Secretary: Part Five

Chapter One Hundred and Forty

The first glimpse of the sea comes just as the sun’s setting, and it’s a shifting mass of dark green and purple, stretching out forever. Two seagulls appear on cue, wings spread wide, floating above the waves, endlessly circling and calling to each other, and even with the windows up, she’s sure she can smell salt and sand.

“It’s beautiful...” she says, waving a hand at it all just as Wesley turns off the road and the car begins to bump down a track. He’s too busy cursing under his breath about the suspension on the car to do more than murmur, ‘mmm’ but it’s a relaxed kind of cursing she thinks.

“Wes?” she says abruptly. “This not doing anything but what you tell me to?”

That rates a ‘yes?’ and he sounds a little cautious somehow.

“Tell me not to –” She swallows, trying to think how to put it. “Tell me not to think about anything but you –us- all weekend. Will you?”

He doesn’t answer until he’s parked in front of the cottage and then he gives her a really strange look. “Very well. Consider it said.”

Something else occurs to her and she scrabbles through her bag.

“What on earth are you looking for?” he asks.

She holds up her phone and gives him a pleading, expectant look.

Humoring her, he nods gravely. “Switch it off. Leave it in the car.”

She sighs as she does just that, feeling it all slip away from her, as if that’s all it takes to calm her, make it right. Liam and his tacky viciousness don’t exist here and no one knows where they are...“Thanks.”

“And,” he says, sounding less indulgent, “you’re to stay here, seat belt fastened, eyes facing forward, until I’ve unpacked.”

The cottage stands alone, set back from the edge of the dunes and surrounded by trees. Wooden steps lead down to the beach and there’s a porch she could sit on and watch the sun disappear as the earth tilts up; made to sit in the car the way he’s parked it, she’s left with nothing to look at but the woods and they’re not that interesting. Even the squirrels seem to have gone to bed for the night.

“I can’t get out and –?”

Wesley gives her a regretful, disappointed look, and shakes his head slowly. “Faith, I really think sometimes we speak different languages. Please repeat your instructions and then, if you feel it’s needed, ask for clarification on anything that seems obscure.”

She feels enamel flake from her teeth as she grinds them but she repeats his instructions sulkily and gets an approving pat on the knee.

“Better. I shan’t be long.” He presses a button and her window slides down. “Show me how you’ll wait,” he says, turning the key so the engine noise dies away.

She settles herself and stares glumly out at green leaves. His chuckle sounds heartless but it’s all she gets.

He makes three trips back and forth, whistling under his breath – Wes whistles? Who knew? – and then slams the trunk so hard that her head jerks and wanders off into the cottage. Without turning her head she can’t see what he’s doing but a spill of light to her right tells her that the place has electricity at least. She wonders if it has a television and if Wesley will let her watch it if it does. Yeah...that’s so very likely. She occupies three minutes by dreaming up increasingly desperate – and perverse- inducements she can offer in exchange for say an episode of ‘Survivor’ and then gives up. He’s much better at that kind of thing than she is, and she’s not sure he’s bribable.
 
Wes isn’t showing any signs of coming to fetch her and the woods are vanishing in the dusk, disappearing into the dark and becoming a denser, deeper patch of shadow. Suddenly, she realizes how utterly peaceful it is here. Not silent; no. The waves are hushing against the shore, rushing forward and sinking back; there’s a breeze stirring the trees, carrying a spicy, rich smell towards her, full of green things growing, and something’s skittering around in there that had fucking better be a chipmunk and not anything spooky.

She can feel her body give up the fight to stay tense, fretted and fearful, as muscle after muscle waves a white flag and relaxes.

Then she smells food cooking and moans. How much longer?

It’s another six minutes. She knows because she starts to count: one elephant, two elephants, threefucking elephants...

He trots jauntily down the steps and over to the car, opening the door and beaming approval – well, he better fucking had be – because she keeps her head and eyes steadfastly still. “All ready, Faith,” he says, as if he hasn’t left her out here for hours while he... well, OK, she thinks as he leads her inside. He’s unpacked, laid the table, set out food and lit a fire. She supposes she can’t really complain. There’re some familiar looking take out boxes in the trash and she realizes they’ve driven the whole way with the same meal he’d ordered the night he got back late keeping warm in the trunk, or waiting to be reheated, or something. He might be planning to teach her to cook, but he hasn’t yet and she's hazy on the details.

“Have you spent all day planning this?” she asks. Roses, cottage, food...

He frowns. “You make it sound as if I’d organized an invasion,” he says lightly. “A few phone calls... it required little more than that. Nothing, really.”

“It is,” she tells him, not prepared to let him get away with being all British and modest. “Wes... you do stuff and you won’t let me thank you. I want to. Please.”

His hand lifts up as if he’s going to touch her, maybe push back her hair, or rest his fingers against her face, and then falls to his side. “I don’t require thanks,” he says, sounding stiff and formal.

“Well, that’s just too bad,” she says hotly. “Because I want to give them. You can’t always be the one giving, Wes. You have to learn to take too.”

There’s a small smile on his lips but his voice is cool. “That will do, Faith. There’s no need to be strident. I suggest you go and freshen up. We eat in five minutes.” He nods at the back of the cabin. “Through there. Only a shower, I’m afraid.”

She gives him a stern look that only serves to broaden his smile and flounces off, glancing around her as she walks to the bathroom.

The cottage is bigger than she expected, but still just a cottage, not a luxury home. Downstairs is all one room, apart from the bathroom; couch and chairs around an open fire, wide planks polished by generations of feet on the floor, a sturdy table and a fairly well equipped kitchen with a fridge humming away. Upstairs is a loft with what looks like a bed, a dresser and a bedside table and not much else. It’s rustic but it’s not exactly primitive; it’s well-maintained, perfectly clean, and it’s shabby in the way that good, old stuff gets, not the way new, cheap crap does.

She pauses with a hand on the bathroom door. “Wes? Is there a TV?”

He’s squinting at a wine glass and polishing it to within an inch of its life. “What? Certainly not.”

“There goes your chance to lick whipped cream off my ass, and put the cherry on top,” she mutters.

Chapter One Hundred and Forty One


And when he said that she had to do exactly what he told her, he wasn't joking. Not like she ever thought he was.

First he feeds her dinner, ignoring her squinched up face and gagging noises as she gets her first taste of asparagus and decides that it sucks.

As her hand creeps towards the single, solitary glass of wine to try and wash the taste of ick out of her mouth, he slaps it away.

"Did I tell you to take a sip?" he enquires icily, still holding the fork with the rest of the evil green stuff in front of her face.

"No, but, Wes…" she protests, turning her head away.

The fork follows her movement. "I want you to eat the rest of it, Faith. I really must insist."

And she's agreed to this. Not that she realized that asparagus was going to be part of the deal. And it tastes so vile that she's almost tempted to use her safe word. But she wants to obey him, wants to please him, if only to make up for all the ways that she's displeased him that he doesn't even know about.

So she forces down three of the asparagus stems, choking on every mouthful and trying so hard not to glare at him or spit it back up.

Finally he puts the fork down, picks up the glass and holds it to her mouth, keeping it tilted so she can chug down the Sauvignon Blanc like it's Dr Pepper.

She manages half of the steak, a couple of mouthfuls of the pilaf before she has to admit defeat. Still ain't no way in hell she can tell him that she's full, so she takes her time chewing, looks pleadingly at the glass of wine, and in the end she holds her hand in front of her.

"Wes, I can't manage any more. I had a big lunch and I'm trying really hard here but I'm gonna throw up if you make me eat the rest of it," she says, trying to keep her voice steady without that fatal whining note that always pisses him off.

"Very well," he sighs like her lack of appetite is right up there on his list of concerns along with global warming and the appalling standard of literacy in the US school system. "You'll just have to sit there while I have my meal. Hands on the table, please."

She sits there for an hour while he eats the main course and the dessert, which smells yummy enough to make her nostrils twitch but he doesn't offer her so much as a spoonful. There has to be some endgame to this but she's not quite sure what it is. He's sitting in one of the chairs in front of the fire and this really isn't much fun.

It's not until she feels the first warm drop splash against the back of her hand, that she realizes that she's crying. Which is going to piss him off even more.

Another ten minutes go past and she's silent as a mouse, content to just sit there and feel the tears spill down her cheeks. Like they're going to wash everything dirty out of her so she can feel fresh and new again.

"Why are you crying, Faith?"

She doesn't look at him because he hasn't told her he can, just stares in front of her. "I don't know," she admits.

"Well, stop it immediately," he snaps but though he's trained the rest of her body so perfectly that it seems like all her molecules are in this constant state of Wesdom, he's got less control over her tear ducts. "Look at me, Faith. I want you to stop crying this instant."

She peers over her shoulder at him, then leans her head back and blinks her eyes rapidly. "I'm trying to," she mumbles. "Not having much luck."

"Come here and stand in front of me."

She scrapes her chair back and edges over to the fire, shuffling her feet as he pins her with a very malcontent glare. "In order for this weekend to be successful, I expect you to maintain some semblance of control, to exercise self-discipline and, really, Faith, you haven't got off to a flying start."

Even though he hasn’t told her she can, she scrubs her disobedient eyes with the back of her hand and then takes a couple of deep breaths. "I'm sorry," she whispers, searching the granite cast of his face for some sign that he's softening. "I want us to have a nice weekend too."

"I suppose you imagine that because I let you come twice in quick succession this morning that the appalling way you behaved while I was in New York has been forgotten. But it hasn't, Faith," he tells her harshly. "Did you think I'd let you pour whiskey and pills down your throat, smoke drugs in my house, burn half the papers in the office and that it would just be forgotten? Forgiven with eight strokes of a belt? This is about trust. It's about realizing that when you hurt yourself with your self destructive tendencies, you hurt me too."

This is getting too real. Too close to a whole mess of stuff that feels like it's crushing her down into a little pile of ashes that used to be Faith. "I'm sorry. I just…" she starts, and there's no way to explain this and it's just making her so sick of all of it. So fucking exhausted trying to live up to the standards that he expects from her.

If he even tries that tone of soft concern and the head tilt, she's finished. That's it, she's telling him every fucking thing. Every last sordid detail. She'll make him choke on her words, on all the things she's done to keep him safe. But he doesn't. She gets an abrupt nod of his pretty head and a cool, assessing glance. "Of course, there is one punishment that I think you'll appreciate," he informs her with the merest hint of challenge. "I'm not going to let you come the entire time we're here."

He shifts back slightly in his chair, like he's expecting the mother of all temper tantrums, but it's not like she has that option either. What it boils down to is payback. She owes him bigtime and if this how he expects her to work off the debt she's accrued then man, she's going to go along with it.

"Fine," she snaps and yeah, she sounds pretty fucking riled up about it. 'Cause it doesn't mean she has to like it. "Whatever, Wes. I said I'd do what you want and if you don't want me to come, then I won't."

His mouth snaps open and he's staring her down like she's some really tricky crossword clue that he can't work out. Then he lets out a breath that she doesn't even know he's been holding. "Well, I'm pleased to finally have your co-operation." And then he smiles at her, like she's just climbed Mount Everest in bare feet simply because he's asked her to. "Why don't you go outside and have a cigarette?"

She shuts the door quietly behind her, walks to the edge of the porch, hurries down the steps onto the dunes and when she's far enough away from the house, she sinks into the soft sand, clutching great, greedy handfuls of it, and gives way to the howls of rage that have been twisting her up inside for the last hour.

By the time she's finished crying and screaming, her throat is sore but her eyes are dry and the calmness is back. She hauls herself into a sitting position and digs out her crumpled packet of cigarettes from the back pocket of her jeans.

The salt breeze lifts her hair away from her face and she listens to the sound of the ocean crashing against the shore. Maybe she could stay out here for ever.

Two cigarettes later and she hears his footsteps crunching over the sand and when he puts his hand on her shoulder and sits down next to her, it's not really a surprise.

But when he pulls her towards him, kisses the soft, damp skin under her eyes gently and says, "I really am an unutterable bastard sometimes," she's more or less shocked to the core. "I'm not perfect, Faith. Sometimes I show a horrendous lack of judgment, but I'm sure you already know that."

"Can I hug you, Wes?"

He gives her a grave smile. "Yes. That would be rather welcome, I think."

