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 her like an hour, or maybe just thirty minutes and says, “We have ice cream!” and drags her back to the cottage to find it.

Chapter One Hundred and Fifty Six

It's when he starts scrabbling round in the ice box and making these fucking hilarious moaning noises of anticipation that she realizes she's going to have to be the designated adult.

He emerges from the freezer with little droplets of ice clinging to his hair (and he did not just fucking stick his head in there, did he?) and a triumphant expression on his face like he went all the way to the North Pole just to get the Rocky Road.

"I found out!" he exclaims gleefully, holding up the ice cream and looking at as if he can't quite believe that something so wonderful comes in tubs. "Bowls. Spoons. Faith, we need bowls and spoons or possibly spoons and bowls. I'm not sure which would be the appropriate order."

"Dude, you are totally baked," she announces smugly and he giggles again. If he doesn't stop being so frickin' cute she's going to hit him.

"I've never been called a dude before," he whispers conspiratorially and then wrinkles up his brow in consternation. "I'm not entirely sure I like it. Now there was something with bowls and spoons that you were…"

She doesn't want to take her eyes off him for one minute with the whole so cute he's gonna die thing and also he's probably likely to electrocute himself, but she turns round and rummages in the drawer. "OK, Wes, I'm calling a time out," she says decisively. "We've got, like, stoner rules that have to be observed. One spoon, one tub of ice cream is how we're gonna play this."

He has the nerve to pout at her. "I want my own spoon."

"What? Like, I have girl cooties?" she splutters, wagging the spoon at him. "We're gonna share the ice cream and you're gonna roll us a couple of joints. Now go into the living room before I get really pissed."

As he walks out of the kitchen he has this shit-eating grin on his face which widens as he purposely bumps her with his hip and momentarily presses the tub of ice cream against her back, which makes her yelp and glare at him.

By the time she's mixed them up a vodka milkshake and a vodka tonic apiece and walked back into the lounge, he's just lighting up another joint, all snuggly-wuggly under a blanket, his eyes glued to the television that's appeared out of nowhere. Or, like, was in a big cupboard that she hasn't got round to investigating.

"There's a TV? There's a fucking TV and you didn't tell me?" she snarls at him and he looks up and blinks at her.

"I've only just realized it was here," he protests without one fucking ounce of credibility. "Oh, stop frowning at me, Faith. I've found this absolutely bizarre program and I need you to explain the finer points to me."

He's watching… sweet fucking baby Jesus… A ‘Queer Eye For The Straight Guy’ marathon and his attention is so goddamn rapt that she has to physically budge him along the sofa so she can sit down.

"Incredible," he breathes as he watches some poor shlub get his back waxed. "We really must get a television when we're in New York." Then his gaze swivels round to her. "Ice cream, please."

She takes her sweet time peeling the lid off and then holds the spoon over the open tub, aware that he's watching her every move with unwavering focus. Then she digs in with the spoon and comes out with a mound of ice cream, which she carefully moves to his mouth.

"A spoonful for you," she coos and he opens his mouth obediently, closing his eyes in ecstasy and moaning because she was way generous with the chocolate.

She scoops up more ice cream with the spoon. "And an even bigger spoonful for me because you totally lied about the TV and you're bogarting the joint."

He looks at the joint clasped between his fingers like he's not sure how it got there. "Oh." He tried to go for stern but he can't quite get the intonation right. "You do realize, Faith, that when I have proper control of my cognitive thought processes, I fully intend to give your arse a good, hard spanking."

The look she gives him is a pretty fucking good one. Not many people could stand to me on the other end of it. "Whatever, Wes. Swap?"

As Saturday nights go, she's never had a better one. There's the hydroponic skunk and the overloaded joints that Wes has rolled. Vodka milkshakes and Rocky Road, though she has to keep taking tips of his vodka tonic to kinda counteract the sugar overload and there's him. Wes. Watching Queer Eye and chortling. And when neither of them can eat, drink or smoke anymore because they're heading for Pukesville, they start making out.

And it's kinda sweet because he pulls the blanket over their heads so it's like they're in this little woolly cave and then he starts kissing her. It's everything she never had in High School; the cute guy who keeps saying, "I love you", in between these kisses which suck the soul right out of her.

Her lips are tingling and her head is swimming and it's so fucking romantic that she almost can't bear it. When he starts unbuttoning her dress, it's a relief because she's coming undone.

"So beautiful," he murmurs, placing a reverent kiss on the tip of each breast and she wriggles under him, opening her legs so can grind his denim-covered cock against her.

And they don't so much get naked as keep pulling at each other's clothing until they're skin on skin and sharing these little whimpers at the sensitized slide of their flesh rubbing and writhing.

The damp head of his cock is nudging against the smooth skin of her inner thigh and she scoots down on the cushions trying to get him inside her. "Need you to put it in, Wes," she whispers in his ear.

His hand glides down the barely there curve of her belly and then his fingers are flickering against her clit with these tiny, delicate movements. "You're always so wet for me, Faith. So delicious and glistening, aren't you?"

Their knuckles brush, as she wraps her hand round his cock so she can guide it home. "It's 'cause of this," she moans as she enters her inch by sweet inch.

"I only have to look at you and I'm hard. It's never been like this with anyone else. Just you, my darling Faith," he says so tenderly that he has to start kissing the tears that begin trickling out of her eyes. "No, don't cry. You're not to cry. Not any more."

And she can feel the twitching length of him deep inside her, rubbing against all those sweet spots, but he's not thrusting and she's not shimmying; they just stay locked together, hands in each other's hair as they share these slow, languid kisses that seem to last for hours.

She's not sure when she falls asleep. She vaguely recalls him carrying her up the stairs to bed. But the next thing she remembers is his arms around her and she's half awake enough to know that he's still hard and she's still wet and wanting him so badly that she rubs her ass against him and he's lifting her leg and sliding inside her and fucking her with these slow, lazy strokes as his thumb gently works her clit and she's coming, not with starbursts and fireworks like she usually does, but with these steady little waves like she's a pebble being lifted up and carried along with the current.

When she wakes up for the second time, the sun is streaming in through the chinks in the drapes and she rolls over and stretches luxuriously. His side of the bed is still warm and she burrows against the pillow, which still smells of him. The paper is rough against her cheek and she sits up and yawns as she unfolds the note.

Darling girl

You looked so wonderfully comfortable that I didn't have the heart to wake you. I've gone into town to get the Sunday paper and some nutritious food to counteract the indulgences of last night. But one last surprise: I've declared Monday a mental health day so you can have a little longer to work on your tan.

See you soon

Love Wes

PS: Stoner rules are officially over.

She gives a contented groan and with the note still clutched in her hand, goes back to sleep.

Chapter One Hundred and Fifty Seven

She’s awake when the car pulls up in front of the house; curled up on a wicker chair on the porch, with a blanket wrapped around her; showered but still dressed in her robe. Her eyes can’t seem to decide if they want to stay open or not. When Wesley walks up to the cottage with a spring in his step, a grin on his face and two bags of groceries, she goes for closed. It’s just not natural looking that cheerful when her head’s throbbing as if the marching band had walked through it wearing hob-nailed boots.

“Good morning, Faith,” he says, dropping a kiss on her head and yanking at the blanket she’s pulled up over her face. “I hope you slept well.”

“Wes, some sympathy here? I’m dying.”

She feels like it too. Not been sick – not quite – but thank God Wes had tidied up the leftovers, and she’s totally gone off chocolate in any shape or form.

“A hangover isn’t immediately fatal,” he informs her. “You just wish you’d die. As I have plans for you that require you to be breathing, I’d appreciate it if you’d recover from last night’s indulgences as quickly as possible.”

She opens one eye and squints up at him. “Sorry. Wish I could but these things take time, y’know?”

“Then I’ll have to speed them up, won’t I?”

He saunters inside, after tapping a reproving finger against her lips when she pouts, and starts doing stuff that’s way too noisy but she forgives him because he emerges with a tray and sits beside her. Glaring at her when she clings to the blanket, he gets her to swallow something fizzy and nibble on toast, juice and coffee until her stomach settles and her headache eases off.

“Poor Faith,” he murmurs. “I imagine you hate me now, don’t you?”

She takes a sip of the water bottle he’s handed her and nods. “You should feel worse than me,” she says accusingly. “You’re out of practice!”

“Not really,” he says and she remembers how he used to look in the early days and winces. Guess maybe he’s had time to work on getting used to hangovers.

“We’ll spend a quiet morning –what’s left of it – lazing around,” he says, as if he does that all the time, “and then, as it’s such a beautiful day –”

“Too sunny,” she grumps.

“I thought we’d take a hike, and if you don’t behave, I’ll put you in the car and drive you home.”

Penitent and apologetic, she’s crawling into his lap and kissing him before she realizes he’s teasing her. In revenge, she lets him stew over nineteen down for twenty minutes before solving the anagram for him. All this time in the US of A and he’s still not got used to spelling without a ‘U’ and with a ‘Z’...

