first blow because he's still got the ruler in his hand.

There's a clock on the wall directly opposite her and she looks up to see that the second hand is creeping towards the 12 and now she knows why they're waiting. Likes to do things by the book, does Wes.

"I know you're worried that the ruler might hurt you but I believe I've come up with a rather cunning plan to distract you," he says conversationally as they both watch the hand sail slowly past the 9 and then he shoves three fingers right up to the hilt of her sopping cunt, tips brushing against that tiny little bump inside which causes her to buck her hips so violently that she almost falls off his lap.

"Fuck!" she squeaks and the son of a bitch just laughs.

"Finally you're using that word in the correct connotation," he chuckles. "Now you're not to come, Faith, but I will allow you to move."

Bingo! She can almost hear the resolute click as the second hand reaches the 12 but it's drowned out by the sound of the ruler as he lifts it up and then proceeds to rain down a flurry of furious blows on the tender skin of her ass.

Her brain slithers away in the first five seconds never to return again. She feels every lightning quick smart of the ruler against her cheeks as she wriggles and squirms until the only thing stopping her from falling on the floor is the steadying weight of his fingers inside her as she fucks herself on them. Clenching and squeezing around them every time the ruler lands a stinging blow.

Don't come, don't come, don't come, don't come, don't come…

He stops suddenly. The ruler clatters on to the desk as he pulls his fingers out of her and she gives an ungodly howl of frustration.

"Wes! Please…" God, has she ever sounded so pitiful as he gently tugs up her shaking, trembling body so she can curl herself around him.

"Poor baby," he coos soothingly, stroking her flushed face with the sticky hand that's been inside her. "My poor little girl."

The rough denim of his jeans against her sore buttocks just makes the stinging worse and she gives an anguished cry and bites down on her lip viciously so she doesn't give way to weeping. Ain't nothing compared to the neediness of her cunt which is aching with the want to be filled by his cock, his fingers, his tongue, his fucking anything.

"Wes," she moans again, curling her arm round his neck so she can smoosh her hot face into his chest. "You have to… Please…"

"You need something sweet to take away the shock, don't you, Faith?"

She nods eagerly. "I do. I really fucking do."

He gives her his prettiest smile yet. "I thought so. I've got just the thing."

When he leans forward, she thinks he's going to unzip and ram his cock into her as hard and far and as fast as he can. Not fucking even!

He's reaching for something on his desk. Something she didn't even notice until now. She watches with a confused frown as he tears off the corner of the clear wrapper and then offers it to her.

"I don't want it," she mumbles, turning her head away 'cause food is the last thing on her mind.

"Now, Faith," he says reasonably. Way too reasonably. "I was a little eager to exact punishment. I really think you need the sugar to ease your distress before we can move on."

And it's the moving on that she really needs so she lifts up her head just a fraction and lets him feed her the stupid, fucking Twinkie bite by bite, swallowing hard as it gets stuck in her dry throat.

When it's all gone, she looks at him expectantly and can't help the tiny sigh of satisfaction as he rubs an idle finger over the hard tip of her breast.

"Ummm…" It's enough to make her whimper. By the time he gets to her cunt, she's going to be screaming like the best friend in a slasher movie. "What the fuck?"

He's snatched his hand away and is glaring at her.

"What the fuck did I do now?" And yeah, she's swearing. He's lucky she's not trying to stab him through the heart with his letter opener.

"Faith." Shit. The tone of his voice must have been directly imported from some frozen tundra. "I thought I might it perfectly clear that if you wanted to eat junk food, there would be a forfeit."

"No way. No fucking way, Wes." She's trying to scramble off his lap now but it's too late because he's already curved an arm like a steel bar under her knees and around her shoulders and is standing up.

"And I believe that I was very specific about exactly what form the forfeit should take," he continues calmly, as if she's not spitting and twisting in his arms, even though the last half an hour has sapped her strength as surely as a truckload of Kryptonite. He even ignores the puny pummeling of her fists against his shoulders as he walks to the door. "Let's reconvene in the kitchen, shall we?"

Chapter Sixty Nine

She curses him steadily as they go down the stairs but has the sense to stop hitting him until they’re back on level ground again.

“- and I didn’t even want it! I said I didn’t and you made me eat it....” Her voice trails away as she realizes she sounds about five and she settles for a skin-searing glare as he sets her down on her feet in front of the fridge.

“Faith,” and his voice is dripping with fake confusion and concern, “do you think you’re being punished for eating that delightfully concocted in a laboratory confection? No, no.” And his voice changes so each word’s freeze-dried now. “You’re paying the price for choosing them, which, if memory serves, you did of your own free will and aware of the consequences.”

“That’s not fucking fair!”

“I’m going to start counting those again,” he says absently, pulling open the fridge door and rummaging inside. “Your little tantrum’s gone on quite long enough.”

Tantrum? She’s so turned on she can barely stand, he’s about to shove a fucking zucchini up her, when she’s dying for his cock, and he’s fussing about her swearing? It’s too much. She wails and he turns to stare at her, one dark eyebrow winging its way up.

“Wesley... I’ll throw them away, okay? Trash them. Anything, just don’t –”

“Now, Faith,” and he’s actually holding that fucking green veggie in his hand and when she thinks what he’s got planned for it, it’s looking huge. “You have needs, remember? I wouldn’t dream of depriving you of something you value so highly.”

He steps past her and saunters over to the sink and begins to wash the zucchini carefully before patting it dry with some kitchen towel.

“Do you like courgettes?” he says in a conversational voice. “I find them a little watery, but they’re good in a ratatouille, of course.”

“They’re called zucchini,” she rasps out. He’s in America, he can fucking speak American, she thinks bitterly

“I was aware of that,” he says patiently, walking over to her, “but old habits, a rose by any other name, and all that...if it makes you happier to be fucked by a zucchini rather than a courgette, please, feel free.”

“You can’t be serious,” she says, her eyes fixed on it. Shit, it’s ridged and bumped like it’s sheathed in a fancy-ass condom or something. Something occurs to her and she gives him a hopeful smile. “And what about you, Wes? You don’t get to come this way.”

She goes to him and snuggles up close. His cock’s so hard she gets a reaction from him as she rubs against it; a swift intake of breath that for Wes is the equivalent of a scream, but he shakes his head.

“I’d be remiss in my duty if I let my desires interfere with instructing you,” he says primly. “Nothing’s more important than that.”

And the weird thing is, she thinks he means it, though he’s getting off on this in a big way too, so she’s not going to cry over the fact he’s suffering.

He pushes her back gently, after one kiss that’s as sweet as sugar, and glances around the kitchen. “I think... yes. Come here, Faith.”

She ends up on her back on the table, with a towel to cushion her head, feeling faintly ridiculous. Then Wesley’s lips ghost over her throat and fasten over the pulse that’s started to hammer away just because he’s close, and she stops feeling anything but desperate. He’s positioned her with her knees bent and she feels them fall apart and her ass lift up in a movement she can’t help and didn’t plan. It’s a primitive response and sometimes that’s how he makes her feel, which is scary and comforting and it’s when it’s comforting it’s the scariest. He can’t even see it because he’s moved down and he’s doing stuff to her nipples that has her panting; mouth on one, fingers on the other, squeezing hard, licking softly, worrying at them with his teeth until they’re swollen and aching and her head’s moving restlessly from side to side and she’s starting to whimper for him.

His hand goes away and he starts to paint a line down her stomach of wet, soft kisses and she’s beginning to hope he was teasing, and any minute now he’s going to be in her, and she can’t wait.

Then she feels a cold, smooth pressure against her cunt and she cries out as it pushes inside her.

“Wes -!”

He’s shushing her, slow kisses on her lips as they shape frantic words and she wants to be filled and her body’s stupid, so it’s opening to let it slide in, inch by inch, and fuck, it’s stretching her wide and that’s good, yeah, but it’s not Wes and she can feel the tears start to leak out of her eyes.

“Don’t want it, Wes. Want you, please, Wes...”

His hand starts to work it in and out of her and she moans because his thumb’s flicking over her clit with every stroke.

“I can’t come like this, Wes, I just can’t.”

And she really doesn’t think she can, but she’s never known him stop once he’s started something, and she doesn’t really think he will now. His hand stills and he whispers, “Do you want me to help you come, Faith? It’ll be over then.”

She can’t even say words any more, but she nods and he pushes it in deeper than he has before and it’s feeling warmer now, thick and solid in her, and she’s still so wet that it’s easy for him to nudge it in and leave it, wedged inside her. He pulls out a chair, sits down at the end of the table between her legs and she feels his tongue on her, lapping away at her clit, running around the skin stretched taut by that fucking zucchini, which she’s going to chop into a thousand fucking pieces when this is over and feed to the waste disposal.

She’s gasping now, making hungry, desperate noises, and he doesn’t stop, but his hand comes up and she feels the thickness within her shift and start to move again, faster now, short jabbing thrusts that force her to the edge, and her body gives up and comes under the relentless onslaught from his tongue, and that fucking thing he’s got inside her.

She comes screaming his name, and not in a good way, and feels it slip out of her, leaving her gaping wide down there and still not satisfied, because that wasn’t any fucking fun at all.

With the last bit of strength she has she swings her legs off the table and stands. Wes is staring at her thoughtfully and it’s the last final straw. She hauls off and slaps him across the face, hard enough to leave a mark that flares up scarlet against his cheek.

“You –” There aren’t words for how angry she’s feeling and how frustrated, and she gives up, turning and running up the stairs to her room. Her room. And if he needs an invitation to come in, he can fucking stand there until midnight and see how he likes it.

She’s crying too hard to hear him knock anyway.

Chapter Seventy

As soon as the door's slammed behind her, she's bolting out of her clothes and into the shower. She cranks the water as hot as it will go and stands under it, the scalding water raising welts on her arms that throb in tandem with her still-twitchy cunt. The only soap in here is his, and she throws the translucent orange bar against the wall in what she knows is a hideously melodramatic act before sinking in a corner, head to her knees, racked with sobs.

She sits that way for a long time, long after she's sure her insides have recovered and telescoped back down to normal state. And in those long minutes, little whispers of a plan start to curl in her mind and by the time she's pulled herself out of the shower and is standing wrapped in a towel in front of her suitcase, she knows what she needs to do.

There's a pair of jeans folded on the bottom -- she hardly wears them, even though they are the super-low-rise kind. She's just not a jeans kind of girl. She digs around deeper, knows it's in there somewhere -- ahh, yes. She smiles and pulls out chunky cabled sweater her grandmother had knit for her one Christmas. It's not pretty; as a matter of fact, it's pretty repulsive, all bright and acrylic-y, but it actually fits the dress code of her mission perfectly. She smiles at the thought of that, grabs her wallet, and slips out the door. He's not there, of course, but she can hear him in the kitchen, and whatever he's cooking smells phenomenal. It's starting to chip away at her resolve, but she straightens up, takes a deep breath before entering.

"Hello," he says quietly, glass of wine in one hand, long wooden spoon in the other. She tries not to think of him spanking her with it, but it's too late. She shoves the thought out of her mind and opens up her wallet, pulls out a ten, and slaps it on the counter.

"Where's my food?" Her eyes narrow on him, and it's her turn to be glacial, demanding.

Surprisingly, he doesn't argue, doesn't push the issue. But really, who would argue with her when she looked as she did at that moment? "Third cabinet from the left. Second shelf." It's his turn to be soft and accommodating; his voice is barely a whisper.

She swings it open and finds all her Twinkies carefully stacked in a neat pyramid, the Cheetos nestled against the giant bag of Twix.

She sweeps everything into her arms, tucking a few escapee Twinkies in her pockets, closes the cabinet door, and walks away. She doesn't even turn to see the look in his eyes. Something tells her the dark hurt there would melt her resolve faster than the delicious smell of his cooking would.

And it's not until she's down the hall, and in her room that she realizes he'd set the table for two, that he was going to come for her eventually, that she might want to eat what he was cooking after all, if he said the right things.

"Fuck it," she mutters, kicking the door shut with a decisive kick backwards. "First course: Cheetos," she says, announcing it like a fussy maitre'd and ripping into the bag with abandon, licking the orange powder off her fingers after the first mouthful. It's like heaven, and soon she's devoured half the Twinkies, digging out the creme filling out with her tongue first, deliberately chewing on the slightly stale, spongy yellow cake as a afterthought.

She's deciding whether to keep on with the Twinkies, or move on when there's two inevitable, sharp raps on the door.

And as soon as she hears them, it kinda becomes clear that this isn't a game and that she has every reason, no, fuck that, she has every right to be mad at him.

But she wishes that being mad at him didn't feel like this; the nagging, gut-clenching, simmering rage that she usually associates with her parents, with the kids at school who used to look down on her, the guys who'd fuck her and then scrawl her name and number on bathroom walls. He was meant to be different.

The raps sound again and then her name, "Faith," his voice low and questioning.

She slowly gets off the bed and walks over to the door, opens it and peers out. "What?"

He's standing there with a steaming mug of coffee and it smells so good, so rich and aromatic that her nose is practically twitching. "I thought you might like this," he says all soft and concerned and in that moment she's pretty certain that she hates him and his bullshit mugs of coffee.

'Cause he's thinking that this is just another one of her little hissy fits and he can jolly her out of it with some little thoughtful gesture because he's oh-so-fucking civilized and mature. He doesn't get what he's done and he doesn't understand that when she feels like this, it isn't about swearing and stamping her foot until she feels better. Fuck! Last time she felt like this, she didn't speak to Darla for two months. Couldn't speak to her.

He steps forward and she does too, sidling out from behind the door to stand on the landing because it's her room and she doesn't want him in there. "Thanks," she bites out and the effort nearly kills her. Not nearly as much as it does though to take the mug and be really careful not to touch him as she does.

She shoots him a venomous look from under her lashes and he's staring back at her, running his eyes down the baggy sweater and coming to rest on her bare feet poking out from the slightly too long legs of her jeans.

"Are you going to come down for dinner?" His voice is so careful, like she's some hysterical harpy who's due for another snit any minute now.

She tries to tamp down the tsunami of anger that's currently bubbling up. "Not hungry." Would it fucking kill him to apologize? He has to know why she's so furious. Even he's not that fucked up.

"Are you sure you won't come downstairs?"

He is unfuckingbelievable! There's this red haze sweeping over her and the next thing she knows is that she's thrown the mug of coffee at the wall, and she's glad that he jumps as her arm arcs out and the mug shatters and there's this brown explosion of java splattering over his perfectly painted white walls. "I said I didn't! Why do you have so much of a problem understanding me? I said, no! I don't want any fucking dinner! I didn't want to get fucked with a fucking zucchini. What part of that didn't you fucking hear?"

And when she gets like this, she can't be in her own skin and she's this close to hurting him again. Somehow she's in enough control to realize that she shouldn't, but it doesn't really help when she's so lost and angry and she doesn't know how to make it any better.

He's gazing at the coffee trickling down onto the floor in fascination but he's swinging back to her as she starts smashing her fists into the wall. The impact jars all the way up her arms and it hurts, which is good. And she's screaming, which is even better because she has to let it out.

"Faith, please…"

She's going to this place where the sound of his voice is coming from a long, long way away, barely audible over the sound that's coming out of her mouth.

Then she feels his arms coming round her, immobilizing her, pulling her away and she's kicking out with her feet so they both go sprawling into a heap on the floor.

"Faith, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." He doesn't stop saying it, even as he shifts her in his arms so she's cradled against him and he can stroke her hair as she cries and cries.

And it's so fucked up that he's made her feel like this but he's the only one who can take all the pain away.

Chapter Seventy One

She's still hiccupping and sobbing a bit so it takes a while for him to decipher what's coming out of her mouth.

"Why did you think I'd want that?" she splutters. "Why didn't you believe me?"

She peers at his face through sticky, red-rimmed eyes. There's all these emotions flickering there faster than a slideshow. "But I thought… that is… you usually enjoy the things I do to you, even when you think you won't." Stammering Wes hasn't put in an appearance for quite a while.

The whole conversation is like trying to do a really complicated jigsaw puzzle with no picture on the box. Her brow wrinkles up and he's trying to smooth the frown away with his fingertips. "Well, I do but I thought I was making it pretty clear that this time I wasn't enjoying myself."

He's blushing now. The mighty, 100% in control at all time Wesley Wyndam-Pryce Esquire's face is stained with red. "We… I should have… Boundaries," he finally whispers.

"What about boundaries?"

"I should have been more circumspect about establishing where yours were before we began this relationship," he tells her ruefully. And she should be delirious with joy because did he just say that they were in a relationship? But it's kinda not important right now.

"Y'know, last time I checked, 'I don't want it' was, like pretty easy to understand," she says snottily.

He's holding her hands in his now, entwining his fingers with her and she wishes she had the balls to wrench away from his grip. "Faith, you have to believe me when I say that I'm dreadfully sorry that I stepped outside the parameters of what was acceptable," he says urgently. "The things we do… there are so many blurred lines. And you're so willing, so hungry, generous with your desires."

The tears are leaking out again, even though she'd have sworn that her tear ducts had dried up. "That's because I trusted you. I trusted you that when you hurt me, you'd always make it better and this time you didn't."

He's kissing the tears away. Brushing them back with his lips. "Please don't cry." And he's begging her now, his voice almost frantic with it. "I really am sorry."

And she's kissing him back, painting kisses on the sharp lines of his cheekbones. "I get that you are, Wes, but you totally forced me to do something, to come, when I didn't want to. And now it's all fucked up and weird and I don't know how to make it OK again."

"Do you want it to be OK again?" he asks her carefully. "We could aim for a more normal…"

"No! I don't want normal! I like it when you smack me and you don't let me come and, man, I even liked it when you fucked me in the ass, you know I did but you should listen to me when I say I don't like it." And this is officially the weirdest conversation she's ever had.

"Of course, of course," he's assuring her frantically, peppering her neck with kisses and she suddenly realizes how tense he is. How shit scared he is that he's fucked everything up. "We'll have a safety word and when…"

"We'll have a what?"

That gets her a smile. It even gets her that goddamn arching eyebrow. "Faith." And that old drawl is back again. "I forget how relatively inexperienced you are."

"Yeah, well I was until I met you," she reminds him pointedly. "What's the deal with this whole safety word?"

"You pick a word," he explains and he's gently pushing her off his lap so he can stand up. "A random word but a memorable one and if things are getting too frightening or overwhelming for you, you say it. And I'll stop. I promise that I will."

She takes his hand and lets him haul her to her feet. "So how do I pick a word?"

"Well, it shouldn't be something that you might call out in the throes of passion so I suggest you don't choose 'fuck.'"

She leans back against the wall and scratches her neck. The jumper is wicked itchy. "Neruda," she says decisively. "My safety word is going to be Neruda."

He lets out a breath that he seems to have been holding for way too long. "Good. Are we friends again then?"

Jesus! She's almost close to crying again when he asks her that. Instead she just nods. "Yeah, we are."

"And are you going to come downstairs now and have some dinner. If it's not burnt to a crisp, that is."

She scuffs her big toe against the parquet flooring. "What is it?"

He's standing as awkwardly as she is, his hands in the pockets of his jeans, his feet shuffling from side to side. But he gives her a slow, sweet smile and it's impossible not to smile back. "Macaroni and cheese," he says gravely. "Perfect comfort food."

"It doesn't smell like Mac and cheese."

"Yes, well that's because it hasn't been thermo-blasted in a microwave," he says huffily. "It's also not a peculiar shade of nuclear orange but I'm sure you might manage a couple of mouthfuls."

And when his hand reaches out, she takes it and lets him lead her down the stairs.

Chapter Seventy Two

Sitting down at the table where he’d... done that would’ve been too much, so she’s beyond relieved when he heaps pale yellow pasta and sauce into heavy bowls, puts them onto a tray with cutlery, napkins and two glasses of -

“Wes? What is this?”

He gives her a look. “It’s milk, Faith. I find it hard to believe you’ve not come across it before.”

“Very funny.” She gives it a dubious look and then decides to go along with it as she doesn’t think he’s going to have anything with bubbles unless it’s champagne. And she doesn’t think that’s usually served with Kraft dinner, even the posh kind.

He leads them into the family room and over to a small table by a window, setting the food down and then pulling back her chair for her. She’d put that down to him still trying to make up to her, but he does it so naturally, she guesses it’s just something he does.

It’s difficult to know what to say, but the first bite makes it easy. “God, Wes, this is fuc-” She pauses and then starts again. Just call her Eliza fucking Doolittle, but she’s trying, she’s making an effort. “This tastes delicious, Wesley.”

He smiles and it’s so warm, it dries up every last sniffly tear inside her. “Thank you, Faith,” he says gravely. “Perhaps you’d like me to show you how to cook it? It’s very simple.”

“Fuck, no,” she says without thinking, aghast at the very idea.

There’s a pause, and she waits for an icy glare, but he starts to laugh, hard enough that he chokes on a mouthful of pasta and has to gulp down most of his milk, and after that it’s as back to normal as it ever is with them.

She’s feeling full after her frenzy of junk food consumption, and she shakes her head when he mentions dessert.

“Then what would you like to do now?” he says, giving her a look that, for once, isn’t making her feel that she’s going to be naked in minutes.

“I want to get out of this sweater, because it’s itchy as hell,” she says, knowing it’ll get her that flash of amusement in his eyes, “and I want you to show me where you keep your mops and stuff.”

Comprehension replaces amusement. “You don’t have to do that,” he says.

“Yeah. I really do.”

She might not have been brought up like him but she knows you don’t make a mess like she did in someone’s house and not clean it up. Especially this house, where there’s not a speck of dust or smudge of dirt to be seen.

“We’ll do it together,” he says, and she’s certain he’s freaking that she’ll miss a spot, because there’s this slightly panicky look on his face. Fine. She’s not feeling guilty enough to argue with him. “And after that?”

There’s a faint hint of suggestion creeping back in now and she’s not ready for that, not yet. She’s not wearing her watch so she reaches over the table and grabs his wrist, turning it so that she can peek at his watch. God, just touching him’s enough to make her want to crawl into his lap and cuddle for hours. His skin’s so warm under her fingers...  “Four o’clock. Don’t you need to start acting like a lawyer for tomorrow?” When you take Lilah out back and bury the fucking bitch.

“I can do that later.”

“Do it now,” she says impulsively. “Let me help, if I can. Get it done and you can relax; get an early night.”

He stretches out a hand and feels her forehead. “Are you quite well, Faith? All this sensible advice...”

“Knock it off,” she snaps. “I’m your secretary as well as your...”

Things freeze and stick, stop moving and grind to a halt.

“My -?” he prompts, blue eyes blank, so she can’t tell what he’s thinking.

“You tell me, Wes.” He’s going to be the one, she decides, the one to say it. Not her.

His chair scrapes back and he stands and looks down at her.

“I’m not sure what you want from me here, Faith,” he says in a soft voice. “To be told that I care for you? I do. To be told that you’re important to me? You are.”

He hesitates and she gets that he’s really struggling here and takes pity on him. Besides, she’s gone into a meltdown over what he’s said and she’s thinking that it’s been forever since she got kissed, just plain kissed.

“Stop wriggling, Wes,” she says, jumping up and wrapping her arms around him. “Not a big deal.”

She tilts her head back and waits to be kissed and she doesn’t have to wait long, but it’s such a slow, sweet kiss that it leaves her wanting another, that she doesn’t get until the cleaning’s done. And fuck, Wes takes so long over it, she’s regretting what had been a truly satisfying smash before they’ve finished picking up the shards of crockery, and resolving never to do it again by the time he’s sponged wall and floor until they gleam.

“Now,” he says, “I believe you wanted to put in some overtime?”

She nods firmly and he smiles, one finger tracing a path from her forehead to her chin. “Time and a half?”

“Payment in kind,” she says and watches him frown with suspicion.

 “Meaning?”

 “You’re not just going say, ‘Yes, Faith?’” she teases. “Is that a lawyer thing?”

“It’s basic survival instincts,” he tells her, leading them back to the office. “What did you have in mind as reimbursement for your services?”

And damn, when he drawls it out in that accent of his, he could make anything sound suggestive, and that had a head start, so it’s really no wonder that her body wakes up again and reminds her that she’s been waiting all day, hell, and all night, for what he can do to her.

“You’re not feeling so guilty that you’ll agree to anything?”

He spins around and pushes her against the wall, capturing her wrists in his hands and slowly sliding them up above her head, his eyes never leaving hers. “I’m not sure, Faith,” he says pleasantly. “I think I can guarantee with you in this mood I’m unlikely to agree to being tied up to await your pleasure, but ...” She closes her eyes because fuck that’s a pretty picture, and comes to when he changes his grip so one hand’s free and runs it over her breast. “You really like that idea, don’t you?” he murmurs, silky soft against her ear.

“Really do, Wes,” she tells him arching her back so her breast fills his palm. “Just for once, yeah, I do.”

“Pick something else,” he says, hand skimming down over her hip, fingers spread wide.

“I want to come tomorrow. To the court,” she blurts out. “I’ll sit in the back, but I want to see you when you win.”

He releases her and steps back. “You want... why?” He’s frowning, but he’s not angry, just puzzled.

“I just do. I want to see you in action.”

She can imagine it; Wes in one of his suits, cool and icy, utterly, totally sure of himself, pacing up and down; Lilah getting flustered – well, maybe not flustered but jittery, yeah...

“I’m not sure that’s a good idea,” he says slowly. “Lilah won’t like it.”

“What? What the fuck has she got to do with it?” And she’s sounding jealous, she knows, but damn, he married that bitch after all.

“I’m going to win,” he says simply. “She’s going to lose, and I’m going to make it humiliating.” Bet you are, Wes. “If she knows you witnessed that... well, she’s got enough spite to be capable of almost anything.”

“Fuck her,” she tells him, and there’s no bravado in it, it’s just the way she feels. She’s sick of being scared of people, sick of being pushed around.

“No, thank you,” he says dryly.

“I want to come.”

He shrugs and nods. “Then you shall.” He starts to walk away. “But you haven’t earned it yet.”

Chapter Seventy Three

Earning it takes four hours, when there’s nothing of the lover in him, so that she’s calling him ‘sir’ without irony. She takes down notes and reads them back to him, listens to him make speeches and spots a place where he contradicts himself; remembers enough from the work she did when he was away to be able to find a reference he’s searching for. Not much, maybe, but she’s useful and that’s not happened often enough in her life for the novelty to have worn off.

Finally, he sighs, stacks papers neatly, and snaps his briefcase closed. “Done. Any more and I’ll go stale.” He stands and goes over to her. “Thank you, Faith. I didn’t intend to take up so much of your time.”

“I wanted to do it,” she says, and it’s the truth.

“Really?” And he draws her hand to his lips and brushes a kiss across her fingertips. “That’s very admirable of you, Faith. Perhaps you’ve earned a bonus...”

She swallows and says, “Yeah? What did you have in mind... sir?”

His smile’s enough to make her nipples harden and her cunt slick up expectantly. Which isn’t romantic - shouldn’t her heart flutter or something? – but it’s not something she can help. “Would you like a detailed list, or the basic plan?” he asks, tucking her hair behind her ear and managing to pinch her ear lobe as he does it so that shivers spread out over her and leave her skin tingling.