She raises herself up on her knees and flings her arms round him so tightly that she can link both her hands behind his back and just not let go. Ever.

"I'm sorry that I pulled all that crazy shit while you were away," she whispers fiercely in his ear, over the rush of the wind. "But if you knew how fucking much I love you, what I'd do for you… I hate that I've made you so pissed off…"

"Shhh," he murmurs into her hair, cupping her face in his hands. "These enforced separations are stressful for both of us."

"But you have to know, Wes, that I just get crazy sometimes and…"

But he shuts her up by the simple act of placing his lips on hers and kissing her so what she might have said gets carried away over the water.

And as they walk back across the dunes, arms entwined, he gives a sudden snort of laughter. "Really, my dramatic plans for chastisement were ill thought out."

She bumps him with her hip. "So what? You're gonna let me come then?"

His hand ghosts the curve of her ass in a soft promise. "Well, it really wouldn't be much fun if you didn't, Faith. I believe I’d rather miss the tantalizing show I get when you do. But I do expect you to obey me without question for the duration of our stay. Can you do that?"

Her hand tightens round his fingers. "Yeah, I can do that."

Chapter One Hundred and Forty Two

An hour later she’s thinking that they were both a little optimistic. ‘Course, she hadn’t expected him to start off by tickling her, face solemn, fingers dancing lightly over her body as she giggled and then squirmed wildly.

“I really don’t think this qualifies as remaining perfectly still,” he murmurs sadly, as she curls up, batting weakly at the hands that have reduced her to a quivering mass of nerve endings.

“S-sorry,” she gasps, blinking away the tears of pained laughter, “but, Wes, I just can’t, OK? Anything else but not this.”

“Stand up,” he says.

She scrambles off the bed eagerly and stands in front of him, naked and still out of breath. He leans back on an elbow, still fully dressed because Wes doesn’t see any reason to give her something nice to look at while she’s being tortured, and studies her.

“I want you to link your hands behind your neck,” he says slowly, not moving off the bed. “Perfect. Keep them there until I tell you that you can move them.”

She laces her fingers together, feeling wind-roughened hair against her palms and a slight tug on her shoulder muscles. She’s not sure what he’s doing here, but this pose lifts her breasts and maybe that’s all he wants; to play with his very own life size Barbie. Oh, fuck, that’s such a sick thought and she’s sick too because that really turns her on...

“Your nipples just got hard,” Wesley says, sounding all thoughtful and interested. “Why?”

“Chilly,” she improvises, though it isn’t really. The heat from the fire has made the cottage cosy and she doesn’t have a single goose bump.

His eyes narrow. “Faith, would you care to amend that answer?”

There’s a crackle in the air like there is before a storm hits, when you can touch a cat and see the sparks fly. Stumbling over the words, she tells him what he wanted to know and watches his lips curve.

“Well now. That’s something to consider, certainly. Tell me what excites you about that, Faith. What in that particular scenario appeals to you?”

And this is fucking impossible. The loft’s lit by the light from the room below so there are shadows and flickers, but it’s too light to hide the fact that she’s blushing.

His fingers tap against his leg impatiently and she starts to babble. “Well, you kinda do it already the way you choose what I wear, and brush my hair,” she says with a small smile, remembering hours trying to force her Barbie doll into evening gowns that were skin tight, and tiny plastic shoes that used to fall off all over the place and get vacuumed up by a muttering Darla. “That’s not it though, it’s just –oh, just not having to think.” She wants to be honest here, give him that in as many ways as she can when there’s so much else that she’s got to lie about. It helps that he’s getting turned on listening to her; she can tell – his eyes are darkening and there’s that slight flush along his cheekbones. “Giving up thinking – no, not thinking – giving up worrying and having you take care of me...” It’s still not right and she pauses a little uncertainly. “I like you telling me what to do,” she says quietly. “I trust you to know what the right thing is and even when you get it wrong, you’re still better at it all than me.”

“Which still doesn’t quite answer my question, but never mind,” he says. “Faith, I’m not always –” There’s a silence and then he stands up in a smooth, fast movement and takes a step towards her. “I had you stand like this for an entirely different reason, as it happens.”

“What?” she says, feeling her head spin slightly from the wine and the tears and his blue, blue eyes.

“Remember,” he warns. “Perfectly still.”

It’s just as well he reminded her, because it’s all that keeps her in place as he runs his finger from her waist up to the exposed hollow of her armpit, never touching the skin, but so close she can’t help flinching. That’s where he’d determined she was the most ticklish and even as he murmurs to her soothingly, “I’m not going to tickle you, I promise,” there’s a voice in her head screaming at her to move, step back, bring her arms down to protect her vulnerable sides.

He smiles sympathetically. “This is hard for you, isn’t it?”

She’s beyond speech, teeth driving into her lip, trembling as she holds position. She answers him with a nod and a keening moan as he does it again, this time with his hands, skimming them over her skin with a light, sure touch that isn’t in the least a tickle but which her overwrought body interprets as a threat.

“Fuck!” she screams, stepping back and lashing out at him. “Don’t!”

Horrified, she stares at him, waiting for him to lose his temper, lecture her, or even, God forbid, change his mind about letting her come, but he just stands there and if anything, he looks amused.

“Poor Faith,” he drawls. “Instincts are so difficult to control, aren’t they? I’ll overlook that lapse, and give you a chance to redeem yourself, if you hug me.”

“What?”

He glares at her, a cold front sweeping in. “No, Faith. No ‘whats’. Just do it. I really am getting bored with your failure to comprehend what I want.”

If she wasn’t feeling so desperately eager to please him she might’ve given him a hard time over that, but she is, so she doesn’t.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers, going to him.

Her arms are around his waist and she’s about to relax against him when he snaps out, “No. Around my neck, please.”

She’s puzzled but it doesn’t seem a problem, so she starts to lift them and then freezes. She just fucking can’t. Can’t lift her arms while he’s this close. Can’t risk him touching her again on sensitive, shrinking skin.

“I’m not going to tickle you,” he says.

She lifts her arms hesitantly and his hands lift too and she dances back a skittish step, breathing quickly. “You said –”

He hold up his hands, palm towards her. “I won’t. I’m going to place my hands where yours just were on me.”

He’s being really patient with her but there’s a muscle jumping in his cheek and she can’t count on it lasting.

“OK,” she says shakily. “Wes, I’m gonna do it, but I’m telling you that this is fucking hard and you’ve got me so freaked out here, and –”

“Faith!” he says, sounding well and truly pissed. “I could quite easily tell you to be silent, you know. Don’t make me do that.”

She wails softly and practically throws herself at him, lifting her arms, locking her hands around his neck and squirming against him in an agony of expectation.

His hands come up, grip her waist hard and slide up a fraction of an inch before he gathers her to him, hands patting her back in a way that’s probably meant to be comforting, but just makes her wriggle more. She’s panting as if she’s just run a mile, climbed a mountain, jumped out of a plane, and she’s whimpering his name.

“I did it, Wes, I did it,” she chants triumphantly, giddy with the victory.

“Shh, yes you did,” he says gently. There’s a pause. “Eventually.”

“It was hard,” she whines, twisting her head around so that she can kiss him. “I deserve, like a reward. A medal.”

“I’m not sure there’s anywhere I could pin one,” he says gravely, bringing up his hand to cup her bare breast. “And I’m not at all sure you’ve earned a reward, but I am pleased that you obeyed me and, more importantly, trusted me.”

That’s not as good to hear as he probably thinks it is and she only keeps her face from puckering up by remembering he told her not to think about anything but them. So she gives him another kiss, smooshing her lips against his hard, and feels his lips part under her assault. They stand there kissing for a blissful eternity, with Wesley’s tongue flicking against hers and making her shiver and he slows it all down and makes it feel so good she wants to swoon, like the heroine in a book, but that’d mean missing this little nip of his teeth - that swirl of his tongue - and that just isn’t going to happen.

Then he steps back, looking just a little bit tempted to fling her to the bed and fuck her.

Well, a girl can dream...

He nods over to the small bedside table. “Open the drawer, Faith. Put everything onto the bed, just here, at the foot of it.”

She hurries over to the table, telling herself that no matter what he wants, she’s going to do it just right, not mess up again. She holds onto that thought as she lifts out the black softness of the scarves he must have brought from home and the clear bottle of lube.

And she doesn’t start to panic until her fingers close around the vibrator.

Laid out along the bed, it’s hard to look at anything else but that and she nibbles at her lip nervously. Wes clears his throat. “Good... now get onto the bed and push the pillows up behind you so that you’re comfortable... yes, that’s fine. Hands by your side.”

He gets onto the bed and she frowns. “Aren’t you ever going to get undressed?” she says without thinking.

“You’re always so very keen on that,” he says. “Does it bother you so much when you’re naked, and I’m not?”

“No. Yes.” She’s left feeling frustrated. “It makes us different,” she says, “but I can handle it -”

“I think when we get home, I’ll keep you naked for a day,” he muses. “No matter where we are in the house or garden. That would be rather instructive, I think.”

She refuses to even think about that, just gulps and carries on bravely, because she hadn’t fucking finished, thank you. “It’s just that I like to look at you. You should be able to get that; you like looking at me, don’t you?”

There’s no hesitation at all. “Very much so. You’re beautiful, Faith. All of you, which is probably why you do spend so much time naked. Because I love to look at you.”

She can’t help preening herself just slightly at that. Beautiful. Her. And he’d know... give the bitch her due, Lilah’s pretty stunning, and she’s probably not the prettiest he’s ever dated, though she’s never asked for details.

“So why don’t you get undressed then?” she asks, really craving the sight of him. She knows he’s hard, doesn’t even have to look, but she gets a kick out of seeing his cock rigid and aching and knowing it’s all because of her....

“Because I don’t choose to,” he says. “And I think for the time being, I’d prefer it if you answered my questions but refrained from comments. Is that clear?”

“Yeah,” she says a little sulkily. His lips tighten and she swallows. “Yes, Wesley.”

He smiles approvingly, which is like the equivalent of getting a sucker from the doctor after a shot, and picks up the vibrator, studying it with a fascinated, absorbed look that makes her want to giggle because it’s so incongruous in his hands and so very fucking purple.

“You don’t seem fond of this,” he says, flicking it on and tilting his head as it starts to move and hum. “Why did you keep it?”

“Xander gave it to me expecting me to freak,” she says, as if that explains everything.

“And you didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of knowing it had? I can understand that reaction.” For a moment his eyes have a distant look in them but it fades as the Rabbit gives an enthusiastic hop and he actually snickers. “Lively, isn’t it?” he comments, switching it off and tossing it aside. She hopes it’s going to stay out of reach, but that’s probably too much to expect.

“Well,” he says, and miracles do happen because his fingers are slowly unbuttoning the black shirt and there’s all this Wes skin to look at. She hums with appreciation, just can’t help it, and he makes this sharp sound of annoyance and stops.

“Let me help you with the not speaking, Faith,” he says icily. “Remove some distractions...”

The blindfold’s knotted firmly and she’s lying on her stomach before he starts to undress again. She can imagine – hell, she can remember – every inch of his body but it’s not the same as looking at it and she’d sob with frustration but he’d only count it as speaking and do something else to her.

There’s a pause after the last soft thud of clothing against the wooden floor and then he gets back on the bed, straddling her hips and leaning forward so that she can feel the weight of his cock against her back. His hands are planted on either side of her and she bites back a moan as his lips press kisses against her spine, warm, wet kisses that send tingles through her and make her toes clench and wriggle with pleasure.

When he can’t reach any further down her back he slides backwards and brings his hands to curve around her hips, holding her in place as he carries on kissing her, one, two, three, down the cleft of her ass, with his tongue darting out so she gasps soundlessly, remembering what it feels like there. He moves on though, working his way down her legs, taking his time, exploring her body with his lips and tongue, until she’s relaxed and energized at the same time.

Finally he kneels back, gripping her ankles in his hands, with his thumbs rubbing along the tendon and sending little shivers of lust chasing each other up and down her body. Slowly, but firmly, he parts her legs and she knows just where he’s looking, knows that he’s seeing what she can only feel; the slick wet folds of her cunt, parted and open and waiting. He slips his hands along to the back of her knees, takes hold and pushes her so that she’s resting on her forearms, ass in the air.

She should feel ridiculously exposed, but she doesn’t, and if anything she widens her knees, waiting in perfect silence for whatever he wants to do to her.