The hike’s something she’d happily have swapped for crawling back into bed with him and letting the last of the hangover melt away in a post-orgasmic glow, but no, seems Wes wants to look at the ocean. It’s right there, and it’s blue and wet and fucking big, but there’s a lookout point a few miles away and somehow that’s got Wesley’s eyes gleaming and he’s two seconds away from pulling out a compass, she swears he is.

He loads a rucksack with supplies, which makes her wonder just how far this place really is, and they set off into the woods, along a track that has delusions of being a trail. Getting to stare at Wes’ ass in jeans is kinda nice, but it goes out of focus as she drops back, and when he notices, he tuts and makes her walk in front and he isn’t above giving her ass a slap if he thinks she’s lally-fucking-gagging.

Slowly, though, she starts to get it. Maybe it’s the air; clear and salty, so every breath’s like biting into a chip, or the fact that they’re so totally alone and tomorrow’s going to be the same... maybe it’s because Wes’ hand lingered the last time he urged her on and she’s fairly sure there’s a blanket in the supplies... She turns, just as the path widens so they can walk beside each other, and slips her hand into Wes’, smiling at him.

“Never pictured you as the outdoor type,” she says.

Wesley pauses. “I’m not really. Just used to the countryside.”

“Going to bother you being in a city then?” she asks.

“Not really.” He glances at her and shakes his head as she looks unconvinced. “I’m not Tarzan, Faith!”

It’s his exasperated voice, but it’s lost all its sting recently, so she just grins and yodels out her best imitation of Tarzan calling the animals. Wesley lifts an eyebrow. “I think that might have attracted a mouse, but it wasn’t exactly awe-inspiring, now was it, and no, I’m not going to show you how it’s done.”

“Oh, go on...” she says, and she bets he would’ve, but right then they get to the lookout point and Wes is as proud as if he discovered Africa. She has to admit it’s a good view. Sea’s still blue and wet though...

They end up on the blanket, after Wes has doled out some snacks and water, telling her not to eat too much as he plans to take her out for dinner, with their backs against a rock, warm from the sun and smoothed flat enough by the wind to be comfortable. There’s an odd intimacy about being alone up here, high above the world, and Wesley puts his arm around her shoulders and she snuggles in close.

“Last night,” she says. “It was all wrong, you know.”

“Be specific,” Wesley says lazily. “I have some fond memories of it myself.”

“Ice cream late at night is for when you’re sad and you want to dish the dirt on your boyfriend to your best friend,” she tells him. “It’s traditional.”

“Oh, really,” he murmurs. “And do you do that often?”

She wiggles her hand. “So-so. Don’t really have a girlfriend. Sometimes, with Darla –” She’s silent a moment. Yeah. Sometimes, when it’d just been the two of them and Darla had been drunk enough to be mellow, not mean... “But she’s my mom; can’t talk to her about sex without it being majorly creepy. So it’s usually Xander, and being gay doesn’t make him a girl.”

“So, just out of interest,” he says, brushing a kiss against her hair. “What would you have told Xander last night? What sins of mine would you relate to get his sympathetic agreement that I’m a lowlife?”

She snickers quietly. “Can’t think of any, Wes; I’m more likely to tell you if you do something I don’t like; not the brooding sort.”

“Very true. You tend to lash out instead or throw things. I have the bruises to prove it.”

“What? Get out!” She snuggles closer. “I’m the one with the bruises,” she says drowsily and it’s a weird conversation to be having in the bright sunlight, sober, but it fits somehow. “Wes? Can I ask you something?”

His arm tightens and then relaxes. “You may ask, or tell me, anything, Faith,” he says. “I can’t promise I’ll always answer, or react the way you want or expect, but don’t let that stop you.”

There’s a faint warning bell sounding, but she closes her ears to it and watches the gulls dip and soar on the breezes that are ruffling Wesley’s hair just enough to make her have to lift a hand to smooth it into place.

“This – what we do,” she says. “It’s a lot of work, isn’t it?”

“I beg your pardon?”

He sounds bewildered and she starts to talk fast, stumbling over the words, the way she always does when she’s trying to explain, but most people never let her finish the way he does. “You could just fuck me, Wes. You could just have me, and it’d take fifteen minutes, tops, and even if you did it a couple of times a day, we’re not talking much, and you’d still get to come, and I would most times and – and you’re so busy.”

“I’m not sure I see –” he begins, and she puts a hand over his mouth, pressing the words back with her fingers.

“And it’s not just the sex, not just the way you spend fucking hours over it, making it perfect, making it special, it’s everything else you do. Bringing me here. All the stuff you get me...”

His eyes flicker to her wrist, and she doesn’t know why that should matter until she sees the band of paler skin where a watch should be, and she forces herself not to snatch her hand away and carries on babbling. “I’m not – Wes, I’m not –”

“Worth it?” he says, moving to his knees beside her, blocking the sun so that for a moment, as she blinks up at him, his face is in darkness. “That’s simply not true.”

Only Wes could pack a speech into four words.

“You could have anyone,” she argues weakly, because his thumb is stroking along her collar bone and the light touch is all it takes to make her want him.

“Even if that were the case, which it isn’t, I prefer to have you,” he says, adding gently, “I love you.”

And that brings it all crashing back down on her, everything that’s waiting, everything that hasn’t gone away just because they have, and her eyes fill with tears. “Wes – tell me again.”

“That I love you?” he says, a faint frown creasing his forehead.

“No – yes – but no, I want you to tell me what you said when we got here. Tell me not to think about anything but us. Make me do it.”

She’s plucking at his shirt now, with frantic fingers, and she can feel her throat closing up with tears. His hands close around hers and he stills their movement.

“Faith...”

“Tell me,” she begs. “Just fucking tell me...”

He sighs. “I really shouldn’t have to,” he says, with just enough sternness to make him sound like he means it. “Once should be enough.”

“I know,” she murmurs, dropping her eyes so he can’t see how fucking scared she is that she’s going to spoil this the way she has everything else in her life.  “I’m sorry.”

“Look at me,” he orders, getting her head to tilt up without laying a finger on her. “Good. Faith, as I don’t seem to have made myself clear – or you’re being deliberately obtuse – you’re to obey me unquestioningly this weekend as a way of making up for your appalling behavior whilst I was away, and one of my orders was that you think of nothing but us. Now, is there anything about that that you want me to go over?”

“No, Wesley,” she says meekly, relaxing again.

He sighs. “I think I’m going to invite Xander over and eat ice cream with him,” he mutters.

She gives a little shriek of laughter, feeling, what did he call her once? Mercurial. Yeah. “What? Wes, you’re fucking kidding me! Why?”

“I have a feeling he could be useful at interpreting you when you’re being rather more incomprehensible than usual,” he says dryly. “And haven’t I told you not to swear?”

She shakes her head. “No one gets me the way you do,” she says, meaning it. “And yeah, you have. Sorry.”

“That’s twice you’ve said that, and somehow I don’t feel you were entirely sincere either time.” He purses his mouth and considers her. “We’re going back now,” he says suddenly, standing up and holding out his hand to haul her to her feet.

“We just got here,” she protests, feeling her leg muscles twinge at the thought of the trek back. It might be downhill, but somehow she doesn’t think it’ll make it that much easier.

“I think you meant to say, ‘Yes, Wesley’, didn’t you?” he says, folding his arms. “Followed, perhaps, by another apology?”

Obey me unquestioningly...

“Yes, Wes,” she says. He does that thing where his eyes get cold and she swallows. “Sorry.”

“Now I’ve got you back on track...” he says, with an approving nod, “fold the blanket neatly and put it back in the rucksack.”

She picks it up, shakes off the pine needles and dirt, and folds it. Once it’s stowed away she glances over at Wesley who’s looking thoughtful.

“I’m going to give you a five minute start,” he says, reaching out for the rucksack. “That should be sufficient.”

“For what?” she asks.

“You’re going to be first back at the cottage,” he says. “When I arrive, I want you waiting, naked, on the bed. On your back, arms by your side, I think.” He unbuckles his watch and fastens it around her wrist. “Keep this on. When you’re in position, make a note of the time.”

“OK.,” she says, feeling the weight of the metal strap tug down at her wrist, warm from his body. She risks a question. “Why?”

He smiles. “Because I’m going to want to know how long you’ve been waiting for me, Faith. And before you ask ‘why’ again, perhaps I should tell you that it’s in your best interests to make the wait as long as possible, that as far as I’m concerned the five minutes began as soon as I gave you my watch and – ”

She doesn’t know what he’s got planned, but she’ll think about that as she starts to run, pebbles scattering under her feet, heart hammering because fuck, she’s sure she can hear him behind her already, and if he beats her back to the cottage she’ll lose whatever reward he’s dreamed up and she wants it.

Wants everything Wes gives her, and these days he’s giving her so much she can’t hold onto it all, and it’s slipping through her fingers...