“Hit the high spots,” she says and she’s sounding breathless already.

“We’re going to my bedroom,” he says. “You’re going to strip while I watch you, and you’re going to do it slowly, Faith. If I think you’re rushing, I’ll exact a penalty.”

“What -?”

“Oh, let’s not assume you’re going to fail, Faith,” he purrs. “So negative... When you’re naked, you get to undress me, and again, with the utmost care not to rush. Perhaps I’ll make it easier for you to achieve that by forbidding you the use of your hands... Once we’re both naked, there’s the little matter of your earlier indulgence.”

It takes her a second to realize he’s talking about her bedroom binge and she flushes. “Didn’t think we were doing that anymore,” she says weakly.

“Oh, Faith,” he says chidingly. “I might have agreed to amend the penalty, but do away with it altogether? Certainly not.”

And there’s something comforting about that.

They start to walk towards the door and she glances up at him. “This plan of yours, Wes?”

“Yes?”

“Does it include me getting fucked? By you? Tonight? So I come?”

There’s a pause and she watches him start to smile. “You’re getting the idea of small print beautifully, Faith. To answer your questions; yes, yes, within the hour, and I won’t stop until you do.”

“I want to come three times,” she says firmly.

“Really?” He sounds interested. “Only three? Well, I suppose I can alter the plan a little...”

Chapter Seventy Four

They take their time getting upstairs, pausing halfway up for a kiss that’s equal parts urgent and sweet, maybe even a little clumsy, and that’s okay. It’s like they have to earn their way back to how things were. His fingers seem to be everywhere at once —threaded through her hair, brushing past her hips or under that goddamn sweater— and when his lips find this spot right under her earlobe, pressing a fervent kiss on the tender flesh there, he wraps his arms tightly around her as though he’ll never let go.

They manage to stumble up towards the bedroom, lost in this embrace that’s oddly protective, but kinda needy too. Where she comes from, Faith’s used to one without the other —this may not be perfect but at least it’s hers.

This is turning into one of those glacially slow, exploratory kisses that she’d always dreamed of getting from the boys at school. His tongue slides into her mouth and no matter how many times he’s done that it always sends a little shiver through her. He brushes the tips of her nipples with the flat of his thumb and then actually starts to slip the hideous sweater over her head. She stops him. “Is that impatience, Wes? Am I going to have to exact a penalty on your ass?” She cocks one eyebrow, daring him.

He doesn’t roll his eyes at her ‘cause he doesn’t do that, but he comes damn close.

“Oh c’mon, Wes. Fucking lighten up.” She’s trying not to laugh.

“Do I need to start a swear jar for you, Faith?”

She doesn’t answer his question directly, just retorts, “What, no forfeit for that one?”

“Let’s call that even.”

She giggles. “You are lightening up.”

“I assure you it won’t happen again.” He tries to sound dead serious, but he can’t quite hold it together.

By now they’ve reached the landing.

“My bedroom or yours?”

She hadn’t even thought there’d be a choice. But her room reminds her of all the earlier unpleasantness, plus there’s the small matter of the junk-food explosion that she hadn’t managed to clean up, so she says, without hesitation: “Yours.”

Once in his room, she just wants to sprawl on the bed and make out for hours. It’s been a long, draining day, and she’s a little tired. Plus, her current attire is possibly the least conducive to a slow, sexy striptease in the history of impromptu stripteases.

By now the awful, scratchy-as-hell sweater is the most hated piece of clothing she’s ever owned, and that includes the Easter Sunday dress with the giant fucking tulip on it that her grandmother bought for her ninth birthday and made her wear to Sunday mass. She can’t wait to get it off of her body, and not just because then she’s got the promise of undressing Wes to look forward to. But hurrying out of it isn’t an option.

Wes sits in the chair. There’s no shirt slung over the back and she guesses that it got hung up as-is, still rumpled, in the back of his closet. The only shirt he owns that he’ll never iron again; the only one missing buttons. She smiles warmly at the memory, and between that and the prickly heat from the sweater she’s going slightly pink all over.

“I’m waiting, Faith.” He's back to stern Wes again, and she snaps out of her reverie.

And it would be so easy to just shuck off the stupid sweater in one lightning quick up and over motion but he said slow and he's gonna get slow. Gonna get something he never expected either.

"Wes?" she coos, batting her eyelashes and he fixes her with a glare.

"What?"

"I just need to get one thing from the bathroom, OK?"

That kind of throws him and he's probably thinking that she needs to pee and is too embarrassed to say so, so she gets a brusque nod and she's practically skipping into the en-suite.

The scissors are just where he left them; neatly arranged on the shelf above the wash-basin with the rest of the implements he used to shave her. She has a sense memory of the feel of the them nudging against the plump flesh of her mound, his fingers pressing down and she feels a pool of wetness leak out of her.

When she walks back into the bedroom he's sitting with his legs crossed and his arms folded, a suspicious look on his face at the smirk she can't quite hide.

"I do hope you're not planning any surprises, Faith," he says sharply.

She tries for a mysterious smile but doesn't quite succeed. "No, sir, just one slow striptease coming up, just like you ordered."

She starts with the sleeves, just like he told her he would. Digging the blades into the slightly unraveled cuffs and she wondered whether it would be too difficult but the scissors are razor sharp (which she's glad she didn't realize when he was preparing her to be shaved) and her grandmother was one of the world's worst knitters, using cheap wool and sloppy stitches.

By the time she's got to the top of one sleeve which seems to take several years, all it needs is a sharp tug and she's throwing it on the floor at his feet. He's leaning forward now, eyes intent on her as she starts at the other sleeve. And she doesn't know why 'cause this seemed like it was going to be sexy in her head but actually not so much.

She's getting impatient and she's not even at her elbow before she rips the sleeve out of the armhole and chucks it next to its twin. He's sitting back now, eyes narrowed and assessing and scared that she's going to lose his interest, her hands wander down to the button of her jeans.

She slowly pops it out of the buttonhole and starts dragging the zip down, shimmying her hips slightly as she does and his eyes are gleaming again, staring at the little patch of pink cotton that's coming into view.

By her estimation she takes a good five minutes to get the zip down and she's soaked by the time she's finished. All she wants to do is yank her jeans and panties off in one go and then push his face into her wet pussy and beg him to eat her. Instead she grits her teeth and begins to slide her jeans down and as her pink panties come into view, sticking damply to her crotch, she can hear the hitch in his breathing and if she's not very much mistaken, he's packing an erection so hard, it looks painful.

It's kinda distracting too, so she turns her back on him as she wiggles the denim down her legs, thrusting out her ass and bending over so he's got something pretty to look at. When the jeans are pooled round her ankles, she kicks them free and then pauses.

"Y'know, Wes, there wasn't anything in the small print about audience participation," she tells him smugly. "This is taking way longer than I thought it would, you wanna give me a hand?"

His lips curl wryly as he considers the question. "I suppose I could be prevailed upon to assist you," he replies. "What did you have in mind?"

She advances towards him slowly, feeling the lips of her cunt moving slickly against each other. If she doesn't get out of this fucking sweater soon, she's gonna explode. "It's very simple, Wes," she says, picking one of the loose threads at the bottom. "I have this theory, right, that if you tugged this really, really hard, then the rest of this wicked itchy sweater's just going to fall to pieces."

"That is a very interesting theory.” He swallows hard as she comes closer and closer. She doesn't think she's ever got him this hot and bothered before. He really gets off on the whole delayed pleasure thing. "Shall we put it to the test?"

There was jackshit in the small print about not straddling him, so she climbs onto his lap, legs clamping around his waist and hands covering his, which are white-knuckled and gripping the arm rests of the chair. "Knock yourself out, Wes."

Turns out her theory was right and old Granny would be spinning in her grave, if she was, like, actually dead to see her revolting sweater being ripped off her half naked grand-daughter by the same stuffy, twice her age, English guy whose lap she was currently writhing on.

Faith wriggles luxuriously as the sweater starts unraveling and then it's him who's getting impatient, who using both hands to pull and tear and rip it off her so she's on his lap in her pink bra and panties and a shit-eating grin on her face. "Thanks Wes," she husks and makes a move to get off his lap, when his hands clamp around her waist and hold her there.

"I'm faced with something of a dilemma, Faith," he hisses in her ear as she smooshes her breasts into his chest and gives in to the urge to lick a long, damp line up his neck. "Stop that!" he barks out but it loses its bite when she can feel his hard on grinding against the damp heat of her.

"Nothing in the small print says I can't," she pouts at him and he groans.

"I can see that I've been hoist with my own petard," he sighs and she doesn't know what that means. Besides, she's still gotta get rid of her underwear and take off his clothes and work on the whole not exploding thing. "What's your dilemma?" she asks impatiently.

"Well, I asked you to take your time stripping, which you did most effectively.” He's gulping again and her new favorite game is chasing his bobbing Adam's apple with her tongue. "And then you were going to take my clothes off very slowly, possibly without using your hands, though maybe I wasn't being entirely practical when I…"

He really picks a time to start yammering, especially when she's pretty sure she's going to come, just from the tight bite of his fingers on the soft skin of her hips, his cock nudging right against her clit. "Huh?" she mutters, wondering if he'll notice if she just starts to very discreetly grind her crotch into him.

"Then there was the small matter of your most recent forfeit. But I also promised to fuck you and make you come within the hour and there's only three minutes to go," he drawls, grabbing a handful of her hair and tugging gently. "And what kind of man would I be if I didn't keep my promises? I'm sure you can appreciate my dilemma."

Chapter Seventy Five

She grins. “Thought lawyers could wriggle through loopholes, Wes. Want me to help you?” She gives a little squirm as she says ‘wriggle’ and watches the results. Wes bites his lip hard enough that there’s a little patch of white where his teeth dig in and a second later she rides out a wave that, before she met Wes, she might have called an orgasm, but now is nothing more than a teaser for the main event.

“By all means,” he says in a husky whisper, never taking his eyes off her.

“You see,” she says, moving back a bit, “you never said what order the fucking and the stripping came in. So you can make me come now –” She deftly, slowly, carefully pulls down the zipper on his jeans, and oh, look, still not wearing underwear. Her grandmother would freak about that too. Wes might get hit by a bus, and wouldn’t his face be red then? “And I can undress you slowly afterwards.”

His cock’s so hard, wet-tipped and twitching against her fingers, that just touching it sends another shudder of almost, not-quite, over her body. The arm rests don’t make it easy, but hey, she’s adaptable, and they’re on a clock here. She stands up, watching his eyes flicker with what might be alarm that she’s leaving, and moves behind the chair, taking hold of it and shifting it around so it’s facing the bed, less than a foot away. In fact, he’s so close now that his knees are brushing against the heavy fall of draped sheets.

She gives him the scissors and hooks a finger in the side of her panties, pulling them away from her body. With a slow exhalation of breath he slides the blades around the fabric on each side and snips one, twice, so that the only thing stopping them from fluttering down is the fact that she’s so soaked they’re sticking to her. He tears them away like a scared kid peeling off a band aid; an agonizingly slow tug that plucks at her clit and makes her whimper.

“Ninety seconds left,” she whispers, and yeah, she’s kinda making that up, but what the hell. He can do it. She gets back on his lap, facing away from him now, her arms resting on the bed as they once rested on his desk, her ass there for his hands to cup and caress, her feet resting on the floor.

She hears him say her name, but it’s hard to tell because as he says it his finger runs from sticky slickness up to her asshole, lightly scratching her skin and she thinks she starts to come just from that but she’ll never know because a second later his hands are both on her hips and he’s driving into her in one smooth, hard thrust that rips the air from her lungs, because after she’s cried out something that doesn’t translate but if it did, it’d be ‘fuck, yes!’ in a thousand languages, she forgets to breathe for what’s left of the ninety seconds.

After three strokes, he growls, yeah, he really does, and she saves that to play back later, because making Wes lose it is getting to be a hobby, no, a fucking vocation of hers, and she’s pushed forward by an insistent hand, so that’s she’s bent over the bed and he’s standing behind her, hampered by his jeans, which he’s pushed down just enough that she can feel bare skin against her ass as he fucks her, but still able to go deep and fast.

He’s really taking advantage of that, too.

It doesn’t last long, but it doesn’t need to. She’s coming, surges of heat and sensation lapping at her, pouring over her, melting her down from the inside out and he’s slamming into her in hard, fast, perfect strokes that she tries to trap inside her and never can because as soon as he’s fully in her, he’s pulling back again, greedy, impatient, hungry as she is.

When he comes, she feels the ripple as his come rises and spills inside her in jerky, ragged spurts, hears the hoarse guttural sounds as far removed from his cool, drawling voice as possible, smells the mingled tang of sweat and come... it’s all there, wrapped up in a package and topped with a bow.

She feels the weight of him against her back as he comes to rest, and his hands move forward to cover hers with a convulsive grip.

And they stay that way for what feels like minutes. They’re both floating somewhere else, waiting for coherent thought to return, their linked hands the only thing anchoring them to the bed.

Gradually she starts to regain some semblance of consciousness, and even though she’s just come harder than she’s ever come in her life, this is the moment she wants to fucking frame. The weight of his body against hers is reassuring somehow. His breathing is still ragged and heavy in her ear, and she can feel the rise and fall of his abdomen against the cooling damp along her back. His fingers are still coupled with hers, and she squeezes them with gentle pressure.

“Hey,” she whispers.

His soft little moan doesn’t translate into any language she knows, but she’ll take that as a “hey” in return.

She slumps onto the bed and he follows, and it’s another minute still before she can even think about moving.

“Jesus, Wes, that was…” Not wanting words to fail her yet again, she just lets the sentence trail off.

“Mmm?” He says it like it’s a question, so she takes it as such.

“Mmm is right,” she teases, and she twists her body out from under him and rolls onto her side. He comes to rest, curved against her hip. “And, y’know, this isn’t so bad either.” She snuggles closer to him and her eyes start to drift closed.

“You’re not allowed to sleep yet,” he whispers, “I seem to recall the number three being bandied about not so very long ago.”

“Yeah, well, this is just as important.” She smiles, her eyes still closed.

“It really is to you, isn’t it?” he asks. “The... cuddling.”

He says it like it’s a foreign word, a perversion, an alien concept and she struggles out of sleepiness to stare at him. “Well, yeah, Wes. You don’t like it?”

He brushes her hair away from her face and kisses the cheek he’s uncovered. “I’ve never had the opportunity to form an opinion before.”

She waits, pity stirring, but keeping it off her face.

“It doesn’t suck,” he says finally.

It takes a second for her to process that and the giggles she gets wake her up like nothing else could. “You –Wes, you did not say that! You didn’t! Oh, shit, I’m corrupting you, aren’t I?”

He smirks, enjoying her reaction, and leans back. “I’m still dressed,” he says idly. “I do believe we’ve accomplished our goal of fucking you, so perhaps we could get on with the rest of the plan?”

He makes it sound as if he’s at work, faced with a ‘to do’ list a mile long of tedious chores, but there’s a gleam in his eyes and she answers it with a slow smile.

“Sorry, sir, I was taking a break. Back on the clock now.”

Chapter Seventy Six

She seems to remember he’d nixed the no hands deal, but she still uses them as little as possible, working shirt buttons through holes with her teeth and snatching the chance to kiss his chest and tickle it with her hair as she moves down his body.

His jeans are already half off him and he looks fucking hot like that, the denim framing a cock that’s already starting to stir again, dark hair curling around it, crisp and soft at the same time.

“Still so –”

“If you say that word again, Faith, the consequences will be dire,” he warns her, eyes half-closed.

“But you are, Wes,” she whines, not even bothering to try and convince him she was going to say anything but ‘pretty’. She pouts and whispers it almost too low to be heard and his mouth snaps shut as he grabs her.

The tussle that follows is undignified, breathless, chaotic and more fun than she’s had in ages. His jeans fall to around his knees, which help her a lot, but he’s got enough weight on her that once she’s pinned under him, it’s game over.

So she never lets it get to that. Squirming , wriggling, tickling him and yeah, she’s not above biting, though he gasps with so much outrage when she does, that she knows she’s gonna be paying for those moments when she makes him squeal like a girl.

Finally, she’s never quite sure how, he’s sprawled on his stomach, jeans long since kicked off, she’s kneeling back on her heels, and his bare ass is there, and she lands two, three slaps on it, getting a kick out of the sight, sound and feel of her hand landing squarely on his skin. It goes ominously quiet and she’s starting to panic when he twists, not to get free, but to get at her, and pushes his way between her thighs, licking and biting at her cunt so that she cries out and spreads her knees wide, wider, apart, and her hands go to his hair, holding him there and staring down at him.

He shifts, putting his ass out of reach, and as diversionary tactics go, it’s a winner, because she’s way too busy to chase him. Positioned as she is – and he’s not letting her move, or lie back – he can’t get to all of her easily, but he’s doing wonders with what his tongue can reach, and the hands that he’s clamped on her spread knees begin to slide along thighs quivering with an arousal that’s almost too soon since she came to be bearable, fingers spread wide, tracing each muscle delicately. His tongue’s never still. It circles, jabs, strokes and laps at her, making folds still wet with his come wetter still, and she ‘s chanting his name and mixing in ‘please’ until that’s all she’s saying and she’s saying it over and over, but it’s all one word now, no breaks, no gaps, nothing but ‘please’.

His fingers slide into a space his cock widened, and fill it, one, two, three, and it’s not enough, not deep enough, because the bed’s stopping him and she can’t lie back, but she can kneel up and she does, so she’s over him and he rolls to his back, between her legs.

She’s looking down his body at his cock, and it’s so hard again. She bends, flower stem in the wind curve to her back, and there’s a fancy word for this, but she doesn’t bother attaching labels, she just opens her mouth and holds his cock steady as she lets it slip between her lips and feels his mouth on her.

She’s so open to him, so blatantly wide open, that it makes her feel a fierce glow of satisfaction. She can imagine what he’s seeing and she knows why he retreats and his fingers slide over what his tongue’s slicked, because she knows he’s looking at her and she can tell when he is, because his cock hardens even more and she tastes the result against her tongue.

She’s using her hands on him too, cupping his balls gently, stroking along his thighs, spread as wide as her own.

And she doesn’t know she’s been waiting until she feels his finger slide in her ass, through a skim of slipperiness that makes it easy, and his thumb curves into her cunt and she lifts her head for long enough to moan softly, because that feels fucking unbelievable, and he says her name in a warning that has her ducking her head back fast as he comes, catching each spurt against her lips, trapping the head of his cock between them and feeling her own climax roll over her, achingly sweet, as his hand thrusts inside her insistently.

When he finally lets go, pulling his hand gently out of her, she collapses, breathless, next to him.

Chapter Seventy Seven

Faced with his feet -- which, she thinks, are still so very nice as far as feet go, really -- she runs one jagged fingernail up the arch.

"Faith," he's just teetering on the verge of a stifled laugh, trying in vain to be serious. "Stop that, and come here. I'm warming up to the idea of an extended cuddle as I don't think we're in any state for another tussle -- so stop intentionally provoking me like that, if you know what's good for you."

"Wes..." She flips over, runs her lips along his leg, over the perfectly angular hipbone. "First you say 'suck' and now you want to cuddle more? I'm shocked! I think you're getting a little soft." The pun's so lame, she rolls her eyes -- but she can't see if he does too. He says nothing, just runs his hand through her hair, pulls her up the rest of the way. "Or not." she gasps, now nuzzling against his neck, the roots of her hair tingling and sending incendiary shivers down her back.

And that's when he wraps his long, warm arms around her and she realizes that this is probably the first time he's held on to her like this, and not the other way 'round. He strokes down the goose-pimpled flesh of her forearm with a warm, soft fingertip, but it just flares up again in the wake of his tender touch. Soon, he's tracing around her skin, seemingly fascinated at the reaction he causes.

"So wonderfully tactile," he murmurs, more to himself than to her, sliding his hand down her back, skimming fingers over her ass and gently cupping a cheek, still holding her pleasure-heavy and whimpering body molded close to his.

"Don't stop," she begs, her voice far-away and unrecognizable. "Please..."

"Now why," he pulls away a bit so as to pet the damp down between her legs, then runs a splayed hand over her belly, ever so lightly, "would I want to stop, when you make such lovely and fascinating little noises when I do this..." He brushes his fingers over her-still hard nipples, not even really touching them -- she just feels a slight displacement of air and nothing more -- but it's enough to set turn little smoldering bit of desire still inside into a hot little flame. It's all she can do to not scream or snatch his lips into a kiss. No, she wants him to keep touching her, keep talking while he's doing it. So all she can do snuggle even closer, running her lips up his neck and letting out a long, low sigh in his ear.

And there's a hitch in his breathing then, and she runs a free hand through his fuck-rumpled hair. "See, the whole cuddling thing works both ways," she whispers, runs her tongue along his earlobe. "Nice, don't you think?"

She can feel him stiffen a bit, swallow heavily. His wandering hands pause, except for a thumb absentmindedly stroking the same square inch of her thigh over and over. She can't believe it -- didn't think it was possible, but she realizes she might have caused something to short circuit inside his brain.

She slides her hand down to grip his twitchy thumb. "It's all right, Wes." She's still near his ear; her voice is husky and she hopes, soothing too. "You can enjoy this. You're allowed to." A hand slides up, stroking the dimple in her chin and he tilts her around to look him in the eye.

"I know. I just..." But he's lost already, stammering and looking away, cheeks flushed. It's her turn to reel him back in, stroke his cheek until he can meet her gaze again. He sighs and runs the tip of his tongue nervously over his lower lip in a way that makes her want to personally hunt down and bitchslap every woman he's ever slept with before now, starting with a certain ex-wife. She may not have had the most skillful or attentive lovers before now, but at least the stoned ones would pet her absentmindedly for a few minutes after they'd done the deed.

"It's okay. I take it maybe the others weren't so ... tactile?" The word slips over her lips stiffly, and he can't help but smile.

"Not really into post-coital intimacy, no."

"Sucks for them." She kisses him lightly and smiles. "They were really missing out."

He kisses her this time, tongue twirling 'round hers, still tangy from her juices. And then they're a tangle of wandering hands and entwined limbs and languid kisses for what seems hours before he pulls away, strokes her birds-nesty hair away from her flushed cheeks.

He looks so very serious and far away, lost in thought and her heart nearly stops in her chest, beaming out little rays of pain that try to burst through her sternum. "Wes... Uh, you're not supposed to do any heavy thinking after sex, y'know?" But the jest falls flat before it even leaves her mouth.

That little furrow in his brow scares her even more, and she can't help but try and smooth it away.

When he finally speaks, his voice is measured but not detached, and it's not what she's expecting to hear.

"Promise me something, Faith." She can just nod blankly, eyes wide. "Promise me that we'll make all this last as long as possible."

And she knows, of course, that he doesn't exactly mean their session of post-coital intimacy. "Sure... Yes." Her voice quivers, and she drops her head to rest on his shoulder, snaking an arm around his chest, holding on tight. "We will. I promise."

He's not promising forever and deep down, if she's being really honest with herself, she never expected him to.

His fingertips are skimming the curve of her shoulder and she can feel it welling up inside her again and again so she knows she has to say it, just once. Whatever the consequences. Owes it to her and him.

"Wes?"

His fingers still and then start moving in the opposite direction, smoothing down her arm. "Hmmm?"

"I love you."

It sounds really, really weird out loud. Not cried out because she's coasting the mother of all orgasms, but something she's thought about. His eyes widen comically like a cartoon character just as it's getting hit on the head with a 50lb weight and she waits for him to pull away, retreat, order her back to her own bed.

"I don't expect you to say it back, y'know," she whispers, her hand over his heart, feeling it beat out quite a steady rhythm all things considered. "Just wanted you to know."

She's not being entirely truthful. Somewhere in her head, she's played out this scene a million times and he does say it back, all throaty and gravelly, and takes her in his arms for this spine-tingling, fade-out-to-black kiss.

But that isn't real. This is his bed and she's still being held by him, his lips softly kissing the top of head and then he says, so low that she almost doesn't hear it, "Thank you."

And she can live with 'thank you.' She can live very well with thank you – for now.

It's like a huge weight's been lifted off her and now she feels light and boneless, only his hands on her, anchoring her to this plane of existence. Her eyelids flicker shut and she's trying desperately to stay awake, to store up this memory, the smell and feel and sound of him, imprint it on her mind so she can wrap it round her on those nights when sleep is a long time coming.

"Faith? Are you falling asleep on me?" His voice sounds so fucking fond.

"Yeah," she mutters sleepily, trying to fight the waves of tiredness that are gently lapping over her. "I mean, no. Just gimme a minute, OK?"

His chest rumbles against her ear as he chuckles. "You still have one orgasm pending."

She smooshes against him, her hand tucking under him, one leg hitched over his. "You can owe me," she manages to say, pretty coherently all things considered, before she falls asleep.

Chapter Seventy Eight

She’s woken by a hand shaking her impatiently, which would be grounds for biting if Wes’ other hand wasn’t holding a mug of coffee. She lets the smell of it lift her eyelids – and the way he makes it, it’s strong enough – and manages a blurry smile.

“Hey.”

She gets a nod back. No chance of a quickie this morning; no chance of cuddles either. Wes is fully dressed, vibrating with an eagerness that’s got nothing to do with the fact that she’s just sat up and is flashing him perky breasts, and he’s raring to go.

Except it’s 6.30.

“Shit, Wes, the court case is at ten,” she says. “Why’re you up so early? More to the point, why am I?”

He looks impatient. “There’s a considerable amount to do before that. And we need to call by the office as well.” He looks at her. “Are you still sure you want to come?”

Stubbornness has her lower lip jutting out. “I’m going, Wes.” She smiles. “You’re looking so spiffy –”

“So, what?”

His frown’s gone from 0 to 60 in under a second, and she snickers. “’Spiffy’, not pretty,” she says, trying it without a mouthful of coffee. “You’re going to knock ‘em dead.”

He really does, too. Blindingly white shirt, dark suit, tie that’s a blend of blues and grays and makes his eyes look even bluer than usual...takes a real effort of will to keep her hands off him, but she does.

“Faith, if I have to rely on the excellence of my tailor to win a case, I’m not a very good lawyer.”

It’s said with enough huffiness that a month ago she’d have shriveled up and backed away. Now she sets the coffee down and crawls across the bed, kneeling up and stroking her fingers down an ice-smooth cheek. “You’re not a good lawyer, Wes. You’re the best.”

He smiles and there’s enough amusement in his eyes to make her stop worrying. He’s not nervous; he’s just wanting to get on with it.

And if she ever truly pities Lilah, just a little, it’s in that moment, because all the softening in Wes’ face is for her and there’s no mercy in his eyes for Lilah.

He’s a cold bastard sometimes and it scares her as much as it turns her on.

“Get ready, Faith,” he says, glancing at his watch. “We’re not going to be late today.”

It’s a warning she didn’t need.

When she comes out of the bathroom, pink, damp and naked, he’s gone, and he’s taken her coffee with him, which means he’d better have more downstairs as she hadn’t finished it and it’s still early enough that her eyes keep trying to close.