Chapter One Hundred and Forty Three

And it’s slow, and then it’s not, and she’s always amazed at his ability to stretch out these small moments —be they tactile, or aural, or some lovely combination thereof. How a whisper in her ear holds as much weight as the unhurried glide of his tongue over her clit, or the brush of his fingertips against her nipples, or along her back.

Everything is fluid, connected by his whispered commands— “Spread your legs, Faith, that’s a good girl,” “You’re to touch yourself, but you’re not to come," “It’s not time for that yet,” — and the repetition of her name, over and over, said each time with such a tone of reverence and care that she almost can’t believe it.

It’s even more exciting when she can’t see what he’s going to do next. She’s in the dark and everything is heightened: the shift of her body against the cool sheets, the shallow sound of his breathing, his every touch galvanizing her flesh. And when he’s not touching her she’s still expectant.

She can’t imagine going back to the way it was before —to the quick, furtive, clumsy fucks where everything was rushed and mostly unspoken. Unsatisfied and unsatisfying.

When she didn’t understand how good it could be.

There’s another long, appraising silence. Just when she’s starting to feel vaguely uneasy —like this is going turn into another test of her resolve— she feels Wes’ hands brushing against her back, gently turning her ‘round again. “I’m feeling a bit quixotic this evening after all,” he murmurs and she can’t help but smile at that.

But she doesn’t say a word. Just lays back against the pillows and opens her thighs.

Of course she always wants him to fuck her, but she’s been conditioned to love the wait. Even if she gets impatient sometimes.

Still, she can’t help but gasp when she feels the cool slide of the vibrator into her cunt. While it’s not unexpected, exactly, she’s still a little disappointed —she wants his cock, not this imitation. But all is forgiven when he whispers in her ear, his voice low and so ridiculously, endearingly formal that she just about melts: “I’m not going to turn it on just yet, Faith. I don’t want its rather odious soundtrack to compete with your lovely vocalizations.” But yeah, it feels good as he starts fucking her with it, and even better when he pulls her close for a kiss. At last.

Chapter One Hundred and Forty Four

He's lying on his side, pressed up against her while he steals kisses from her clinging lips and slowly pushes the vibrator into her again and again. If she didn't have other things on her mind, she'd be thanking God that Wes has such highly developed co-ordination skills.

The slow slide of his tongue in her mouth echoes the movements of the thick plastic shaft in her cunt and she's giving him the whimpers and the moans that he wants.

When he shifts away from her, she growls in protest but he's soothing her by running his hand up her thigh. The mattress dips and she's pretty sure he's kneeling between her splayed legs with a courtside view of the main action if his sudden gasp is anything to go by.

"How does this delightful device work?" he suddenly asks, throwing in a sneaky little twist to the constant in and out motion that makes her bite her lips.

"God… one of the buttons makes it twist," she groans, as he presses the appropriate switch and it starts rotating.

"And what do the bottom two do?"

It's not just the cock-screwing vibrator that's he's now pushing into her with this steady, smooth rhythm that makes her face flare red.

"Wes… you're such a… bastard," she spits out but he just chuckles because even to her own ears she sounds like she's pretty down with that. "They make the fucking ears vibrate and go faster and… fuck!"

Her hips jerk at the sudden, relentless pressure against her clit as he switches it on.

"You're not to come, Faith," he warns. "Not for quite some time. Now shall we see exactly how fast this contraption can go?"

Only his hand on her hip keeps her steady as he slams the vibrator into her, varying the depth and speed of the thrusts and keeping up a running commentary as he goes, which just cranks the heat up so far that she's arching her back off the bed, toes and fingers curled into the sheets and making these high pitched yelps every time the ears come in contact with her clit.

"Can you hear the hungry sounds your cunt makes when I take it out, Faith?" he purrs. "I wish you could see how pink and wet and beautiful you are. How does it feel?"

"G-g-good," she stammers. "F-feels good."

"Only good?"

"B-b-better when it's you," she offers shakily and grits her teeth as he slows it down, keeps it wedged inside her so the pressure in her cunt and on her clit is constant.

"Why is it better when it's my cock inside you?"

"Not just your cock," she mumbles, pushing her hips up so she can grind against the plastic. "Your fingers and your tongue too. Not so… so…"

"Mechanical? Monotonous?"

"Yeah. Gets me off but it's not real," she manages to choke out, even though the oxygen to her brain seems to be stuck in a bottle neck somewhere.

His lips press against her inner thigh. "You're being such a good girl, Faith. I'm afraid I still can't let you come but I can give you a reward."

"Are you going to kiss me?" she asks hopefully because she wants Mr. Fucking Bunny out of her any time soon before she comes. Which is going to be in the next five seconds if he doesn't stop the sly little twists he's giving the base of the vibrator.

"In a manner of speaking, yes," he drawls and then she feels the soft brush of his hair against her legs, which pales into insignificance against the wet drag of his tongue against her clit, in tandem with those goddamn vibrating ears.

"Wes, no!" she screams. "I'll come, if you do that."

He doesn't answer her, just prods at the tender flesh which has already been pummeled into submission, with the tip of his tongue and she's frantically trying to edge away from the overload of sensation.

"Please, Wes… please…" she's begging. And she doesn't know if it's because she wants him to stop or she wants him to let her come.

It's when she shuts up and concentrates on pushing her pussy into his face, on to the vibrator, that he finally stops. She's already halfway up the long climb to orgasm and all she can do is lay there, spread out on the sheets and shake with frustration.

"Can't take any more," she moans, arching her hips against thin air.

"I know," he says in this un-soothing voice. "But you've done so well, Faith. I'm so proud of you."

If she wasn't trembling with unfulfilled lust, she's sure that she'd be smiling prettily and glowing from his praise, as it is, all she can focus on is her empty, aching cunt.

"Proud enough to let me come?" she asks sulkily.

He leans over her, so she can feel the leaking head of his cock kissing her belly. "I'm going to make you come harder than you ever have," he promises darkly and he sounds so intent and sure about it, that it's a little scary. But then his lips are fastening around one of her swollen nipples and his fingers are skittering across her stomach and delving between her legs.

She's entirely in the mood for one of his fast, furious finger fucks as a pre-show before the main event but his idly circling hand is just keeping her up there without ever letting her fall over the edge. "I don't think you've ever been quite so wet," he breathes against her ear and he sounds so turned on by the thought that she knows she's just soaked his lazy fingers a little bit more.

"Wes…" She's never sounded so needy before. "For God's sake, will you just fuck me? It hurts…"

That just gets her nipples more torturous attention from his mouth. The tip of his finger lightly brushing against her clit, like a feather in the breeze and she's hissing and spitting like an angry cat.

About two seconds before she's thinking that spontaneous combustion is the only way this is going to end, he moves away from her.

"On your hands and knees, please, Faith," he orders in that dark-treacle voice.

She's falling over herself to obey, raising herself up on shaky limbs and pushing her ass out. She can feel him moving behind her. There's a small click and then his finger cold and wet, tracing the line between her buttocks.

"I'm going to fuck you here, I think," he says conversationally, tracing the edge of her puckered hole. "Is that acceptable, Faith?"

She wiggles her hips in anticipation. "Fine by me," she husks and prays that he's going to give her poor cunt some attention while he's at it.

But then she feels the smooth blunt head of the vibrator nudge against her clit before sliding downwards and coming to rest just inside her cunt. "And this is going to fuck you here," he decides but his voice is shaky and rough. "Is that acceptable, Faith?"

She doesn't answer. She doesn't have to. The buck of her hips as she tries to get something inside her and the moan that's drawn out of her mouth from some place deep and dark down kinda says it for her.

Chapter One Hundred and Forty Five

And that seals the deal, as if there was any question that she wouldn't want this.

“Good. Very good.” In an instant, he's more assured. “One thing at a time, I think...” he muses, slipping the vibrator back out of her pussy and ignoring her whimper of protest, slides his finger in her ass, swirling the lube 'round, the friction alleviating its cold stickiness. Her whimper turns to a moan, clit burning and pussy clenching at nothing.

His other hand's stroking the small of her back -- any other time this would have tickled like hell and she's be screaming for him to stop, but now it's like the secret key that finishes the job of fully opening her up to him; every muscle below her waist is suddenly even more hot and pliable.

And when he doesn't ask and just tells her in a throaty whisper that she's ready and that she's relaxed enough, she can barely hear him for the blood rushing in her ears and her dry mouth can't even make a sound so she just nods mutely, digging her clammy palms into the cool sheets.

There's no question that she's more than ready for him and so relaxed she'd tumble into a heap if it weren't for his hand on the back of her knee, lightly pressing it into the mattress, anchoring her in the now. For a few seconds that slip by as slow and sweet as molasses, that's all she's aware of, the insistent throbbing of her achingly wet pussy is overruled by the hot pressure of his fingers resting in a place that's hardly ever touched, except maybe when the hemlines of the skirts and dresses he's bought her gently graze against it as she walks around the office.

And when he lets go of her knee and is positioning her hips just so, time rushes past normal speed and everything is sudden and jarring and too fast, too rushed. The prickly pressure as the head of his cock slips into her slick asshole is over before it begins and he's slid half way inside before she's moaning plaintively, head spinning with a delirious vertigo. “Slow down,” she manages to rasp out. “Please...”

“I'm not hurting you.” Again, not a question.

“No... no... it just feels like I'm on fast forward and you're not...”

He lets out a little gravelly laugh at that, the vibration traveling through both of them. “How inconsiderate of me, I should have noticed you were lost in your head. Perhaps this will put us back in sync...” One of his hands slides over her ass and curls around to stroke her pussy teasingly, one finger flicking idly over her clit as his cock finishes sliding inside her. He doesn't give her the time to revel in that feeling; he's already slipping back a few centimeters and he gives the tiniest thrust and the scream that comes out of her isn't anything she's ever heard before. It's dark and desperate and pained with need.

“All better now, isn't it?” he says, giving another tiny thrust, fingers swirling over her clit teasingly one last time before pulling his hand away. And letting out another needy whimper, she knows exactly where it's gone.

“Wes, put it inside me, please... now...” Half of her brain is screaming at the other half to shut up but the ferocious, hungry side wins and she swivels her hips around for emphasis.

He's clucks his tongue in response, rubbing the unnaturally smooth tip of the vibrator against her slick pussy lips, unnecessarily stoking the already-blazing fire.

“A minute ago, things were too fast and you were begging me to slow down,” Every other word is punctuated with a slight nudge of the vibrator against her clit. “And now you can't wait to have your greedy little cunt filled as well...” He slides it down to rest gently against her hole, slicking it up with her juices and twisting it 'round but never quite pushing it in. “Which is it, Faith? Too much?” He emphasizes this with two quick thrusts inside her ass. “Or not enough?” he asks over her throaty moans, pulling the vibrator away, letting it drop to the mattress and drawing a shriek of frustration from her. “Be honest, now. I confess your capriciousness has left me confused.”

His free hand is traveling up her back now, stroking the little patch of flesh where her hairline meets her neck then splays his fingers over her scalp, tangling in her hair and she's pretty sure that he's just fried her brain completely because all she can think of are her own fingertips and how when she drags them against the sheet, it sends a tingle up her arms and down her back and straight down to her insistent clit. This is momentarily fascinating, and she forgets that he's asked her a question.

“Faith, I asked you a question...” Her brain's like an echo chamber, now -- her thoughts chasing his words around in a pathetic attempt to strings a coherent thought together.

“Faith,” he sends her rocketing back into focus, fingers on the sheets forgotten, with another thrust of his cock and forceful yank on her hair.

“Capriciousness,” she whispers back.

“Mmm. Yes, Faith. We were discussing yours...” Every hair on her body is standing on end and she wonders if maybe her body's decided to come without her brain, 'cause her throbbing cunt's grasping desperately at nothing but that insures that the little white hot spot inside's being rubbed from the other side, and suddenly he's giving a gravelly growl. “Stop that, I haven't told you to come...”

“Can't...” she breathes out. “Can't... help... it... Wes, really...”

“Yes, you can. Stop it now.”

It takes every ounce of concentration to stop that rhythmic throbbing, and there's sweat pooling in the backs of her knees. She almost slows it down, and just when she thinks she's home free, another involuntary spasm throws her off.