Chapter One Hundred and Fifty Eight

By the time she's clear out of the woods, her lungs are bursting and her heart is pounding so hard that she's she sure it's about to make its own bid for freedom and shoot straight out of her chest.

But still she keeps on running, a little dust cloud, and possibly Wes, hot on her heels. She can feel tiny stones pinging up and hitting her bare legs as she races over the dirt path and her hair's streaming out in the slight breeze and all of a sudden she's so very aware of this moment, of how alive she is, how pleased she is to be in her body, to be her. Just another thing that he's done for her, but maybe it's the most precious gift of all.

The cottage is in sight now and even though she thinks that she's gonna freakin' die in the next couple of minutes, unbelievably she's finding one last little spurt of energy and speeding up as she skids over the dunes and jumps up the porch steps.

She's through the front door and kicking off her sneakers. Stumbling up the stairs as she tugs her dress over her head and already wriggling out of her underwear as she crashes into the bedroom.

Flopping down on the bed, she looks at the time. It's 3.07 and 12, no 13 seconds. And there's no way he's racing down the trail like he's got the hounds of hells snapping at his toes. Wes is way too cool for that.

Her breathing is getting back to normal but she's still panting slightly and listening to the frantic thud of her pulse as her body decides not to go into cardiac arrest. It'll probably wait until Wes has done what the fuck ever he's planned, she thinks happily, stretching out and reveling in the fierce glow of the sun streaming in through the window.

She's just debating whether having another peek at the time would mean that she's broken the rules when she hears the front door close with a quiet click and, just like that, her heart is dancing the marenga again. There's a pause and then his slow, measured tread on the stairs and her nipples are peaking, her cunt's moistening and all the little hairs on her arms are standing up to say hello.

Then he's there, standing in the doorway. "Hey you," she murmurs throatily.

He stoops down to gather up her bra and panties so he can add them to her dress and sneakers which are already in his hands and slowly arranges them in a neat pile on the chair. "Really, Faith," he fusses. "You should take more care over your things."

And now is really not the time for a lecture about her lack of housekeeping skills so she tries to arrange her face in to something that resembles an apology. "Sorry, Wes."

He gives her this bone-meltingly soft smile. "But really, seeing you arranged so alluringly, I find myself in rather a forgiving mood. What's the time, Faith?"

She holds her wrist in front of her face. "3.15 and 21 seconds," she announces triumphantly and she sounds so fucking smug about it that he chuckles.

"And what time was it when you first looked?"

"3.07 and 13 seconds, so that's…"

"Eight minutes and eight seconds," he finishes for her. "You must have broken the three minute mile getting back."

"Didn't I tell you that I used to be on the school track team? In my pre-cigarette days. County champion two years in a row." Oh yeah, Wes. You've been messing with the wrong girl.

And he is looking a little frayed around the edges now. "Somehow, it hasn't come up," he huffs. "Well, I can see that I've been hoist by my own petard."

"So…?" she prompts because he'd better make the almost heart attack worth her while. "You said it was in my best interests to make the wait as long as possible. I was just following orders, Wes."

"Eight minutes and eight seconds," he muses, walking towards the bed, his eyes running up and down her naked flesh. "There's a certain pleasing symmetry in that."

He sits down on the edge of the bed and traces an idle finger up her sweat-dampened thigh and she's already clenching her fingers into the sheet.

"What are you gonna do?" she asks breathily, her voice hitching on the last word as his questing finger snakes decisively towards her throbbing pussy.

"Well, the possibilities are endless," he drawls, bending his head to press a hot kiss against her knee. "I could spank you for eight minutes or I could let you tie me up and have your wicked way with me…"

She's already opening her mouth to beg him to let her but he's smoothing his fingers over her lips, his eyes gleaming with amusement.

"Surely you should have all the relevant information before you make a decision, Faith," he says primly.

And she gives in to the temptation to poke her tongue out at him. "Doesn't matter what other stuff you say," she pouts. "Eight minutes and eight seconds of you all bound and naked and at my mercy? Guess Christmas just came early."

His finger drifts between her legs and gently circles her clit before he drags a sticky trail up her belly. "Were you quite that wet before we started this conversation?"

She wants to ask him if she can move because she really just wants to yank him down, haul off his clothes, tie him up and fuck him into the middle of next week. But there's the whole obeying him unquestioningly thing so she tries to answer the question.

"Been thinking about what you've got planned ever since I got back and, yeah, it got me wet," she admits, feeling her cheeks start to burn as he regards her keenly, his tongue slipping out to wet that pretty, pouty bottom lip. "But, Wes, you know I've always wanted to…"

"I could go down on you for eight minutes and eight seconds," he drawls thickly, toeing off his shoes and socks so his voice is slightly muffled. "I could fuck you with that vibrator for eight minutes and eight seconds. I'm pretty sure I could give you eight orgasms in that time if I put my mind to it. Or I could just sit here admiring your beautiful body and make you do all the work."

If she wasn't wet before, then now she's dripping with desire, lust curdling in the pit of her stomach so she's only vaguely aware that her hips are rising off the bed. "Do I get to choose?" she demands, stretching out her hand so she can curl it around his thigh. "Please, Wes…"

Chapter One Hundred and Fifty Nine

“Oh, I think I’ve been indulgent enough all things considered,” he says, peeling her hand off his leg and bringing it to his lips to plant one tongue-flickering kiss against her palm. “In fact, when I look back, I’m marvelling at all you’ve got away with recently.” His lips move to her wrist and rest, warmly, briefly, against the pulse that’s throbbing steadily there.

“Wes...” she says, in what has to qualify as the neediest whimper she’s capable of, “please...”

“’Please’,” he says. “Do you know what would please me right now, Faith?”

She might do, might be able to tell him, but his fingers are back between her legs, pinching delicately at her clit and she’s gone beyond speech. He squeezes her hand with a gentle, reassuring pressure and then releases it to fall, dream-motion slowly, back to the bed.

“Eight minutes of you like this,” he whispers. “On the edge, waiting, needing – and you are, aren’t you, Faith?” He doesn’t wait for the gasp that’s all she can manage in reply, just drifts the back of his hand down the tender skin of her inner thigh and doesn’t go near her cunt again. Every now and then he strips off another item of his clothing, managing somehow to keep touching her, with mouth, fingers, voice, so that she barely notices that he’s naked until he moves over her, dropping kisses like rain on her stomach, his voice murmuring against her skin, against her quivering body, taut as she fights to stay still, telling her that she’s beautiful and he loves her like this, that she’s not to come, or move and absolutely forbidden to speak, because he can’t get enough of the frantic sounds slipping past her parted lips; sounds that aren’t words and never will be because she’s fragments of a whole as his hands break her down.

He slides into her without spreading her open with fingers or tongue first, knowing she’s ready, and she’s wet and tight and the slow thrust of his cock is unbearable when she can’t curl up and around him with arms and legs and her teeth tasting his skin. He keeps her in place for eight deliberate strokes, weight held on straight arms so that all she can feel is his cock and the press of his legs against hers. He never takes his eyes off her face and he watches her with curious eyes as if he doesn’t know why she’s panting, face screwed up, eyes wild and lips trembling, as if the rocking of his hips as he plunges into her again and again is irrelevant, distant, remote.

Then on the ninth stroke he pauses and frees her with a nod and she’s surging up against him, hands hammering at him as she waits, past patience, for him to start fucking her again. His head turns and he kisses her throat, sucking hard at the skin, slipping his arm around her shoulders and gathering her to him as he fucks her hard; swift, fierce jabs that drive her towards a climax that makes her whole and breaks her all over again.

They fall back against the bed, side by side and breathing fast. She doesn’t bother looking at her watch. Somehow she knows it’s going to have taken him just over eight minutes.

“Well,” Wesley says, sounding a little beat. “That was...” His voice dies away.

“Yeah,” she says, snuggling up against him. “Perfect description. You’ve got a real way with words, Wes. Anyone ever tell you that?”

He moves to face her. “Now that was just asking for trouble,” he murmurs, letting his fingers dance across her ribs and finding at least three new places to tickle. When she’s squeaking as energetically as she can, given that she’s still a melted puddle of mush, he finishes off with a brisk slap on her ass and looks smug.

“I think we should shower,” he says, as if it’s escaped her notice that they’re both grubby, sticky and damp.

She tries to sit up and he smiles as she moans, muscles complaining already. “Poor Faith. If we were at home, I’d run you a hot bath and keep you in there for an hour.”

“If we were at home, I wouldn’t have been running a marathon,” she says tartly, pulling a leaf out of her hair and studying it in disbelief. “God, I must look a total mess.”

“Not at all,” he assures her. “Disheveled, perhaps, and you do seem to be wearing most of a bush, but it adds to the dryad-look. I like it.”

“Just call me Jane,” she mutters. “But don’t ask me to swing on a vine.”

“I think I can promise that I won’t,” he says, lips twitching in a smile.

He whisks her in and out of the shower so fast she barely has time to get wet; frowning at her when she takes advantage of a kiss to send soap-slicked hands roaming over his ass, though the way his eyes darken isn’t all that discouraging.