The bed’s smooth again and he’s laid out some clothes; new ones, though the heels and the stockings are the same. Seems Wes wants her to match him and she’s got a crisp white shirt, slim skirt to just below the knees and a tailored jacket, both in a black with the dull sheen of jet.

She gets dressed and peacocks in front of the mirror before realizing her head doesn’t match. Her face looks too bare without makeup and her hair’s wild.

So she goes to her own room and digs around for supplies. Toning down the makeup’s a pain. She’s used to bright, brash effects for dark bars after all; but she manages to achieve something subtle and blows a kiss at her reflection with perfectly painted, three shades deeper than normal lips.

Her hair she attacks with a ruthless ferocity that subdues it after ten minutes into an honest to god fucking braid, fancy and French that leaves her face bare. It’ll last about fifteen minutes before her hair makes a break for freedom and little bits start to uncurl, but she can keep making running repairs, she supposes.

Wes’ face is worth the ache in her skull from half a dozen hairpins. For the first time that morning she feels him look at her as if he wants to fuck her and the air’s humming with a promise of ‘later’ that has her quivering. Then he points to the table, where toast, fruit and more coffee wait and says softly. “Fifteen minutes, Faith, and then you’re back on the clock.”

By the time they get in the car, she’s lost him to the case, but she doesn’t mind.

He’s taught her to be patient, after all.

The courthouse is imposing enough that she’s glad she’s with Wes, who walks up the steps without a glance at a small group of reporters and sweeps up to the security guard with her trailing two steps behind. Formalities over, he shows her to a seat at the back, gives her a tight, cool smile that she barely has time to respond to, and vanishes before she has chance to tell him to break a leg, or whatever you said to lawyers.

The room fills up quickly and Lilah walks by without glancing around, poised and glittering, chatting quietly to a good looking man, silver-haired, with the coldest eyes Faith’s ever seen. She spots the man Wes and she had breakfast with and she feels the tension curl and twist in her gut remembering that day.

It also brings Xander to mind. Fuck; Wes had told her she had to call him today; apologize and stuff. Not like she doesn’t want to make it right, because she does, but what do you say? She’s planning out ways to make what she and Wes have sound more than it looks and getting nowhere, when the judge comes in.

It’s both boring and gripping at the same time. She’s only got enough knowledge of what it’s all about the grasp the basics and it’s getting fucking technical out there. Wes is quoting from books and entering in documents, Lilah’s snake-smooth and dismissive and the judge, an elderly, skinny woman who looks tired, with sharp, dark eyes, is snapping at them both.

Wes isn’t trying to be charming but, fuck, he looks and sounds so good, he doesn’t have to. She can see he’s on top of his game; can feel the confidence he’s giving off work to make him convincing. Lilah’s frowning, jewel-bright nails drumming against her desk, the asides to the man with her hissed and increasingly frantic, if you were paying attention, and Faith is.

Finally, they break for lunch. Wes doesn’t move and she doesn’t expect him to, but she decides to slip out to the rest room.

She’s glad she got to pee before Lilah walks in.

Chapter Seventy Nine

Lilah's only caught off guard for a split second. If you'd blinked, you'd have missed it, but Faith didn't. “I didn't realize Wesley was bringing his little pep squad today.” On the other hand, any insecurity she was feeling was funneled right into her biting words. Faith had forgotten that about her, and Lilah was still in paper chase mode, still sniffing for a fight.

Faith decides it’s best to ignore Lilah completely, and all those months of ignoring Darla in close quarters were a good preparation for something, finally. She turns on the taps and vigorously lathers up, taking her sweet time washing her hands, and tries not to smirk as Lilah's expression in the mirror slides from simmering into a roiling boil at not getting a rise out of her.

She takes her time drying her hands, too, and it's not until she whips out her lipstick from where she'd secreted it in one of the fitted blazer's side pockets, that Lilah take the opportunity to lunge at her again. “That shade seems a little dark for daytime wear, don't you think?”

Faith just blinks slowly at her (in an effort not to roll her eyes, more than anything else) and turns back to rouging her lips with deliberate care, then blots them on one of the toilet's rough paper towels.

“Not really,” she  says finally, stemming off a feathery smudge with a swipe of her pinkie. In the time it's taken to perform these little seemingly insignificant actions, she's steeled herself for whatever Lilah's about to lay on her. Lilah's sharp and angular frame is blocking the escape route and Faith knows she won't be able to slip out until Lilah's spilled all the bile that's collected over the past few weeks. Hell hath no fury like a woman in the middle of a messy divorce, she thinks. Or something like that.

“So, how old are you Faith?” Lilah's all smiles, putting on her slickest legal guise. When she's greeted with more silence, she just says, thinly, “Eighteen, I've heard. Or is it seventeen?”

Faith shakes her head. “Eighteen,” she says politely as possible.

“Of course. A perfectly legal adult now – but still, your parents are so very concerned about your welfare, as well they should be.”

Faith's looking past her, silent and willing someone – anyone -- to come bustling through the restroom's swinging door. Preferably the judge, but the court reporter would be fine, too, in a pinch. At the mention of her parents, her attention snaps back to Lilah's fishy, cold smile, but the subject has already changed.

“I'm so glad we're getting this little chance to chat. It's so rare that one has a chance to air their grievances to their successor,” she sighs with faux wistfulness. “You know, Faith, I think that what you and Wesley have is really very sweet, I suppose. It's just lovely that he's finally found someone to indulge his little ... foibles in the bedroom.”

Faith notes that her jagged, chewed nails are digging deeper into her palms the longer Lilah speaks, and she discreetly unfurls her fingers from instinctual, tightly-balled fists and presses them behind her into the cold marble of the lavatory counter.

Lilah takes a step closer, and Faith immediately wishes she weren't pressed into the counter now, with nowhere to move.

“I tried to be the most accommodating, most understanding wife as possible, you see,” her lips curl into a little sardonic smile, and Faith knows that can't possibly be true – the thought of Lilah accommodating anyone, least of all Wesley, is absurd. “I'm afraid things were so frigid between us, and there was nothing I could do to salvage that. He's so closed off, so moody, so temperamental – I'm sure you must have seen that side of him by now.” Faith tries to keep her face blank and neutral, but can feel a little snicker rising in her throat. She swallows it back down, and Lilah leans in even closer just a few inches away. Her voice drops too, but never threatens to slide into a whisper.

“You see, Faith, Wesley can eat little things like you for breakfast – but when faced with a more equally-matched partner, he was rendered completely impotent. He seems to have some sort of difficulty picturing women in any position but complete submission.” The smile has slipped into a thin line, but Lilah's voice is still pleasant. She steps back, waves her hand dismissively. “Of course, one expects to eventually be replaced in these kinds of situations, but you must understand that I wasn't expecting that replacement to be a teen-aged hussy playing dress up.”

Faith's bristling by the time Lilah stops, and she's biting her lip to keep any unfortunate, stray words from spilling out. Her ankles are starting to scream from standing so long in the spiked heels. She wills them not to wobble, and succeeds, mostly. She needn't really worry about having a chance to dig her grave with a catty response, because before she can even open her mouth, Lilah's taken another tack.

“Of course, I feel I should also tell you that Wesley doesn't take kindly to people who don't meet his impossibly high standards. Just look at the way he's handling me out there in court today.” She laughs harshly. “Someday he won't find your little insubordinations such a turn-on anymore. Take my advice: that's the day you'd better pack your little suitcase and move on. You're not perfect, Faith, and neither was I -- but really, so few are Wesley's equal.”

Under other circumstances, that last bit might have softened Faith's heart, coming from some other woman, but this was Lilah. Wes may be mopping the floor with her today, but there were times that he didn't, and she aches for the weeks, the months he must have spent trapped in Lilah's caustic grip. Instead, the ill-advised words that she's been pushing down for the last five minutes finally come bursting out.

“You know, Lilah, maybe you should have let him fuck you up the ass.” And, satisfied at getting the last word in a conversation she barely took part in, she shoves past Lilah and out the swinging door and into the corridor.

Chapter Eighty

She’s shaking now; almost light-headed from the confrontation, with Lilah’s acid-dipped words eating their way through the barrier she’d thrown up.

Not that Lilah had told her anything she didn’t know, or hadn’t guessed, but to hear it laid out like that -Wes is kinky, way too old, and he’s got standards you’re never going to match up to – well, it was enough to leave her panicking and needing – shit. She needed Wes. When she was about to explode into a million jagged-edged shards, he was the only person who’d ever calmed her down, ever been able to control her.

She didn’t give a fuck about his... foibles, either. They suited her and that was all that mattered. Though she had to wonder what the hell Wes had been thinking when he said ‘I do’ to Lilah.

And impotent? Wes? She snickers, drawing a curious glance from a couple who pass her, and feels herself settle back down. Lilah might have intended that as an insult, but it was so impossible to picture Wes not ready and raring to go that she’d made herself seem like the problem.

And to Wes, she probably was.

Seeing a place to buy sandwiches and coffee, she goes in and orders, eating quickly, because she wants to see Wes again.

He’s still there in the courtroom, but he’s not reading through notes, he’s standing, arms folded, listening to Lilah and he’s turned away slightly, so Faith can’t see his face. Lilah’s smiling in a way that looks feral, eyes sparking with spite, but as Faith watches, silent and unmoving by the door, she falters and loses track of whatever she was saying. Faith frowns and steps sideways. Wesley’s not touching her, not threatening her, but Lilah’s backing off.

Then she sees Wesley’s face and understands why.

He’s so fucking angry he’s shut down; face blank, eyes staring through Lilah, lips thinned to nothing. Lilah’s not stupid, and Faith doesn’t have her down as a coward, but fuck, Wes ever gives her that look and she’ll be running. Lilah doesn’t have anywhere to run to, though; the door behind Faith is pushed open, and the room begins to fill again.

It’s almost a formality what follows; Wesley rips through everything Lilah brings up and tosses it aside; at one point he comes close to doing it literally, but restrains himself, in a way that tells Faith he did it deliberately. The judge’s composure cracks just a little as she warns him, and there’s something in her eyes that looks like amusement. Guess maybe Lilah’s sneering attitude pisses off more than just Faith.

He wins, ignores Lilah’s exit, all tapping, clacking heels and bitter, hissed asides to her companion, packs up his papers and turns to see her waiting for him by the door. The briefest of smiles touches his lips and she returns it, before slipping out. There are going to be reporters waiting, and she doesn’t want to intrude on his moment.

The crowd let her pass and the cameras swing to focus on Wes as he walks with  slow deliberation down the steps. He lets them snap questions at him but doesn’t answer any until they go quiet; making them wait. She’s feeling a glow of pride she doesn’t think she’s ever had before. She’s never loved anyone who’s done anything to inspire this feeling before; accomplished something, done it perfectly, worked for it.

He gives them a statement, short and sweet, delivered in that precise English voice, avoiding any outright digs at Lilah but making it clear that she’d gotten the whole thing wrong, avoiding the trap of being too modest or too boastful... it’s a fucking work of art. Then he holds up his hand and ends it, moving away quickly.

She’s trailing after him, looking unobtrusive, when she hears a voice say. “You want the dirt, boys, why not ask her? She’s sure to know.”

She turns, sickness stirring, and faces what Wesley just did, but without any preparation. Lilah’s smiling and the dogs she’s loosed are scenting blood.

A microphone’s shoved under her nose and a voice barks, “Miss? Who’re you then?”

“No one,” she says, backing away. “No one...”

“Oh, but that’s not quite true, is it?” Lilah purrs, appearing at her side, so close that the smell of her perfume clouds the air. “You’re very... close... to Mr. Wyndam-Pryce, aren’t you, dear?”

It’s too much. Wes has gone, she’s got all these hungry, avid eyes fixed on her and Lilah’s turning her stomach- fuck, did she take a bath in whatever the hell she’s doused herself in?

“I’m his –” She swallows a word Wes wouldn’t approve of and tries for a calm smile. It doesn’t come off that well, but at least it’s not the snarl she feels like giving them all. “I’m his secretary, that’s all. I don’t know anything. Look, I’ve got to go. Excuse me.”

She struggles free and Wes is waiting at the bottom of the steps, leaning against his car. He beckons her, in front of them all, and she walks towards him, quickly, but not running, head up, shoulders back, and he opens the door for her, ushers her in, and is beside her and driving away before the press have chance to do more than start towards them.

They drive in silence for a while, Faith still gasping for breath, as if she’s been running, heart pounding, and then Wes’ hand reaches over and his fingers rest against hers for a moment. She’s expecting him to say something about winning, maybe give her hell for letting the journalists catch up with her, or for what she said to Lilah, but he just remarks casually, as his fingers tighten and then slip away,

“I think we’ll take the rest of the day off, Faith.”

And her heart stops hammering through panic, and slows in anticipation, because he smiles and adds softly, “I believe I owe you something from last night. I’d rather like to take care of that. With interest.”

And she stops worrying about what they’ve left behind, and Lilah’s threats, and grins because he’s looking so fucking pleased with himself and he’s sharing it with her, just her.

Chapter Eighty One

She's never seen him so relaxed as one hand rests lightly on the steering wheel, the other one tapping out a beat on her knee in time to a song leaking out of the radio.

There's this little half-smile playing around the corners of his mouth like there's this joke that only he knows the punch-line to but she's smiling as well. Because he's happy and that makes her happy. Simple as that really.

As he sweeps the car into the driveway, he slowly slides his hand off her knee and says casually, "You need to make a phone call, Faith. Ten minutes and then, I'm afraid, I'll need your undivided attention for the rest of the day."

Her undivided attention? Like, she can think of anything else when it's just him and her in a room together and he's looking at her pretty much the way he is now. His eyes heavy-lidded and glinting; his tongue sweeping out to moisten the curve of his bottom lip.

"OK, Wes," she agrees and she sounds so fucking dreamy. She really needs to do something about that. As he turns they key in the ignition, she rummages in her bag and pulls out her cell and her cigarettes. "If I stay out here, I can call Xand and smoke at the same time."

For one second, she thinks he's going to give her some grief about smoking but he's in too good a mood for her nicotine habit to fuck it up.

"At least stand in the yard, if you must," he says lightly, his arm wrapping casually round her shoulders so he can guide her in the direction of the front door.

It occurs to her as she hangs her jacket on the coat stand and wanders down the hall, through the kitchen and out the back door, that this place is starting to feel like home. A home that she feels safe in, which is kinda first for her. He shuts the doors and won't let anyone get at her.

"Ten minutes, Faith," he calls after her before she shuts the door and just the sound of his voice, the promise in it of exactly what he has in store for her when her time is up, makes her smile again.

She's had her phone switched off for days, ever since Wes got back from New York and as she powers it up, it starts beeping. She has eight messages on her voicemail, and as she scrolls down to 'call register', five of them are from Darla, one of them's from an unlisted number and two are from Xander, plus about a gazillion text messages from him, which makes everything way easier.

He answers on the first ring. "Faith! Hey, you don't write, you don't call, you don't text message."

"Kinda been busy, Xand thinking up this really wicked apology," she says throatily, ‘cause just hearing his voice, how fucking happy he is that it's her at the end of the phone, makes her realize how much she's missed him.

"OK, don't let me stop you," he laughs.

"Man, I am so fucking sorry. Just stuff was crazy, y'know? It was all fucked up and I was freaked out and you kinda got caught up in that."

There's a pause and then Xander's making his trademark "pffffft", so she knows that everything is cool. "Ten out of ten for sincerity but I'm only going to give you a five for content."

"Fuck you!" And, yeah, it's good to be able to swear a blue streak and get it out of her system before she goes back in.

"Talking of which…" He sounds guarded for, like the first time ever with her. "Darla's been ringing me about every half hour wanting to know when her little Faithy's coming home."

Faith snorts down the phone. "Yeah? Well, she should have thought about that before she packed up all my shit into a box and threw me out."

"So where are you staying? Mr. Sex Bruises still putting you up in the Holiday Inn's finest en-suite?"

""He has a name, Xand and, well, I'm staying with Wes right now but I have, like, my own room and stuff."

There's an even longer pause and she lights another cigarette from the one that's almost burned down, before speaking. "Xand? You have to be cool about this because it's serious."

"Serious like a heart attack?"

She looks up to the gray sky and wishes he was here so she could slap him upside his head. "Serious like I love him. Fuck! Xander, he's so good to me and he's funny and kind and you know how like I said that I could never really come unless I got on top and really…"

Xander makes this pained noise like he's just stubbed his toe on something. "Faith? Do we need to have a little talk about over-sharing?"

"I'm just sayin,' dude."

"So does he love you?"

It's her turn to pause and watch the flaming end of her cigarette burn down as the wind tugs at it. "He cares for me. And yeah, I think he does."

He probably does, just hasn't said it yet. But he's gonna, she thinks, just as Wes taps on the window. She looks round and he's just standing there in that washing powder ad of a white shirt looking at his watch and nodding as she holds up a finger to let him know she's almost done.

"Well, I still think he's too old and too scary and way too suity for you," Xander says in his Big Brother voice. "But you don't sound like you've been chained up in his cellar while he films himself performing depraved acts on you and hawking the tapes on the internet."

Which is a little too close to the truth and makes her giggle knowingly. "He says he's gonna cut me in for 25% of the profits."

"Only 25%? Faith! Didn't I teach you anything?"

"Xand, I gotta go but I'm real sorry and we should do something this week, go out or meet for lunch."

She's already turning and walking towards the back door. "Call me. And you have to ring Darla, if only to get her off my back."

"I'll ring you tomorrow and, well, look, I'll think about calling her but if you speak to her, just tell her I'm fine."

"Faith…"

But Wes is opening the door and standing back so she can go back in to the house.

"Just tell her I'm fine. Love you, Xan. I'll call you, 'kay?"

And then she's switching the phone off and stepping back into the warmth of the kitchen.

He holds out his hand for her phone and she willingly gives it up.

"I take it everything is in order," he asks her, and she nods.

"He thinks you've got me chained up in the cellar most of the time," she murmurs. "Like, doing really kinky things to me."

His eyes flash and he gives her an interested look. "What kinds of really kinky things?"

She has to think for a minute 'cause there isn't that much she could come up with, that they haven't already done. In the end, she shrugs. "Man, I don't like to say. It would shock you, Wes. I was kinda blushing myself by the end of it."

He straightens up, closes his eyes slowly and when he opens them again, it's like he's back in the court room, all cold and precise and one hard bastard of a lawyer. She'd be shitting herself if it wasn't for the wild look in his eyes, the way he's gulping. She's getting to know the signs and 'sides the bulge of his cock is breaking up the smooth line of his trousers.

"I see, Faith," he bites out. "The study, I think."

And he's grabbing her by the wrist, pulling her against his body and pushing her down the hall, his hands roaming all over her as she stumbles along. Hands cupping her breasts, her ass, his mouth sucking at her neck and she knows that he just wants to push her down, lift up her skirts, rip off her panties and fuck her into the middle of next week. But he won't. Gonna make it worth waiting for and fuck! He's pinching her nipples hard now and every time she sucks in a breath, he's soothing the hurt away, rubbing the pads of his thumbs against them.

He reaches around her, his cock digging into the small of her back, to open the door and pushes her into the room.

"Take your clothes off," he grits out, leaning heavily against the wall. "Leave on your shoes and stockings and bend over the desk."

There's not going to be a repeat of last night's, long, laborious tease. She's already undone the first couple of buttons of her blouse and then yanks it over her head, throwing it on the floor, so she can unzip her skirt and slide it over her hips. Then the bra and she's so turned on that just the feel of the air ghosting across her nipples makes her gasp. Finally, the familiar feel of her panties clinging to her damp snatch as she pulls them down and steps out of them.

It seems to take forever to walk to the desk and she's grateful for all the practice she put into learning how to move in the fuckmeWesrightnow shoes, so her hips gently sway with every step she takes.

She leans over, her forearms flat against the desk, her heavy breasts grazing the polished wood and sticks her ass out.

He's moving, coming towards her and she can feel his eyes raking over her. "It's very simple, Faith. When I ask a question, I expect an answer. A detailed answer. Just like I do when I have a witness on the stand. Do you understand me?"

"Yes sir," she says, though her tongue feels so thick in her mouth, it's a wonder she can sound the words out.

"Spread your legs."

She shuffles her feet further and further apart, craving the feel of his hand on her ass.

"I want you to list every depraved act, every perversion I've visited on your innocent flesh in order," he hisses, his fingers skimming the damp seam between her legs, so she has to bite her lip not to cry out. "And for every one I'm going to hit you. For every one you get wrong, I'm going to hit you. And then, and only then, Faith, will I let you come."

Her mind's a blank. It's just a seamless mass of his hands and his cock and his tongue and his voice fucking her, turning her inside out, and pulling it into a coherent sequence of events so they have one more happy memory to add to the pile is almost beyond her.

And then… and then… and then the flat on his hand is hitting her soaked pussy. Not her ass, or her thighs but right there where's she's aching for him.

"You spanked me," she yelps and his hand crashes down again, the tips of his fingers just glancing against her swollen, pulsing clit.

"Very good," he purrs. "Then what did I do to you?"

Chapter Eighty Two

“You ignored me, treated me like crap for days after...” Not surprisingly, she thought, that rated a swat -- on her ass, this time, thankfully. “So you ... wait, no. I...” She realizes now, of course, she's got to fess up for intentionally making the error that led to their second encounter. It seemed so removed from where they were at that point that she'd almost forgotten all about that little detail. The bigger memories of that day kind of overshadowed it. But she knew better than to lie.

“Yes, Faith? You what?”

The words tumble out, unchecked. “I intentionally made an error, on a letter. I misspelled your name. On purpose.”

“And why would you do that?”

Objection! Leading the witness! she wanted to snap at him. She'd watched enough “Law and Order” reruns to know that old trick. But he's lightly tracing his fingers over her already stinging ass and any organization behind her thought process crumbled on the spot.

“I wanted your attention. Best way to do that, make a major typo.”

“And did your actions lead to the desired effect?” His voice is still cool, but his hand slips away from her ass, no doubt pulling back for the next slap that's going to happen right ...

“Yes,” she says faintly, the anticipation and the memory making her stomach flip. “You wadded up the letter. Stuck it inside my underwear.”

... about now. She nearly chokes on the last syllable because his hand's already made sharp contact with her skin before she's had a chance to finish speaking.

“Tell me what you remember most about that moment.”

“I don't remember much of anything.” I plead the fifth.

“Come now, Faith. You can't possibly think that the court will believe that you don't remember anything?” he sneers, condescendingly.

“I was happy. Scared. Some of both, I suppose.”

“You were happy that your ruse had worked.”

“Yes.”

"But scared of the consequences?"

"No."

"Scared of me? Of what I would do to you?

She can't lie. "A little..."

“And if I told you I'd surmised you'd deliberately made that mistake to get a rise out of me, would you still be happy?”

She's stunned, but she should have guessed it, really. “Yes,” she gasps, and flinches in preparation for the next smack.

He makes her wait, a few seconds telescoped into minutes. Then he slaps the skin where ass cheek meets thigh. Once. Twice. She doesn't pause to ask why she got two for that one, and she's sure there's an elaborate plan to his scoring method.

“And you...” her mind races to remember all the details, every last one. Because she knows he won't have forgotten. “You punished me for every steno pad I burned...”

“And how many was that?”

“Ten.” Another smack. “No, no, eleven.” He switches to the other cheek, gently circling his hand over her flesh before laying down yet another blow.

“Yes, if I recall correctly, it was eleven.” He's doing that smug thing she remembers from court, when he'd skewer Lilah's argument to the judge, except that this time he's slipping his free hand down to teasingly stroke her clit.

Her head's completely lost now, just a swirl of blurred memories. The only thing she can focus on is how his finger, barely stroking her tenderest bit of skin, sends a long chain reaction of sparks and desire up to her brain, that sits triumphantly on her last rational thought.

“Faith. I'm waiting.”

The witness will answer counsel's question, says the Law and Order judge voice in her head. She's sorting through her memories as fast as she can, fast forwarding through endless, jumbled thoughts keep serving up memories from other times. Until yes. Yes. That was the day he'd ...

“And then you jacked off while getting me off with your hands. And you came all over my ass. Some of it got on my blouse too, but I didn't notice 'til later. That was a real bitch to get out.”

The last slap sends her slamming into the edge of the desk. He hasn't hit her this hard with his bare hands since ... well, she can't really remember when right now.

Chapter Eighty Three

“I’m impressed by your recollection of such inconsequential details, Faith,” he says sarcastically, and his voice is floating up there, above her, miles away, but his hand is close; not touching her, no, but close, hovering. “Please continue.”

She flexes her fingers, feels them slide against the polished wood that’s warming up under her breasts. This is really getting hard now. She’s so lost in a delirium of wanting him that remembering the times when she had him is torture. Swallowing, she closes her eyes and tries to sort out a coherent arrangement of, ’fuck, you fucked me, made me come, made me scream, do it again, do it now...’

“You, ah, you got me those clothes. Made me wear them. You dressed me the way you wanted me.”

And she knows the slap she gets for that is because she got it right, because it’s gentler than the last one, but it’s aimed between her legs again and he lets his palm stroke the punished flesh for a moment. And she remembers pulling on those clothes for the first time, knowing what she was silently agreeing to; that he had the right to dictate her life to that extent, and she whimpers, and hears him chuckle.

“I did, yes. And you liked wearing them, didn’t you?”

“Was... like you were touching me... all day,” she says, gasping out the words because his hand’s still there between her legs, steady and still, and she wants to grind against it, writhe on fingers pushed inside her, rub and press against the heel of his hand, and she can’t because if she does, she’ll come.

“You’d love it if I did, wouldn’t you?” he says, but it’s not really a question. “Go on.”

It’s as if a sponge has swept her mind clear of everything but that snowflake light presence of his hand. “Can’t remember...” she says, and feels his hand disappear with something like relief.

The slap she gets is square across her ass and his hand doesn’t linger. “Really? I can, quite clearly. Perhaps I should introduce a piece of evidence.”

He steps to the side and she hears a faint sound that she can’t interpret, a clink of something against glass. Her eyes flutter open and she blinks at a wooden pencil, resting across his palm.

“Exhibit A,” he says in a silky voice. “Open your mouth, Faith. Or is this a sufficient prompt?”

She flushes, feeling the carpet rough against her knees in her memory. How many times had he made her crawl to fetch it until she did it right?

“I remember it now,” she says quickly, desperately. “You threw it, a pencil I mean. Made me fetch it and –”

“Details, Faith. I really must insist...”

He’s behind her again now, and the pencil’s tapping lightly against her ass. It doesn’t hurt but it’s unsettling and she’s stumbling over her words. “On my, you made me crawl, and then I had to pick it up between my teeth and ...”

“Please strive for a little more clarity,” he says, with a bored patience, and the pencil slides into her, blunt end first, and he starts to fuck her with it. It’s not thick enough to do more than torment her, but the sudden coolness makes the words tumble out of her in a flood. “I knelt and you took it from me and then you made me kneel again and unzip you with my mouth, just my mouth, and then we –”

Fuck, they fought, didn’t they? She can remember the scalding rage when she’d discovered he’d been watching her, but now it’s all changed to a different heat because knowing he wanted her back then makes sense now. She cries out, her hips jerking and the pencil is pulled out and he hits her twice, fast and hard.