“You're so close, Faith. If I can count to ten, slowly, without an interruption,” he drawls at her, clearly pleased, “then I'll let you come. But only then.”

She makes it to six the first time, and then eight. But only to five when he brings the vibrator back up to rest against her pussy lips again. “Incentive,” he whispers.

She nods and pulls in a deep breath as he starts to count off again. She holds the air in, lungs bursting and every other muscle in her body quivering with the effort of counteracting the insistent pull of her cunt.

And his “Ten...” is still hanging in the air when he rams the vibrator inside her and gives a sharp thrust in her ass at the same time.

And when he says, “Come now, Faith...” it's like he's given himself permission too. There's a flurry of thrusts and grasps and her fingers grasp the sheet so firmly it pops off the mattress. Their entangled moans hang in the air long after the vibrator's slipped out of her quivering, dripping cunt and she's only still on her knees and not face down on the mattress because of his steadying hands holding her aloft while his cock twitches, tentative and spent, inside her.

Chapter One Hundred and Forty Six

She’s just drifting for a second, fighting to keep her heavy eyelids open, when she feels him start to shift, to slide slowly out of her. “Don’t… go…” she whispers —a little desperately—before her exhausted, sated brain has had a chance to catch up with the movements of her mouth. She’s answered by his whisper in her ear: “I’m right here. I’m here.” He slips his arms through hers and curls his body around hers and simple as that, she’s content again.

And coherent thought is gradually becoming a possibility.

“Jesus, Wes. Have you ever not delivered on a promise?”

He doesn’t answer, just smiles against the nape of her neck. Draws her hair to one side and kisses her there.

“Hey, Wes?” She’s still sleepy, and her voice is just a little slurred. “You never answered my question.”

“Your question?”

“You never told me who Olympia is.” She rolls over onto her back so she can look up at him, and he seems to be frowning at her.

“What? You don’t want to tell me? It a trade secret or something?” She tries not to sound hurt. But he’d said he’d tell her, and she’s dying to know, so she keeps pressing.

“Olympia was —no, is— a painting. One of the most scandalous paintings in the world, actually.”

That piques her curiosity. “Oh, yeah?”

“When it was exhibited for the first time in the Paris salons it had to be hung out of reach so that patrons didn’t attack it.”

“What’s so freaky about one painting?”

“Well, Olympia is nude, but that wasn’t it, really. Well, it was part of it. You see, she was a real person, not an exalted goddess or a creature of myth but one of flesh and blood. A real woman looking right at the viewer, unashamed of her nakedness. People in Paris just didn’t know what to make of it. It was shocking to them. They actually tried attacking the painting with their umbrellas.”

She tries to picture that —chaos breaking out in some stuffy old museum. Someplace Wes would feel right at home, she figures. “I still don’t see the big deal.” She can’t figure out exactly where this is going. “So I, like, remind you of her?” she asks querulously.

“It’s her quiet air of self-possession, you see. But it’s not haughty, quite the opposite in fact. She’s charmingly direct, not coy. A little wistful perhaps.” He cups Faith’s chin in his hands and gives her an appraising look. He smiles slowly. “You don’t see it, do you? You have no idea how special you are. Which is just another one of your many charms.”

She’s gotten so few compliments in her life that she sure as hell doesn’t know how to respond to this one. He’s given her a gift she’s unsure of how to repay. And maybe she doesn’t even need to. She tries not to blush under his regard and tries a diversionary tactic to steer attention away from her. “So, is there a male equivalent of this pretty picture?”

He shakes his head, no, looking bemused. She realizes that there are certain things she’ll never be able to share with him and it makes her a little uncomfortable. She doesn’t know all this fancy art stuff —all that knowledge he carries around with him so effortlessly. She knows he’d share it willingly if she could swallow her pride and ask.

It’s as though he’s read her mind, because he says, very quietly, “When we get to New York I must take you to the Met. We’ll spend an idle Sunday there. They have Manets there. And Fragonards, Goyas, Picassos…”

“The Met?” She’s heard of it, she must have. But she wants him to tell her about it. She wants him to keep talking.

“It’s the most incredible museum. When I was a child it seemed so exotic and wonderful. I couldn’t even imagine it, this place filled top to bottom with ancient treasures. I had this fantasy —quite an elaborate one, all things considered— of camping out in the Egyptian wing, studying the great pharaoic hieroglyphs by flashlight, evading the night watchman and sneaking sandwiches from the kitchen after hours…” He makes a little dismissive gesture. “Very juvenile, of course.”

“You were a kid, Wes. It’s allowed. So, did they ever find you, in this fantasy?”

He looks a little wistful when he admits, “Never.”

She knows how he feels. She’s got that fantasy, too.

But she doesn’t tell him that, she just smiles and whispers, “Thank you for telling me.” Then she lets herself sleep.

Chapter One Hundred and Forty Seven

It's still dark when she wakes up. The fire downstairs must have finally sputtered out, which is one of the reasons why she's cold.

The other is because Wes is hogging the duvet, leaving her hunched into a ball on a tangled sheet and yay, she's lying in the mother of all damp spots.

The weight of his arm rests heavy around her waist as she wriggles uncomfortably.

"Stop fidgeting," he mumbles thickly and she tries to keep still but she's painfully aware of every wrinkle in the sheet, which is half off the bed anyway. Not to mention the cloying stickiness between her legs.

And it's Wes' rules this weekend, which makes everything simpler, even though she feels gross and tacky. So she tries to get back to sleep, edging closer to his side of the bed and trying to ignore the icky feeling of his spunk trickling out of her ass.

She could have sworn that she was doing a good impersonation of a statue as she lies there counting sheep but he gives an exasperated groan, rolls over and fumbles for the bedside lamp.

"What's the matter, Faith?" he asks tiredly.

The dim light hurts her eyes and she shields her hand in front of her face as he squints down at her. "Nothing just… I can't sleep and I'm all messy…" she tails off as he stares at the wreck they've made of the bed.

"How on earth did you manage to pull the sheet clean off the mattress?"

She throws him a pained look. "When you were fucking my ass and everything's damp and the sheet was itchy anyway and I'm wicked uncomfortable and you've been bogarting the covers."

"I've been whatting the covers?" Even rumpled with post-fucking sleep, Wes manages to look affronted.

She sits up, ignoring the twinge in her ass, pulling her legs up to her chest and wrapping her arms round her knees. "You stole all the blankets," she mutters accusingly.

"I see," he intones precisely, shaking off sleep and slipping on his proper voice. "Would you like a shower?"

She nods frantically. "I so, so would."

He opens his mouth to say something and then gets distracted by a mammoth yawn. "Very well. I'll give you five minutes to start things off and then I'll join you."

She doesn't need to be told twice, she's scrambling off the bed, trying desperately to keep her legs clamped together and trips down the stairs to the bathroom.

It takes her a foggy moment to work out how to get the shower gushing out a heavenly stream of hot water and it's not until she's got the head aimed between her legs and is scrubbing furiously that she can appreciate the delicate way he's dealt with what she was too embarrassed to tell him.

By the time he walks in, she's standing under the spray, eyes tight shut and content to let the water rain down on her.

There's a sudden blast of cold air as he opens the door to the cubicle so he can step in.

"Is that better?" he asks and she's already leaning back against his chest.

"You have no idea," she replies fervently. "Wish we had a bath though."

"I daresay we'll manage."

And they manage very well, as he soaps her up with steady, soft strokes; kneading his way along her tired limbs, planting kisses in the hollows of her arms, the curve of her neck and every other place that he cleans. Rubbing a soapy hand between her legs and telling her that she's absolutely not to get wet because they're both far too sleep deprived to stay awake much longer.

Her eyelids are finally drooping down as she's wrapped in one of the cloud-soft towels from home and scooped up into his arms for the slow climb back to bed.

"You take such good care of me, Wes," she whispers into his neck. "I love you so much."

And she knows it doesn't come as easy to him but he kisses the top of her head and tightens his hold on her.

He's re-made the bed with fresh linen and when she sprawls out on the mattress, it's softer and warmer than before. She can't help but grunt happily as she burrows against him, arms and legs entwining with his.

"I took the liberty of putting a bath sheet over the mattress to counteract the effects of scratchy sheets," he breathes into her ear, placing a gentle kiss in the hollow of her throat.

She gives a gurgle of laughter. "Damn scratchy sheets."

"Indeed. Now you're to go to sleep and I think we've both earned a long lie-in tomorrow."

His fingers are sweeping down the length of her back and then settling on the curve of her ass. "You never lie in, Wes," she protests, pressing closer to him.

"Well, it’s been a long week," he says heavily and she can feel the sudden tension in him.

She reaches up to kiss the little furrows that have appeared on each side of his mouth. All this time, she's been freaking out about her sorry, little life and wishing he was here to make everything better and she never gave a moment's thought to what he was actually doing in New York, apart from not being with her.

"Are you looking forward to starting your new job?"

He doesn't say anything but the furrows deepen and her hands creep up to tangle in his hair so she can rub her fingers against his scalp. "Stuff that we say when it's dark doesn't count," she tells him quietly. "It's just you and me and no one else will ever know."

And there's a sudden, subtle shifting in the bed so she's holding him and not the other way round. "This partnership is everything I've worked for," he says softly. "But I'm sure you'll appreciate my concerns about the changes it's going to make in my life."

For Wes this is as big as eating dinner with his fingers in front of a TV that he doesn't have. Admitting that his peculiar flaws, his need for control, his clinging to routine and ritual, is so important to him, makes her heart do this weird little flip in her chest.

"You'll be fine," she tells him fiercely. "You're fucking amazing, Wes. I'm going to have it printed on a T-shirt and wear it every day so you finally get the message."

That gets her a slow, sweet kiss, which is more tender than anything they've shared before. She can feel his lips curving into a smile. "While I appreciate the sentiment, I absolutely forbid you to ever wear a T-shirt with the words, 'You're fucking amazing, Wes' emblazoned on it. Do I make myself clear, Faith?"

She rubs her head into the comfy crook between his shoulder and neck. "What about if it said, 'Wes Is Da Man'?"

He gives a sudden snort of laughter and softly pinches her ass. "Go to sleep, Faith," he hisses. "Or we'll finish this conversation with several hard slaps to your beautiful little arse."

Chapter One Hundred and Forty Eight

She thinks Wes does wake up at some ungodly hour of the morning, but she wraps herself around him in her dreams and clings, and after a while he relaxes into sleep again and in the end, it’s she who wakes first when it feels like an unbelievable nine or ten o’clock at least.

Wesley’s lying on his back, head turned and resting on his hand so she can admire his profile, all clean and sharp against the dark green pillow. It’s warm up here under the roof and they’ve both kicked off the covers during the night, so she’s got quite the view. His other hand is resting on his thigh, fingers bent in a relaxed curve, like his cock, which is where her gaze travels to next. Not used to seeing it like this but it doesn’t look ridiculous and it doesn’t look sweet or cute either. It looks... challenging, and she grins slowly.

She leans up on an elbow and takes a long look at him, top to toe. Elegant, strong, and fuck, she’s getting wet just from this, a sharp throb of desire that’s less about sex and more about wanting to be as close to him as she can get. There’s a tender – and that means painful too, she thinks – feeling choking her up, as if it’s a special moment, one of the ones you remember years later, and it seems wrong to feel that way when he’s not awake to share it, so she decides to wake him up.

Never had the chance to do this before; he’s always the one rising and shining with the birds while she snuggles back under the covers, and she’s spoiled for choice as to how to do it, but she wants it to be romantic and sexy and special.

In the end, she wriggles down the bed, being really careful not to touch him, and strokes her finger lightly along the line of dark hair on his stomach, following it down to where his cock’s already stirring, just from that fleeting contact. She tilts back her head, and wonders if she’s imagining that he’s smiling faintly. Must be; he’d be snapping out orders right now if he was awake.

With a satisfied purr, she carries on playing with him. His cock, she doesn’t touch. It’s filling and swelling and yeah, that’s kinda interesting, but it’s not doing it because it’s getting any attention. She’s just brushing her hair across his thighs, breathing kisses against the hollows of his hipbones, touching the tip of her tongue to every faint freckle she can find, but she’s not going near his cock. Nope.

By the time she covered as much of him as she can reach without moving from her position by his side, she knows he’s awake, but every time she sneaks a glance from under her lashes, his eyes are closed, his chest is still rising and falling with unhurried, regular breaths and the smile’s no wider than it was before.