“What; has this got to last eight minutes and eight seconds, too?” she teases him.

“Don’t be silly,” he says, toweling her hair dry, with a much smaller one hooked tantalizingly low around his hips. “You have to be back in position within that time.” He lifts an eyebrow. “I think... yes. You’ve got approximately forty-five seconds.”

“How is that approximate?” she hisses, already moving. “And how do you know? Your watch is still upstairs!”

“Really Faith, you’re most argumentative. I can’t say that I approve.” He follows her, still wearing the towel, and waits, arms folded across his chest, until she’s back on the bed. “I thought I’d made it perfectly clear that I didn’t want that from you.”

“Don’t always get what you want, Wes.” she says, and it’s not pert, or challenging; it’s just the sober truth, so he doesn’t get mad at her.

“I’m going to brush your hair,” is all he says, getting out the hairbrush he got for her. “Sit up, please.”

That’s nice; kneeling on the bed with Wes behind her, drawing the brush through thick, wet, tangled strands and making them smooth. He doesn’t stop until every knot’s been vanquished and she knows this isn’t on the clock. The gentle tugs on her hair, and the satisfying prickle of the brush as it rakes gently across her head are relaxing, and she sighs, feeling cherished.

“I’m going to spank you with this next,” Wesley says, not really making her lose the feeling. “In fact I might do most of the things I offered you as choices before we have to get ready for dinner.”

“’Most’ meaning ‘all but letting Faith tie me up’?” she demands.

“You seem so eager to have me at your mercy that, not surprisingly, I’m getting quite nervous about it,” he tells her, looking fucking terrified. Not.

She snorts. “Nervous. Right.”

“Over my knee, Faith,” he snaps, moving to sit on the edge of the bed.

She tucks still-damp hair behind her ears and smiles at him. “Kiss me first?” she says in her best cajoling voice.

“Faith...”

There’s a warning she can’t ignore, and she pouts and wriggles into place. The towel he was wearing is long gone and the heat of his body meets hers as he positions her, spreading his knees wider and resting one hand in the small of her back. He doesn’t press down, but it feels heavy; anchoring her, locking her in place. She can’t imagine moving once he’s done that.

She waits, knowing he’s staring at her ass, at the bow of her back, the hair tumbling to hide her face, for now, while she’s still. Later, when he’s hurting her, when she’s breathing through clenched teeth or panting, open mouthed and silent because she can’t spare the effort to moan, he’ll brush it back and watch her face, but for now it’s hidden.

She waits – and he shifts, unexpectedly, and bends, kissing her ass with lips that she can tell are smiling.

Then the faint feeling of warmth is drowned and lost in the heat of the first flat slap of the brush.

Chapter One Hundred and Sixty

He keeps the blows slow and measured to start off with so it doesn't really hurt, just warms her ass and starts off this deep burn which makes her arch her buttocks against the unrelenting wood.

She's gasping in time with each stroke, arms wrapped round his leg and fingers clutching at nothing as he starts to hit her harder and faster.

"Such a disobedient girl," he clucks reprovingly, smoothing his free hand over her rapidly reddening flesh. "Willful, impetuous, headstrong…"

She gets a fierce blow for every adjective and the way he drawls each one out, his voice low and caressing, is exactly the same tender tone he uses when he tells her she's beautiful.

By the time he places the brush on the bed, her ass feels like it's on fire; this dry, itchy heat that makes her want to scream but instead she grits her teeth and wriggles against the hard length of his cock twitching against her belly.

"Wes…" Her moan is so deep and low that it feels like it's being plucked straight out of her cunt as hauls her off his lap and sits her down on the edge of the bed.

She winces as the cotton makes contact with her throbbing ass and his eyes darken. "Even though it's such a pity not to see your pretty, pink arse, I want you to lie back on the bed, Faith," he says calmly, but his hand tightens on her knee. And she's scrambling backward, levering herself up the bed and yelping as her skin drags against the sheet.

"Hurts…" she whimpers and it's an observation, not a complaint and he's following her, crawling up the bed and parting her legs. She thinks she must look halfway to deranged; her hair's falling into her eyes and she can't stop biting her lips because he won't kiss her. "Wes, please…"

His hands are sliding up her thighs, thumbs resting on either side of her splayed lips and he smiles so fucking sweetly. "You keep saying that, Faith. It's getting rather repetitive so I think I'd like you silent for the time being."

She can feel her eyebrows shooting up in protest and he places a soft, sucking kiss on her smooth mound, tongue swiping out to lick a sizzling line down to where she's sticky with wanting him. "Apart from those delicious sounds that you make," he adds as she groans pleadingly.

She closes her eyes tight shut because the world is spinning and it's making her head swim. And he's still pressing these tiny kisses against her labia, tongue darting out to taste her every now and again.

When she presses her heels down on the mattress and tilts her hips up though he stops and she glares at him. If looks could kill, he'd be six feet fucking under.

"Give me your hand," he orders and she moves her arm, his fingers entwine round hers and she lets him guide her towards her wet pussy.

He uncoils her fingers and then he's grabbing her index finger and resting it against her clit. "You've got eight minutes and eight seconds to make yourself come," he says softly, kneeling back on the bed. "And I'm sure I don't need to tell you that I'll be most displeased if you have an orgasm before the time's up."

She starts slowly, just circling her clit with a shaking finger, playing for time but she's so wet that soon she's slipping and sliding over the tender nub of flesh, trying to ease off because it feels so good and it’s even better because he's watching her.

And she can't tear her eyes away from his face because he's looking dumbstruck; lips parted, cheeks flushed like it's his birthday and Christmas and Easter all rolled into one Faith-shaped package. She's not making any sounds now because he's doing it for her. When she teases around her damp entrance with the tip of one finger, he hisses quietly. And then she pushes two fingers inside, spreads her legs further apart so he can see how her cunt is clamping down on them as she twists them deeper and he lets out this tiny little moan that sounds like it's been wrenched out of him.

If feels like she's been doing this for hours. Or maybe even seconds. But for once she's not fighting this terrible battle with her own body not to come; instead she settles back on the pillows and continues to lazily fuck herself with two fingers, staring at him all the while.

Her cunt is so wet now that every time she pushes her fingers in there's these damp, sucking sounds which should be embarrassing but he's licking his lips and leaning forward, inching closer and closer towards her pussy and she's pretty damn sure that he's gonna move the whole eating her out thing up on the menu, when he suddenly leans across her, the leaking head of his cock leaving a sticky trail across her tummy and opens the bedside drawer.

"This… you…" he can't seem to get the words out. Stammering Wes hasn't put in an appearance for quite some time and she's so touched that he's here now that she's edging forward so she can rub her cheek against his shoulder. "You look very enchanting," he tells her, his voice clipped like he has to make it that way so he can actually speak. "But this is taking far too long so I think you need some assistance."

She sees a flash of purple plastic and the "But, Wes!" bursts out of her mouth before she can hold it back.

"No talking," he spits out. "I thought I'd made that perfectly clear."

And not telling him that he's a fucking bastard is harder than all the time she's had to force back an orgasm when he's been fucking her into the mattress for what feels like days. She has to make do with narrowing her eyes, thinning her lips and speeding up the movements of her hand so she's arching back on the pillows, rubbing her thumb hard into her clit…

"Stop that!" he barks, seizing her wrist but then he's pulling her hand towards his mouth so he can suck voraciously at her fingers, tongue swirling fast around her knuckles and even that is making her whimper and clench the muscles of her cunt around thin air. When he deems her hand to be squeaky clean again, he shoves the vibrator at her.

"I want to see you fuck yourself with your little friend until you come," he says and if there's a little quaver at the end of the sentence then it's not like she's allowed to call him on it. "I'm feeling generous, I'll give you three minutes."

Chapter One Hundred and Sixty One

And if he wants a show, she’ll give him one, she thinks, feeling cucumber-cool in comparison because he’s about to, oh explode, melt, anything that means he loses control. All because of her, because she’s let him do, well just about anything he wants to. There’s a question in her mind about who’s really in control here, but she decides, in a split-second of clarity before the arousal fogs her brain, that it’s both of them. She likes that idea; that they’re a team, and if she’s fooling herself, it’s just too bad...

She can’t speak, but he’s said she can moan, so she does just that, forming the sound deep in her throat and parting her lips so he can hear it. His gaze flickers up to her face and she closes her eyes a little, watching him through the dark fringe of her eyelashes. She holds his look and slides the vibrator home, giving him everything she feels as it gets swallowed up by her hungry, needy cunt, letting it all show on her face; the first wave of sensation; the fight to keep from coming because his eyes – fuck, she could come just from watching his face and it looks like he could return the favor.

She shapes his name with her lips, not breathing, so not a whisper of sound goes with it, and gets a tightening of his mouth as applause as he smothers a smile... then she’s driving the toy deep and her eyes open as wide as her legs as she starts to come, hips jerking and her free hand stretching out to grab at his arm frantically.