“You were, perhaps understandably –”

But she doesn’t want this to be about the times they clashed, not today, so she interrupts and finds the control to make her voice husky and slow. “You went down on me, Wes. Spread me out on your desk and used your tongue and your fingers on me. Made me come, made me moan. No one had ever done that to me before. It was...”

“Like this?” he whispers, and he must have knelt, because his tongue’s warm against her cunt, lapping and licking and delving inside her, going to the source of the wetness that’s he’s tasting against his lips.

“Wes!” It’s a warning and a plea all at once, because fuck, if he touches her clit, it’ll all be over.

He turns his head away and presses a slow, reluctant kiss against her reddened ass and she hurries on. “Then you took me here – brought me –” Home. But she can’t say that, not yet, so she continues. “Made me strip – no, you read to me first –”

“Out of order,” he says, and there’s a slight tremor in his voice and she’s not sure if it’s amusement at the pun, or if this is taking longer than he can bear, but his hand cracks against her ass with no hesitation and she grits her teeth against a surge of arousal because it’s getting so she’s craving his hand on her body, and she doesn’t care what it’s doing as long as it’s touching her.

Chapter Eighty Four

She remembers what followed that—remembers the strange, uncomfortable thrill of being alone with him in that room, with his gaze intent on her, making her—

“You made me …tell you what I wanted, while I—” She pauses, swallowing hard. His fingers are insinuating themselves deeper between her legs and that’s enough to give her pause again.

“Yes, Faith? I’m waiting.” Is that bemusement? Fucking bastard. She’s got some good payback scenarios going in her fevered brain, although they’re somewhat crowded out by the urgent fuckmejustfuckmeanddoitnow that seems to be on endless loop.

“I masturbated for you until I came.” She readies herself for a blow that’s taking an awfully long time to arrive.

She turns her head to find him standing there with his eyes closed. He looks almost serene —all the harsh lines have been temporarily smoothed away. Then his eyes snap open abruptly, and he sees her watching. She abruptly shifts her posture so she’s facing forward again.

His voice sounds far away. “Yes. That was lovely.” She aches to see the wistful smile that’s probably ghosting across his features. Instead she gets another firm blow to her left buttock. And God, she feels bereft when he removes his hand. She’s gotten so that she can’t bear to lose that connection, even for a second. At least she’s left with this delirious heat slowly spreading though her limbs, making her feel like she’s in a dream. A dream where she’s always kept just at the edge of coming, and it’s delicious and agonizing at the same time. She doesn’t want to leave it, wants it to go on and on and…

“And then?” The crispness of his voice snaps her out of her reverie. He’s leading the witness again, but she’s not going to argue.

“You blindfolded me. I was kind of scared when you did that, didn’t know what you were going to—”

He whispers under his breath, “Bluebeard.”

“What?” she asks, shakily. He must sense her sudden nervousness, because then his hands are on her, steadying her, holding her up, and oh, that’s good. It’s so much better when he’s touching her. The gentle caresses are as galvanizing to her as the hard blows.

“Nothing, Faith. I didn’t mean to interrupt. Please, carry on.” He gives her reddened ass an indulgent little pat.

“And then… you made me finish the job I’d started.” She smiles, knowing that’s going to—

He hits her hard enough that she nearly sprawls out on top of the desk but he pulls her back from the brink with his other arm. And God, she’s on fucking fire now. Her ass must be practically visible from outer space.

“That was woefully incomplete, Faith.” He clucks his tongue. “Really. And here I thought you were improving markedly.” The flat of his palm descends to her other cheek, and he grits out a terse, “Again.”

She has to pause to catch her breath, and then the words are spilling out of her in a feverish rush. “Got down on my hands and knees and showed you what I was going to do to your cock, gave your finger quite a show, and God, I just wanted you to fuck me, couldn’t bear to have you so close yet so—”

“That was an unnecessary digression, Faith.” She feels the air shift before another blow lands on her flesh, this time between her thighs. His fingers are inside of her again, skirting near her clit but not nearly close enough and she just wants to scream in frustration. He sighs. “You’re just so easily distracted. What ever shall I do with you?”

Chapter Eighty Five

Fuck me! She screams in her head but she figures this is just one of those Judge Judy-style rhetorical questions.

His fingers still inside her and she stumbles out an: "I don't know, sir," just to keep all her options open, as it were.

"No, you really don't," he murmurs almost to himself and then he pulls his fingers out of cunt, which doesn't want to let him go and she's gritting her teeth so hard, she's surprised they're not worn down to a fine powder.

He gives her rump a playful tap with his knuckles, which barely registers now. "So you sucked on my fingers, then what?"

She's really trying to remember. "Um, I licked your fingers and then you put your cock in my mouth and I licked that. Then you took it away and it was your fingers again and I wanted your cock so badly and I bit down-" It's just spilling out of her now, total recall of the taste of him in her mouth, on her tongue.

He gives a short, sharp laugh. "I never properly reprimanded you for that little trick, did I?" He makes up for it now, his hand coming down on the tops of her thighs in a flurry of slaps that gives her poor, smarting ass some relief but just ignites the burn all over again.

It occurs to her that the sooner she gets through this pornaganza, the sooner he can make her come. It's not enough to think it, the words are flying out now and his hands can barely keep up.

"You fucked my mouth, came in my mouth, oh, you tasted so good, carried me upstairs, then your hands were on my tits for the first time and there was a bath, you'd run a bath, told me to get in with the blindfold on and I did nothing 'cause you told me not to and you washed my hair, washed me, there was a sponge, then your hands…"

The same hands are rhythmically slapping her ass and the heat cranks up several degrees, so it hurts more in the millisecond pauses when he's drawing back to hit her again.

"I doubt that either the judge or the jury would be able to make much sense of this," he remarks but he's not sounding like he cares that much. "Carry on."

"You shaved me with a razor… wanted to cut my clothes off… touching me… your finger in my cunt but you took it away and I got out the bath…"

Her nails are digging into the desk top now, or trying to and his blows are this constant, concentrated force. First her right cheek and then her left cheek and she can feel them echoing against her clit and in her cunt and she thinks that she's going to come soon just from this, just from his hands spanking her. Needs it and dreads it in equal measure.

She's gasping for breath and trying to spit the words out. "You started drying my hair and just wanted you to fuck me… Jesus, want you to fuck me, Wes and you got mad, and bent me over this stool and whipped me with this leather thing and I begged you to fuck me and you wouldn't and I had to get myself off and you watched and then you fucked me with the handle of the razor and I came and I still wanted you to fuck me…"

Her voice is several pitches higher every time the words "fuck" and "me" happen and she hisses as his hand slides between her legs and she wriggles because he's hitting her there now. Not really hard but hard enough that she feels the relentless blows across her clit and if she wasn't almost paralyzed from trying to hold in her orgasm, she'd be grinding against his hand.

"So you admit that you begged me to fuck you?" he hisses right against her ear.

"Yes, yes," she almost screams. "Jumped on you and then I kissed you for the first time and your cock was against me, you freaked, in your room now and… stripped you… touched your cock finally… so hard… wet… showed me what to do…"

"And did I let you make me come?"

He's not even hitting her any more, just tapping against her clit and she wishes he'd put his fingers inside her, his fist…

"Wes…" She's sobbing now.

"Just answer the question, Faith."

"Oh God, you asked me if I wanted you inside me and I said yes… fuck…"

He's hitting her sopping cunt again and she's so wet she can barely feel it. Just the pressure of the flat of his hand; the press of his fingertips on her clit at second intervals.

"Would you like to take a moment to collect your thoughts? This is obviously distressing?"

He's doing the unthinkable. He's slowing down.

"I'm fine, please," she yelps frantically. "We kissed again and I'm on the bed, you're on top of me and then you're in me, your cock's in me. Slow, then fast and you're fucking me. Your cock's fucking me…"

His hand speeds up and she's going to be fined for contempt of court. Sent down.

"Fuck me… Wes… you were fucking me…"

And she comes, just like she once thought she could, from him hitting her and as he slaps her, it hits and she slumps over the desk and screams because he shoves two fingers into her rippling cunt so he can feel her riding and writhing the waves.

Her legs give out and his arm is wrapped round her waist as he stands there and lets her lean back against him. She whimpers slightly as the wool of his trousers rubs against the just-flayed-feeling of her ass.

"I knew you'd cave under pressure," he drawls smugly and if she wasn't all quivery and trembly, she'd hit him. Still, it is his special day, but she's damned if she's going to let him think she's anything other than an expert witness.

She shrugs out of his hold and leans over the desk again; throws him a challenging look over her shoulder. "I don't think my ass can take much more but I'm sure you've got something up your sleeve, counselor," she hisses.

He looks so terribly amused. "I'm not entirely sure where you're going with this, Faith."

It's her turn to smirk. "I'm going to end up getting fucked, Wes, by you, over this desk just like you did two weeks later in your office. This ringing any bells?"

He doesn't move a muscle but his cock is twitching under the wool like a kite on a windy day. "Ah yes, after a fortnight of willful and disgraceful behavior on the part of my disgruntled secretary. What can I say? I was provoked."

"You made me lift up my skirt and pull off my panties and then you made me lay over your lap and you spanked me," she says coolly and why can't he just unzip and fuck her already?

It's like he can read her mind but she already knows that because he walks over and runs a hand over the heated red flesh of her buttocks. She hisses just a little and he gentles the caress. "Tell me, Faith, how could I possibly fuck you over my desk, not that I don't appreciate the offer, when you're somewhat incapacitated?"

Just the soft babybrush of his fingers is igniting all sorts of feelings in her again. Most of them seem to begin and end in her cunt. He sighs almost regretfully with one last lingering stroke across her ass. "I rather think, despite the fact that you came far too soon, I might have to let you go on top."

"Then I sat in your lap and you fingered me and we were off the clock so I kissed you and your cock was nudging right against my clit and you pulled off my T-shirt and I took out your cock…"

"Faith, did you hear what I just said?"

"And I slid right down on it and then you pulled out and you fucked me over the desk, Wes. You fucked me over the desk. I don't give a fuck if it hurts, cause it's a good kind of hurt, I want you to fuck me over the desk."

Really, she can't say it any plainer than that and for one second, she wonders if she's over-stepped the mark. Been too pushy. Too domineering but then she hears the rasp of his zipper…

Chapter Eighty Six

She closes her eyes, takes a deep breath, smiles faintly. She's gonna win this one. Correction: he's gonna let her win this one. Her fingers smooth over the surface of the desk, drumming in a nervous anticipation.

Except she's still waiting long after she'd expected him to be fucking her 'till next Tuesday. He hasn't said anything; but then again, it's not as if the tell-tale sound of skin slapping on skin is starting either. What is he doing back there? Finally, she can hear his shallow breathing quicken, as his warm fingers trace gently over her chafed ass again.

She's afraid to look back over her shoulder, afraid she'll see him staring her down stonily for her insubordination.

Just when she's decided to look back, challenge him, he finally speaks.

“I seem to remember that, unfortunately, the next little scenario led to one of your infamous snits...”

Her cheeks immediately burn with annoyance and shame at the memory, and she looks over her shoulder, her face a mask of petulance. “Only because you were such a fucking...”

“A fucking bastard. Yes, I know.” He's smiling, just a little, but it's enough to wipe away her rage. He leans over her then, cock bumping her ass, just as it did then. “Perhaps I can make it up to you, then...” he murmurs in her ear.

And she doesn't need him to spell it out, it's like they're thinking in tandem.

“Are you going to ... there?” She'd so tried hard to block out some of the later parts of this interlude, and she's surprised to find she has a perfect carbon copy waiting in her memory, feeding her the dialog.

And his finger's slipping over her wet cunt, in preparation for what comes next. “Am I going to fuck you in the arse?” he intones, a perfect echo of his voice in her memory. “Do you want me to?” And then he's teasing over her asshole, sliding his finger in, and she gasps, though she's careful not to bite her lip again.

His words and gently probing finger still make her wobbly inside; she's still as unsteady and scared and turned on as she was then, even though he's already deflowered her ass, already possessed every last inch of her flesh.

“Do you want to get fucked in the arse, Faith?” It's her cue.

“I've never...” For a moment, she was afraid these words wouldn't come out without a nervous giggle at the silliness of her demureness now, but it's as if they are back at that point, and she's torn between begging for his cock in her ass and fearing he might take her up on the offer. She draws in a sharp breath, “But I'd let you. I'd let you fuck me there if you wanted to, Wes.”

And on cue himself, he's slamming in her cunt, one hand sliding down to massage her tender clit, the other to toy with her hard nipples. He's wrapped completely around her, and her elbows scream under the weight of supporting the two of them, keeping the whole arrangement from crashing into the desk.

Her guttural cries of pleasure don't exactly match up with the memory, but that doesn't matter anymore; the chance to deviate from the script is rushing towards them. He's furiously ramming into her wet cunt, and she pulls tight around him, every thrust magnified when he intersects with her still-throbbing ass, when her hipbones jut against the desk.

“Such a good girl, Faith.” He's murmuring in her ear, and even though she's given herself over to him completely, now, he still echoes his final line. “I'll take care of you.” Hands slide over her hips, and his whimper is needier, hungrier this time as his urgent thrusts alternate between shallow jabs and long, deep strokes.

She doesn't even have time to marvel how those words, with his voice all gravelly and tender like that, will probably get her every time, nail her in that white-hot point inside that his cock is sliding against as well. She doesn't even have time to question the wisdom of following the script because she's coming and moaning his name and it happens too fast all over again, and she means it all the more this time, without a trace of regret: “I love you...”

And it's her words that make him come again, grunting and shoving her into the edge of the desk, his heat mingling with hers, deep inside.

She knows it's really wishing much too much for this to lead where she hopes it does. But when he doesn't immediately pull out, when he instead pulls her closer, doesn't let her fall painfully against the desk as he slumps against her, spent -- it's unmistakable, his faint whisper: “...and I love you, Faith.”

Chapter Eighty Seven

She lets the words warm her, fill her, soak into her, and when he eases out of her, with a reluctant sigh, she lets them give her the confidence she needs to turn, smile and murmur, “Thank you, Wes,” meaning it on so many levels.

His hand links with hers, and he holds her steady as she kicks off her shoes with an anguished moan. Her body starts to complain, overloading her with messages about stinging, bruised skin, and he smiles. “I think we should go back a few steps, in this recreation of our past excesses,” he says. “A bath seems in order, don’t you agree?”

She’s acutely aware of every place her body met the desk; tender, chafed flesh at hips and forearms and the top of her thighs,  and her ass is bruised; she can almost feel them appearing on her skin, faint blue amongst the scarlet. Oddly, it’s her feet that hurt the most; throbbing as if she’s walked miles in the ridiculously high heels.

“Sounds good to me,” she says, leaning into him as they begin to walk out of the room.

He starts the bath running and then disappears, returning a few minutes later with champagne and flutes, slender and fragile as the bubbles foaming up in fragrant masses. She grins. “You had that waiting, didn’t you?” she teases him as she climbs into the bath, biting back a wince at the first sharp sting before it begins to soothe her abused skin. “Guess you were feeling confident?”

“Oh, yes,” he says seriously. “I knew I would win. There was no other possible outcome.” He eases out the cork and pours the wine carefully, then sets it down on the table he’d used for the dessert he’d fed her the last time they’d bathed together. Stripping quickly, he joins her in the water.

“Here,” he says, passing her a glass.

She takes it and waits, wondering if he’s going to make a toast, with a confused memory of weddings, and a scratchy necked bridesmaid’s dress she’s been forced into at the last minute when her cousin Amy came down with chicken pox and she’d – God, the humiliation! – been asked to replace her. Amy was four inches shorter and twenty pounds heavier; the buttercup yellow dress had been a disaster, and they’d left her out of the photographs in the end. She’d wandered away, found a glass of champagne and drank it, thinking it was soda because of the bubbles....

“If I throw up, or start to dance, stop me, right?” she says suddenly.

Wesley frowns. “You can drink vodka milkshakes without flinching but a single glass of Perrier-Jouet worries you?”

She stares at the bottle. It’s pretty; white flowers trailing over it in a lushly romantic flourish. “Last time I had it, I was eight, it was this bright pink...” Wes shudders. “And I think it was on special at the supermarket because no way June and Peter could have afforded anything better.”

“It wasn’t champagne,” Wesley says firmly. “I can see it made a lasting impression on you, but trust me, you’ll like this.”

She sips and smiles and leans back. “Right again, Wesley,” she says dreamily, stretching out and getting her feet somewhere around his waist. She wiggles her toes luxuriously. “God, this feels nice...”

They relax in the bath for a while, and she tells him more about the wedding from hell, giggling as his eyebrows lift and his eyes widen with fascination. “Really?” he murmurs at intervals, sounding utterly fascinated, as if she’s describing the mating rituals of Martians, or something.

When she invents a tradition of the bride throwing her panties, rather than a bouquet, to the waiting crowd, he reaches over and takes the empty glass- refilled twice – from her hand and helps her out of the bath.

“You know, if it weren’t for the fact that your pretty little backside’s a charmingly bright shade of scarlet already, I’d be tempted to spank it again, for that,” he says.

“Can if you want to,” she says, twining her arms around his neck.

“No,” he says firmly, rubbing her dry with a brisk efficiency because she’s swaying slightly. “Although I might pay it some attention...”

Before she can work out what he means, he’s scooped her up in his arms and carried her through to the bedroom. The bedroom’s filled with the soft light of late afternoon, pooling on the bed and tinting the white sheets golden. She rests against them, face-down and listens to him rummage about.

“What’re you doing?” she says drowsily.

An icy cold splodge of something lands against her ass and she yelps, changing it to a squeal of protest as another one follows. “Wes! A word of warning would be nice, y’know?”

“But not half as amusing,” he says in a purr as his fingers work the cream into her skin, circling around, smoothing and gliding. “It’s arnica based. Should help the bruises.” He makes this little, self-reproachful sound. “I might have been a little too –”

“No!” She twists around and glares up at him. “Did you hear me saying my, you know, my safe word? Did you?”

His eyes are startled. “No,” he says quietly. “I didn’t.”

“Then don’t say that. It’s like...” She takes a deep breath and tries to say something that she, not the champagne, wants to say. “I trust you, Wes. Not to do anything too much. And you’ve gotta trust me to know when it’s too much, too.” She frowns. “That didn’t make any sense,” she decides, and flops back down again. “Keep rubbing my ass, Wes,” she says. “Feels kinda nice.”

There’s a pause and a soft laugh, and then his hands are on her again, but now they’re doing more than just massaging in the cream and she whimpers, parting her legs a little.

“So, I believe you had an encounter with Lilah,” he says, just as one slick finger taps gently against her asshole.

“Fuck, Wes!”

It jabs inside her, hard, just a little, just an inch or two and twists and she makes this ‘uhn!’ sound that’s got to be the neediest noise she has because just there, just like that, it’s driving her crazy.

“I think you might want to rephrase that,” he says.

“How did you – oh, she told you, didn’t she? Fucking bitch.”

“I’ll allow that one,” he murmurs, moving his finger in a gentle rhythm that has her hips lifting off the bed. “Yes, she did, but I find myself... curious as to your version of events.”

She snorts. Wes wants to know what they said about him, does he? Well, he can want, she thinks. No fucking way is she repeating that poison. “Girl talk, Wes. You don’t want to know.”

He brushes his thumb against her cunt, waking up all sorts of feelings, sending tingles and pulses of heat through her, so that she shudders. “Faith, when I ask a question, it’s generally with the expectation of an answer,” he says. “Do I need to ask you again?”

His voice is inflexible enough to make her shiver, but it’s just because that’s what it does that she digs in her heels. “No.”

“Good. I’m waiting.”

“Lipstick.”

His hand leaves her and she feels his fingers drum against her ass. “Faith...”

“Swear to God, Wes. We talked about lipstick. Seems mine’s too dark, but then, I’m a hussy, so what would I know?”

That last bit clinches it as authentic, it seems, because he sweeps her up and cuddles her and if it’s kind of hard on her ass to be sitting in his lap, it’s worth it to be held against him. “I’m sorry,” he says against her hair. “I didn’t anticipate that you and she would ever be alone like that. I hope she didn’t say anything –”

Her hand goes to his face and cups it. “Wes... she said a lot of stuff. Don’t think she likes me, but, you know, I’m not sure she wasn’t trying to warn me too. That I’m not good enough. That you’ll get... bored of me. It’s nothing I haven’t thought myself.”

It’s difficult to say that; as if saying it will make it happen, but she owes him honesty and he gets it. She watches his eyes darken and then he’s kissing her, giving it everything he’s got, which means after three seconds she’s clutching onto his shoulder as the only stable point in a giddily-spinning world.

“If you ever say that again,” Wes whispers into her ear when they come up for air, “I’ll spank you, no matter what shade your arse is, do you understand?”

And there’s so much tenderness in his eyes, she forgives the slap he uses to illustrate his point. He clears his throat. “Hearing you recite all the wicked depravities you’ve endured made me –”

“Horny?” she suggests with an impudent grin, almost welcoming the change in mood, especially if it means Lilah doesn’t get mentioned again.

His eyes narrow in pretended annoyance and then he smiles back. “You noticed?”

“Oh, yeah, Wes. Hard not to,” she says, winding her arms around him and kissing him because he’s there, and she can, and fuck, why doesn’t she just do this more often?

“Made me realize,” he says, tugging her arms down and glaring at her. “That I’ve neglected one part of your body.”

“Feels like you’ve been everywhere, done everything, Wes,” she answers.

“Not even close,” he says as his fingers trace around one hardening nipple. “These have been overlooked far too much considering how sensitive and responsive they are. But there’s no rush, after all.”

There’s a promise of a future in that and she saves it up to think about later, because Wes’s fingers are pinching at her nipple again and she can feel an answering throb in her clit.

“So what did you have in mind, Wes?”

“You came from being spanked, didn’t you?” he asks and she squirms and nods, feeling a blush mount in her cheeks. “I want to get you so ready to come that just one touch here,” his fingers drift down and brush her clit, “and you’re screaming. Just one.”

She swallows. “Get me ready how?” she asks.

His fingers are back at her breast again. “Why don’t I show you?”

Chapter Eighty Eight

He dips his head low to her breast, tip of his tongue skirting around one hard nipple. He pinches the other sharply between thumb and forefinger, and the sensation speeds directly to her clit, makes her hips buck involuntarily off of the bed. She lets out this little tiny moan, and he stops what he’s doing so he can watch her. “Looks like you’re almost there already. That was far easier than I thought.” Devious little self-satisfied smile he’s got.

“You know it ain’t gonna be that easy, Wes. C’mon, back to it.” He draws her nipple back into his mouth and her laugh turns to a low moan.

“So very bossy today. I’ll let that slide, Faith, but just this once.” But his voice is soft, not stern, and she knows he’s just indulging her. This is a new game altogether, and by necessity his concentration is elsewhere.

His other hand splays flat against her belly, rising and falling with her sharp intakes of breath. It’s frustratingly far from her clit, and seemingly staying put. She wants desperately for something to grind against, but knows if she tried to use her fingers she’d get a reprimand —maybe not a stinging swat to her poor aggrieved ass, but something. Wes was really fucking resourceful that way.

And God, she wants his cock too, but that’s not the objective right now. She closes her eyes and tries to bide her time as calmly as she can when she’s dying to fucking jump him.

He’s intent on his task, not paying any attention to her feverish unease. When he breaks contact with her nipple for a second, the cool air hits it, causing it to contract slightly, and she moans again, twisting against the bedclothes.

“You seem awfully impatient, Faith. Really, now. Good things come to those who wait, yes?”

“Y-yes.” She can barely force the words out. He’s chosen this moment to cup one breast in his hand and swipe his tongue with agonizing deliberation around the circumference of her areola. And finally, finally, finally, his other hand is starting to make a slow descent to her neglected cunt. By the time his fingers brush lightly against her swollen clit, she almost jumps.

“Ah. I’m glad to see that my reputation for being a man of my word isn’t in doubt.” He sounds almost smug when he says it. But she can’t even hold it against him because nothing matters beyond the simple fact that he’s going to make her come again, with his fingers and his ardent tongue and his cock if she’s lucky…

With that he circles her clit again, dipping his fingers into the wetness between her legs and anointing her clit with it. Her clit is about to go into sensory overload and she’s shivering, gripping the sheets and trying not to thrash too much but not succeeding very well. “God, it’s too much—” It comes out sounding like a whimper.

He pulls his fingers away and looks at her, concerned. “Would you like me to stop?”

“No, just…”

“I’ll direct my attentions elsewhere for the time being.” And with that he slides down between her thighs, which she spreads apart to accommodate him.

Chapter Eighty Nine

He takes his time sliding down, strategically kissing and nibbling the soft flesh of her belly; then he's languidly curling his tongue in long strokes over her naked sex, teasingly edging towards her clit, but never fully reaching it.

And she can't help it, her hands slip up to her breasts, and she continues to pinch and rub her hard nipples absentmindedly, and when he lifts his head for a moment, he clucks his tongue at her in mock-chastisement.

“One thing at a time, Faith. Hands at your sides.”

She obeys with a little whimper of protest, arms sliding limply to the bed, and she hopes it's okay to at least grab desperate handfuls of the sheet as he flicks his tongue over her clit, then pulls away. Her whimper turns to a frustrated moan. “Wes... stop...”

He laughs gently, mouth still against her pussy, and the little vibrations nearly make her scream. He tilts his head up to speak, though, and it's a welcome reprieve. “I didn't hear the name of that esteemed poet cross your lips, Faith, so I can only assume you mean...”

“I meant stop teasing me!” she blurts, writhing and bucking her hips, desperately trying to draw his mouth back down on her. But he's only returned to intermittently lapping over her outer lips still, so she finally swings her legs up and plants her heels on his shoulders. She can't help but let out a little emphatic grunt when she slides her ass up off the bed, unfurling herself wide and open for him.

He doesn't stop the teasing of course -- but he can't avoid the rest of her now and swirls his tongue in and around her wet hole then slips it swiftly to her clit, lingering there, finally, sucking at it gently.

A tiny nip from his teeth makes her frantically whisper his name and before the last drawn-out sibilant sound fades, he's slipped his fingers across her wet slit and inside her pussy and asshole simultaneously. She doesn't even have time to register what he's done before she's coming hard and fast, gasping for air, the way she always seems to when there's a long tease involved. She's on the edge of passing out again, even, but his long fingers -- still working away inside -- anchor her in consciousness as she rides out wave of pleasure, babbling an incoherent mantra of his name and shallow gasps and fucks and oh Gods.

And she's still prattling on until she's nearly screeching, expecting him to stop, but he doesn't. For an instant, the thought crosses her mind that she's glad there's no one around to mistake her desperate, pleasured screams for those of someone in distress. But then the second orgasm floods her mind with a sensory overload the moment his fingers crook inside to hit those two perfect spots a split second apart, and all she can do is scream his name one last time.