It’s only when she looks up after drawing a finger nail down the line between hip and stomach, that she sees the tension around his lips, as if he’s squeezing them closed to stop himself from speaking.

She decides if she gets a ‘Good morning’ before a fervently gasped ‘Faith!’ she’s going to bite him. Girl’s got her pride and this is some seriously intense teasing she’s doing here. She does the fingernail trick on the other side and watches curiously as his foreskin peels back as his cock gets just too hard to stay sheathed inside it. Score.

His cock’s quivering now with every breath, and she looks at it, almost forgetting that she’s supposed to be driving him crazy. Though pausing like this is probably doing just as good a job as all the licks and kisses did. She moves until she’s hovering over it and breathes out slowly through pursed lips, doing it again and again until his balls are tight and the head of his cock’s dark and wet.

If this was her, she’d be moaning and writhing and fucking begging by now, she knows she would. Either Wes knows some freaky yoga meditation shit or something, or she gets worked up way too easy. She pouts at the thought of it and she’s so close that her lips miss kissing him by a fraction of a decimal point. Her head jerks back and she grits her teeth. No way. No touching until he whimpers and begs. Or orders her to. Yeah... she’s promised to do what he tells her, so if he drawls out ‘Faith, suck my cock’ or some polite English version of it, she’d have to do it, but he’s not showing any signs of that.

It’s a game, played in silence, with rules she’s making up as she goes along, and she knows Wes well enough that he’s gonna play to win... but she’s not lacking in a competitive streak herself...

His hand’s still there on his thigh and as she tries to think of how she’s going to increase the pressure, a memory of the first time she went to his house jumps up and down, waving a flag and whistling. Grinning, she shifts over and swirls the tip of her tongue around his middle finger – and feels his thigh go hard as he clenches every muscle to keep from making a sound.

It’s just a matter of time after that... and the fact that her hair falls down across his cock and her head bobs up and down as she captures his finger between her teeth and sucks on it, well, that doesn’t count as touching. Not really. Not cheating.

She wants to taste him more than she’d ever imagined possible. Been a while since she’s done this and there’s always something so satisfying about it because it’s him losing control while she’s just that little bit detached and it’s nice for him to get to come all on his own, it really is. She feels positively saintly, she’s so fucking unselfish.

The final stage, and, yeah, if this doesn’t work, she’s going to be sulking all day, is stretching the rules just a little and moving so that she’s kneeling between his legs, her hands pushing his thighs apart. Still no touching – and man, his cock looks as if it’s got to be hurting him but he’s being a really brave soldier – but he’s got to be wondering if this means she’s about to, and he’s got to be thinking if he holds out just a little while longer she’ll relent and –

“Want me to do that to your cock, Wes? Lick it clean, ‘cause it’s all wet and messy? Oh, I bet you do... and I will, you know I will. Just got to tell me, Wes. Open up those lips, just like I will real soon, when I take you in as deep as I can, and tell me to do it. Order me.”

His eyes remain shut but his head moves finally, and if they were open, they’d be staring right at her. She shivers, imagining all that blue ice, and turns to kiss his thigh, high up, and biting down gently. His cock’s off limits but what about his balls? She frowns, trying to decide and, regretfully, thinks they are too.

Talking hasn’t worked and she’s left with one final move.

The lube’s cool and oddly light against her fingers, silky rather than oily. She spends a few moments rubbing her fingers together and playing with the sensation of near frictionless contact until a barely-there flicker tells her Wes blinked at her and then closed his eyes quickly. Oh, she’s going to make him pay for that.

Dousing her fingers again, she places them with the utmost care just behind his balls and lets them skate and slide backwards. She’s flushed and dizzy with daring and her own thighs are clamped together because her cunt’s throbbing by now, demanding a touch she’s denied herself out of fairness, and the sure and certain knowledge that Wes’d lose it totally if she tried to come before him. Without letting herself even think about what she’s doing, because all she’s going on here is a drunken, spaced-out conversation with Xander who’d told her way more than she really wanted to know about assholes when he’d found out – and fuck knows why she’d told him, but she had – that Wes’d popped that particular cherry, she slips one fingertip inside Wes’ ass and waits. He doesn’t stop her and he doesn’t whimper – fuck, he’s just not human, and she’s getting discouraged, she really is – but there’s this sudden change in what they’re doing.

She’s the one who moans, as her finger pushes in further and retreats, fucking him slowly and feeling him do more than accept it; he’s tilting his hips just slightly and fucking encouraging her, but he’s not making a sound and she wants that from him. A sound. A whimper. A moan. God, a fucking sigh would do...

Her finger slides deeper and she crooks it slightly and yeah, thank you, Xander... Wes goes from silent to yeah, a panting, gasping groan that’s so pained she just knows it’s killing him to make it and she casts up her eyes in pure thankful relief and then wraps her free hand around the base of his cock, loving the feel of it as it smacks against her palm. His eyes are open now, wild and blank and fucking scary, he looks so desperate, but she stares into them without flinching, lowers her head and lets the tip of her tongue trace a light circle around the head of his cock. He moans again, as if he’s given up trying to win, and she rewards him – or maybe her – by sliding him into her mouth and sucking fiercely.

Not for long though – and the whimper she gets as she eases him out and kisses the tip softly is heartfelt and gratifying. She wonders if he gets this big a kick out of coaxing those sounds from her and decides he must. She lets her finger slip out of his ass and wipes it surreptitiously against the duvet before showing him what he could’ve been enjoying like, twenty minutes ago, if he hadn’t been so stubborn, really going to town on him, using her teeth and her tongue and her –

“Good morning, Faith.”

He’s lucky he didn’t fucking lose his dick because it’s a close call between howling and biting at that point. She kneels back, hands on her hips and says, “Wesley, you’re two sucks away from shooting and you’re being all formal with me?”

“I’m not, and I see no reason to be impolite in any circumstances,” he says, sounding as cool as if his cock hadn’t been wedged against her tonsils thirty seconds earlier. “I just thought I’d better call a halt to the proceedings before you really got into trouble.”

“What trouble?”

He gives her one of those long suffering sighs. “Do you really think your actions this morning are likely to meet with my approval?”

“Well, most men would probably be-” He lifts one eyebrow but it doesn’t take that to remind her that, yeah, he’s not most men and never fucking will be. She pouts and waits.

“You were told that this weekend you were to do nothing but what I tell you to do. And my last instructions to you were that we were to enjoy a lie-in. To sleep uninterrupted.” He widens his eyes in reproach. “I really don’t think you’ve followed either of those commands, do you?”

He waits until she’s shaken her head, face burning and then chuckles. “Oh, don’t look so downcast, Faith. I’m impressed by your determination and your ingenuity, but I simply can’t have you forgetting what really were very simple rules.” He settles himself against the pillows, sitting up, his cock still hard, and beckons to her. “Over my knee, Faith. I’ll make it short, but I’m afraid I can’t let something this flagrant go unchecked.”

He gives her six slaps, hard ones, but fast, leaving her mewling and wriggling because she hadn’t realized just how much of a state she’d gotten herself into when she thought all she was doing was teasing him. He talks to her as he delivers the brisk spanks, telling her how disobedient she’s been and how he’s going to make sure she doesn’t get a chance to misbehave again... and then as soon as he’s finished, his hand dives between her legs, dipping into the soaking heat and his words change and he’s telling her how he really was asleep at first and how it felt to wake with her mouth and hair soft and warm against him and he holds out the hand that had been cupping his face and shows her the deep gouges where his nails had driven into the skin as he tried to stay quiet.

She tries to kiss them but he won’t let her and in the end he lies back and tells her to finish what she started and she straddles him and kisses him as his cock pushes into her and she starts to come just from that, tearing her mouth away to gasp and shudder as they begin to move together, with her hands grabbing onto his shoulders as she surrounds him, as he fills her.

She watches him come and he lets her, hiding nothing and somehow managing to say her name, just as she’d wanted him to.

Chapter One Hundred and Forty Nine

When they step out the front door half an hour later into a chalk bright morning, she’s feeling as boneless and content as a cosseted kitten.

She’s been pampered to within an inch of her tender, young life. Felt his hands on her as he washed and dressed her in one of her oldest, but favorite, faded cotton, vintage dresses. Saw the lazy, soft way he looked at her. Heard his voice murmur wonderingly as he brushes her hair, “You really are quite extraordinarily beautiful, Faith.”

And now she feels worshipped. She feels loved. She feels cherished. A girl could get used to this, which isn’t gonna help much when…

“You’re frowning,” Wes points out sternly, sliding her sunglasses on and pushing them up the bridge of her nose with a playful finger. “I absolutely forbid you to think anything but happy thoughts for the rest of the weekend.

She leans against the porch railing and breathes in the salt scent of the sea and revels in the warm breeze lifting up her hair. “Only happy thoughts, check,” she agrees. Because that’s what he wants, so she wants that too. Fuck, isn’t that ever the truth?

His arm curves round her shoulders. “This is a very secluded beach. I was most particular about that when I made the booking,” he comments conversationally, and she can’t help but smirk and bump his hip.

“That a fact is it, Wes?”

‘Oh yes,” he drawls, rubbing the back of her hand as she rests it on the rail. “It’s only accessible by that pitiful dirt track that we had to navigate last night. Or by boat. It’s a very warm day, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, it really is,” she nods, then shoots him a look from under her lashes, which is kinda ruined by her Jackie O sunglasses. “Seems like a pity to be wearing clothes at all.”

He gifts her with this carefree grin that makes her want to hold him like that, frozen in the moment so she never forgets how happy, how fucking joyous he looks. “Oh, my plans for the afternoon mostly consist of you not wearing any clothes at all, Faith,” he purrs. Then he’s giving her a prim look that she knows he’s totally faking. “Not that there’ll be any funny business, young lady, just some post-lunch skinny dipping.”

And she’s faking the sulky pout. “Not even a teeny bit of funny business?”

His mouth tightens into a thin, stern line, which is only slightly ruined by the upward quirk of his lips. “Funny business is strictly and utterly out of the question.”

“OK, just so I know.”

And this light, flirtatious patter that they’ve had to work so fucking hard for lasts all the time it takes to make the short drive into the pretty harbor town with its shingled houses and picture postcard store fronts.

And then it melts away into this comfortable silence as they sit bumping knees under a table in a diner and he’s ordering them both breakfast, stroking the underside of her arm and generally gazing at her like she’s some kind of goddess who’s been sent down to earth just to make him happy.

When he finishes ordering her a plate of bacon, sausage and eggs with a side of pancakes and maple syrup that she prays she’s going to be able to finish, he gathers up her knife and fork and hands them to the waitress. “We won’t be needing these,” he says firmly, ignoring her sudden intake of breath and the waitress’ what the fuck? look.

“Is there a problem, Faith?” He’s cool as a chiller cabinet of cucumbers.

She has to think about it for a moment and then she stops. Doesn’t want to think about this. Nope, she’s just going to follow orders and think happy thought about them.

She throws everything she is into the smile she gives him as she shakes her head. “No problem, Wes,” she beams. “Just you and me and those happy thoughts.”

He raises her hand to his mouth so he can press a hot kiss to her knuckles and she’s practically simpering and 'aw shucks'-ing because it’s just so goddamn sweet and he looks so pleased.

And it makes everything easier because she does it. Really does it. Clears her head of all the shit and just enjoys the simple pleasure of him feeding her breakfast, leaning across the table to kiss the maple syrup off her lips and so what if the dumb fucks sitting by the window are staring at them like they’re a special on the Discovery Channel? Not like she’s ever going to see their ugly faces again. And how could they even begin to imagine how it feels to have someone like him, like Wes taking care of her?

Afterwards they wander arm in arm through the little town and she can feel herself getting more and more obsessed about catching sight of their reflection in shop windows.

She doesn't realize that she's spaced out, until he nudges her. "Shall we go inside?"

She's so caught up with the feel of her hand in his and how pretty they look together that it's not until he opens the door for her that she realizes they're in a record shop. And not one that sells anything Beethoven-y.

"Um, Wes, what are we doing in here? Or, like, what are you doing in here?" she asks him, taking in the cluttered walls adorned with record sleeves and Guitarist Wanted ads.