It’s not often he loses control but he does then, and the growl he gives as he pulls the vibrator out in one impatient tug is lost in the cry she gives as he sheathes his cock in her and fucks her through one orgasm and into the next, his hands hard on her body, his mouth on her lips, her neck, kisses and stammered, incoherent words spilling from it as he tells her he loves her over and over in a dozen different ways.

Afterwards, they lie in silence, tangled together and content. She’s coming to look forward to those moments when there’s nothing to listen to but his heart, thudding against her hand, nothing to say and spoil by putting into imperfect words that don’t come close to telling him how he makes her feel.

But they can’t stay like that for ever and it’s almost a relief when he sighs and stretches out, dislodging her hand and bringing everything back into focus after it had turned hazy and soft.

“You’re allowed to speak now,” he says wryly, kissing her forehead. “Feel free to tell me everything I could see hovering on your lips.”

She grins and prods him in the ribs. “If I did, you’d want to spank me again, Wes, and I’m not sure I’m up for that any time soon.”

Just mentioning it makes her realize how sore her ass is and she shifts so that she’s lying mostly on her stomach. His hand comes down and hovers over the bruised skin and she sneaks a peek to see if he looks upset or sorry. Not this time. There’s a satisfied smile tugging at his lips as he stares at what he’s created with a brush, like it’s some freaky bit of modern art or something, and she presses hers together to hold back a comment.

“You’re very brave,” he says eventually. “Don’t be too brave, Faith. I don’t ever want to hurt you.”

As her ass is deep-down throbbing and she bets the back of the brush is still holding the heat of a thousand suns just from touching it in a minute's-worth of split second contacts, that should’ve made her roll her eyes, but it doesn’t. She gets what he means and she just snuggles up against him, groping for his hand.

“Didn’t. But I prefer it when you use your hand.”

“Why?” he says curiously, shifting so that she’s in his arms but her ass isn’t against the covers. “Does it hurt less?”

She’s not, even after all they’ve done, comfortable discussing it. He gets off on it; she’s learned to like it – or he’s shown her she always did but didn’t know it – whatever – but it doesn’t mean she wants to gets earnest and meaningful about it. But he’s asked and she’s guessing the ‘do as I say’ is still in effect so she does her best to answer.

“No. Well, maybe. It’s just more personal. It’s you touching me, there’s nothing in the way. It’s why I’d always want your fingers in me, sooner than that thing –” She looks around for the Rabbit, but it must’ve rolled onto the floor. Maybe they can ‘forget’ to pack it... “- even if they can’t buzz, or vibrate, and they’re not a snazzy shade of purple.”

“Thankfully,” he murmurs, lifting his hand up and wiggling his fingers in a way that makes them both snicker quietly. “Well, you must tell me – you promise? – if I ever –”

“Ssh,” she says, frowning at him. “I will, just stop worrying.” She arches up in a stretch and moves – carefully – to kneel beside him. “Guess there’s no point in tying you up right now,” she decides, running her finger down his stomach to his cock, reduced without being diminished. “Eight minutes...I’d need longer than that; you’re not Superman.”

“You’re really being a little obvious there, Faith,” he tells her kindly. “I think you’ll find I’m not so easily manipulated.”

“Want to rephrase that, Wes?” she says, widening her eyes and giving him her best wicked grin – and a gentle stroke along his cock just to rub it in.

He groans at the pun she's pointed out. “Possibly, but I think I’ll just admit it was – Faith, no, I’m really not –”

“Up to it?” she murmurs, making the stroke more of a caress. “Yeah, I feel that way sometimes, when you’re making me come again and again. Sucks, huh?”

His hand reaches up and closes around the back of her neck. “Well, you could try that,” he says pleasantly, with the lightest of pushes down. “But I think, as I said ‘no’, we’ll postpone it, don’t you?” He sits up and looks at her with a glimmer of amusement lighting up his eyes. “Pout, and I won’t let you choose what you like from the menu tonight,” he warns.

It’s been a long time since she ate something that wasn’t a slightly squashed granola bar so that works way better than most of his threats but she’s still feeling adventurous.

“Can’t kiss you if I don’t pucker up,” she whispers, wriggling into his lap and cupping the side of his face in her hand, feeling the prickle of stubble against her palm.

“Suppose I said I didn’t want you to kiss me?” he asks, resting his hands lightly on her shoulders.

“I’d do it anyway. Even if you fed me green stuff all night.”

“I’m flattered,” he says, but she gets the feeling he really doesn’t know how much she craves his kisses.

“Want to know what I’d do if you were tied up for eight minutes?” she says, holding his face in both hands now, so he can’t look away.

“Enlighten me.”

There’s a spark of curiosity in there and she knows he’s going to let her do it – not tonight maybe, but some time. “I’d spend, oh, I don’t know, maybe three – no, two of them, looking at you. Just looking. And the rest of the time ...”

“Yes?” he says, making the word last twice as long as it needs to.

“I’d kiss you, six straight minutes of smooching, and cry if you didn’t kiss me back.”

“I don’t think that’s ever going to happen,” he says seriously and before she can work out which bit he means, he’s kissing the question out of her head.

Chapter One Hundred and Sixty Two

Sometimes she thinks she spends more time in the shower than anywhere else since her and Wes got together, fell in love, started fucking each other's brains right out of their tiny heads. She guesses it's all of the above but then he flicks water at her and the thoughts are chased out of her head by the feeling of his soapy hands sliding down her back, intent on getting her squeaky clean and not much else.

Her entire body feels lethargic and heavy and she stands docilely, happy to lean into his touch as he slides a black dress over her head and smoothes it down her naked body. She's about to ask him why he's nixed the whole underwear thing, even though she's got a damn good idea but his hands are edging along the deep V of the bodice, cupping her breasts, rubbing his thumbs over her nipples until the hard tips are pressing against the black satin and he steps away with a satisfied smile.

"That's perfect," he tells her softly. "You look perfect. Are your legs too sore for the pink shoes?"

They kinda are even though she's got used to walking in heels so high they used to give her a nosebleed, but the way he's looking at her, with that reverent, tender gaze that she can never get completely used to, has her shaking her head. "I can do heels," she assures him. "What do you want me to do with my hair?"

She's told him a million times that she needs serum and a hairdryer and him leaving it alone while it's still damp to put her hair into a any kind of order and it's currently a motley collection of messy curls that she self-consciously runs her fingers through.

"Leave it as it is," he says, scooping up his wallet from the nightstand. "Just a little bit of lipstick, the red one, then we really should get going."

And even though the whole weekend has been special, days out of time, when it's just him and her, she can't help the uncoiling feeling of excitement in her tummy at the thought of getting all dressed up to go out, or that might be the lurching of the car as Wes navigates it carefully along the track.

When they pull out on to the main road, his hand comes to rest warm on her knee and she sinks back into the seat with a contented little sigh.

"I hope this isn't all too sedate for you, Faith," he comments with a sidelong glance at her and she wriggles on the seat and winces delicately at the slight throbbing of her buttocks.

"Hardly, Wes," she grins. "We've skinny-dipped and got loaded on pot and vodka and you've fucked me six ways to Sunday, or like six ways on Sunday."

He pinches her thigh and chuckles. "I meant now. Me taking you out to dinner. Are you sure you wouldn't rather be in the city with Xander, going to clubs…"

She shudders as she remembers that other life. Those nights of sticky dance floors and sticky bodies pressed up against her. How she'd feel all alone in a crowded club, searching the hungry faces for something she couldn't even put into words.

"No," she says fiercely, thinking hard about what she really wants to say. "Sure I miss giving it some on the dance floor but man, I'd come home every night and I'd just feel so fucking unwanted. Like, no one could see the real me."

He doesn't say anything for a while and she's just trying to work out whether the silence could be called comfortable when he clears his throat. "I used to see you in those clubs, spinning round like some kind of Dionysian goddess… you know that, though when it came up during that unpleasant disagreement in my office after, well…"

Her mind's flickering back and she's slotting the pieces together: "I'm not some drunken fool you've picked up at a club in the city. Start again."

She remembers the floor hard on her knees, the first taste of him on her tongue and then him yanking her head back and she remembers particularly well what happened after that, the surge of rage which sent him toppling back on the desk, her hitting him, wanting to fucking kill him for having seen her like that, seen how desperate and lonely she used to be. And then she recalls being spread out on his desk, while he worshipped her with his tongue and she never had to feel desperate and lonely again.

She covers his hand and strokes his knuckles with her fingers. "Wish you'd come and found me then, Wes," she murmurs. "Anyway, can't imagine that any of the clubs I used to go to were really your scene."

He slows the car down as he squints at a street sign and then takes a right. "They weren't."

She slants a curious glance at him. "So, did you, like, go there to pick up girls?" And they've never talked about this before, though she's remembering a whole bunch of stuff now. The "contrived scenarios" he vaguely mentioned, and she's dying to know, fit in a few more pieces of the puzzle that he always seems to be, just when she thinks she's got him figured out.