“Oh God, Wes, are you trying to kill me?” she pants after a few long moments, sliding her slightly cramping legs back down to the bed. She's aching for his cock, but knows that really would send her over the edge, and she's suddenly very drowsy with pleasure and those glasses of champagne. She's completely surprised to find she's content to wait for later -- because there will definitely be a later, she thinks, noticing that the bedroom is now full of the purple of early twilight.

Wes must have sensed this too, because he's already slipped away -- after planting a near-chaste kiss of farewell on her throbbing pussy -- and gathers her up in his arms and holds her close while stroking her hair, running soft kisses over neck and nibbling at an earlobe, even though his hard cock is insistently nudging her thigh.

“I wouldn't dream of it, Faith,” his voice soft near her ear. “Just settling my debt from last night. I do believe I'm shored up now and I've met my interest obligations.”

“Oh boy, Wes. Yeah -- you're paid up in full.” She snuggles up against him and gives up trying to keep her eyes open. “Just need to... rest a minute now... sorry...” And she fades into to sleep as he strokes her cheek and gently runs a fingertip along the arch of an eyebrow.

**

She's not sure how long she's been conked out, but dark comes not long before seven o'clock on these early spring evenings. The shades are closed now and  the bedside lamp casts a warm glow that doesn't entirely reach the furthest corners of the room. The best indication of the hour, she realizes, is a low grumble of hunger in her stomach. She flips over to find she's alone in the bed, and squinting at the clock finds it's nearly seven-thirty.

There's a robe draped by her feet – and not the one she's used to, not one of his spares. It's a short silk kimono in a black and red jacquard, and she can't help but sigh wistfully as she puts it on, its light weight both impossibly warm and cool at the same time as it slides against her skin.

Her stomach rumbles again, more insistently, and she really hopes he's slipped away to whip up dinner for them, she thinks, smiling to herself, or hell -- order a fucking pizza, at least.

Chapter Ninety

The kitchen’s empty and too neat to have been the source of the garlicky, spicy smell that’s making her mouth water. Even Wes can’t clean up that fast. Probably. She follows her nose and finds him in the formal dining room leading off the living room. The table seats eight, but he’s set it so they’re sitting together; one at the head, the other to the right of that. She works out which place is hers because one wine glass is empty and one is full.

“Faith. You look rested. Are you hungry?”

Wes has changed into a dark green shirt and casual trousers but she doesn’t feel out of place in her robe. If he’d wanted her dressed, he’d have put out something else for her to wear.

“Starving, but, Wes, you didn’t cook all this?”

She waves her hand at casserole dishes filled with food and drops into her seat, trying not to drool.

“I didn’t, no.” He shrugs. “I persuaded a restaurant in town to deliver. They have rather exotic names for their dishes but boiled down to the essentials, it’s chicken casserole, scalloped potatoes and an assortment of vegetables. Do help yourself.”

It sounds boring but it tastes divine, and she even, under the encouragement of a severe look from Wes, heaps some veggies on her plate. He pours her a half glass of red wine but she does no more than sip at it before deciding she’s had enough alcohol for one night and sticking to water.

They chat, and she’s discovering that she can, because he doesn’t try and impress her or make her feel ignorant. She asks about places he’s been and even, daringly, where he grew up, hearing about a house on the outskirts of a village that sounds like something out of a story, with its orchard and wood, surrounded by hills, and with a stream running through the garden. She doesn’t ask about his parents though, who lurk in the background, like the ogres and witches every fairy tale has, and she’s left with the image of a lonely little boy reading a book, hidden high in a tree, or in a den he’d made in the center of a tangle of rhododendron bushes.

The meal ends and she sighs. “That was good. Never thought I’d say that about something that didn’t come with fries, but it was.”

“We can go there for dinner one night, if you like,” he says. “Perhaps Friday? Or do you have other plans?”

She shakes her head, bemused. “Plans? No.” She can’t think of anything she’d rather be doing than spending time with Wesley anyway.

“Xander?” he says, a little doubtfully. “Don’t you usually go out with him?”

She takes one last drink from her glass and shakes her head. “He’s got this new boyfriend; they’ll be out clubbing. I’d just be in the way. I’ll meet him for lunch on his day off. Maybe you could – umm.”

“Perhaps later,” he says dryly, working out what she had been about to say without much difficulty. He stands. “Would you like to –”

“Collapse somewhere?” she says. “Never thought I’d not care that you’re not big on desserts, but I couldn’t manage another bite.”

“Oh, what a pity,” he murmurs. “I’d planned one, too. Chocolate themed.”

The sidelong glance he gives her as they walk towards the couch is full of promise and she feels arousal stir. “Give me half an hour and tell me more,” she says, settling down with her feet in his lap, stretched out.

“Thirty minutes? Very well.”

He leans over and picks up a remote, pressing buttons and filling the room with more of the music he likes so that all she has to do is lie there and listen as his fingers stroke her bare feet gently and then begin to move up higher. By the time the music ends, he’s reached her thighs and the kimono’s slipped away to bare her legs to his eyes.

“Have you regained your appetite?” he asks.

“Guess I could manage to nibble on something,” she says, gazing at him under her lashes seductively and hoping she doesn’t just look sleepy.

“Stay here.”

He’s gone for so short a time she guesses he had this planned, which doesn’t surprise her at all. He comes back with one of the black scarves he’s used on her before and a bowl of brightly colored candies.

“What’re they, Wes?” she asks curiously, reaching out.

He smacks her fingers lightly. “Smarties.”

She frowns. “No, they’re not.”

“English Smarties,” he clarified. “I believe they’re similar to M and M’s.”

She stirs them with her finger, red and blue, yellow, brown, green and orange... “And what do you plan to do with them, Wesley?”

She loves the gleam he gets in his eyes when he’s come up with something that’s going to have her begging.

“Why, we’re going to eat them, Faith. What else would one do with them?” He lets the edge of the scarf trail along her leg. “If you think you can stay perfectly still, we can do this here,” he says. “Otherwise I’ll have to take you upstairs and tie you in place.”

She closes her eyes. “Wes, when you say stuff like that, do you know what it does to me?” she asks plaintively.

His fingers slip between her legs to where she’s already ready for whatever he has in mind. “Yes.” He lets his lips curl in a smile. “It’s rather convenient, wouldn’t you say?”

He lifts her so that she can shrug out of the kimono and blindfolds her, but his hands never leave her and she lies back and waits with nothing but expectation speeding up her heartbeat.

“It’s very simple,” Wesley says, dropping a candy into the hollow of her throat. “I’m going to put them on you and then I’m going to take them off again.”

She chuckles and he hisses in annoyance as the candy he’s just placed on the swell of her breast slides off. “Sorry, Wes. Just don’t think it’s gonna be that simple somehow.”

“Perhaps I might need to go into a little more detail,” he says, “but I think you should stop talking unless it’s absolutely necessary.”

She purses her lips and blows him a kiss. To her surprise, he leans over and kisses her back, capturing her bottom lip between his and sucking on it gently. “Good girl,” he murmurs, which sends a shiver through her.

He carries on dotting her skin with the small candies, in some sort of pattern she guesses, circling her nipples, in a line down her stomach...she’s lost count but there must be about twenty of them. Breathing shallowly, she waits.

“You saw the colors they came in, Faith,” he says. “Tell me a color and we can start.”

“Blue,” she says, thinking of his eyes and wondering what they’re looking like right now.

“There are five blue ones,” he says. “I’m going to start at the top, so that means...this one.”

His mouth’s against her breast, warm and soft but he’s careful not to touch her anywhere else, so that, in the dark as she is, the fleeting touch is both unexpected and profound. She feels her nipples harden, waiting for a touch they never get, and then his mouth is against hers and the candy slips between her lips.

She lets it melt in her mouth, feeling the smooth coating dissolve and the chocolate spread on her tongue. Nice... but she was still waiting for the twist.

“Now,” Wesley says. “There are two on either side of that one. Guess the color correctly, and you get to eat it. Get it wrong and I do.”

She frowns, still certain there’s something he’s not telling her. So far the worst that can happen is that he gets to eat them all, which, OK, would be a pity, but...

“Uh, green?”

“Very good,” he says, dipping his head and nipping at her skin, using just his teeth this time. She parts her lips and crunches this one up. Kinda yummy.

“Now tell me what color this one is,” he says, moving over to tap a finger against the one at her throat.

“Orange,” she says, imagining it lying there, glowing brightly.

“Oh, if only it were. But it’s another blue one,” he says with false regret dripping from every word.

His fingers scoop it up and she pouts. No kiss? Then his mouth fastens against her throat in a long hot kiss, tongue swirling against her skin and she’s confused again.

“Wes –” she begins, but then his fingers part her legs and caress her cunt, spreading the folds apart and darting inside her. “What are you doing? You get to eat that one, right?”

“I do.” She feels something cool get pushed inside her. “I’m saving it for later though.”

It’s almost a relief to know what he’s got in mind.

The game takes way longer than she’d expected, and every candy he wins means she gets his fingers toying with her clit, teasing her for long moments before he pushes the sweet just inside her cunt. For once though, it’s a win/win situation – which makes her think he’s in a really good mood – because if she guesses right, she gets a candy and a kiss and the kisses get longer and longer until she’s swallowing the candy un-tasted so that she can concentrate on his tongue as it slides against hers.

She loses the last one and blinks in the light as he tugs the blindfold free. “You look like a piece of modern art,” he remarks.

She looks down. The heat from her body has made the candies melt as they rested on her and her skin’s smudged here and there with color, rainbowed and bright.

“It comes off, right?” she says, stretching out after staying still for so long

“I imagine so,” he says, tracing a pattern over her clit.

“So how many did you win?” she says letting her leg slip off the side of the couch invitingly.

He glances down and smiles. “Twelve... and they’re melting fast.”

“Better hurry, then,” she says.

“I can’t see why,” he says as his tongue swirls inside her, lapping at the thick, rich chocolate. “Though I think I prefer you au naturel. Some things just can’t be improved upon.”

His tongue’s coated with tiny bits of the candy shell, so that when he drags it over her clit, it scratches it lightly and her hips lift up, wanting more. “Wes...want you in me,” she whispers. God, he was still fucking dressed and she wants to touch him now, wants an end to the games and the simplicity of his cock in her and his mouth gasping out her name against her hair or her neck as he fucks her.

He stands up and scoops her into his arms and she smiles up at him. “You have chocolate on your mouth,” she says. He waits, eyebrow raised  for her to kiss it off, she guesses, but instead she spits on her finger and scrubs him clean, giggling at his look of outrage. “What? Made you look about six, Wes.”

“I see,” is all he says, but his arms tighten around her and he walks to the kitchen, not the stairs, and drops her on the counter beside the sink.

“Wes? Hey!”

She’s struggling and yelping but he turns her so that her ass is on the edge of the sink and turns on the tap – the cold fucking tap – and begins to wash her cunt clean with icy water, sluicing her down with a half-smile that only fades when she reaches out a hand and scoops up a handful of water and flips it down inside his shirt.

“Oh, Faith,” Wesley says softly. “I do believe I’m going to make you regret that.”

He looks so fucking good with his shirt plastered to him that she really doesn’t care.

Chapter Ninety One

And she does it again, flicking him in the face this time so his indignant expression is marred by the drops of water clinging to his eyelashes.

"What you gonna do, Wes?" she giggles, twisting round and jumping off the counter as he shakes his head like a dog and gives her a look of utter outrage. "Don't think my poor ass can take another spanking."

"I'm sure I'll think of something," he splutters and he looks so damn cute all wet and furious, especially when she ducks round him, slapping at his hands which are trying to grab hold of her, and skips out of the kitchen.

"Gotta catch me first!" she chirps over her shoulder and she's not entirely sure but she thinks he just growled but he's not going to do anything as undignified as run after her.

Anyway, before she started smoking and bunking off to sit by the South Doors so she could really hone her smoke rings, she was, like, the star athlete of the school track team. Which is why he hasn't got a chance in hell of catching her as she hears his slow, deliberate tread as she races up the stairs.

She's kinda out of breath by the time she gets to his room and she pants wildly, her eyes skittering around the dimly lit interior and she wants to blow his mind. Take advantage of his freakishly good mood to play something new.

When he steps into the room, her eyes are shut, but she knows from his sharp intake of breath that she's managed to surprise him. Not every day you walk into your room to find a naked girl spread-eagled on your bed, her fingers rubbing against her clit in a fast, circular stroke.

He doesn't say anything for the longest time and she starts to feel this icy grip of fear freezing her. She's completely over-played her hand. Heard him say that he loved her and let herself get carried away. Fucked everything up again.

She takes her hand away and sits up, her eyes still screwed shut because she'll be all right as long as she doesn't have to say the disappointment on his face, that frostbitten glaze to his eyes.

"I don't recall telling you to stop," he says dryly and she almost sags with relief, as she slumps back down on the coverlet. "Such a pretty picture you make too."

"I wanted to give you a reward," she says throatily, her index finger nudging against her clit again. "I was so proud of you today, Wes."

He makes this tiny little noise in the back of his throat and then she feels the mattress give as he sits down on the bed. "I must admit the sight of you sitting in the back of the court seemed to spur me on," he murmurs.

"Yeah?" she sighs happily, arching her back and opening her legs wider.

"Oh yes," he agrees and her eyes snap open 'cause she knows she won't be able to come without seeing his pretty face.

And she doesn't want to come without him. Besides which, he must really need to come. Really, really need to and as soon as she thinks that she's on her knees and pressing herself against his back.

"Wes," she whispers in his ear, slipping out the tip of his tongue to trace the bottom of his lobe. "I want you to fuck me. I want your cock."

Her hands are smoothing down the damp cotton so she can feel the way his heart speeds up underneath her palm. "Where do you want my cock? You need to be specific, Faith."

"In my cunt," she hisses. "And I want you naked. Wanna feel your skin against mine."

And he seems to want that to because he's helping her unbutton his shirt and he doesn't even get mad when a couple of the buttons ping off in her frantic haste to get him ready. "You really are terribly demanding today," he comments, rubbing his face against the crook of her arm. "But I'm feeling rather indulgent so I've decided to let it go just this once."

Once his shirt is off, she can't wait any longer but tugs him down on top of her and mashes his mouth against hers. He's very obliging; curling his tongue into her mouth and lifting off her slightly so she can work his belt loose, unzip him and clutch her hand around the hot, pulsing length of him.

"What if I wanted to tie you up?" he asks, bucking his hips slightly, as she traces her thumb over the damp head of his cock.

"I'd let you," she says and she sounds so fierce.

Somehow she manages to drag his pants down with her feet and he kicks them off and settles between her thighs, rocking against her but not inside her. "And what would you do if I turned you over and wanted to fuck your arse?"

It's pretty appealing and for a moment she's tempted to wriggle out from under him and get on her hands and knees but the head of his cock is butting against her clit and instead she whimpers: "I'd let you do that too. I'd let you do whatever you wanted, Wes, you know that."

His head swoops down and his hand tangles in her hair lifting her up so he can give her one of those intense kisses, biting at her lips and sucking on her tongue, which makes her head swim.

When he lets her go, it's mainly to breathe but she's not done yet. "I'd let you do anything you wanted. Anything," she gasps and he raises himself up and plunges inside her in one hard, smooth stroke that has her clutching at his shoulders.

"Do you know what I want to do?" he purrs in her ear and he's not moving and he hasn't said that she can't so she's practically writhing on his cock, wrapping her legs round his hips so she can grind her clit against the base.

"Anything!"

"I want to have my pretty little Faith in my bed every day," he says, punctuating it with a sly twist of his hips, but it's his words that make her cry out. "Always ready for me, always so wet and needy for me so I can fuck you."

And his hands are scooping under her ass to lift her up so he can start plunging into her with these fucking perfect, fucking deep strokes that tease her with this maddening itch that makes her mewl helplessly and clutch at his arms.

"I want that too," she whimpers. "Just you fucking me all the time."

And she can't shut up and he doesn't seem to mind because he's fucking her faster and faster, sucking at her neck, at her nipples as she tells him again and again how much she needs his cock, how much she loves him fucking her and how much she loves him until she has to stop talking and cry pitifully every time he pulls out of her so he can plunge back in faster and deeper and harder than he did the time before that.

Her hands are stroking his face, trying to soothe away the frown, the tense line of his jaw as he grits his teeth 'cause he's waiting for her and for once the getting there is even fucking better than the being there.

"Tell me that I'm the best you've ever had."

"You are, you know you are."

"Tell me that you always want me."

"I always do, can't stop…"

"Tell me that you love fucking me."

"I love fucking you."

"Tell me that you love me again, Wes. Please…"

And he thrusts into her one final time and she's wrapped so tight round him that she can hardly breathe and she's coming and he's coming and as he does he says it again: "I love you, Faith, so very much" and it's so perfect that she thinks her heart might just shatter in a thousand sparkly pieces right then.




It's not like she ever goes round thinking about how happy she is or how much everything sucks but the next day and the day after that and the day after that, she knows that she never really knew what happy was.

'Cause she's so happy that she's almost sick with it. This goofy smile pinned on her face as she wakes up and he's standing there with a mug of coffee for her.

He washes her and dresses her, feeds her, brushes her hair and then they drive into work together, his hand on her knee.

And even when he kisses her chastely on the cheek before disappearing into his office, the smile's still there making her face ache as she doodles hearts and flowers on her steno pad.

It's not like it was before when she was anxiously storing up all the times he hit her and fucked her and even deigned to smile at her because she thought that that was all she was going to get. All that she deserved.

Everything's different now.

Chapter Ninety Two

And yeah, so they have this routine. But it’s not routine routine. It’s the kind of routine she could get used to. And yet she never does.

She doesn’t think she’ll ever get used to settling in to his crisp, three-hundred count Egyptian cotton sheets and sleeping next to him.

She never tells him that she watches him sleep sometimes. He’s so lovely in repose, and she never tires of the steady rise-and-fall of his breathing, or of the graceful curve of his back when he rolls over onto his stomach.

Some nights he’s still and quiet; others he thrashes fitfully and murmurs under his breath —nothing she can make out, no equivalent to “Rosebud,” just word salad mostly— but she listens for clues, concerned and curious, before she finally falls back to sleep. But he always reaches for her and she’s there, she’s always there.

And every morning when she wakes up, with the morning light filtering weakly through the slight part in the curtains, she’s always just a bit surprised to find that he’s still holding her tight.

It’s so very far away from anything else she's known.

**
Days pass and it seems as though her world has shrunk down to Wes’ house and his car and the office and nothing exists outside of it. She sure as hell hasn’t called Darla, and she’s also forgotten her promise to Xander about lunch. She’s almost shocked to see him standing in the doorway of the office promptly at half past noon.

“Xander! What are you—”

He leans against the doorframe, crossing his arms and smiling at her broadly. “Lunch, remember? Or are you too busy? ‘Cause, y’know, if you have a lunchtime spanking scheduled, I can come back.”

She practically hisses at him. “Jesus, Xander, keep it down!” He just ignores her pique, and crosses over to the desk to give her a big hug. “I’ve missed you, sweetie.” She hugs him back fiercely.

When she lets him go, she grins. “Nice to see you too, stranger.”

He snorts. “You should fucking talk!”

“I know. I’m sorry. It’s just—”

“You don’t have to explain.” He shushes her and links his arm with hers. “Now, where do you want to go? My treat.”

“Let me just grab my purse and leave a note.” She scrawls something out hastily on a sheet of monogrammed notepaper, and as she grabs her purse her phone —long neglected and nearly forgotten about— starts to ring. She fishes around for it in the bottom of the bag, and only succeeds in retrieving it after some concerted effort on her part.

“Faith, that thing is like the fucking Bermuda Triangle of purses.”

She gives him the patented Faith glare-of-death and checks the phone so she can see who’s calling her.

Fuck. It’s her dad. The number’s from a payphone, so it’s got to be her dad. Fuck. He only calls her from payphones when he’s really desperate for cash. That means that his phone at the apartment has been turned off, again. Fuck that shit. No way she’s picking up. She turns the ringer off and dumps the phone somewhat unceremoniously back into her purse.

“Who was it?” Xander asks.

She tries not to look shaken and smiles through it. “Nobody. Let’s go, huh?”

Chapter Ninety Three

She steers Xander away from the place she and Wes usually go for lunch; that’s one encounter she wants to put off for a while. Like, forever. She loves them both and they love her but there’s this little snippet from math class running around in her head; something about two things being equal to the same thing not being equal to each other. Or something. Put simply, Wes and Xander? Never going to be best buds.

But she doesn’t have to worry about Wes joining them, because Xander drags her in for a Mac meal, and she’s so busy inhaling cardboard fries and a burger she barely has to chew, that there’s no time to do more than reflect that Wes’ll freak when he asks her what she had to eat, and that adds more of a spice to the meal than the five sachets of ketchup she gets through. Though maybe the super-sized shake was a mistake; her stomach’s complaining, and she wonders if Wes’ cooking has spoiled her for junk food, but that’s too fucking scary to contemplate, so she takes one last defiant slurp at the shake and pushes it away.

It’s weird at first, sitting across and staring into brown eyes, not blue, hearing Xander’s babble not Wes’ drawled English voice, but this is Xander and it all drifts into focus in no time, like someone’s twiddling buttons somewhere.

He tells her about his love life – back to hopeful - and she reaches over and squeezes his hand sympathetically, glaring at him when he glances down at her wrist, as if he’s checking her out for cuff marks, or something.

“Xander, will you give it a fuc- a rest?” She barely notices that she’s censoring herself, but he does, and his thick eyebrows snap shut.

“Faith, you’re looking good, I’ll give you that.” His hands wave in the air vaguely. “All... shiny and stuff, but you can’t tell me there’s no bad here.”

She shrugs and sneaks one of his fries. “Can’t see one, Xan. In love, happy, living in a house – God, Xander, you should see it! – no one yelling at me, calling me names...”

“In love. Right.” Xander drags out the last word and rolls his eyes. “He’s old enough to be –”

“Don’t you fucking say that!” she snaps, the memory of the phone call sharpening her voice. “Don’t even compare –” She takes a breath, trying not to lash out. “Xander, he’s older, yeah, but shit, what’s that got to do with it? Like I ever met any Prince Charmings in the 18 to 25 age group. He’s what I want. He’s what I need – and I’m not gonna justify it to you. It’s my choice.”

“You paying him rent?” Xander says abruptly. “Or is living way up in the clouds just another perk along with the bruised ass?”

She kicks him under the table, connecting with his shin and smiling as he winces. “Hey, Xander; we’re friends; I got bruises, I’m willing to share.”

“Gee, thanks.” He reaches down to rub at his leg and says it again. “Rent.”

“I offered,” she says. “Wes said it didn’t matter, but, yeah, we sorted something out. What’s your point?”

He’d said more than that, but it was none of Xander’s business. She’d got him to agree to her contributing something, and done it without pouting, sulking or seducing him, which yeah, she was kinda proud of. The fact that every time she handed over what they’d agreed on, she ended up over his lap within the hour getting a spank for every dollar, because Wesley wasn’t the forgiving sort and she’d forced him into a corner, wasn’t something Xander needed to know.

“Nothing signed? No, guess not. So he could throw you out when he wanted and you’d be left...”

“No worse off than I was before. Xander, will you fucking stop this?” She’s getting pissed off now and her head’s throbbing under the bright, artificial lights. “Tell me what’s really bugging you the most, because right now, it’s feeling like you prefer me miserable so you can give me a shoulder to cry on.”

“Maybe I do,” Xander says, standing up. “Seems that’s about the only time you bother to remember I exist.”

He’s half way to the door when she catches up with him, yanking at his arm. “Look, this is bullshit, Xander. Yeah, I’ve been busy, but too busy for you? Not gonna happen.”

She watches his face crunch up, the way it used to when he had to choose what to spend his pocket money on; candy or comic, and then he sighs and punches her shoulder gently. “Faith, you’re a fucking pain in my ass, you know that?”

“But a familiar pain, right?” she says, grinning. “One you’d miss if it went away?”

He rolls his eyes. “Well, that’s kinda what I’ve been saying...”

She gives him a hug, exuberant and fast and rubs her head against his arm. “Prat.”

“Say what now?”

She giggles. “I can insult you in two languages now, Xander... English and American...”

“And you expect me to like this man?” he asks, mock offended, as they leave and begin to walk along the street.

She shakes her head. “No. Just... lay off him a bit. He cares about me and up to now you’re the only one who’s done that.”

“Maybe I don’t like him taking over my job,” Xander says lightly.

There’s too much truth in that for her to brush it off with a joke, and she slides her hand under his arm and says nothing.

After promising to call him, go out, meet up, whatever – get outta here, Xander, my lunch break was over twenty minutes ago – she’s back at her desk, tapping away at her typewriter and noticing that her note to Wes is where she left it but it’s been moved. Yeah. She can tell. Wes’ door is closed, like always, but he’s in there; she can hear him talking to someone and when the man she still thinks of as ‘tweedy guy’ comes out a bit later she wonders what they’d been discussing.

Wes ushers him out with a smile that’s polite but not entirely friendly and turns to Faith.

“My office, Faith. Now.”

Well, fuck. Not seen him in a mood like this for a while. She seriously doubts he wants her in there to take down a letter, but she grabs pen and pad and follows him down the corridor.

He doesn’t waste time. “Faith, unless I’m mistaken, you were extremely late back from lunch.”

“Yeah; see Xander came around and –”

“I’m not interested in whom you were with. I find myself more concerned with the fact that when a client arrived I had to make him wait while I made coffee.”

There’s a petulant bite to his voice and she decides the next time she sees that guy she’s going to fucking kick his ass, because one way or another he always leaves Wes in a pissy mood.

“I’m sorry, sir. It won’t happen again.”

“I sincerely hope not.”

His eyes rake her up and down and she feels that treacherous warmth seep through her as she waits, a trickle of moisture between her legs. Been a while since he did much to her at work, though the minute they get in the car to go home, his hand slides high on her thigh and she gets a kiss that leaves her so breathless she doesn’t come around until Wes’ fingers driving into her, first chance he gets, snap her back into focus.

“That will be all,” he says. “I imagine you’ve got rather a lot to catch up on.” She opens her mouth to say something and gets a frosty look. “I’m not paying you to argue, Faith.”

The unfairness of it on top of the threat of a call from her dad, and Xander’s attitude, spark off a full scale snit. “Yeah, right. But you are paying me and that means I’ve got rights, sir.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I’m taking the rest of the day off sick,” she says.

The air turns as heavy as it does before a summer storm and though he’s still leaning against his desk, arms folded, she takes a step backward.

“You seem in good health to me,” he says softly. “Positively blooming, in fact.”

“Cramps,” she says, realizing as she says it that it’s true. Shit. The headache, tummy pains and dampness between her legs all snap into place and she sighs.

Then she sees Wes is checking his fucking calendar, flicking back as if he’s looking for something and she goes off the scale with a shriek that freezes him in place. “What the fuck are you doing, Wes? Checking up on me?”

She stalks over to him and slams her hand down on the desk. “I got cramps, a killer headache and two men in my life who think they can push me around.” He looks just the littlest bit stricken and she softens her voice when she adds, “And I love them both, but I’m going home, Wes. I don’t want to argue with you.”