Wes looks around carefully, edging closer to her like he's expecting to catch something infectious from the grimy shelves. "It occurs to me that I've been rather selfish." She knows she's frowning again and he clears his throat and runs a careful finger along the edge of the Industrial Techno shelf. "You've been very open-minded about my cultural preferences, I thought it was about time that I returned the favor."

It takes her a little while to stop her eyes bugging out, then she's reaching up to plant a line of little kisses along his jaw. "I fucking love you, Wes," she chokes out.

"I know," he says rather smugly and she's really tempted to make him buy a copy of Metal Machine Music by Lou Reed and force him to listen to it all the way through.

By the time they head back to the cottage, it's early afternoon and they have a bewildering array of brown paper bags on the back seat containing everything from Rocky Road ice cream and White Stripes CDs to a bottle of vodka and a carton of Nesquik Chocolate Milkshake mix.

Chapter One Hundred and Fifty

Surrounded by grocery sacks, Wes shoos her out of the tiny kitchen and tells her to wait on the patio for him while he puts everything away. She doesn't argue, just slips a White Stripes CD in the stereo and has to stifle a giggle when he starts to bob a little off time with the ragged beat.

He flashes her a bright grin and slides the ice cream into the freezer. “You are pretty good looking, Faith -- for a girl,” he teases, quoting the song's lyric at her. She rolls her eyes – like Xander'd never used that joke on her before. “Now, outside with you.” he circles 'round to the tiny living area and directs her to the door. “Or no sugar-spiked vodka for you later.” She just sniffs at that and practically skips outside into the perfect afternoon sunlight.

The black slate floor on the patio is cool under her bare feet and the sun is still blindingly bright. She lights a cigarette and squints, peering up and down the length of the beach. It is indeed, perfectly empty, with bits of seaweed tossed up by the tide littered across the sand and not a soul in sight.

When he finally joins her outside, there's a decidedly mischievous look on his face and he's got towels, sunblock, and collapsible chair in tow -- that's when she fully starts to appreciate what she'd first realized in last night, when she coaxed his secrets out in the dark -- that maybe he needed this weekend away as much as she did. Certainly not more... but maybe as much. She shoves the thought from her mind and warily eyes all his over-laden arms.

“Are we camping out or what? I thought you said we were skinny dipping.”

“There was no 'we' in the earlier conversation, Faith. I believe I said that you'd be impersonating a sea nymph, not me.”

“And you're just going to slather yourself in sunscreen and keep your nose in a book,” she teases, secretly pleased to see that he's got her gift tucked under his arm.

He tries so hard to look offended, but fails miserably, a sly smile sneaking across his pursed lips. “Something like that. And perhaps if you're good, when you're done swimming I'll tell you the tale of Calypso and Odysseus.”

She wrinkles her nose and turns on the brattiness, even if she is relishing the prospect of wasting the afternoon sunbathing next to him, his hand idly twisting in her hair and his smooth voice washing over her. “Sounds more like a punishment to me! A dusty old myth instead of you talkin' dirty to me?”

“Really, Faith, your memory is deplorable. I believe I also mentioned no funny business, if you'll recall?”

“Oh, right, Wes. We'll see how long that lasts!” She laughs and takes off running down the path to the beach, hair flying and unbuttoning the dress, pausing midway to the water to slip it off over her head and abandon her panties, too.

He's still making his way to the sand by the time she's splashing in the chilly waves, and it takes her that long to realize that she's gonna be so busted for taking off like that. He probably had some plan to get her down to the sand and spend twenty minutes unbuttoning her dress and another fifteen taking off her little boy-cut underpants before he finally let her into the water. Whatever -- it had seemed like the right thing to do, and he had looked kind of ridiculous and completely darling standing there hands full of the towels and the chairs and the sunblock and the book.

Even if it ended up netting a round of spanking or other exquisite torture later, it was all worth it in the end to watch him carefully plant his chair in the sand and attempt to read while not-so-surreptitiously watching her strike goofy poses and slam into the incoming waves.

She frolics about in the water until her fingers are prunes, bobbing in the buoyant salt water, letting the current pull her too and fro. When she collapses on the giant beach towel he's spread out for her, he's brandishing a bottle of sunblock and tsking at her. “You should have put this on before you went into the water...”

“Oh Wes, whatever. I've never had a sunburn in my life -- I tan! Can't you tell?”

“Which is precisely why you should have put this on; I'd much rather prefer you stay...”

“White as a fish-belly?” she giggles, rolling over on her stomach and peering up at him through her eyelashes.

“Well, I would have chosen a more flattering phrase, but yes. Pale, unblemished.” His eyes wander over her flesh, and it's all she can do to keep from preening. “At any rate, you shouldn't have run off into the water before letting me make sure you were fully prepared, Faith” He gives her bottom four full-palmed, sound smacks, but instead of cranking up her libido, it sends her into another fit of giggles.

“Hey, hey! No funny business, Wes, remember?” His hands haven't been away from her skin but a second when a cold glob of sunscreen lands on her back and she shrieks again. “Wes! Would it kill you to warm it up in your hands first?”

“Yes, definitely. It would be completely fatal.” His hands slip over her back, slathering the lotion over her tingling ass, sending her back into the giggles. “Oh, for heaven's sake, Faith. Stop laughing and hold still!”

There's a subtle shift in his voice, that gorgeous slide from teasing to commanding, and she swallows her last giggle and stops kicking her feet in the sand, lying as still as a statue until he orders her to flip over.

Chapter One Hundred and Fifty One

But his touch is business-like, perfunctory even, as he rubs the cream into her belly and down her legs.

When she parts her thighs and wriggles back on the towel like she’s just trying to get an all-over tan, he snorts faintly. “Stop being such a minx.”

“I don’t know what you’re on, Wes. Just trying to catch some rays, y’know.”

He doesn’t bother to reply but his slippery grip tightens on her ankle and he can’t resist lowering his head and nipping at her big toe so she squeals and tries to yank her foot away.

“Now you’re to lie completely still,” he orders her again. “I don’t want to see you so much as twitch an eyelash.”

And then the bastard is squeezing even more lotion into his hands and with the firmest touch so every inch of her skin is tingling, he sun-proofs her breasts.

“We wouldn’t want you getting burnt here,” he says with that little half smile that he seems to have worn for most of the day, brushing her right nipple with his slick fingertip and watching with interest as it immediately tightens up into a hard, little bud. “Or here.” Its twin gets the same treatment and then he’s leaning back in his chair.

“Are you sure you didn’t miss a spot?” she asks looking down at her glistening skin.

He’s actually dipping his handkerchief into the bottle of cold water he’s produced from somewhere so he can wipe his hands and she can feel every inch of her melting in fondness at his annoying, adorable, anal, little ways.

“I’m quite certain, Faith. I do believe that if something’s worth doing, it’s worth doing properly.”

Yup and ain’t that the truth. She gives a happy sigh as she recalls a handful of heart-stopping moments when he’s done things properly. Then she rolls onto her tummy and glances at him from under her lashes as his attention goes back to the book and she’s completely forgotten.

In the absence of anything else to do, watching Wes read from behind her shades is gripping stuff. He starts off with his eyes scanning back and forth across the page at superspeed but somewhere around the third page, he settles back into the chair with a contented little sigh and loses himself.

It’s quite a fucking revelation to see the emotions flickering across his face in full on 3D like she’s hopping channel on a plasma screen TV. He smiles faintly or frowns as he reads, he even bites his lip at one point and, Jesus fucking wept… Just under the splash of the waves as they crest against the shore, she can hear him muttering and she realizes that he’s half reading out loud. It’s so fucking cute that she can’t help the little “aw” noise that escapes her but he doesn’t even look up.

She spends the rest of the afternoon alternating between the Wes show and this long, involved fantasy about them living in New York and it’s snowing and they spend the weekends going to flea markets and these cosy little restaurants that only they know about. And also she grows a few inches in the first month she’s there so that when they walk down the street together, all huddled up against each other because it’s freezing, they look a little bit like the cover of The Freewheeling Bob Dylan, which is yet another of the delights she’s discovered in Wes’ record collection.

‘You’re looking very pleased with yourself.”

The amused sound of his voice cuts into her little snowbound Manhattan fantasy and she blinks her eyes dopily as she realizes she’s been half-dozing. “Just thinking about New York and stuff,” she mumbles sleepily and stretches lazily, not missing the appreciative glance he gives her gently undulating body as she shifts on the towel. “Hey, Wes?”

“Hmm?”

“Do you think I’m done growing?”

He folds his arms and uses her question as another excuse to sweep his glinting eyes over her body. "It depends in which direction, Faith."

"Upwards, Wes," she says just a little bit tartly because she ate all of that bigass brunch he fed her.

"Well in that case, I very much doubt it," he states gravely, slowly uncoiling himself from the deckchair in that fluid motion that she never tires of. "Not that I mind. You're what? A head shorter than me? That seems entirely suitable. Though maybe when we get to New York, if it's still bothering you, we can make enquiries about having you stretched."

Her mouth gapes open for just a nanosecond until she figures that he's teasing her and before she can think up a really wicked retort he's laughing like a fucking drain and scooping her up so he can throw her over his shoulder and start loping down towards the waves.

"No! Wes! You'd better not…!" she squeaks in warning and gets a sharp slap to her wriggling ass.

"You're forgetting the fundamental tenet of our weekend once again, Faith," he shouts over the roar of the sea. "You do what I want you to do and right now I think you need to cool down."

She's squirming and yelping in his arms because the water's splashing round her toes and it seems colder than before. And then she has the fucking mindwipe to deal with that's a fully-clothed Wes up to his waist in the ocean, preparing to drop her.

"Oh my God!" she giggles, clinging on to his shoulders, despite his determined efforts to dislodge her. "I think you've had too much sun."

He gives an outraged growl and slaps her ass again, using the surprise of his attack against her so next thing she knows his hands are wedged under her armpits and he's tossing her gently in to the water.

She never thought she'd live long enough to see Wes frolic. But once he's peeled off his soaking wet shirt and jeans and thrown them on the sand, he's definitely frolicking; diving back into the waves so he can grab her legs while she's shrieking and yelling and not trying very hard to get away from him.

And every time she splashes him or launches herself out of the water so she can jump on his back and try to push him over, he's issuing dire warnings about the consequences of her appalling behavior but he's not trying very hard to get away from her either. Just keeps pulling her in for salty kisses before ducking her under the water and then swimming away before she can exact her revenge.

The water isn't so much cold as fucking freezing by the time they trip up the beach hand in hand, pausing to retrieve the stuff they've left on the beach. Faith is pretty sure she's got goose bumps on her goose bumps which accessorize nicely with her chattering teeth.

She stands patiently, shivering slightly, as Wes wraps the sandy beach towel around her and then they're heading over the sand dunes back to the cottage.

Chapter One Hundred and Fifty Two

Showered, fed and dry, they settle in for the evening. It’s Saturday night and she’s stuck in a cottage in the middle of nowhere but there’s no restlessness waking in her, making her tense, sending her fingers tapping and making her frown herself into a headache; she’s with Wesley and they could be in a freakin’ cardboard box and he’d make it feel safe.

With him watching her like she’s some kind of alien, she mixes up the perfect vodka milkshake, ignoring his protests, and giggling when he covers his eyes dramatically as she tips up the vodka bottle and glugs in some of the Gray Goose he said was wasted on anything but a martini.

“Wes, live a little,” she says coming close and wrapping one arm around his neck as she gives him a chocolate flavored kiss. “It’s green eggs and ham time.”

He gives her a stern look – which he’s totally mastered – and shakes his head a tiny bit. “I think not. I packed tonic and a lime. I’ll –”

She tries to snap out his name and fix him with a commanding glare but it fails miserably and he lifts one eyebrow – damn, does he spend hours practicing this stuff or what? – and looks smug. “Chicken,” she says finally, when she’s held the glass to his lips and he’s kept them so firmly closed you couldn’t prize them open with anything, not even a kiss (she tried that one first of all). She gives him a few clucks and a disappointed look and sighs heavily.

“I’m not,” he says, when she’s stepped back. “I simply have more respect for decent alcohol than you do, and I don’t have a sweet tooth.”

“Whatever,” she says airily, twirling away and taking a dainty sip. “Still think you’re denying yourself a potentially taste bud enhancing experience through stubbornness and – hey!”