"Occasionally," he admits quietly. "I've never claimed to have lived like a monk before I met you, Faith." He sounds more than a little tart and she has to snort at the thought of Wes being at all monk-like. They'd have totally kicked him out of the monastery.

"What did you do with them?"

There's a little muscle quivering away in his cheek and she thinks she's pushed him too hard. "I fucked them," he bites out, voice impossibly, impeccably rigid. "And then I couldn't wait to get home."

"Oh," she says uncertainly, hand gripping his tightly. "That's kinda cold."

"And I'd see you," he continued, like she hasn't even spoken. "Watch you dancing and laughing and you seemed so free, abandoned, like you didn't have a care in the world. I'd watch you disappear into back rooms and alleys with these grubby youths and I wondered about you, Faith. I think I kept going back just to look at you, to try and pluck up the courage to talk to you but you'd have just… well, I'm sure you'd have been horrified…"

"I wouldn't," she protests hotly and it's cool that he knew her before, wanted her before. Slightly creepy too that when she felt so broken and lost, he was hiding in corners thinking that she was some kind of good time had by every one. "I didn't fuck them," she bursts out. "It's not like I was this big ho. Yeah, I was, like, the blow job queen or some shit but I didn't… I mean, I just wanted them to want me, y'know?"

He's pulling into the parking lot of a little restaurant on the waterfront; candles glowing in the windows and there is no fucking way she's getting out of the car right now. "Please, Wes, I couldn't bear it if you thought I fucked a different guy in the bathroom every Saturday night, 'cause I didn't." Her voice is getting shrill now and he's looking at her but it's dark in the car and she can't make out the expression on his face, just the warmth of his hand still on her knee. "I was really fucked up then," she tries to explain, like she's not really fucked up now in a completely different way. "I just needed…"

"Shhh, ssssh," he soothes, leaning forward to kiss her forehead. "None of it is important. Though I think it's fair to say that I'm quite well aware of just how untried you were.” He seems to like that notion. She can feel him smiling. "What's important is that you suddenly appeared in my office, completely waterlogged, in a ridiculous raincoat and I was unable to believe my good fortune."

"Really?"

"Really. I was instantly smitten," he whispers in her ear and she nudges him smartly in the side.

"Man, you didn't act instantly smitten," she says snottily.

He draws back from her and takes his key out of the ignition. "Well, I was keen to establish an appropriate working relationship," he remarks, opening the door so she can see the smirk on his face.

"Oh, whatever, Wes!" And then she has to sit there and wait for him to walk round to her side and open the door, offer her his hand so she can clamber out with all the grace of a baby elephant. "I'm surprised you didn't have me over your desk before I'd even made it to lunch on my first day."

He rests a casual hand in the small of her back to guide her to the entrance. "I did think about it," he says teasingly. "But I had rather a heavy caseload as I recall."

She's grateful for the strong grip of his fingers against hers as they're led to a small table at the back of the room, by some penguin-suited waiter. The restaurant is seriously fancy and even two months ago she'd have been freaking out about using the wrong knife or sipping water out of her wine glass but now all she can do is smile demurely and say thank you as the waiter pulls out a chair for her and fusses with a napkin as she sits down.

And she doesn't even get embarrassed when Wes insists on having his chair moved so he can sit next to her, rather than opposite her or makes the waiter take her setting away. The weird thing is that now she'd be upset if he wanted this to just be a normal meal like normal couples have.

She leans up against him, as he opens the menu. "So, I can have anything I want, huh?"

"Within reason. I won't tolerate you ordering three desserts. One starter, one entrée and a pudding, I think. And at least two servings of vegetables."

Her stomach makes an agreeable rumbling noise and he gives it an amused but exasperated glance before turning his attention back to the menu, which is in French.

"That's just un-American," she grumbles as she scans the unfamiliar words. "What's escargots? Do I like them?"

"The t is silent," he gently corrects her. "And I don't think you'll be overly keen on eating snails."

She manages not to make a disgusted face, but instead forces the stiff card into his hands. "You order for me, Wes. But no slugs or, like frogs legs."

"Or asparagus?"

"God, no! I'm trusting you, man," she splutters and he gives her a sudden, swift smile like she's done something wonderful.

But before she can put a disclaimer on it, the waiter's back with a bottle of wine that he's cradling in his hands as if it's a newborn baby.

Tucked away from the other diners, she lets Wes feed her forkfuls of goat's cheese salad. Then there's tender pieces of lamb and the wine tastes of fruit and sunshine and she doesn't do anything but nudge her chair closer and closer towards his, so he can't not brush against her, their shoulders bumping as he eats his own dinner.

The silence that follows after the waiter's cleared their plates and he's ordered her a crème brulee for pudding is comfortable and she knows she has this sappy smile on her face but she can't seem to find the off button.

He's utterly relaxed in a way that he never usually is in public, arm curled loosely round the back of her chair, a lazy smile quirking at his lips as he takes in her dazed happiness.

"I almost forgot," he says eventually when it seems like they've been staring into each other's eyes for ever and reaches into his jacket pocket for a tiny, wrapped package.

She blinks at the pink tissue paper. "What's this?"

"A little something I picked up for you in New York. I was at a loss for something to buy you that cost less than ten dollars but then I was suddenly inspired."

She picks up the small parcel and turns it over in her hand, but she can't resist and he gives an indulgent chuckle as she tears into the tissue with frantic fingers. Finally she unearths a key fob with a green enamel apple attached to it and beams at him.

"It's an apple!"

"Yes, yes it is."

"Like, the Big Apple and I can put my keys in it for our place in New York," she tells him with a pout. But then she's beaming, holding it up to the candle light and testing the weight of it. "I love it. It's perfect. You always know what to give me. You're, like a present-buying genius."

He bends his head in a sudden, swift move and presses a hard kiss against her open mouth and then just as quickly lets her go before she can even return the promise of his tongue snaking into her mouth. "You're a very strange girl, Faith," he drawls. "I can lavish you with designer dresses and jewelry but you seem far more delighted with an eight dollar key fob that I bought off a stall."

She curls her fist round the cool enamel like he's about to snatch it away from her. "Just this is… well, it's not what it is, it's what it means, y'know?"

"I know," he murmurs, straightening up as the waiter approaches with her dessert. "Now eat your dessert like a good little girl."

The crème brulee isn't as much fun as watching Wes crack the caramelized sugar crust with the back of the spoon but then he hands it to her and she wonders why his eyes are suddenly all pupil even as she licks the crumbs of sugar from around her mouth.

"You'll have to feed yourself," he hisses. "I need my hands free."

And she doesn't have to ask why because she can already feel the hot glide of his hand smoothing up her thigh.

"But there are people, waiters…" she whispers at him, careful not to make it sound like a protest when she's already wriggling back in her chair so he can rub at the soft skin of her inner thigh.

"Well it’s rather fortuitous that the table cloth conceals your pretty little cunt, isn't it?" he says conversationally. "Please, Faith, I'd like your legs a little further apart."

She's dimly aware of lifting her spoon and taking tiny mouthfuls that taste like vanilla but all she can concentrate on is the tip of his index finger pressing lightly against her clit, traveling towards her soaking wet cunt so he can glide back to that swollen nub of flesh again.

"Would you like me to fuck you with my fingers?"

She puts down the spoon with a heavy clatter and squirms as he teases around her damp hole. "God, Wes…"

"We're not leaving until you come, Faith, so I suggest you answer the question."

"Yes," she grits out and is instantly rewarded by the slow slide of his finger inside her. "Two."

"You want me to fuck you with two fingers? Please, be specific and kindly finish your crème brulee."

She swallows the rest of the pudding without tasting it and then throws down her spoon so she can grip the edge of the table with her hands as he fucks her furiously with his fingers, thumb rubbing against her clit while his face remains impassive.

Her head hangs down and she's trying to breathe through her nose because all that she can manage to do with her mouth is release these airless gasps as she clenches around him.

"That's very good, Faith," he purrs and she can't even look at him. "Squeeze around my fingers a little tighter. You're almost there, aren't you?"

"Would you like some coffee, sir?"

Her head shoots up and she manages an agonized little squeal as she sees the fucking waiter hovering for the gazillionth time. And those wicked, sneaky fingers are pistoning inside her at twice the speed of light so her knuckles are white and she's curling up her toes and if it wasn't for the plinky, plonky piano music all the waiter would be able to hear...

"No thank you," Wes says calmly. "Just the bill, please."

"Certainly sir. Is Madam all right?"

No, Madam is not fucking all right. Madam has sir's fingers up her snatch and is trying not to come so just go the fuck away.

Wes gives her a concerned look even as his thumb presses harder against her clit. "You do seem a little flushed, darling…"

"I've had too much to eat," she practically snarls. "I'm fine, just need some… fresh air."

"If you could just bring the bill as quickly as possible," Wes says pointedly and with another curious look at her flared nostrils and quivering lips, the waiter's hurrying back to his station to tell his little waiter buds that there's a crazy girl sitting at table five.