It hangs there for a moment, two worlds clashing, and then it’s Wes who’s reaching out to tuck her hair behind her ear.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “And I wasn’t checking up on your... dates.” He sounds indignant. “I was simply seeing if it’s the day the cleaners are at the house – and they are – so it might not be very peaceful.” He regains a measure of composure and smiles. “If you want to lie down, you can rest on the couch in the library here.”

She sighs, stroking her hand down his face. “I’ll manage. Got some Midol in my desk.” There’s a pause and she says hesitantly. “That guy – wasn’t bad news was it? Nothing to do with –”

She can’t bring herself to say Lilah’s name, but he shakes his head. “No; rather good news actually. There’s a merger coming up and he wants me to be in charge of the details of the contract. It’s going to be insanely complicated...”

“You can handle it, Wes,” she says.

 “I’m going to be the one making it complicated, Faith,” he says with a smile that needs to have ‘smug bastard’ attached to it.

She rolls her eyes. “Lawyers.” The smile stays smug and she frowns. “So what’s with the attitude? You didn’t mind me lunching with Xander, did you? He just showed up, and I haven’t seen him –”

“No, I didn’t mind that at all,” he says. “Though I really would prefer you not be late back,” his finger ghosts against her lips and he tastes it thoughtfully, “after consuming junk food that you know I don’t like you eating.”

“You got delusions of being Sherlock?” she snaps, glaring at his complacent smile.

“It wasn’t difficult to deduce,” he said. “Now, off you go – and Faith?”

“Yes?”

“Do let me know when you’re feeling better.”

“Why?” she asks suspiciously.

His mouth twitches. “Oh, Faith, you know why.” He pats her ass gently. “Have a nice day.”

She’s back at her desk before she realizes she still doesn’t know why he got mad at her.

Chapter Ninety Four

The cleaners are still there when she gets home, though she can't imagine what they actually need to do with Wes' neat freak obsession with tidiness.

But she's starting to feel pretty crappy; feverishly hot and the cramps have taken up residence in her belly and seem to be really keen on twisting her insides up into knots. What she really wants to do is run herself an almost scalding hot bath, put on Wes' shirt with the missing button, which is hers now and crawl into bed.

Not gonna happen though. The two Kosovan cleaners with much gesturing and a bottle of bathroom cleaner make it clear that she's surplus to requirements and instead she kicks off her shoes as soon as she gets into the study and curls herself up on the couch.

She just wants to go to sleep but there's this nagging ache in her tummy that even four Midol won't ease and she tosses and turns and wishes he was here to stroke her hair and make the pain go away.

And what the fuck has he done to her anyway? Because in the end; she's getting up from the couch, and actually looking for something to read. They're not all posh porno books either. Eventually she finds a copy of Pride And Prejudice, which they were doing at school before she got hauled off to juvie and when he comes home, she's curled into the corner of the couch, working her way through chapter eleven with the help of a big dictionary.

"I'm sorry, I think I must have the wrong house," he says smoothly, as she looks up and him and blinks because all that tiny print has made her eyes swim.

"I couldn't sleep and you don't have a TV," she says defensively because she's still feeling like hell and it's making her prickly and irritable.

He sits down next to her and tips his head to see the cover of the book. "Jane Austen? There is something quite Elizabeth Bennett about you, Faith."

Even after all the time, she's never quite sure how to decipher that bland tone to his voice, work out whether he's laughing at her. "Lydia is way cooler," she says sulkily. "I'm much more of a Lydia."

"Are you? Should I be worried that you're going to run off with a rakish ne'er do well?" And now she knows that he's teasing her but in a way that she doesn't mind, which is why she's crawling into his lap.

"Thought I already did, Wes," she sighs, rubbing her aching head against the cool cotton of his shirt.

He tenses up for just the merest hint of a second before his hand is in her hair, stroking through the strands and rubbing her scalp with gentle fingers. "This is rather unfortunate, you being so indisposed."

"I have my period," she hisses because she's racked with pain and all he's worried about is that she's not doing her usual impersonation of a horny, teenage nymphet. "You gonna banish me to the spare room again so I don't contaminate the 300 thread count sheets?"

His hands slide down to start working out the knots in her shoulders. "I'm going to ignore that remark and the exceedingly peevish tone to your voice because I imagine that you're feeling rather ill," he says mildly, and his fingers are walking down her spine so he can knead his palm against the small of her back and she doesn't even know how he knows that that's just what she needs. She gives a tiny moan.

"Sorry, I feel like shit, didn't mean to be such a bitch," she mutters and arches into his touch. "But, like, why is my agony so unfortunate?"

"I'm afraid I have to go to New York tomorrow and though we did talk about it last time, it would be rather impossible to take you with me."

New York would have been a blast but she gets that it's a work thing. Really, she does. But she still bursts into tears because he's going away, which means that he won't be here with her. And she's currently overdosing on progesterone.

"I don't want you to go," she wails, twisting around and burying her head against his neck.

"It's only for four days, Faith," he says softly, scooping her into his arms as he stands up. "And you can eat as much disgusting junk food as you like while I'm gone and you can go out with your friend, Xander and drink those revolting vodka milkshakes."

He's walking up the stairs with her and she knows she's being the whiniest ass cry baby in the world and that she needs to snap out of it right the hell now. "I'm gonna eat greasy take-out in your bed," she hiccups.

"Which will make for a very interesting and time-consuming evening when I get home," he says sternly. "And I was going to buy you a present for every day that I was away too."

He places her gently on the bed and she swivels round so he can unzip her dress. "You don't have to do that – you don't have to buy me stuff," she mutters. "And I was only crying 'cause…"

"You're feeling absolutely horrible and I came home with my news and rather compounded matters," he finishes, kneeling at her feet and running a hand up her leg to start rolling down her stocking. "I rather wish this trip was better timed."

"But I can stay here, right?" she asks urgently. "You're not going to make me go back to the hotel?"

He kisses the soft skin of her inner thigh. "And subject you to the tender mercies of the scratchy sheets? Well, that would be entirely unreasonable of me."

She pulls back the quilt and burrows down under it. "Just so we’re clear," she pouts, leaning up so he can kiss her forehead.

"Would you like me to stay here with you?"

"Nah, you've got work to do and I'm gonna try and sleep the worst of it off. Wake up feeling less like a bitch on wheels, y'know?"

Her eyes shut obediently as he reaches over to tuck the covers tight around her so she's safe and snugly and fast asleep before he even shuts the door.


The four days drag by, like someone somewhere has stretched out time so the seconds become minutes and the minutes become hours and the hours become days.

She hates coming home to the big, empty house that he fills even when he's miles away and the silence and the way the rooms echo with him, makes her go out every night with Xander just so she doesn't have to be on her own.

Except she wishes it was that simple. Truth is without him there, it's a big, spooky house with big, spooky house sounds like creaking stairs and gurgling pipes that sound exactly like an axe-wielding maniac is hanging around and just waiting for the right moment to disembowel her.

And then there are the other things that she sure as shit knows isn't just her over-active imagination. Like, the way the phone keeps ringing but when she snatches it up, the caller's rung off. It's not Wes 'cause he phones her every morning and every evening but this time, she gets her instructions about couriers and documents and depositions and then he asks her about her day, about how she slept and then she gets a teasing reference to the present that he plans to buy her for the 24 hours that she's been without him.

He tells her how pretty Central Park looks now that the weather's getting warmer. About the tedious judge that he had to have lunch with who fell asleep in the middle of his dessert. The pair of shoes he saw in the window of a shop as he walked through Greenwich Village that caused him to be ten minutes late for a meeting because he had to go in and buy them for her. So, definitely not Wes ringing and hanging up and leaving the messages that are nothing more than two minutes of static silence on the answer phone.

So it's not just the way she can't sleep now, unless they're skin on skin together; nestled against him, his hand over her heart. And it's not the way that she misses the comfortable silence in the morning and the frantic, sheet-clawing tumbles of evening that's making her so edgy.

No, that's because of the little pile of cigarette butts at the bottom of the drive when she gets home. And it's the chewing gum that's been shoved into the alarm on the gate so she has to call Wes to call the security firm so she can get in on Wednesday night.

She doesn't know how she gets through Thursday night after she's spoken to Wes. Not like she's going to admit to him that his eighteen-year-old girlfriend's too chickenshit to be left on her own.

In the end, she leaves all the lights on, gets the two deadliest looking kitchen knives from the sharpening block in the kitchen and puts them on the pillow next to her and sits up in bed trying to read Pride And Prejudice and jumping every time she hears one of those scary intruder-on-the-stairs sound effects.

One moment it's three in the morning and she's still wide-eyed and terrified. Next thing she knows, it's eight freakin' thirty, and she's being woken up by the angry beeping of her cell phone.

She reaches out a hand for the phone and blearily switches it on, trying to kid herself that she can sound all perky and chipper for Wes.

"Yeah? Hey."

"Faithy?"

"Mom?"

For one moment she's tempted to slam the phone down, instead she grips it tightly in a hand that's suddenly gone sweaty.

"Faithy. I've been calling you and calling you," Darla's voice is fractious. "When are you coming home?"

It isn't quite what she was expecting but it's enough to make all her hackles rise. "You threw me out, remember? Got the whole never darken my doorstep shtick, yeah?"

"You staying with him?" Darla sounds curious, rather than pissed about it. "Hasn't got tired of you yet?"

Faith pulls a face as her insides clench up. "It might be hard for you to get your head round but he likes having me around."

"Saw him on the TV, after that big trial. And you know what I thought, Faithy? I thought there is one cold son of a bitch. Is he treating my little girl properly?"

In a million years, she never expected the concerned Mom routine. Didn't even know that Darla had it in her. "Why the hell are you calling me this early anyway. Hasn't your hangover had time to kick in yet?"

"I saw Xander in town yesterday and he said you seemed kinda tense." And again with the personality transplant.

Something's really off with this conversation and then she realizes what it is. Darla's sober for the first time in living memory and it's making her voice soft, like she cares and it's making her feel, well, like a daughter.

"He's gone away on business and I'm on my own in this scary ass house and it's freaking me out," she hears herself whining and she's transported back to the sagging couch in their front room, huddled under her quilt with Darla, as they bonded over bad husbands and bad boyfriends, eating HoHos and watching The Breakfast Club.

"Well, at least he hasn't kicked you out yet," Darla snorts and then sighs. "You know, baby, you can come home if you want. I kinda got used to having you round the place."

"Yeah, well…" Got used to having a Faith-shaped vodka dispenser. "So is that why you've been calling? 'Cause I don't want to live with you anymore. I want to stay here with him." And it's funny that she won't say his name to Darla because it seems wrong.

And then the sober woman who's inhabiting Darla's body starts to talk really fast, like she's got to get the words out before she forgets them. "Faithy, I'm sorry I've been such a bad Mom to you. I love you, baby. Know things were rough with that lousy fuck of a father and the divorce but I never meant to take it out on you."

And she's crying now because about the only constant thing in her life, before Wes, was the simmering rage and resentment she felt towards Darla. Not her Dad because that was more to do with wanting to get as far away from him as possible but mothers were meant to love you, no matter what you did. And keep you safe. "Don't… just don't," she snivels. "Don't fucking say you love me and that you're sorry 'cause I don't believe you."

It's really fucking weird to be curled up in Wes' bed, holding the phone to her ear so she can hear her mother apologize for 18 years of treating her like nothing more than the thing that ruined her life and all she can do is sob.

"Baby, we need to talk about stuff. I could meet you for lunch,” Darla finally offers, when she's all cried out. "Jesus, Faithy. I'm trying here. You gonna meet me halfway or what?"

Sometimes when she was old enough to finally realize that other girls' moms didn't go out and leave them on their own all night or come back drunk and throw up in the kitchen sink, she used to have this fantasy that Darla would suddenly turn into the perfect Mom. Like an apple pie-baking Mom who'd take her into the city in a Saturday afternoon and buy her cashmere sweaters and Guess jeans.

And lunch at the only diner in town that serves vodka with the meatloaf special really isn't her idea of fun. "What stuff do we need to talk about?" she asks, while she's trying to think of some way to wriggle out of quality time with Mom.

There's a sharp intake of breath as Darla lights a cigarette. "That Morgan bitch for one thing."

"Lilah?" For one second, she actually thinks she's going to be sick.

"I don't know what her first name is, Faith, all I know is she's been calling here every day, wanting to know all kinds of shit about you and telling me stuff I really don't wanna hear about that cold fish you're shacked up with."

She's taking deep breaths now, trying to ignore the cold sweat that's covering her body. "Like what? What's she said about him?"

"If he's done one quarter of the things she reckons he's doing to you, Faith, I am coming up there and dragging you home by the scruff of your goddamn neck, do you hear me?" She's never heard Darla say anything like that before. Well, there's been plenty of things about dragging her out of clubs and bars by the scruff of her neck but not that white-hot fury at the thought of someone hurting her. Which is kinda ironic when you think about it. So ironic that she's gonna puke any second now.

"Mom, you fucking listen to me," she hisses down the phone. "He hasn't done anything to me that I haven't fucking begged him to. And where the fuck was your Mom Of The Year routine when your husband was making me wish that I'd never been born?"

"Faithy…"

"Don't ever fucking call me again," she screams and then throws the phone so hard at the wall that the casing smashes to pieces.

She makes it to the bathroom in time to throw up a mouthful of bile and then slumps down on the tiles, with her fingers pressed tight against her forehead like she can stop herself thinking if she tries hard enough.

It's too much. All of it. Four days in a house that should have its own starring role in a horror film. Darla trying to pretend like she actually gives a fuck, weirdass no-one there phone hang-ups, not to mention that call which may or may not have been her father, and to top it all, Lilah Morgan trying to fuck her shit up.

And in the end, she gives up because it's Friday morning and he's coming back to her. Birds are singing, the sun is shining and all is right in her world.

At lunch-time, she heads for the really swank beauty parlour a couple of blocks from the office to get waxed and pedicured and buffed and polished and when she gets back to the office he's there. Sitting on the edge of her desk, foot tapping against the floor and looking pointedly at his watch. And just for a second all she can do is stare at him because he glances up and his whole face is lit with this blinding smile just because she's walked into the room.

"You're late," he says silkily and folds his arms so he can glare at her.

"And you're back," she beams and has to step outside the lines that he's already drawn so she can skip forward, throw her arms round him and press her lips against his.

He kisses her back, hands cupping her face gently before pushing her away. "Really, Faith, don't think you can soft-soap your way into my good books," he chides her and that beloved bite is back where it belongs. "I'm severely displeased with you. I almost missed my flight because I spent half an hour trying to get you on the phone this morning and now you're half an hour late back from lunch."

"I was late back from lunch the day before you left too," she reminds him, hanging up her jacket. "Just can't kick that bad time-keeping habit of mine, sir."

His eyes are all over her now as she walks back towards him, causing tiny brush fires over her skin as he starts at the toes of her stilettos and travels up the curves that are covered by her tight, black dress.

"I take it you're feeling better?" he asks, his voice dipping low so she gets this ache deep down in her belly. "No aches and pains that I should be aware of?"

"Not at the moment, but maybe you should ask me again in an hour."

"I see. In my office now, Faith."


Chapter Ninety Five

And that swoony delicious yet totally horrifying feeling currently swirling through her stomach? She hopes that never goes away when he looks at her like that -- summing her up, thoughtfully, eyes cold and without a flicker of emotion. She rides out the adrenaline rush of the fight-or-flight feeling he stirs up in her, and her legs nearly don't follow him when he slides insouciantly off the desk and leaves the front office. 'Cause she knows he's plotting how he's gonna lean her over the desk or take her over his lap, make her come when he says to, make her writhe and scream and ...

“Holy fucking shit!”

Her feet did move eventually, of course -- she's standing in the doorway to his office now. The two chairs in front of the desk, the big cushy leather ones? They're stacked with carrier bags. Quite a few. More than four, at any rate. With names in spare modern type and swirly script that she sort of remembers reading in the “Dress Like the Stars!” sections of the gossip rags Darla left lying around the house.

“That's certainly not the thanks I was expecting, Faith.” He's still stern, but she can see that he's secretly pleased that she's so overwhelmed.

“Oh God. Wes. You really didn't need to...” She gestures at the pile and shakes her head slowly, at a loss.

“That's not for you to say Faith. And, it's most unfortunate -- since you were so unconscionably late, I'm afraid the gifts will have to wait until after we had a discussion about your recurring tardiness.”

Her face falls, pouty lip and everything. “Not even one first? Since you were gone so long?” She plays up the naughty, spoiled mistress bit to a tee; strides across the room, hips swaying, snatching the first bag she can grab. But he's there a split second later, not succeeding at prying her fingers away.

“Please, Wes? I haven't been that bad... It's only a few minutes, really...” But no amount of cajoling will work now. He's got her by the wrists, stroking the divot between wrist and palm softly with his thumb, and she's practically whimpering by the time she drops the bag to the floor.

“That's better. Now, are we understood? It goes without saying that I'd rather not need to restrain you...” He's gently caressing her palms now, and it's almost like he's stroking her clit instead, sending a new wave of lust straight through her, and it's all she can do not to kiss that pretty angry mouth of his.

“Yes, sir...” She barely gets the words out.

“Good,” he purrs at her, suddenly dropping her hands. “Now, have a seat.”

She's about to ask where, exactly, since every possible square inch of the ass-swallowing chairs are covered with bags, when she notices the little desk is back. With the cunning little blue typewriter.

She looks at him, confused. “I thought...” When his eyebrow shoots up, the words dry up in her throat, fall away unsaid. I thought you were going to spank me...

“Yes, Faith?”

“Nothing. Nothing,” she mutters, sliding into the little stool, ankles crossed demurely. It's impossibly uncomfortable, the little seat, the spindly, creaky desk. She can't imagine staying here long, can't imagine what he could possibly want her to do...

He's behind her now, brushing her hair back from her shoulders, then slipping a cool black silk scarf over her eyes, tying it just so. Suddenly, it's very clear what she's to do, and a cold knot of fear in her stomach rudely jostles the greedy heat that had been creeping up over her skin.

He leans over, murmurs in her ear. “How many days was I gone, Faith?”

“Four, sir.”

“And how many days did you come back late from your lunch hour? And the emphasis is on hour, Faith.”

“Four, sir.”

“I see a theme.” He laughs harshly. “And how late were you each day?”

Fuck. She can't remember the first day. Fifteen, twenty, maybe? His hands are still stroking her hair, her neck. As if it weren't hard enough to concentrate already.

“Fifteen the first day. Twenty the next? And thirty the last two,” she decides. That sounds about right.

“That's nearly a hundred minutes, Faith. Over four days?” His hands pause on her shoulders, grip them tightly.

“Yes, sir.”

“You are impossible, Faith. I can only hope that this little exercise will instill in you a better appreciation of other people's time.” He sighs, traces one finger down her spine, all the way down. She tries not to shiver, but doesn't succeed. “And do sit up straight.” She can tell he's very nearly really annoyed by that flaw.

“Now then. You'll find the paper next to the typewriter.” Her hand stretches out cautiously, and she finds a short stack of his thick bond paper. “You will type a little epigram, Faith. Four hundred times, with no errors. Before the hour is up.”

Four hundred? And what time was it anyway? Her brain seizes up. It's not that she can't touch type –- of course she can, fast too -- she's almost up to 120 words a minute now. But, everyone looks down sometimes, right? Sometimes you lose your place, your fingers wander off the right key. And how will she know if she's made an error, if she can't see? And how the hell will she make sure the paper's lined up just right?

“Sir, I...”

He cuts her off. “Repeat after me: “'Punctuality is the stern virtue of men of business...”

She parrots back the first phrase, careful the swallow the quiver of nervousness that's creeping into her voice.

“...and the graceful courtesy of princes.' Edward G. Bulwer-Lytton."

She repeats it back again, but stumbles over the last name. “...Bulwer-Lytton. With a double 't', sir?”

“That's correct, Faith. It would seem your understanding of the vagaries of English surnames has improved greatly. For that, I will do you the favor of inserting each sheet into the typewriter, when you're finished the previous one.”

Oh shit. How's she gonna know when she's gotten to the bottom of the page? She's about to open her mouth when he answers the question for her.

“Fifty per page, Faith. Keep count. You have fifteen minutes.”


Chapter Ninety Six

Eight pages in fifteen minutes. She gulps, feeling the cold trickle of sweat starting right at the back of her neck where the blindfold is gathered. Damn thing is fucking itchy.

And she’s resentful, yeah, ‘cause four days away from him and this is what she fucking gets.

But she pushes all that aside. She knows he’ll make it all worth her while —she just has to work a little for it. So she steels herself, sits up straight and proud in that cramped, cheap-ass chair and places her fingers in model-perfect position at the keyboard. “Ready, sir.”

“Good, Faith,” he drawls. “Now.”

And she starts in, her fingers a blur across the keys. She’s really proud of the fact that she’s got the quotation down pretty well, but for some reason the difficulty is in remembering the “G.” Once she stumbles on that for the first time, it starts this chain reaction and the next time around (her twenty-fourth, she’s keeping careful count), she types “Lyton” instead of “Lytton.” She can sense it. That must be her weird super-power. Just her luck not to get something cool like invincibility or X-ray vision, but a fucking sixth sense for typographical errors. “Fuck!” she yelps, before she can stop herself.

She half-expects a ruler to come rapping down hard on her knuckles for her little outburst, but all she hears is the disapproving cluck of Wes’ tongue against the roof of his mouth.

“That’s five, Faith. And I’ll pretend I didn’t hear a certain invective. But you had better not say it again.”

Five mistakes? She’s surprised. But she doesn’t let it register because she’s got seven more pages to go. Wes slides a perfect new sheet of linen bond into the typewriter, advances it in the carriage, and whispers, “Ready.”

And again. And again. And again. Halfway there and her fingers are starting to cramp up —she’s not used to typing with such speed, and without breaks. She wants nothing more than to pause for a second and rest her aching fingers. But she’s trying to beat the clock, and it’s a point of pride at this point that she finish —‘cause she’s pretty damn sure that Wes is going to take her over his knee and give her a seeing-to for every misplaced comma, transposed letter, and dropped consonant in the entire fucking thing.

She’s really quite fond of his reward system.

And, dammit! She bites back another curse. She’s hates that she’s so easily distracted. Was that forty-four now, or forty-five? Now the cold sweat is back. She’ll just have to guess. But five more and Wes is pulling the paper from the machine and she’s sure he’s put them all in an impeccable little pile.

Her fingers are still poised at the ready but he walks up behind her and starts to undo the blindfold. Then he stops. “You’re done, Faith.” He doesn’t sound pleased and her relief is turning just as abruptly to a knot of nervous anticipation in her stomach. He leans in close to her ear and dammit if his crisp, caramel-smooth enunciation isn’t having the usual effect. She’s so fucking wet. And if he clucks his tongue again she’ll be a puddle on the floor. “Page two should be framed. But beyond that? A rather dispirited showing. Twenty-three mistakes all told, and you were two minutes over your allotted time. I’m terribly disappointed.” His hands are resting on her shoulders, and it takes all her willpower not to rest her head against them. It’s been too long.

Then one hand strays to her breast, index and forefinger pinching her nipple through the fabric of her dress. “So, Faith. What should your punishment be? Would you like to choose?”

Chapter Ninety Seven

Choose? That means thinking, right? And all she can get her mind to do is picture his cock, hard and hot against her, in her, or his fingers, those long, elegant fingers, touching skin he’s heated and slicked just by being there beside her after an eternity of waiting.

“I’m waiting.”

Icy cold whisper and a second warning pinch to punctuate it.

“Sorry, I’m just... choose?” She tries to focus, swallows and straightens her back, hoping that’ll stave off another pinch, because fuck, she might come just from that. “You mean like last time?” She’s remembering the ruler smacking down in a flurry of blows and fuck, that’d been thirty seconds. She couldn’t take two minutes of Wes in fast forward speed.

But it’d mean in less than five minutes she’d be over that desk getting fucked and she doesn’t need to look to know Wes is hard, and the only reason he’s not trembling like she is, is because he’s so fucking good at this, but he’d like it if she chose that... wouldn’t he?

She sighs, folds her hands in her lap and looks straight ahead. “Twenty three...” she hesitates. What’s he going to use on her? She wants it to be his hand, needs it to be...

“Why, Faith!” His voice, low and amused, curls around her the way his fingers are curved around her shoulders, gripping her tightly. “Can it be that you’ve finally appreciated the virtue of patience? Perhaps the next time we do this, should occasion arise, I’ll choose a Kierkegaard quotation: ‘Most men pursue pleasure with such breathless haste that they hurry past it.’ That’s a fault I strive to avoid.”

“Think you go in the opposite direction, Wes,” she says, unable to resist the dig because she was just realizing how deep a hole she’d dug for them both. Sure, Wes could deliver twenty-three slaps in under a minute, but after that quotation? She’ll be lucky if she gets to come in an hour.

Fuck. She bites back a wail of despair at that thought, so that all that emerges is a faint, needy whimper, and waits to see what she’ll get for answering him back - and gets his fingers threading through her hair, catching up a handful and tugging on it so her head tips back and she’s staring up into Wesley’s face, taut with the control he’s mastered, blue eyes dark with arousal. “Really? Much as I value your observations on my character, Faith, might I suggest that you save them for a time when I’m not about to administer a well-earned reprimand? For your own sake?”

Well, isn’t he just so kind and fucking considerate? “Yes, sir,” she says, snapping out the words and biting back another clever remark.

“Very well.”

He’s still pretty upside down, she thinks hazily, and she loses herself in a silent, appreciative contemplation of the clean, straight line of his jaw and the way his lips are shaped to be kissed, until he sighs, releases her, and strides over to the bags.

“Perhaps you could have one present now,” he says. “Page two was perfect after all, and I believe in rewarding achievement quite as much as punishing failure.”

Good to know, she thinks wryly, trying to think of any times she’s earned a reward that didn’t leave a sting in her tail.

She feels curiosity swirl through the lust as he rummages through the bags. So many of them... it’s not so much that she wants the gifts, though she does, she really fucking does, as seeing that, yes, he’s been thinking about her, has made time to shop. She’s picturing him stalking into shops, late for appointments, quivering with the impatience that he’s got in fucking spades when it comes to being on time, pointing at stuff, snapping his fingers, making the assistants run... or giving them that slow smile of his, dropping his voice right down and charming them into giggles and sighs and fluttering eyelashes. She’s pouting just thinking about that.

Looks like mostly clothes... but she’s already head to toe in what he thinks the ideal secretary should be wearing; corset sheathing her, silky panties caressing her, high heels stretching her calf muscles taut, so she’s really wondering...

Wes straightens, with not one, but two, small gift bags dangling from his fingers, and walks over to her. “Another choice,” he says with a smile she doesn’t trust one little fucking bit.

She stares wide-eyed at what spills out of the bags as she tips them up on the desk; a slither of black Italian leather, supple and soft, the buckle on the belt silver and square, echoing the watch that’s clasped around her wrist. It’s meant for jeans but it probably cost more than the last three pairs she bought.

The second gift is a hair brush, the flat wooden oval of the back completely plain, the handle embossed in gold with words that shimmer in front of desire-dazzled eyes.