“Was that supposed to be an imitation of me?” he says, his voice grating in her ear, his arms holding her tightly against him. He’d moved when her back was turned and her drink’s in danger of spilling because once he’s done whispering he bites down on her earlobe and the small fierce pain makes her jump and quiver in his arms.

“Maybe you’re rubbing off on me, Wes,” she says huskily, grinding her ass gently against him and feeling him harden. She dips a finger in the shake and reaches up over her shoulder. “Try it, and I’ll wake you up that way for the next week if you like.”

“I don’t like the predictable,” he says, easing back so there’s space between his cock and her ass which takes all the fun away from it. She pops her dripping finger between her lips, making sure her head’s turned so he gets an eyeful, and moans the way she does when his tongue’s flickering against her clit, all appreciative and gaspy.

He rolls his eyes and she guesses he recognized it because he sounds vaguely insulted when he says, “It can’t be that good.”

“Well, you’ll never know, will you?”

She’s about to give up and let him have his boring vodka tonic, when he removes the glass from her hand deftly and steps back, holding up a warning hand as she follows him. Entranced, she watches him take a sniff and wrinkle up his nose the way her granny’s cat used to when his food had been left out for too long. She expects him to take the teeniest of tiny sips but instead he raises the glass to his lips and downs a good third of it with grim determination. He pauses for breath, stares down at the glass as if he can’t believe he’s holding it and shudders as if it was neat brandy or something.

She saunters over and smiles up at him. “Wes, you hero,” she purrs admiringly. “That took balls. Want to finish it off?”

He closes his eyes in mute agony and shakes his head and she chuckles and leans in close, wiping away his milk moustache with delicate dabs of her fingertips until he’s all cleaned up.

“Thank you,” he says, lemon-sour, “for teaching me that confirming certainties is a waste of time.” He burps. “And making me feel rather unwell.”

“If you throw up, you’re not going to blame me are you?” she says.

He shakes his head. “I, ah, took your dare. Any consequences are my fault.” He eyes her. “You won’t get punished for that.”

“Oh.” She can’t help letting a bit of disappointment creep in. Not that she wants Wes hurling his cookies, or –

“Why, Faith,” he drawls. “Can it be that you did that expecting reprisals?” He strokes his finger down her cheek and pinches her chin as an encore. “Did you want me to punish you?” he asks softly with that disquieting gleam in his eyes that makes her toes curl and her breath quicken.

“No-o,” she says hesitantly and fuck, she still doesn’t really know the answer to that one. Does she, or doesn’t she? Only thing she’s sure about is that she likes what follows, when she’s mewling and crying and seeing stars because he’s fucked her into heaven and back.

“No? You don’t sound too sure about that,” he comments. A brisk slap lands on her ass. “As it happens, I do plan to thrash you soundly tonight.” While she’s still gaping at the casual words that seem just a little bit fucking extreme, he nods towards a wooden chest over by the wall. “Go and fetch what I’ll need, please.”

“Wes...”

He turns away. “I really don’t think I should be made to repeat myself, do you?” he asks the air.

She walks slowly to the chest, peeking at him to see if he’s smiling, and giving him a cold look when she sees he’s absorbed in cracking cubes into a crystal glass, slicing a lime so juicy sweet when he licks his fingers clean he smiles instead of wincing, and generally looking like a man with nothing on his mind but mixing a drink.

Muttering to herself about people who can’t take a joke, she kneels and lifts up the lid, wondering what the hell he’s planning to use on her defenceless ass. It’s full of boxes, dusty and battered through use and she sighs and lifts them out until the chest is empty, without finding anything but more jigsaws than Toys R Us have.

“Uh, Wes, I can’t find – whatever it was you wanted,” she calls.

He cat foots up behind her and pushes one of the boxes with a bare foot. “That one. Unless you really want to tackle the Matterhorn at sunset. Looks a bit tricky to me; too much snow.”

“Scrabble?” She picks up the jigsaws and games invented when a computer was a man who counted stuff, and packs them away. “You want to play Scrabble?” She’s trying to guess what he’s got in mind ‘cause he can’t just want to rack up a high score and gloat. Way too simple...

“Do you know how to play?” he asks. “The rules are very easy.”

She drops the box on the table and sits down opposite him. “I’ve played it before,” she says unenthusiastically.

Yeah, she’s played it. In juvie, when there was fuck all else to do. Played it until that memorable afternoon when Sheila – who, considering what she was in for, really should’ve been able to spell ‘whore’- shoved the ‘X’ so far up Marcie’s nose when she challenged her that it had to get removed with forceps and somehow it never got put back in the box after that...

“Faith, you might sound a little less like a woman who sees defeat staring her in the face,” he says jovially, practically rubbing his hands together as he sets up the board. There’s a dictionary tucked inside the box and he pats it. “We’ll be a little limited when it comes to challenges, as this is hardly the O.E.D, but I promise you I won’t play any word that’s not allowed.”

Well, isn’t he so fucking generous? She bares her teeth at him in a snarl and gives the dark green cloth bag a vicious shake. “If it’s not in that, Wes,” she says firmly, pointing to the dictionary, “it doesn’t get on that." She taps her finger against the checkered board and meets Wesley’s narrowed eyes without flinching. “Oh, look,” she says, delving into the bag. “I got an ‘A’. Looks like I’ll be going first.”

As Wes pulls a lousy ‘T’, turns out she’s right.

It’s all going along fairly well for a bit. Wes chortles like he’s won the lottery when he gets to play ‘jack’ with the ‘J’ on a triple letter and she’s stuck with a rack of one pointers that means she’s trailing by thirty odd points. Part of the problem is that she can’t concentrate because she’s waiting for the fucking twist.

“So what’s it gonna be, Wes?” she says casually, running her foot up his leg and giving him an innocent look. “A spank for every point I’m behind when we’re done?”

“I beg your pardon?” he says, barely lifting his head as he frowns at the rack of letters and rearranges them solemnly. “What did you –oh! Don’t be ridiculous; it could be as many as a hundred.” He gives her an indulgent twinkle before returning to contemplate the ivory squares that are so fucking fascinating he can’t spare her a kiss. “My hand would get dreadfully sore... ah, now how about that?”

He places his letters in one of those clever, make three words by shoving letters in the middle and tying up the whole fucking corner of the board, ways and adds up his score in a mumble he makes sure is loud enough to be annoying and inescapable. “Twenty-three, oops, forgot the ‘D’’s on a double letter... twenty-five. Not bad.”

He beams, pulls out some replacement letters, and she watches his smile dim a bit. It’s the faintest trace of blood in the water and she takes a long, reflective sip of her shake and gets in the game for the first time.

“Want to make this interesting, Wes?” she coos. “Little bet, prize for the winner, that sort of thing?”

He’s not so rapt in contemplation of the board that he lets that one slide by. “And just what did you have in mind, Faith?”

She’s got just the thing. “If I win,” she says slowly, watching his face, “I get an ‘I get to come’ card.”

Wes leans back and taps his fingers against each other, waiting in silence for her to carry on. She rolls her eyes. “Work it out, Wes; all those times I’m begging to come and you’ve tied a knot in it or something and figure you can wait all night...”

“Faith!” he says, spluttering with outrage. “That’s hardly a –”

“Well, just once, I’ll get to tell you to stop making me wait and you’ll have to listen,” she says, getting dreamy-eyed just thinking about it. “Have to make me come in, oh, I guess you’ve got a minute. Maybe two. I’ll be so ready to come by the time I use it, shouldn’t be a problem.”

“Out of the question,” Wes says flatly.

She smiles and sets the trap. “So you think you’re going to lose, then?”

She can practically see the wheels turning as he works it out and she knows she’s won. Different game, but look at that. Wes is checkmated.

“Oh, very well.” Sucker. “And if I win –” He pauses to think about it and she keeps a calm smile pinned to her face, “You’ll have to go without smoking until we get home.”

What? Oh, he’s got to be kidding her!

“Or we can just make this a friendly game,” he says condescendingly, patting her hand.

“Too late, Wes,” she says. “Stakes accepted.” The jumble of letters in front of her suddenly provide inspiration and she reaches out a trembling hand and adds ‘acomb’ to ‘cat’ – he’d barely been able to hold back a smile when she posted that earlier – and snags a triple word score and a handy 57 points.

Game on, Wes. Game fucking on.

When she pulls out a ‘U’, ‘Q’ and ‘Z’ a few minutes later she nearly comes right there.

It takes her twenty minutes to win and she’s really fucking gracious in victory– ‘It’s only sixty-three points, Wes; that’s, like, so close. Practically a tie...’ and he’s a total gentleman about it, giving her a tight, congratulatory smile and tidying the board away while she mixes herself a victory drink... but she’s waiting for him to do something to even the score and expecting it to be pretty fiendish.

Instead he walks over to her and hands her a sheet of paper. On it he’s written her an I.O.U for an instant orgasm. She touches her fingers to it and looks up at him and even though, yeah, he’d been a smug bastard, she loves him too much not to soothe his ruffled feathers and she says softly, "Wes, did you let me win? ‘Cause, swear to God, that was just so freaky...”

He frowns. “I wouldn’t do that. Ever.” The frown deepens. “Faith, that’s a shocking thing to say; you won fair and square and I’m very proud of you.” He gives her a swift kiss. “There. Now, what would you like to do for the rest of the evening?”

She folds the note and tucks it into his shirt pocket. “Don’t know. But you’ve got two minutes to make me come, Wes.”

Chapter One Hundred and Fifty Three

He hesitates for just a second and she's about to call him on it. In fact, she's totally about to call him on it when he gently seizes her wrists and strokes his thumbs over her pulse points, which immediately start thundering away like the hounds of hell are after her.

"Are you sure about that, Faith?" he asks carefully. And it's the same question he kept asking her when they started playing Scrabble and she was putting down her 'cats' and 'pins' in all the wrong places so he could blaze his way to a triple word score on the next go.

"Am I sure that I want to come in the next two minutes?" she splutters incredulously but she can't help the note of uncertainty that's creeping into her voice. And she shakes free of his stroking thumbs so she can wind her arms round his neck and smoosh her breasts against his chest. "Sounds like all kinds of fun to me, Wes."

He nods his head in deference to the fact that she owns his ass for the next 120 seconds and kisses the sensitive patch of skin behind her ear, which makes her shiver like she's cold. "Very well, Faith," he murmurs, sliding his hands down to cup her ass. "I just thought that you'd prefer not to fritter away such a rare opportunity."

She's still not sure how or why he's trying to call her bluff and for a moment she's distracted by his fingers smoothing down the skirt of her dress, then rucking it up on the journey back home. "I'll let you have an extra minute on the clock if you think you need it," she offers with a smug, little smirk, squirming against the start of a really promising erection as the tips of his fingers tickle the backs of her thighs.

He's planting a tiny line of butterfly sweet kisses across her jaw line. "It's your choice, Faith, but I would have thought you'd have preferred to play your card when you really need it."

"Like when?"

"Oh, like after I've spanked your arse until it's a fetching shade of deep pink," he drawls, all honey and treacle and other sticky things, his nails lightly scratching her smooth skin. "Then fucked you with my fingers and my tongue and my cock for an hour or so and still not let you come but if you're adamant that you want your orgasm in the next three minutes, I'm sure I can come up with something."

There isn't a fucking reason on earth that she should still be in his arms, especially as she's pouting and huffing, "You're such a bastard sometimes, Wes."

He gives her a completely evil grin and actually has the nerve to pinch her ass. "I'm well aware of that, Faith, but it seems to get you awfully hot and bothered so I forbear."

She twists away from him and picks up her empty glass. "But you are going to fuck me tonight, aren't you?" she calls over her shoulder as she heads for the kitchen and the jug of pre-mixed chocolate milkshake in the fridge. "And I'm going to get to come?"

"For someone who's meant to be following my orders to the letter, you're getting terribly demanding, Faith,” he says, slouching nonchalantly against the doorjamb and wincing as she licks a stray drop of milkshake from her arm.

"I'm not demanding, Wes. I'm clarifying, just like you told me," she says sweetly, unscrewing the top of the vodka bottle.

He sighs but she can tell his heart isn't really in it, especially when he smiles faintly. "I can see I've created a monster."

"But a pretty monster, right?"

She looks up at him and it might be the way he's half standing in the shadows but all the angularity of his face seems softened as he looks at her. "A very pretty monster," he concedes with this serious note that's kinda at odds with the tender way he's gazing at her. "But one who steals people's hearts."