"You are such a bastard," she spits as soon as he's out of hearing distance and slouches back on the chair, spreading her legs so her knee bumps against his. "Please, Wes, just fucking get me off. Now!"

He's never fucked her with three fingers before but the slight stretch and burn of them in her cunt is just what she needs. He leans against her so he can flick his wrist and then his fingers are catching the little bump inside her with every thrust and she's swaying gently so the ends of her hair brush against the table cloth.

"He's just finished printing off the bill," Wes tells her helpfully. "You really need to come before he heads back. Maybe if I do this…"

He pinches her nipple hard through the satin and presses deep inside her with the tips of his fingers and she feels her muscles locking into place, her cunt gushing all over his hand, as she throws her head back and tries to gulp in air.

Before the room has even stopped spinning, Wes is getting to his feet and throwing a clutch of bills onto the table. "Yes, yes, everything was lovely," he's assuring the waiter, as he hauls her up with his sticky hand. "I'm afraid my companion feels rather unwell…"

She stumbles across the room on shaky legs, sure that there's a puddle of juices spilling out of her, letting him guide her through the maze of tables.

The sudden blast of cool air from the open door almost sends her toppling over but his hands are there on her shoulders and when they get to the car, he practically lifts her up on to the seat.

"Jesus, Wes," she moans when she can speak again, legs akimbo and shivering in tiny shudders of pleasure as the cold bursts from the air conditioner hit her throbbing pussy. "And you need to slow down."

He's practically got the car floored and she turns to look at him, run a gentle hand down the tense line of his arm. He steps on the brake and the car grinds to a sudden halt.

She peers through the windscreen at the tiny, twinkling lights of the harbor below them. "Where the fuck are we anyway?"

But he doesn't answer, just hauls her into his arms.

Chapter One Hundred and Sixty Three

It’s one of those moments where the outside world just falls away, utterly inconsequential. This little cul-de-sac Wes has found is dark and secluded and that’s good enough for Faith —hell, she just came in the middle of a bustling restaurant, so this seems positively private in comparison. And Christ, she really does feel ready to do just about anything he asked of her.

But then Wes smoothes her hair off her neck and kisses the exposed skin in that unsettling, reverent way he does —it’s something that she never quite gets used to, never quite feels worthy of— and she wonders if that’s what he’s got in mind after all. He shifts against her, and yeah, he’s hard, but there’s no sense of urgency about any of this. His every movement is drawn-out and languid. It’s just another form of delicious torment in his formidable arsenal.

As he’s kissing slowly along the slope of her shoulder, her curiosity gets the better of her. “Wes? You want me to—"

“Shh, shh.” His fingers are smoothing the satin down her body, seemingly touching everywhere at once; the little kisses he’s trailing down her torso are igniting this agonizing slow burn. Which is lovely and all, but she’s feeling a little …frustrated. She finds herself squirming restlessly against him.

“Wes. Stop for a sec. Stop.”

“Hmm?” He barely looks up, just flickers his heavy-lidded eyes in her direction.

“Jesus, do always you have to be so fucking…” She pauses, searching for just the right word. Luckily the American-English-to-Wes dictionary kicks in at just the right moment. “…premeditated about everything? Do something spontaneous for once in your life.”

“I seem to recall, Faith, that I made you come in the middle of a crowded restaurant not thirty minutes ago.”

“Well, yeah, but I bet you’d planned it out to the fucking letter before hand. Am I right or am I right?” He doesn’t answer. She crosses her arms and gives him her best self-satisfied smirk. “Yeah, I fucking knew it.”

He flashes her this sheepish little smile, and, Stoned Wes aside, goddamn if it isn’t the most adorable thing ever. “Pity I can’t photograph that for posterity, Wes. You’re so fucking cute when you’re chagrined.”

“Chagrined? Did you just say—”

“I surely fucking did. You must be rubbing off on me after all. Now, what say I show you how this is really done?”

And he must be feeling especially indulgent because he just lets her push him back against the seat and straddle his hips.

Chapter One Hundred and Sixty Four

The steering wheel’s jabbing into her back, and the shift stick’s going to be leaving bruises on her knee, but it doesn’t matter because Wes is hard against her as she does this little shimmy, rubbing herself along the solid evidence that yeah, he wants this too. Her dress is wrinkled and riding up but, gorgeous though it is, slithery-satin smooth, and probably costing more than a week’s wages, she’d rip it to shreds if it got in the way right now.

“You ever done it in a car, Wes?” she whispers, sure of the answer, but just wanting to hear him say it.

There’s enough light from the moon, hanging half-way up the sky, full and shining, for her to be able to see his face, though the shadows that fall across it make it hard to read. “Several times and it’s never been all that satisfactory.” His hand moves from her hip to the door and he opens it with a shove that’s just a little bit harder than necessary. “Too ‘cabined, cribbed, confined’ for my tastes.”

“Huh?”

“It’s from ‘Macbeth’,” he says pleasantly, shifting her off him so that he can climb out of the car, leaving her kneeling awkwardly on his seat. “And I think I’d like you to come here, Faith.”

There’s so much control in his voice that it takes her a moment to realize what’s it’s holding back; that it’s a warning sign. When she does, she’s held in place by something that’s not fear, but arousal. He’s looking down at her, hands folded behind his back, waiting for her to obey him, and she gets the feeling that if he wasn’t trying very hard to stop it, he’d be shaking right now.

So hard it hurts. Xander had said that to her once, describing his reaction to someone, and she’d laughed, asking him how it could hurt, for God’s sake, when it was supposed to feel good. He hadn’t been able to explain, but she understands it now. Got it a while back in fact. Wes has made her desperate, so ready to come that she could barely speak, too many times for her not to have crossed that line herself – too often not recognize it in Wes right here and now. He’s aching for her, and she doesn’t feel a shred of pity or sympathy because they don’t need that, either of them.

She kicks off her shoes and steps out to meet him, feeling thin grass and gravel under her feet, going to stand in front of him and keeping her hands carefully by her side.

“You didn’t ask questions for once, Faith,” he says, not moving to touch her.

“No...” She swallows, searching his face, wanting to kiss the straight, tight line of his lips until it softens into a smile. At least – fuck, she isn’t sure. She wants to kiss him, yeah, but this mood he’s in, well, it’s making her feel like some dark, seductive temptress, ‘cause she’s the one who’s got Wes worked up, and she’s totally getting off on it. Wes is going to touch her and all that control is going to vanish, and she wants to see what happens in a fascinated, poke a wasps’ nest with a stick, kind of way.

Then he smiles and a thread of doubt winds around the slightly smug satisfaction she’s feeling and chokes it off. “That’s good, Faith. I don’t want you to ask questions, not right now.” He brings one hand up and crooks his finger. “Closer. I want to kiss you.”

It’s as if he’s testing his own limits, because she’s willing to bet what he really wants is to be deep in her, pushing and thrusting and moving faster and faster in an inexorable race towards a finish line only he can see. But this is Wes and he can never do anything the simple way, so he kisses her instead – and she feels all his hunger as if it’s weeks, months since they kissed, since they fucked, not hours, feels her body respond as eagerly as if it hadn’t had a climax rip through it so recently she’s still wet from it.

She’s never been kissed like this before. His face is flushed and hot against her cheek, and he’s shaking, shivering as his mouth descends on hers. She remembers reading one of Darla’s romance books once and snickering at the idea of kisses that were burning and devouring but whoever wrote it must’ve had Wes in mind. It’s overwhelming, and a little scary, but she’s had a while to get used to that with Wesley, and behind it all there’s the trust she has that he’ll never lose a grip on that control he’s got so much of.

Going to be a close call tonight though.

He lifts his head at last, and stares at her. His hair’s rumpled by her fingers, he’s breathing hard and heavy, lips parted and looking bruised because she kinda got into the devouring kisses herself, and she’s got a taste in her mouth that’s sweeter than the dessert.

“You asked where I’d brought you,” he says unexpectedly. “It doesn’t matter, though, does it?”

It takes her a second to catch her breath. Part of her is screaming, ‘Fuck me, just do it!’ but he’s trained her to be patient and she’s getting better at it. Mostly.

“No,” she says, feeling his shoulder shift under her hand because he might sound calm but he's breathing hard. “I just wondered, that’s all –”

“You just let me make you come in a restaurant,” he says, and his voice is so low and intense right now. “You’d have let me fuck you in the car, wouldn’t you?”

There’s no hesitation as she nods. Way she feels? She’d let him fuck her in the middle of downtown on a Saturday afternoon.

“Or on it. Would you like that, Faith? If I bent you over the car, curved, hot metal against your bare skin, and took you from behind, where anyone driving past could see?”

She’s so caught up in the way his lips move as he shapes the words that they don’t sink in at first, and when they do she sees that he’s waiting for her reply.

“I’d let you...” she whispers.