“Mason Pearson,” Wesley says helpfully. “English, of course.”

Figures.

“They were both bought with no ulterior motive, I promise,” Wesley says, and he’s almost convincing. “I simply remembered that your own hairbrush was a little the worse for wear –” He gives her hair a hundred strokes every morning, as it crackles and spits like an angry cat, then clings to his fingers; part of the morning routine she’s grown to love because she gets to watch him in the mirror, lips curved in a gentle smile as he takes care of her.

He picks them up and holds them out. “Well?”

She shakes her head slowly, takes them from him, and bends her head to brush a kiss against the hand he’ll use. “Told you that you didn’t have to bring me anything, Wes,” she says softly as she stands.

There’s a faint gleam of warmth in his eyes as his hand curls closed over the kiss and then he’s leading her over to the desk.

Chapter Ninety Eight

She doesn't need to be told to get in position; she's already leaning forward, legs spread, forearms flat on the desk top because she needs this. Maybe even more than his cock, though it's pretty much a judgment call.

He's been away four days and what with all the bullshit that's been going on, she needs the simplicity of this; his hand on her ass, his cock in her cunt so that everything else just melts away.

"Lift up your skirt, Faith," he orders her gently and she's wriggling the tight wool up over her hips and his fingers are sliding into the low waistband of her panties and pushing them down so they end up around her knees.

She lifts up her foot to shuffle them off. "No, leave them there." And it should feel ridiculous to be bent over his desk, her panties halfway down her legs, stretched tight by her splayed pose but it doesn't. Just makes her feel hotter.

And finally she feels the warm weight of his hands as he cups her ass, follows the contours and slips between her legs so he can graze the tips of his fingers over her newly waxed mound. He makes an appreciative noise but is already moving his hand, skirting the lips of her pussy.

"Tell me something, Faith," he says conversationally. "How long have you been wet?"

The tip of his finger is circling her clit but not touching it, which makes thinking really hard. "Um, when you said, 'In my office, now', she mutters, almost swaying with the force of her want but managing to hold herself in check.

"And I believe I was very explicit in my instructions while I was in New York that you were not to touch yourself, not to…"

"I didn't!" she protests indignantly and bucks against the edge of the desk as he pinches her clit hard.

"Don't interrupt," he barks and then smoothes the hurt away with the pads of his fingers so she's counting backwards from a hundred and trying to remember song lyrics, anything not to come.

"Wes…!" she pleads when he starts rubbing her clit with his thumb. "I'm going to come if you keep doing that."

The fucking bastard just speeds up. "No you won't, Faith, because I haven't given you permission."

And just when she's right on the edge of the cliff, peering down and about to go freefall, he takes his fingers away and brings the flat of his hand down sharply across the tops of her thighs.

"Count!"

"One."

He spanks her hard. Really hard. So she's rocking forward with each new blow and he follows the movement of her body, keeping his hand on her stinging flesh so it seems like every smack lasts an eternity and she can't think of anyone or anything but him and how he makes the rest of the world slip away so all there is is this.

"Twenty two," she cries out as he strikes her on the softest part of her ass and then he takes his hands away and she can hear the soft swish of his belt being undone and the rasp of his zipper and much as she loves the pre-show, she can't wait for it to be done so she gets his cock.

His hand slams down, right between her legs this time, plunging two fingers into her, before she's even finished sounding out the number.

"You did that very well, Faith," he purrs. "You only lost your place once, which is a marked improvement on the last time."

"Thank you, sir," she says on automatic pilot because how is she meant to think with his fingers twisting deeper and deeper inside her and the wet head of his cock nudging against the crease of her thigh and buttock.

"But it occurs to me that I've only addressed your secretarial shortcomings," he muses. "There's still the matter of your shoddy timekeeping."

She doesn't answer for a while because the whole not moving/not coming problem is back but eventually he stills his fingers for a second, because he's all fucking heart. "Did you want to say something, Faith?"

"I could owe you," she suggests shakily, trying to lift her torso slightly off the desk because her breasts are so tight and swollen that the friction is getting too much.

He places a hand on the small of her back and pushes her firmly back down. "I have a much better idea," he drawls as he slams his cock into her and in the same motion, brings his palm cracking down on her ass again. "Two birds, one stone."

Thank God, he's not bitching at her to count his thrusts or the slaps because they're too fast and frequent and she's surprised that she hasn't gouged holes in the desk with her nails.

As it is, she's got to the stage where she's beyond words, all she can do is moan in an increasingly higher pitch as the pistoning of his cock inside her is sweetened by the force that he hits her with, so she's clenching around him, wriggling and wiggling frantically until he grabs a handful of her hair and tugs her up.

"You can come now, Faith," he whispers, his breath ragged and hot in her ear and he pulls harder on her hair and it's all she needs to squeeze the muscles of her cunt almost viciously tight round his cock and give an ungodly scream as she feels herself come undone.

She collapses onto the desk, whimpering as she feels herself still rippling round him and his hands grip her hips, holding her steady as he spurts inside her.

The edge of the desk is digging into her belly and her legs are shaking with the effort of staying upright, plus the elastic of her panties still hooked round her knees are threatening to cut off her blood circulation but still… She loves the weight of him across her back, his spent cock half-hard still and twitching inside her and when he makes a move to lift himself away, she gives a tiny mewl of protest.

He strokes her hair out of the way so he can press a hot kiss against the back of her neck. "If you don't let me get up, how am I going to give you your presents?" he asks her and he sounds so fucking tender and sweet that she can feel the fierce prickle of tears.

"I don't need presents," she sighs but he's slipping out of her and stepping back.

"Well, I suppose I could send them back," he says, gently straightening her up and smoothing down her skirt, while she kicks off the stupid panties once and for all.

Which is not what she meant at all. "I said I don't need them," she corrects him with a pouty smile. "But I still want them. Rather have a kiss right now though."

And when he sits down in his big, lawyer's chair and she climbs onto his lap and winds her arms round her neck? Just as damn good as the spanking and fucking. Maybe even better.

It takes a lot to distract her when he's taking tiny sips from her lips like she's a bottle of one of his really expensive wines. But as he tilts his head so he can fasten his mouth to the spot behind her ear, which makes her curl even tighter around him, she catches a white flash of something out of the corner of her eye.

"Huh? Do you think it's going to storm?" she asks him, squinting out of the window at the clear, blue sky. "Was that lightning?"

He catches the plump flesh of her earlobe between his teeth and worries at it. "I'm trying to seduce you, Faith, and all this talk of the weather is rather off-putting."

She giggles and pulls him down for a wet, sloppy kiss. "Don't be dumb, Wes. I'm already totally seduced. I'm, like, in a constant state of seduction."

But the moment's gone and he's already looking at his watch and giving her an apologetic look. "They're sending someone from the security firm to have a look at the alarm," he reminds her. "In half an hour."

"They reckoned it was local kids," she says, sliding off his lap. "Said they'd have to reset the alarm and replace the front of it. I got a quote." And she gives him her most convincing, doe-eyed look even though it sits about as well on her as a white, lacy ball gown would.

He gives her a light swat on her tender ass. "I do hope you're not fishing for compliments or expecting your presents until later on this evening," he says sternly, but his mouth is quirking upwards and she can't help it.

"Oh, c'mon Wes. Just one," she whines but he's already gathering up the bags and holding them out of reach of her eager, little hands. "Tonight, Faith. You can open every single bag and try on all the beautiful things I bought. I might even let you keep a couple."

And she's howling with mock-outrage as he ushers her out of the office.


The security guy is already waiting for them, when they pull into the driveway. She leaves Wes (and all the fucking bags from Marc Jacobs and Miu Miu and Barneys) outside and dives into all the rooms she's been in over the past four days to check for remnants of junk food binges and sly cigarettes she's sneaked when it's been too cold to go outside.

When she's satisfied that the place has been Wes-proofed, she slowly climbs the stairs, reveling in the twinges in her thighs, the aching emptiness of her cunt, even the feel of his spunk coating her thighs. Man, she really needs a shower.

She uses the en suite in her room, even though she's been camped out in his bed while he's away. Figures he'll want to clean up. Once she's squeaky clean, she tugs on an old vintage sundress and wanders into his room.

He's sitting on the bed, still dressed in his suit, with the carving knives and her smashed cell phone arranged on the covers.

"Is there something you want to tell me, Faith?" he asks her carefully and she's almost ready to spill it all out. The phone calls and Darla and how fucking scared she was without him but she stops herself just in time. She's not fucking helpless and she can't cling to him like she is, no matter how tempting he makes it. Sooner or later, he'll have to go away and she'd rather be terrified and in his house, smelling his shirts and stroking the covers of the books he's read, then in a sterile hotel room with scratchy sheets.

"I'm just glad you're back, Wes," she says simply, scuffing her bare toes into the deep pile of the carpet.

He runs the pad of his thumb along the sharp blade of one of the knives. "We have a deal, Faith," he reminds her softly. "You never have to hide anything from me."

She nods her head. "I know." But there's hiding stuff and then there's just wanting things to be perfect because he's come home. All the other stuff can wait until tomorrow or the day after that or the day after that…

"If you were frightened of being on your own in the house after the alarm had been tampered with, you should have called me," he says, standing up and wrapping his arms round her. She sinks into the embrace.

"I was fine," she insists. "But your house makes these freaky noises and there ain't much you can do about that when you're in the Tri-State Area."

He kisses the top of her head. "And how did you manage to inflict so much damage on to your poor defenceless phone?"

She shrugs out of his arms and follows his gaze to the dent in the wall where she'd thrown the phone. But no fucking way is she telling him about Darla's phone call. Because then it's back to Lilah and the things she's been spreading about him, making what they have seem like this perverted game where she's the helpless teenybopper in thrall to the older, richer man. And he'll get that look, that icy, furious look and everything will be fucked up.

"If I tell you, you'll think I'm so fucking immature," she begins, noting the way his jaw tightens when she swears, which is exactly why she did it.

He taps her lightly on the nose with his finger. "Does this explanation have to involve expletives?"

"Well, no, I guess not," she decides and she's playing for time, searching around for a story he'll find convincing, entertaining. "See, I'm in bed last night and I hear this noise and I think it's just your pipes in the bathroom and then I hear it again and I'm almost dropping off to sleep and, fuck! Wes, it was so loud and I panicked and just threw the phone in the general direction."

He's trying really hard not to laugh, willing his features to look all concerned and caring. "You poor thing," he coos. "And did some bloodsucking fiend suddenly burst out of my bathroom?"

She bangs into him with her hip, giving him a glare that's as much about all the shit that she's actually protecting him from, as it is part of her Oscar-winning performance. "Nah! I hadn't turned the shower off properly and it was making these weirdass gurgling noises."

He does laugh then. Throwing his head back and curving an arm round her shoulders, while she gives him her best pissed off girlfriend glare.

"Are you gonna laugh at me or are you gonna start with the big present giving?" she asks petulantly


Chapter Ninety Nine

He gives her this look that freezes her in place. It’s not an icy glare of displeasure, exactly, but there’s just this flash of annoyance. “If I didn’t know better, Faith,” he sighs, “I’d say that tone was almost childish. I’d hoped that your years of temper tantrums were well behind you.”

She can’t help rolling her yes and swatting at his arm playfully. “C’mon, Wes. I’ve been good.” She pauses. She flashes him a big grin “Or, at least, amenable.”

He smiles at her choice of words. That seems to put the thaw in him, because his tone shifts to one of bemused indulgence. “All right. Which one would you like to open first?”

Her eyes are nearly bugging out of her head at the choices. It’s like it’s Christmas every day, all these luxuriously wrapped packages just for her. It’s the Christmas she’s never had, at any rate.

She doesn’t even know what a Miu Miu is, but she wants it more than anything. She only pauses because she’s not sure how to pronounce it properly and she doesn’t want to stumble over it in front of Wes. So she just points at the largest box.

“That one? Are you sure?” One eyebrow is raised and his arms are crossed but he seems more amused than anything else. “The biggest box goes first, hmm?”

She grins. “Yeah, why the hell not?” It’s not like she gets presents every day. Or even on her birthday —especially if Darla’s drank down all the mad money and her dad’s broke-ass broke as usual. So she’s gonna do this her way.

“Fair enough. Go on then.” He nods his assent.

It’s in this beautiful box, wrapped up all crisp and perfect with a ribbon and she almost doesn’t even want to open it. Almost. The Kierkegaard must still be fresh in her mind, though, because she takes her time with everything. She undoes the ribbon with exacting carefulness, not wanting to mess it up in any way.

Nestled inside the box is this lovely slip of a dress, a fluttering, ethereal thing that she’s afraid to touch in case it dissipates between her clumsy fingers. It’s in this rich deep plum color that she’d never have thought of wearing but now that she’s seen it she knows it will be beautiful on her.

“It’s gorgeous. Wes, I don’t know what to—” She turns to him, clearly touched.

He smiles, enjoying her obvious pleasure. “I’d tell you to try it on but you haven’t quite reached the right box yet.”

Now that certainly piques her curiosity, but he doesn’t say a word, just nods towards the small mountain of bags and boxes.

The second biggest box says “Marc Jacobs” on it in sleek, rounded capitals, and she thinks she’s actually heard of him.

She’s not sure what to expect, but she gets another delicate slip of a thing. It’s such a froth of lace and ribbon and fabric that she doesn’t even know what it is at first. When she pulls it out of the box she sees that it’s a draped top, with two layers of pale yellow silk and a little lace flower gathered at the waist. The silk glides delicately through her fingers, so cool and fluid to the touch. It’s giving her a little thrill and she hasn’t even put it on yet.

“This one?” she asks hopefully.

He shakes his head, no. She almost pouts but hey, she’s got a few more boxes to open and anyway, she’ll get to play dress-up (and dress-down) later.

There are two more Marc Jacobs boxes, the prospect of which makes her positively giddy with delight. She wonders which one she should open —one looks like a shoe box, and the other is larger, almost a bit unwieldy. She decides upon a reverse strategy this time around, going for the smaller box.

Wes must like that because the corners of his mouth turn up just a little bit.

So yeah, she knows they’re going to be shoes. But they’re not like any shoes she’s ever seen before. ‘Cause the only shoes she has in her wardrobe fall into two categories: the practical (sneakers, boots, flip flops) and the im- (nosebleed high platforms and heels, mostly for clubbing-with-Xander purposes).

These aren’t anything like the cheap leather or pleather that she’s all too used to —they’re this soft, buttery leather in the loveliest shade of pink. The shoe is lined in a darker shade of pink that matches the budding peonies she’s seen in Wes’ garden. There are two parallel cut-outs over the widest part of the toe and the tiniest little leather bows on the side. The heel is pretty damn high, but nothing she hasn’t gotten used to already thanks to all her practice sessions. She just runs her fingers appreciatively over the leather, not wanting to ruin the moment with her usual babble.

“I believe you’ve found the right box, Faith.”

“Oh, do you want me to—”

He smiles slowly. “Try them on? You could say that.”

She kicks off her scuffed Old Navy flip flops and picks up one shoe. She’s all ready to tip her foot into it when Wes stops her.

“From the moment I saw them in the window, I knew I just had to have them for you. They’re so classic, and yet there’s something so insouciant about them. And the color— ah.” He closes his eyes for a second, as though he’s dredging up a sense memory of them, even though they’re sitting right in front of him. His eyes drift open again. “Finding these shoes in your size almost made me late for a meeting in midtown.”

“They’re beautiful, Wes, don’t get me wrong, but they’re just shoes…”

But he keeps going, almost talking over her, as though he’s in some sort of reverie. “I was standing in the store, thinking about which top I wanted to buy for you, and my gaze kept flickering back to them. Suddenly I had the most charming vision of you, bent over the desk in my study, wearing nothing but the shoes and perhaps a swift and matching reddening of your lovely arse.” He seems to drift back to the present, and he looks directly at her. “Faced with that, well, of course I had to buy them.”

Chapter One Hundred

She's pretty sure it's her other cheeks that are the right shade of pink now. She presses her hands over them, trying to push the rush of blood back down, trying to keep tears from welling up and ruining the moment.

“Oh, my.” Her voice is a weak little croak. She doesn't want to speak at all, just wants to sit here and run her fingers over the pink buttery leather, make it a good luck charm.

'Cause they're not just shoes after all.

They're him, a thousand miles away, in a fancy boutique, buying her clothes, running late. Running late! But only thinking of her. Of pleasing her. Of making her look beautiful.

The weight of this is crushing her heart, making it hard to breathe now on top of everything else. Maybe it would just be best to dive headfirst into the heap of expensive silk and leather and disappear forever.

“Oh Faith, certainly that doesn't embarrass you.” He's been hovering over her expectantly, handing her packages -- but now he just shoves the boxes and bags and tissue aside, sits down on the bed and pulls her close.

“No. No. It's just overwhelming, y'know? This is more presents in one go that I've gotten in my entire life, Wes.” Her voice cracks, but she doesn't even try and hide it.

He strokes her chin, keeps it from quivering. “Oh, well. That's a relief, I thought maybe I'd finally found the one thing you wouldn't indulge me.”

She has to laugh at that, sniffling and shaking the tears away. “Of course not! I mean, 'cmon, it's not like there's vegetables involved.”

He looks vaguely horrified that she's brought it up. “Kidding! Kidding!” she blurts.

“Of course you are.” He's so stern now – but be can only keep his face straight for about three seconds before he's laughing too. He snakes an arm around behind her, offers the odd-shaped box. “Another present?”

“Thanks.” she rolls her eyes and snatches it out of his hands, tilts up the lid slowly. “Oh God, Wes. I don't need a purse too!” She pulls it out of the dustcover; it's a squat oblong thing -- black -- with short handles, two pod-like pockets. And a buckle, the purpose of which seems only to be decorative.

“Yes, you do.”

“What's wrong with my purse?”

“It's got that eerie little cartoon girl on it...”

“Emily?”

“Yes.”

“She's not eerie. She's strange. Emily the Strange.” He looks miffed. “Oh, come on, Wes. I love this. How could I not? It's gorgeous.” The leather's not as soft as the shoes, of course, but it's still wonderfully supple and warm and smells heavenly.

He just shakes his head, bemused. “I think that's enough presents for now...”

“Yeah, I've flown right past overwhelmed, gone straight to dazzled.” She kisses him playfully on the cheek. “Don't tell me there's more?”

“Just a few more. Not so grand as all this, though.” She can only imagine that whatever he means by not so grand, it will still be lovely. “Dinner now, I think. Do you agree?”

She nods seriously. “Then after, maybe we can take those shoes for a test drive...”

He pulls her up to standing, smacks her lightly across the bottom. “Get dressed, Faith.”

“But what should I wear?” She strikes a melodramatic pose. “I have all these new clothes and I just can't decide!”

“The plum silk, of course.” He pulls it out of the box, unfurling its full length, holding it before her, like an offering.

“Damn, Wes. You takin' me somewhere fancy?”

He just smiled that enigmatic smile he'd whip out when he had something up his sleeve. “You'll see.”

***

They dress impeccably for dinner -- at a little Mexican hole-in-the-wall. No one speaks English, but everyone seems to know Wes. She's realizing that maybe was gonna happen everywhere they went -- and she's beginning to understand why.

They're served cold Tecates and giant plates of hot enchiladas, beans, and rice – apparently on the house. And after it's all cleared away, leaving Faith groaningly full, a beautiful solemn girl younger than herself brings a plump baby to the table. Wes clucks at it indulgently, all the while firing off questions in Spanish to the mother. Faith doesn't catch much, seeing as she's skipped out of most of her Spanish classes, but she reads enough of the body language and understands enough key words to know that he was making sure her drunk, good-for-nothing ex-boyfriend was obeying his restraining order.

In the car on the way home, she strokes his thigh gently, absentmindedly. “Exactly how much pro bono work do you do, Wes?”

He clears his throat, thinks for a moment. “Not as much as I'd like, anymore. The Lilah Morgans of the world take up far too much of my time now, tying my clients up in pointless litigation. That's part of the reason I'd like to leave this grotty city eventually, maybe relocate to New York.”

The mention of Lilah makes her blood run cold, and Faith quickly shrugs it off.

She likes the thought of the two of them running reckless in New York, nothing to tie them down. It seemed like an impossible dream two weeks ago, but was undeniably inching toward reality daily.

“That sounds nice, Wes. Though I think everyone here that you've helped out would really miss you.” She hopes fervently that when the time comes, she isn't one of those people.

When he doesn't reply, eyes intent on the dark, winding road, she sighs heavily. She's full and content, and pleased she didn't spill anything on the dress either. “Wake me up when we get home. I need a power nap before... I try those shoes on...”

Chapter One Hundred and One

She’s drowsing, not sleeping, but there are long moments when the low growl of the engine and the silence of Wesley beside her drop away and then she’s dreaming, in swift snatches of color and light, jerking awake as the car hits a pothole or a sharp bend. The dreams are as ethereal and light as the clothes he’s given her, filled with Wesley’s arms around her, keeping her safe, Wesley’s eyes looking at her with the love and concern he’s learning to show, Wesley’s voice saying ‘We have a deal, Faith... never have to hide anything from me...  never want you to think that I would hurt you.. .never let you down... you're having problems... come to me... let me help...’ And she’s trying to get to him, she really is, but it’s raining and she’s wearing these heels and they’re slipping and sliding and above her the sky’s dark and the lightning’s scaring her and Wes is so far away...

“Faith!”

She blinks awake and sees Wes giving her an exasperated, if indulgent glare. “What? I wasn’t asleep.”

“I sincerely hope you were,” Wesley says. “Or the drooling ceases to be merely messy and becomes worrying.”

She raises an instinctive hand to her mouth – drool? So not sexy - and then lashes out to punch his shoulder as he grins with satisfaction at fooling her. “Gonna make you pay for that,” she tells him with all the indignation she can muster when he’s chuckling and looking years younger.

“I tremble with apprehension,” he says, schooling his face to solemnity which doesn’t fool her one little bit. “Now, if you’re quite restored after your little snooze –”

“Power nap.”

“- perhaps we could go inside.”

He helps her out, the way he always has, ever since that first time, and she walks into the house which, now she’s with him, feels like home again. She’s kept it tidy, she really has, but Wes spends about ten minutes wandering around adjusting stuff and twitching cushions, until she loses patience, murmurs something about going to pee, and runs upstairs.

She does pee, and brushes her teeth, too, getting ready for whatever he has planned, primping and fussing but doing it fast. Twisting her head around, she manages to see her ass in the bathroom mirror. It’s still marked from the spanking she got at lunchtime, but only faintly, and it’s not even pink. Thinking about what it’s going to look like when he’s done making it match those killer shoes has her whimpering slightly, the sound echoing in the bathroom, startling her.

Stripping bare, she goes back to his bedroom and clears off the bed, stacking the presents, opened, and still waiting to be appreciated, alike, on the floor.

Then she picks up the shoes and strokes them with a gentle, wondering finger before slipping into them. There’s a long mirror in the corner of the room and when she goes over to it, she can see a dim reflection of a Faith that shouldn’t exist because she’s beautiful, she’s loved and she’s smiling.

And in these shoes? She’s fucking hot. They’re making her look more naked than she would have done without them and they’re just going to make Wesley...

“Oh, yes.”

There’s this hum of appreciation in his voice that only needs the temperature turning up beneath it to make it boil over into a throaty growl. Without turning, she watches Wesley walk towards her in the mirror and rest his hands on her shoulders.

“You look just as I imagined you would,” he tells her, as his hands move to up her breasts and his fingers tease at her nipples. “Just as beautiful...” One hand glides down and she widens her stance by a fraction so that he can rub against her clit, arching up into his touch and never taking her eyes off their reflection. “Would you like to see yourself come,” he asks her, kissing her neck, his cock already hard and nudging at her through his clothes, “see what I see?”

She shakes her head slowly, rolling it against his shoulder. “It wouldn’t be the same,” she whispers. “Not if I was watching. It wouldn’t be just yours then.”

His fingers ease inside her, into the slippery warmth, and he holds them still. “I don’t think I’d mind sharing that with you, but perhaps you’re right,” he whispers against her neck. It’s a weird conversation to be having maybe, but she’s getting used to that with him; which is why, when his fingers start to move, fucking her in a rhythm that’s remorseless and unrelenting, she’s not too thrown when he says, “What do I look like?”

She smiles at his reflection. That’s an easy one.

“If it starts with the letter, ‘p’, I’ll make your arse match the inside of the shoes,” he warns her, interpreting her smile without any difficulty and slowing his fingers.

She arches an eyebrow in a way he’d be proud of. “Oh, Wes, you really do need to work on your threats,” she sighs. “You look pretty when you come. Prettiest thing I’ve ever seen and I love to watch you because you’re mine then, right then and you’re not hiding anything, or holding back, you know?”

His fingers slip out of her and he spins her around. “Interesting response to a threat,” he murmurs silkily. “One might almost suspect that you want me to be quite severe with you.”

She can’t help squirming a little at that, rubbing against his clothes and wishing they weren’t there. “Can I change my answer?” she says, hiding a grin against his shirt.

His hand pushes her chin up so she’s forced to meet that blue stare. “Possibly I might give you a second chance,” he says as if there’s an actual chance she can talk herself out of a peony-pink ass.

“You’re not pretty, you’re fucking pretty, Wes, and it makes me want to –”

But she never gets to finish that sentence, because he scoops her up and doesn’t stop kissing her until they reach the study and by then she’s forgotten what she was going to say because the belt and the brush are lying in the middle of the desk, in a pool of light from the single lamp and the rest of the room is deep in shadow.


Chapter One Hundred and Two

Three hours later, her entire body still throbbing and twitching, she's wrapped up in the cashmere throw and taking tiny sips of brandy from the bowl-like glass he's holding to her mouth. His hand is shaking slightly.

Everything he's done to her keeps playing back in her head like her own personal porno movie.

The way he'd made her crawl towards him on her hands and knees with the belt in her mouth.

"Slower," he'd hissed. "Start again."

Took her five goes and the end of the belt lashing across her buttocks before she'd slid forward on her knees, as slinky and as sinuous as a cat, winding her naked body around his legs as he'd sat, sprawled out on the big, leather chair like some dissolute dictator and begged him to hit her with the brush.

How sore her ass was when he'd finally flipped her over after 30 strokes of the flat of the brush against her cheeks. "I do believe that I've matched the shade perfectly," he'd told her smugly. And the wool of his trousers had just irritated her smarting flesh even more but he wouldn't let her move a muscle until he'd stroked the bristles softly over her sopping wet sex until she'd come.

There'd been this wild look in his eyes that she hadn't seen before, the way they darkly glittered over her flushed face like he could see right inside her, knew about all the lies she'd told him already that day, and it just made her more desperate to please him now.

But he wouldn't let her touch him but made her sit on her own in the chair, her legs hooked over each of the armrests and made her touch herself to his exact and explicit instructions until she came again.

"Why won't you fuck me?" she'd whined tearfully at him even as she rubbed just her index finger around her clit.

He'd given her a pitying look like he couldn't believe that she was that stupid. "How do you expect me to see those pretty shoes if I'm fucking you, Faith?"