It's a really bad fucking choice of verb or whatever and she's not exactly sure what he means either 'cause whether it's good or bad to steal people's hearts really depends on your politics. Then again, he doesn't seem like he minds and she shakes her head to clear it of anything but him, and his heart 'cause it sounds like it belongs to her now and she wants to take really good care of it.

"You're thinking again, Faith," he laughs and it breaks the mood so she blinks twice and snaps out of it. "I won't have it. Come back into the lounge and talk me through our next musical selection."


He can't dance for shit. But it doesn't matter because what they're doing isn't so much dancing as holding each other tight, while they shuffle round the dimly lit living room listening to the sweet soul music from the compilation CD she made him buy.

Didn't even need to beg or pout, he just took her glass from her and put it down on the sideboard so he could hold her hands and begin to move. Coaxed her pliant body into his arms and sometime during the third song, he lifted her up so she could wrap her legs round his waist and they've been swaying together ever since.

And this music, this song, it's like someone's singing her life and she makes an inarticulate noise of agreement and brushes her cheek against his.

"Do you ever have those moments that are so fucking perfect, you wish you could, like, record them and play them back whenever you feel sad?" she whispers into his ear.

He doesn't answer at first because he's kissing her suddenly, sweetly, but there's a frantic edge to it that makes her cling tighter to him. Then he's pulling away. "No," he breathes, warm against her open mouth. "Not until I met you. And now I have those moments every day."

She cups his cheeks between her warm hands and rests her forehead against his, mesmerized by the dizzy blue of his eyes this close up, of him holding nothing back from her. "I think you need to make love to me now, Wes," she tells him in a voice as soft as feathers.


Chapter One Hundred and Fifty Four

And the look on his face then, just then, it's one she's definitely filing away for the darkest of dark days. She could be mistaken, but the angular planes of his face really have softened in the past twenty-four hours and despite all that fuss over the sunscreen, he's got a touch of color and he's looking decidedly more warm. And his eyes, oh God, his eyes -- they're so unblinkingly serene and she could just watch him watching her like that for pretty much the rest of time really and relish the way he's making her stomach flip and her fingertips tingle. 'Cause that's all she'd need to get by, really.

Without a word, he takes a hesitant step forward but she stops him with a kiss, as sweet and frantic as his had been. She hopes that says everything, maybe -- she doesn't need him to carry her tonight. And it appears he's reading her loud and clear when he lets her slowly slide out of his arms, and as soon as her toes hit the floor, she's curling her warm, shaking hand around his, leading the way up the creaky stairs to the loft.

The moon's high and full and there's a hazy green-white light angling through the windows, and everything looks like she feels, kind of blurred and unreal but utterly solid.

Too solid, maybe, because her thoughts aren't too coherent as she's trying to work out what to do next. She's initiated this, but she still wants, no needs, him to lead the way and before she can think of an ingenious way to signal this, he knows what she wants and he's undoing the buttons of her dress -- slowly, of course -- kissing her lightly each time he slides one out of a buttonhole.

And when he steps back and leaves her standing there, and she can tell by the way he's looking at her that he's memorizing the way the moonlight gives her skin a silvery glow – and she knows this since she's doing the same to him. A heavy dreamy sigh slides out of her and she mortified 'cause it sounds a little more impatient than content and his wandering eyes snap to meet hers and she's stumbling over the apology that never quite makes it out her mouth as a fully-formed sentence.

Mercifully, he cuts through her stammering with another kiss. The top of her dress is now open just enough that he can slide his hands over her breasts, the warm centers of his palms coming to rest with a feather light touch over her hard nipples.

She thought maybe she knew all his kisses, memorized and cataloged each little variation over the past few months, but these are unlike any that have come before. Their skin is vibrating and taut with mutual need and each light touch of his lips on hers is electric and leaves her increasingly dreamy and lightheaded.

Amazingly, she's not unfocused enough to snatch an open opportunity to play the same unbuttoning game with his shirt -- instead of ripping it right off him, finding she doesn't really have to rein herself in too strictly to follow his lead and play this savor-every-moment thing.

She's not sure when it happened, but he's pulled his hands away from her breasts and slipped them up and under her skirt instead. With every button she unfastens and every delicate kiss she plants on his lips, his cool fingertips skim over her ass and hips -- but he always slides them away from her pussy at the last possible second, sending them skittering down her thighs or over her hipbones.

Panting raggedly now, she manages to undo the final button and hasn't uttered a word of complaint until he finally dips a finger in her wet cunt and pulls it away just as quickly. A little whimpery moan works its way into the silence hanging between them and he places that moist glistening finger over her lips and she gently swirls her tongue over it, lapping so greedily at her own juices that a little wayward, throaty growl thwarts his own attempt at silence.

Chapter One Hundred and Fifty Five

It's all she can do not to shove him back on the bed and finish ripping the rest of his clothes of, but instead she can't help but giggle and put on her best stage whisper as she pulls him over to the bed. “Why are we being so quiet?”

“I'm not exactly sure,” he murmurs, squinting at her. “I think you started it.”

“Sounds like something you'd think up, Wes.” Her hands are busy undoing his jeans now; she dutifully slides them down past his knees and he kicks them off the rest of the way.

“Faith, why are we standing here discussing this?” His hands slither up under her arms, and before she can shriek in protest, he lifts the dress over her head and she wriggles free of it gratefully.

“Ok, ok. I'll take responsibility for that, at least,” she says, brushing her tangled, sea-salt roughened hair away from her eyes as she flashes him a sly grin and slips a hand down to stroke his straining cock. “Now, where were we?”

His sidelong glance tells her everything she needs to know – it's a warning, an indulgence, and an endearment all in one – as he pulls her down on to the bed.

He's deliberately tender -- each stroke of his warm fingertips over her skin isn't meant to drive her to the edge, begging for a release -- instead, she's practically purring as he slowly drags his tongue over her hard little nipples while his hand strokes her still-smooth pussy, coaxing her legs open. He doesn't tease her clit or slip his finger inside just enough to make her scream and buck her hips in frustration, but nudges her hip instead, whispering, “Roll over.”

And this is how he makes her wait this time, with the near-obsessive attention to every square inch of her flesh. Runs kisses from the base of her neck to the cleft of her ass and smoothes his fingers over the back of her legs. She's given up trying to stay quiet and is whimpering faintly in to the pillow as he rakes a finger through her thoroughly wet cunt again and snakes it up, lightly teasing the puckered flesh of her asshole, and just when she's certain he's about to slip his finger in, he's pulled his hands away and he's flipping her boneless, moaning self back over again.

He's lapping at her clit before she can really register that his head's between her legs and she sighs gratefully, resting her feet on his shoulders and thrusting herself up to meet the two fingers he's sliding inside her wet and ready cunt.

It seems an eternity, as he builds her up so sweetly and backs off ever so slightly just as she's about to come -- over and over again. She doesn't fight the wait, just puts herself at the mercy of his tender ministrations, not focusing on any thought or any feeling, but the whole mess of them until there's hot tears leaking from the corners of her eyes and she's whispering his name and he's slowly pulling away and sliding his chest over her belly and kissing her hotly and greedily and slipping his cock slowly inside and she tightens around him so hard and fast it's like an electric shock and they're both left gasping and wordless and each millimeter of movement sets her spine tingling and then their skin is so hot and so sensitive she feels like she might be melting into him. She swivels her hips finally, and he can only get in a few hard thrusts before he's whimpering and slumped against her and there's a little white-hot explosion inside as he comes, taking her with him.

They can hardly touch after; just his fingertip running along her shoulder nearly makes her scream with delight and when her toe runs along the top of his foot, he lets out a sharp breath as if she's taken his cock in her mouth instead.

So instead, they lie side by side -- still panting, but very still -- index fingers hooked together until the threat of possible spontaneous combustion passes.

She's the first to speak. Words feel clunky and foreign inside her mouth. “That was ... incredible...” He just smiles, incredibly pleased with himself and scoots closer, gathering her up in his arms and runs his lips up to her earlobe and flicks his tongue over it, making her shiver. His breath is hot on her neck and he whispers, “I have a surprise...”

“Wesley, if you give me another surprise this weekend, I'm totally gonna think the pod people got to you and I'm totally gonna find 'em and demand that they give me back the real Wesley Wyndam-Pryce, Esquire, 'cause I kind of miss his prissy ass...” She giggles as two worried creases spring up between his eyebrows. “Oh come on, Wes! You know I'm kidding...” And he can't keep up the sham of mock-consternation and he's laughing too, springing off the bed to rummage in the back of the top dresser drawer. She's charmed that even though they're only staying for a few days, he's managed to transplant his orderly habits into the sock drawer of a rented cottage by the sea, while her jeans and shoes and old favorite dresses are strewn all over her half of the room.

“Aha. Here we are...” She's expecting...well, she's not sure what she's expecting him to have, but it surely isn't the remains of that dimebag of weed she and Xander'd smoked a few weeks back – it must have slipped under the sofa or something.

“Ok, yeah. Pod person. You're not Wes, you're a fucking pod person.”

“Really, Faith. I resent that you think I'm too 'prissy' for this kind of thing...”

“Well, yeah. You kind of are.”

“I'll have you know that I went to college ... and law school.” He clears his throat in what can only be called mock-prissiness. “You can't possibly think I didn't partake there?”

“Well, you didn't know what bogart meant...”

“Get off that bed, Faith and into some clothes. It's probably a little too chilly for a late-night nude sortie to the beach.”

She eyes him suspiciously as she slips into the bathroom with her dress and a cardigan in tow. “Pod person...” she mutters as she slips inside, and she can hear him laughing heartily in her wake.

***

She's glad she had the presence of mind to bring her zippo lighter with her and not some cheap plastic thing -- the wind's gusting in over the tide, and she's glad she doesn't have to worry about keeping the joint lit since she's still getting over the next shock of watching him deftly roll it up with those goddamn pretty fingers of his, and she's only ever see one other person work with that kind of precision. “Don't tell me, you used to roll your own cigarettes too?”

“For a while, yes.” He doesn't explain or elaborate and leaves it at that.

She just blinks in disbelief. “Do you have anything else you wanna spill, Wes? Because I'm in such a state of shock right now...”

“No, I think that's everything. Now, hurry along and don't bogart the spliff, there Faith...”

If he weren't being so damn cute, she's pretty sure she'd be throwing a handful of sand in his face right about now. She sparks up the lighter and takes a sizable hit, letting it wisp out her nostrils, relishing the thick bitter taste it leaves on her tongue.

She hands it to him without meeting his eyes. She's not quite ready to dissolve into a pile of useless giggles quite yet. Still, she watches out of the corner of her eye to make sure he's not faking just to appease her, and when he coughs faintly after his first hit she realizes she should have known better than to think he'd do anything half-assedly, up to and including rolling immaculate joints and getting blitzed off them.

They sit side by side in the sand, hands clasped and looking at the gray, choppy waves illuminated by the high, clear moon, and silently pass the joint between them until she flops on her back, deciding to count the stars.

“Faith, really. You shouldn't lay in the sand. You'll get ... sand. Everywhere. Later.”

“You can't possibly still be worried about that kind of shit now, Wes. Incredible. Must be engraved on your DNA or something.”

“My what?”

“Your neat-freakyness. Must be ...”

“Mitochondrial DNA, you mean.”

Oh God. Here come the giggles. She snorts, trying to keep them in. She wave her hand lamely in his direction. “Yeah, yeah. Whatever, you big showoff.”

“What's so funny?” He's peering down at her, and she can see his train of thought completely derail as a goofy grin slides over his face. “Goodness, it feels like someone's grabbing my face and squashing it... I'd forgotten about that...”

She can't help it now, she's rolling around in the sand full of giggles. “I can't believe it. Well, no – that's not right. I can believe it. You're totally the most uptight stoned person I've ever seen!”

“I am not...”

“Yes you are! You are! Come on, just lay down and look at the stars with me.” She tugs on his arm, but he won't budge. “Come on, Wesley,” she drawls at him. “Be a good little stoner and look at the stars with me...”

He finally does, except that he becomes transfixed with stroking her hair and her cheek and whispers how beautiful she is and she knows that no matter how fun it is to get blitzed with Xander, it's about ten thousand times more fun to do it with Wes.

Especially when he sits up suddenly after about what seems to