She'd paused, racking her brains for some position that would put her feet right in front of his eyes while he fucked her into the middle of next week and then gave a tiny cry of frustration when she couldn't come up with anything.

When she'd pushed her hands down the side of the chair and refused to carry on because she wanted him to fuck her "right the fucking hell now', he'd got thin-lipped and beautiful in his fury.

Wedged his hand under her arm, hauled her up and spun her round so she was dizzy and stumbling on her pretty pink heels.

"If you won't do as I ask, then there's no point in having your hands free is there?" he'd told her grimly, pulling her arms behind her and wrapping the supple leather of the belt round her wrists.

Then and only then, he'd got on his knees, roughly pushed her legs apart and fucked her with his tongue, ignoring her groaned protests that she was going to fall over.

He'd lifted his glistening face to glare at her. "I expect you to have some semblance of control, Faith," he'd hissed, tongue swiping slowly and deliberately to lick her juices off his bottom lip. "I wouldn't plan on being able to sit down at all this weekend if you can't remain standing."

By the time his tongue and his teeth and his lips had coaxed her through another two orgasms, she was skirting the dark place somewhere between pain and pleasure, the muscles in her legs screaming, her clit so tender that all he had to do was gently blow on it to make her scream and her cunt nothing more than an empty, throbbing ache that only wanted to be filled.

He untied her hands long enough so he could pull them over her head and wrap the belt around her wrists again, before lifting her up and sitting her on the edge of the desk. Then he'd slowly unbuckled his own belt, while she'd sat there panting and open-mouthed, already able to feel his cock stretching her, as he pulled the length of leather slowly out from the belt loops.

She'd started to cry when he'd crouched down and bound her ankles with it because there was no way in hell he was going to be able to give her his cock with her thighs pressed tight together.

"Why are you crying, Faith?" he'd asked her tenderly, smoothing his thumbs over the tracks of her tears.

"I want you in me, I want to touch you," she'd sobbed, shaking her head to get away from the soft touch of his sneaky hands. "Why are you making me wait? Why the fuck do you always make me wait when I want you so much?"

He'd kissed her then for the first time that evening, this slow, sweet exploration of her mouth, which had her straining against the leather bindings. "I only have to see you and I'm hard," he'd whispered in her ear, rubbing his cock against her hip. "I touch you during the day like this," he stroked her hair back behind her ears, "inconsequential touches but they make me ache with the need to take you into my office, strip your clothes off and fuck you. You torment me in so many different ways, Faith."

He didn't make it sound like a good thing and she'd frowned. "Like I piss you off?" she'd asked tremulously and he'd given her a feral smile.

"Did you know that when you're concentrating on something, your tongue pokes out of the corner of your mouth?" He'd stolen another kiss, tracing the seam of her lips with his tongue. "Or that when you walk across a room, your hips sway and I can't take my eyes off your delightful little arse?" That got her a sly little pinch on the hip. "So, as I said, Faith, you torment me. Make me want you all the time. You drive me to distraction without even being aware of it and that is why I make you wait."

But he didn't make her wait after that because she was still crying and telling him that he never had to wait, he could have her any time he wanted. The only way he could fuck her was to lay her down on pens and papers that dug into her back, lift her legs up so they were practically flat against her heaving chest and slowly, so very fucking slowly, push his cock into her constricted cunt, which had to be persuaded to let him in.

She'd been so wet that soon he could speed up, pistoning into her and telling her that she felt so tight that she was killing him. And she couldn't move, just ripple helplessly around the relentless length of him, make shuddering little cries as he pressed his thumb into her ass because he said that it was so pretty that he couldn't help himself.

After he'd come, his cock jerking and spurting inside her, and she was still lying there, moaning wordlessly because for the first time ever he hadn't made her come; he'd slipped out of her and fucked her with the handle of the hairbrush. She'd come then, cursing and moaning, her ankles banging against her nose as he'd pressed the heel of his hand against her clit.

It didn't end after that, not even when he'd untied her ankles and carried her upstairs. He'd run her a bath, taken off the shoes and placed them carefully back in the box where they floated on a sea of tissue paper, then placed her just as reverently in silky hot water that smelt of oranges and bergamot.

"Please untie my hands, Wes," she'd begged. "I've got wicked aches and pains in my shoulder."

But he'd shaken his head and picked up the bottle of shampoo so he could squirt a dollop into his palms. "You have a word," he'd reminded her gently. "You can use it at any time but the very fact that you're whining and sniffling but not actually saying it isn't doing much to persuade me to give in to your childish demands."

By the time he'd washed her and dried her, laid her out on the bed and stroked every quivering inch of her with hands coated in scented oil, she was trembling. He'd spent what felt like days sucking on her nipples, dragging the flat of his tongue over the hard tips of her breasts until she thought she'd come just from that. But it took his cock again, sliding into her with these lazy languid movements that matched the glide of his tongue in her mouth, while she tugged at her wrists, which were now lashed to the headboard, so hard that she'd felt the skin tear.

"Your poor little hands," he says to her now, kissing the red, bleeding marks that the belt has left and she nestles closer against him. "You can say the word, if you want, Faith. I won't think any less of you."

"I didn't need to," she murmurs, winding her sore arms round his neck and lifting up her mouth for a kiss, which he willingly gives. "It's up to me to decide when I want to use it, that's how it works. So stop being a pussy, Wes."

"Ah, Faith, you have a mastery of the English language that leaves me quite awestruck." And as he pulls her in closer so her head is on his shoulder and he can stroke the strands of her hair through his fingers, like he's mesmerized by them, she can't help but wonder if the reason she never says the word is because her absolute compliance is the only thing that she really has left to give him.

He's asked her to trust him, have faith in him, let him look after her, and today she's managed to fuck all that up in one two minute conversation. So, nope, she ain't gonna say that word any time soon. She's let him down enough already.

Chapter One Hundred and Three

If there's one thing she's still not used to, it's waking up to find the rest of the bed empty.

It's always a little disturbing and disorienting, in that first minute of wakefulness, to roll over aching for a good morning kiss or a cuddle and find his half of the bed empty. Not just empty, but cold and long vacated.

These are the times she wonders if he actually sleeps at all. In fact, she wouldn't believe he actually did if it wasn't for the fact that he was there when nightmares shoved her awake; when sometimes he'd hog the big cashmere blanket, leaving her cold and shivering and tugging her half back.

But this morning, his side's not exactly empty when she flops over, stretching her cramped arms. A note is propped up against to a round blue box.

Wear this and the contents of the other boxes. Breakfast in the garden.

She has to smile, blearily, because that long awaited 'x' is squashed up next to the scribbly 'W' of his signature.

The tingle of pleasure at that doesn't last long, though. Leaning out to peer over the edge of the bed and seeing there's three more boxes perfectly lined up to make a little path to the door, a sick-making wave of guilt and hangover (she did end up drinking a lot of brandy) creeps up her gut.

The same way it would when she lied to Darla.

Her old rule had been to remember every truth she'd bent the day before, so as not to slip up and have one tumble out over breakfast – even if they weren't on speaking terms. She hadn't needed the ritual since moving in with Wes, and wasn't exactly happy that she was starting it up again. No, not starting it up, just using it to get through breakfast. She'd tell it all to him later today anyway, or after some coffee at least.

That doesn't seem appease her flip-flopping stomach, though. She can't open these boxes. Can't. Not before a cig or two.

There weren't any phone calls with no one at the other end.
No cigarette butts at the end of the driveway.
No phone call from Darla.
No sneaking suspicion it wasn't kids that had broken the security gate.

She sets the mantra in her head, slides out the other side of the bed, and creeps down the hallway to grab her cigs from her room, sneaking into the unused guest bedroom at the end of the hall. It's the only place she can get to up here without possibly running into him first. She's leaned out the window here, on those interminable cold nights without him, smoking and examining the trees that fenced in that end of the house, a buffer from the neighbors.

This time, though, she's half-edgy that he'll walk in on her, drag her off for another round of punishment for leaving gifts unopened and smoking in the house. Not exactly what she wants before breakfast.

Nervously, she sucks down three cigarettes in a chain, trying to keep one eye one the door, and flicking the butts into the neighbors' trees.

Almost home free, there, Faith, she thinks as she cracks the door to slide back into his room, when his voice startles her, makes the hair on the back of her neck stand on end.

“Faith. You're up.” He's paused at the landing of the stairs. “I was just coming to make sure you were still actually asleep and not in some sort of vegetative state.”

“Hey, yeah. I'm up.” She backs closer to the door willing the lingering scent of smoke to dissipate before he reaches her. “I wanted to take a shower before I opened the boxes, but I forgot something...” She's lost, can't think of what she could have forgotten, and feigns a yawn. Bingo! “My robe. I forgot it in your room.”

Miraculously, he thinks nothing of it, just makes a non-committal noise and nods, starting back down the stairs. “Don't take too long,” he calls over his shoulder. “Or the coffee will be cold.”

She hadn't realized her heart was thumping madly, half from the nicotine rush and half from starting the day with another lie. But the only one for today, she tells herself firmly. That's it.

And hell, he didn't exactly seem his chipper morning-person self, either. Then again, he had been expecting her to still be asleep, so maybe she was reading too much into it.

Still, deciding it best not to linger in the bedroom in case he returned, she gathers up all the boxes and squirrels them away to her room. And locks the door.

The big royal blue box -- the round one -- contains a huge sage green straw hat. Did people still wear hats anymore? It's gorgeous though, and it's obviously yet another item that didn't come on the cheap -- that much is obvious from the gold embossing on the lid of the box to the perfect asymmetrical swoop of the brim to the obviously hand-made peony-pink silk flower perched on the right half. There's also another delicate dress, the modern designer equivalent of one of her favorite vintage finds: a shirtwaist from the '40's, only this one is silk and has tiny pearl buttons up the front and a matching cashmere shrug. And the smallest box contains appropriate silk lingerie, including a garter belt and stockings.

She slips it all on after a quick shower, and her nervousness all but disappears as she relishes all that silk against her skin. Deciding against any makeup, she towels her hair dry as much as possible and puts on the hat.

Standing there in the finished product, her reflection in the mirror is a little astonishing – a little too astonishing. She looks so... proper. Not prissy or anything. Proper. The only flaw is the red raw skin on her wrist. Rubbing it absentmindedly, she remembers something about how it's actually not proper to wear hats indoors, carefully removes it, and makes her way down to the garden.

Chapter One Hundred and Four

The breakfast is over before he comments on her wrists, though he had plenty to say about how pretty she looks, lingering on the word as if it’s getting to be his favorite.

In the clear perfection of the late spring morning, with birds singing, flowers unfurling petals and a blue, blue sky, because Wes seems to have even the fucking weather dancing when he snaps his fingers, the marks on her wrist look out of place.

But they belong in the picture as much as the delicate china she’s drinking from; Minton’s Haddon Hall pattern, he tells her when she runs a finger over the rich green rim of her cup, that matches the grass at her feet so well; his grandmother’s once. They belong because, like the clothes she’s wearing, Wes put them on her.

“I hope...” He pauses and then runs his finger over the marks, tracing them so gently that it feels as if he’s done no more than breathe against her skin. “I hope you understand that you never have to wake up like this if you don’t want to.”

“Thought we covered this last night, Wes,” she says, the words coming out sharper than they should have. “You gave me that... that word and if I don’t say it, I don’t. It looks worse than it feels and I bruise easy, heal fast.”

It’s what Darla used to say when she came to her crying after a spill off her bike or a fall from a tree. Her version of TLC. Wes doesn’t like it any more than she used to from the way he winces and for some reason he’s in a question-asking mood, so she braces herself, hoping he’s not going to go near anything she really doesn’t want to discuss.

“Faith – do you wish I were... different?” he says, and props to Wes for doing this in broad fucking daylight, face to face, not in the dark, except, not, because her face is hot and that’s really fucking silly. He knows every inch - every inch - of her body intimately – and intimately takes on a whole new meaning with Wes – but talking about... it, what they do, just makes her feel awkward.

“No,” she says. There’s a silence and she’s learned to interpret his oh-so-fucking eloquent silences by now; this one means, ‘Faith, I’d appreciate a rather more detailed reply and please sit up straight when you talk to me.’

So she tries again. “If you were different, you wouldn’t be you. And I kinda like you.” She takes one of those deep breaths that never really do anything useful and adds, “And it’s not just you, is it? It’s me too. Whatever you are, so am I.”

He’s staring at her now, as if he’s pulling every word apart, every expression and fuck, he’s stripping her bare.

“I don’t think so,” he says finally. “I don’t see how you – you indulge me, and I’m –”

What the fuck...

“Wes? Indulge you? And were you about to say you’re fucking grateful?” She almost spitting the words out now and he’s looking shocked, the way he always does when she loses it, as if he’s not used to it. Which makes no sense as she bets Lilah wasn’t all that restrained when it came to tantrums. “You indulge me with all these presents... and hey, you hadn’t better ever buy them thinking they’re some kind of payment –”

Her voice is rising high enough with outrage to crack the pitcher of freshly squeezed OJ and he stands up, goes to his knees on the grass and captures her hands. “Finish that sentence and I’ll be most annoyed,” he says, sounding stern, and somehow that works to calm her better than an apology would, because that’s not Wes and it’s Wes she wants right now. A Wes who’s not freaking because he went a little too far, a Wes who’s in charge because she doesn’t trust herself to be, not given the mess her life’s in.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers. “Just – don’t spoil it, Wes, y’know? Don’t make me feel I’m part of something you feel guilty about because I’m not. I want this. Want you this way.”

The finger he touched her bruised, torn skin with brushes against her lips. “Even when I make you wait?” he says, with a smile that’s barely there.

“Even then.” She pouts. “Though you really shouldn’t, Wes. Can’t be good for you.”

His eyebrows shoot up. “Well, now, I hadn’t considered the deleterious physical effects. Thank you for your concern.”

“You’re not going to stop doing it, are you,” she says with a resignation she’s not entirely faking.

“I don’t think so,” he says. “Though I suppose, on occasion, we could experiment with a more rapid encounter.”

He’s on his feet as he says it and picking up a throw draped over one of the garden chairs and spreading it out on the lawn. “You told me last night that I could have you anytime I wanted,” he murmurs. “I want you now, Faith.”

She swallows. “Sure. Uh, inside, maybe?”

He lies down on the dark blue blanket and pats it. “No. Right here. Right now.” He looks at her. “I’m waiting,” he says, “and you’re correct. It’s not much fun at all.”

She rolls her eyes and glances around. There’s a high wall, no way anyone can see in... but fuck they’re outside and it’s like ten o’clock in the morning.

“Faith...”

It’s that insinuating drawl and she moans. Can’t resist that and before she registers what she’s doing she’s taking off her hat and going to lie beside him.

“Aren’t you a little overdressed?” he says, with his fingers flicking open buttons like peas popping from a pod. He pulls the dress over her head and tosses it onto a chair then sends her bra after it. The sun’s warm on her skin but her nipples pucker and tighten as he stares at them and when his hand slides inside her panties she’s as wet as she always is and as ready.

He kicks off his trousers but leaves on his shirt. His cock’s hard and she reaches out to stroke it as he kneels beside her, loving the catch of his breath as she rubs her hurt wrist along it, feeling the thin, stretched skin shift around the core. She twists around and takes it in her mouth for a moment, as his hand caresses her hair, tasting him, musky and warm against her tongue.

Then he pushes her back gently, spreads her legs, and slides into her and fucks her for the longest time, in the grass, in the light, kissing her mouth as she cries out his name and whispering hers back to her as if it’s precious.

And when she takes him his coffee on Monday morning, she looks at him and he smiles and says softly, “You’re making me wait right now, Faith.”

And she’s blushing when she goes back to her desk, and smiling and tingling when she picks up the phone that’s ringing insistently.

“Mr. Wyndam- ”

“I know his name, Faith,” says her dad. “Know the name of the fucking pervert you’re sleeping with.”

And the sun stops shining, just like that.

Chapter One Hundred and Five

She's never been much good at anything. All her life there's been a whole line of people queuing up to tell her that she's useless, stupid, never going to amount to anything. But when it comes to lying, she goes all the way to the top of the class, straight As every fucking time.

They go to the diner together and she sits there eating the mushroom omelet and drinking the milk that he's ordered for her. And she can smile and nod her head and reply to his conversation in all the right places. Even manages to squeeze his fingers affectionately when he rests his hand on her knee.

Then when they're back in the office and he's lingering by her desk, straightening up the red sharpies so they're in an even line, she says casually, "Oh yeah, Xand rang earlier, wants me to hang out tonight."

He doesn't bat an eyelash, just carries on rearranging her pencils. "Any particular place?"

She narrows her eyes at his bent head, tries to detect any hint of suspicion in his voice and decides that she's home and dry. "Nah, we're just gonna meet downtown and take it from there."

Wes turns and strokes a hand down her cheek, rubbing the corner of her mouth with his thumb. "Don't be too late. Call me when you’re ready to come home and I'll pick you up."

As he strides down the corridor, she collapses into her chair and runs her shaking hands through her hair. For one second, she's tempted to scurry after him, tell her who she's really meeting, but it's all going to end in broken noses, broken bottles and, fuck, this is her mess and she's going to leave him out of it; bad enough that she got him dragged into it in the first place.



Her father's on time, which kinda warrants a Hallmark card. He's sitting in a corner of this skanky bar just off Main, with a bottle of beer in front of him and a crooked smile when he looks up and sees her walking towards him in her little black dress and fuck-me pumps.

"Hey there, Faithy," he smirks. "You got a kiss for your old dad?"

She slides onto the bench opposite him and places her sweating hands in her lap and looks at him from under her lashes, trying to gauge how much he's had to drink. It's a judgment call. He can drink and drink for hours without anything more than a slight slurring of his faint Irish accent and then Biff! Bang! Pow! He's smashing heads through walls.

"Hey, Dad," she says finally, trying to keep the tremor out of her voice. Trying not to mention the phone call or Wes 'cause maybe he just wants to check that she's OK. Like, he suddenly woke up this morning and grew a soul.

"You know, Faithy, you really are a dumb cunt," he remarks conversationally, before picking up the bottle and chugging down the rest of the beer. "How the fuck old is he anyway?"

She can feel the change in her; her shoulders slumping as her head lowers so she can hide behind her hair. "37," she mutters unwillingly.

"Well, hey, he's the same age as me," Liam beams. "Ain't that sweet? I was talking to someone the other day about you. Maybe you know her, Lilah Morgan, she's this snooty bitch of a lawyer but she's a fine piece of ass too. Reckons you got a bit of a daddy complex going on."

"No, I fucking haven't," she spits, riled up just like he wants and not caring that he wants her like that so she makes it all her fault when he hits her. "And how the fuck do you know Lilah?"

"Well, that's a funny story. Remember my friend, Hank? Got involved in a little hit and run…"

He's off on one of his dumbass stories that go on for ever and ever. Just because he's Irish, he seems to think that he's the king of the yarn when he's just a boring fuck who's had too much to drink. Her mind wanders off and she's trying to work out if he knows anything more than the bare bones when he says something that makes all the blood rush to her head.

"So this Lilah reckons I could sue that sick bastard for personal injury and then she found out that we were related. That's when things got interesting. Really doesn't like you, baby." He leans across the table, breathing beer fumes in her face and taps her affectionately on the forehead with the bottle.

"I'm living with him, you know that," she says, trying to be calm like Wes would want her to be. "And yeah, he's older than me. We're not doing anything wrong."

"He fucked you up the ass then?"

What the fuck? She clutches on to the edge of the table and wonders when the room started spinning. "Say fucking what?"

"I'm just telling you what Lilah told me you two girls chatted about. Says she had to divorce him when he started making unreasonable sexual demands on her," Liam recounts with relish. "Always the quiet ones, I guess."

"He hasn't done anything to me," she chokes out and then wishes she wasn't wearing such a tight skirt as she tries to scramble to her feet.

"Where the fuck do you think you're going, you fucking little slut?" His hand shoots out and wraps round her wrist, tugging her back down and chafing the welts there so she yelps and tries to snatch her hands away.

"Well, looks like he's been roughing you up? Shit, Faithy, I've been doing that to you for years, never realized it got you all hot and bothered."

"Fuck you!" she snarls because she's not trapped in the same house as him any more. Doesn't have to spend her entire day coming up with a strategy to take herself out of his line of fire when she gets home from school. "He hasn't done anything and even if he had, you couldn't fucking prove it."

Liam's grin is completely without humor as he snaps his fingers at the waitress who's been shamelessly eavesdropping for the last five minutes and orders another beer.

"I want one too!" And man, does she ever fucking need it.

But her father is wagging his finger at her. "Nuh-huh. Don't think you're old enough to drink, baby girl. Not like it stopped you from going to clubs when you were 14 and getting smashed. You started pretty young."

"Yeah, well I guess I had a couple of really great role models," she snaps and wills her feet to just get up and take her out of here. "Kinda hard not to start drinking when you and Mom used to start the day with whiskey and cornflakes."

He doesn't even bother to get angry, just gives her another lop-sided smile. "Not the only thing you started young. Lilah has this affidavit that he was fucking you when you were in juvie. You were only 15 then, Faithy, she checked. All it needs to make it legal and ready to be read out in a case of statutory rape is my signature."

She doesn't realize she's crying until she feels the hot wash of her tears spilling over her hands. "You'll fucking ruin him," she splutters. "You know it's not true."

"Well shit, hon, course I do," Liam snatches the beer out of the waitress' hand and bangs it down on the table so hard that Faith jumps and almost screams.

Before she even realizes what she's doing, she reaching across the table and actually touching him, clutching at his arm. "Dad. Please don't. I'm begging you. Don't do this to him."

And he's patting her hand in this fucking mockery of paternal concern. "Faith? Man, you didn't… I mean, baby, you think I'd do that to you?"

She nods. Then she shakes her head and finally screws up her face because she wants to sag with relief but this is her Dad who never once gave her anything without following it up five minutes later by snatching it back. Like the Lil Stardust Schwinn bike that he bought her for her fifth birthday, all pink and shiny and something she'd wanted ever since she was old enough to walk. Two days later, he'd lifted her off it, threw it in the back of his pick-up truck and hocked it so he and Darla could dump her at Xander's and go off on a weekend bender.

"You're not going to sign it then?"

"Shit, honey, we're family," he says, shaking his head like he can't understand why she would think so little of him.

Faith slumps back in the seat. "Thank you. I know it's weird that he's older and…"

He cuts right across her. "Not gonna sign some fancy legal document for some stuck-up cunt of a lawyer, not if you make it worth my while."

His eyes are shining with malice. Thinks he's got her beat and then she's flash-backing to Wes in court and how in control he was, how he never once let Lilah get the better of him. And the memory is enough to get her to her feet.

"You listen to me, Dad," she says her voice fierce and urgent. "I don't give a fuck how many affidavits you sign. My word against yours and I'll swear on a fucking stack of bibles that he never laid a finger on me until I was 18. And I'm legal now, so all that's going to happen is that Wes' little lawyer friends are going to be jealous that he's getting to screw his secretary. So what the fuck are you going to do about it?"

And it's totally a rhetorical question and she knows that because Wes is always getting her on them so he doesn't have to reply but he's curling his lips into a sneer and pulling an envelope out of his jacket pocket. "I was kinda hoping you were going to ask me that 'cause I've got all these sweet little pictures in here."

They're spilling out onto the beer-soaked table top and considering that they were taken through the window of Wes' office, they're pretty good. And even though, thank fucking God, the main action is obscured by the desk, you'd have to be certified blind not to realize that she's having the living daylights spanked out of her by her boss, mostly while he's fucking her.

She tries to pick one up but her fingers aren't working and they look so fucking ugly, like some dirty little porn story called Another Day In The Office. That's what it looks like to her father who's watching her with unbridled glee and Lilah and anyone else who sees the photographs.

"Oh, hey, this is a really nice one of you," Liam says, pointing to the picture where she's clutching on to the desk, Wes poised behind her and she's pulling a face like she's just stubbed her toe. But the one photo, her eyes keep coming back to again and again is the shot where she's curled up on his lap, legs against her chest and he's kissing her, cupping her face like she's the most precious, perfect thing in the world.

"I'm gonna be sick," she whimpers and then it's a race to get to the bathroom in time and throw up in the filthy sink until her stomach's empty and her throat's sore.

There's no point in hiding or lingering among the graffiti-strewn walls and piss-stinking tiles. So she splashes her face with cold water, puts her shoulders back so far that even Wes would be impressed and marches back in there.

"I don't have any money," she announces, slamming her hands down on the table. "You're gonna fucking give me those pictures (which have been tucked out of view while she was puking her guts up) or else Wes is going to sue your ass into fucking oblivion."

He takes his sweet time before replying, sucking down on the beer like it's nectar of the gods. "Yeah, I guess he could do that," he decides. "And then all those little lawyer friends of his are gonna find out that he's a perverted fuck who likes to beat the shit out of my daughter while's he's fucking her. Y'know, might even get your cousin Billy to make a website…"

And she's sitting down again, head in her hands. "How much money do you want?"

That gets her a pat on her head with one meaty paw. "That's the spirit, Faithy. Knew you'd come round in the end."


He drives her to the all-night pawn shop in the next town so she can sell the watch that Wes bought her for a damn sight less than he must have paid for it.

"They're real rubies," she protests but the grizzled guy behind the counter just slaps down 5 one-hundred dollar bills.

"That's my final offer, take it or leave it."

Liam takes it and even gives her a lift back. "Hate to think of you out here on your own, baby," he says, narrowly avoiding a car coming in the opposite direction. "Who knows what might happen to you?"

And he won't shut up about Lilah and Darla and her, "Every day I got you bitches busting my balls about some shit or another", like he wants her to feel sorry for him or something.

As they near the railway sidings in the oldest part of town, she makes him pull over.

"I need some fresh air," she tries to explain but he's already pulling over, can't wait to get rid of her.

"I'll give you a call in a week or so," he promises, sticking his head out of the window and grinning at her like she's a little college girl being dropped off by her proud Daddy. Then he tosses something at her feet. "Thought you might want this to stick in your pocketbook, baby."

She looks down to see the picture of her and Wes sat in his chair and kissing like they didn’t have a care in the world getting splattered with tiny crumbs of grit and dirt as her father spins the truck in a circle and drives off.

No way can she call Wes until she calms down. Her chest is heaving and she crouches down and throws up again. It's not enough. She feels like her skin is itching, like she wants to tear it off her bones. So she walks up the slope to one of the old derelict rail cars that she used to know so very well, gets her lighter out and burns all the old newspapers and scraps of paper she can find. Even tries to burn the photograph but just as the flame is licking at the corners, she tamps it down with the tips of her fingers, singeing her skin and feeling glad that it hurts.

And it's only then with the smarting and the stinging that she can get a handle on all the rest of it. It gives her something else to concentrate on rather than all the lousy choices that are ricocheting around her head. Should she tell him? How's she gonna find more money? Should she just dump him and get the fuck out of Dodge, like she planned when she first turned up for her interview, dripping rainwater all over his parquet flooring?

In the end, she walks back in to town, buys some freshmint gum and a bottle of water from the first deli she comes to so she can wash off the soot, and calls him on her cell so he can take her home.

Part Four

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