His hand slips around to cup her ass, still tender from being spanked, and he drags his nails along the bruised skin, making her wince. “That wasn’t what I asked, Faith. Please pay attention. Would you like me to repeat the question?”

She’s practically given up on waiting for him to lose it. He’s got himself back on track now, and if there’s something simmering away under there, it’s got a foot of ice to break through before it surfaces. His fingers dig in and she shakes her head.

“No, no, you don’t. You asked me –”

“Yes?” he says, voice all purry to go with the claws.

“If I’d like it. And –”

He cuts her off before she can answer. “Please be more precise, Faith. I find you very vague when you’re aroused. You are aroused, aren’t you?”

His hand snakes under her dress, stroking the shaved-smooth slickness of her mound, and his fingers do this wandering exploration that has her teeth gritting on a moan. If she wasn’t, she was now, she thinks, getting dizzy as he hisses with approval at how wet she is, like it’s some kind of fucking surprise.

“Like it if you fucked me over the car,” she says, and now it’s her who’s stammering and she’d move onto blushing but his fingers find their way inside her cunt, and she stops caring about anything but getting them replaced by his cock. “Yeah, I would. Really fucking would, Wes. And you know I would, so why aren’t you just doing it?”

She’s feeling so frustrated now that she’s close to howling when he glares at her and punishes her by stopping the gently-insistent thrust of his fingers. His fingers go, his hand disappears, and he’s stepping back, looking all glitter-eyed and fucking scary. “I don’t believe I care for that tone of voice, Faith.”

She shakes her hair back, gives him a look designed to chip off a chunk of that ice he’s encased in, and runs the tip of her tongue across her lip, still warm from his mouth. “Got any good ideas about making me shut up, Wes?”

He smiles slowly. “You’re being vague again, Faith.”

She reaches out and takes a handful of his jacket. “Might want to lean on something. Wes,” she tells him, as she tugs him around so the hood of the car is pressing against his ass. “I’m going to make your knees go weak.”

He slips off his jacket and drops it in front of him. “Still vague,” he says. “Perhaps you’d be happier skipping straight to a practical demonstration of your –”

He never finishes that sentence, because by then she’s on her knees, feeling the gravel against her knees through his coat, and his cock, hot and eager in her mouth.

Chapter One Hundred and Sixty Five

And she shouldn’t love this so much, especially feeling the tension in his body, the way he’s holding himself. The way his hips tip forward to meet her. The slight exhalation of breath as she takes him in her mouth. All for her. Makes it not matter so much that the gravel is digging into her knees and the beautiful dress is rucked up so it won’t drag on the ground. Or that it’s entirely possible that someone might see them.

None of it ever seems to matter. Not when it’s just the two of them and he’s got that heavy-lidded, faraway look in his eyes. It’s funny how she can be down on her knees in front of him and still feel powerful. Like she’s got the key to making him come undone after all. Slight surprise because it isn’t really all that difficult.

His hands are gripping her shoulders as she swallows him down. She takes a moment to taste the salt tang on her tongue and feel the weight of him against her body. He leans into it, and a slight groan escapes his lips —she thrills to that too. Because most of the time she thinks of him as immutable, unwavering. She’s the one who bends and twists herself to please him —she’s the one who lets go.

She’s happy to find an exception, however small.

And Jesus, she never thought she’d get off on this so much either. Each buck of his hips, however minute, puts her in mind of what he could do if she were straddling him. God, she just wants him to fuck her —right up against the car, she really doesn’t even care at this point…

His voice brings her back to reality. “Yes, that’s it. My girl—” The words are whispered, almost slurred —another rarity as she’s used to his impeccable pronunciation.

The delicate satin of the dress is bunched up in his fingers as she speeds up, one hand splayed against his thigh and the other curled around the base of his cock, just tightly enough to give some leverage. She knows instinctively when he’s about to come and she’s ready for it. She pulls back slightly as he shoots; she swallows it down, every drop, licks him clean.

He pulls away from her, as though her enthusiasm is just a bit much for him. What would he call it? Gauche or something? Whatever. He zips up, all efficient, cold Wes again. She’s hoping it’s just temporary, ‘cause she’s incredibly turned on and she’s even kinda getting into the whole al fresco thing.

“C’mon, Wes, how about you go down on me under the stars? It’s kinda romantic, don’t you think?”

But he’s already sidling into the driver’s seat, buckling his seatbelt. “I do believe you’ve had your turn.”

Her mouth hangs open in stunned amazement. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me, Wes,” she says breathlessly. She scrambles to get into the car, smoothing her ruined dress down over her knees. She’ll be damned if she’ll let him get an eyeful now.

“I’m not. Now, put your seatbelt on, we’re going.”

She does as she’s told, but she’s building up a heady froth of rage while she does it. Just what the fuck is his game this time?

She keeps silent the whole drive. He’s taking each hairpin curve like a maniac (albeit one with exquisitely honed motor skills) but she just grits her teeth and lets it fuel her righteous indignation.

As they pull in to the drive, she turns to him and fairly spits out, “You’re going to make me come whether you want to or not!”

He crosses his arms. “Now, Faith, this kind of behavior is not to be tolerated. Am I going to have to take you over my knee?”

“Well, that’d be a fucking start.”

“Such language, Faith. Sometimes I despair of—“

“Jesus, Wes, what the fuck is your problem? God help it if I should have a whim that doesn’t fit your fucking plans! I’m so sick of it, you know? And I’ll fucking swear if I fucking want to! So fuck you!” She turns on her (nosebleed high) heels, secretly pleased that not to have fallen on her fucking ass because nothing would ruin a dramatic exit faster, when she remembers something. “You know what, Wes? I seem to recall a little game of Scrabble. I think you owe me and I’d like to fucking collect. Now.”

Wes finishes locking up the car and looks up at her, a little smile quirking his lips. “Would you, now?”

She crosses her arms against the chill evening breeze, holding back a shiver. “I would. Yeah.”

“Very well. And just how would you like to collect this prize? Be specific. I’m short-tempered enough as it is.”

Chapter One Hundred and Sixty Six

The chilly breeze has turned to a cutting wind that's blowing her hair in her eyes. She shoves all the stray, annoying tendrils behind her ears and shifts on her feet, planting the heels of her treasured pink shoes into the gravel in a fighting stance. She's immediately reminded of all those double-dog dare playground spats from junior high, when some prissy girl would snottily comment on her thrift store dress or her ratty, plastic Payless shoes, 'cept this time she's got on a way better outfit. The frothing anger that's built up on the ride home is furiously bubbling over now after her outburst. With a deep breath, she realizes that she can't let it continue, not if she wants to do this right, and balls up her fists at her sides, the force pressing her nails into the soft flesh of her palms as a reminder.

Leaning almost insouciantly against the car, Wes is almost the antithesis of her tightly-wound self, staring her down with that light, cruel smile still on his lips. But what he doesn't know is she can kinda see past all that now, after all these months. The high moonlight has lit his face into all sharp planes and angles and his eyes are cold. But that's just the thin veil over the surface, 'cause if she looks hard enough she can see the fervent lust that's simmering just under his veneer of control. And that makes it her turn to smile at him, in the best approximation of wolfish that she can muster.

Don't fuck this up, Faithy. You're playing this card sooner than he expected. Just keep things chill. Her brain's filled with the hissing voices, all chorusing the same concern.

The old rules of the playground brawl are in effect here, rules she learned too soon in life, maybe. It's not about wresting the power or the control from him, because except for those moments when she's got his cock in her mouth, he'll always have the upper hand, and she doesn't want that to change. This current little drama? This is just an extension of when she's down on her knees. He's pushed her here, and for all that professed short-temperedness, a big part of him is enjoying watching her flail, waiting almost gleefully for her stuttered commands. But she's not gonna give him the pleasure of that. No sir. Not this time, not like in the office, when they'd played that little game where she'd narrated what she wanted. No, she just needed to get him in the house, up the stairs, into the bedroom, out of his clothes. If she played everything right, he could – and would -- take care of the rest.

“Follow me.” And she's turning on the vertiginous heels again without a hitch and striding purposefully up the path to the cottage. Surprisingly, he doesn't protest, and the crunching of each step in the gravel confirms he's right behind her.

She steps aside when she reaches the door, letting him go first to unlock it. Her voice is unrecognizably sharp and terse. “Upstairs. Get undressed. And this time, you'll wait for me.” As he slips by, she grabs him by the jacket lapels and gives him one of those greedy, hungry, lip-biting kisses, just in case he's forgotten what's at stake – and the press of his cock against her leg confirms that he hasn't.

When he's crossed the little living area and disappeared up the stairs, her knees are still wobbly from their kiss and she steps shakily to the freezer for a swig from the Gray Goose bottle. The icy hot tingle of the vodka in her stomach crawls down to meet the curling, near-painful lust inside her cunt and pulls everything back into focus. She needs that for the gamble she's about to take. She climbs the stairs deliberately and slowly, letting each click of her heels echo up through the loft.

She steps over the threshold and finds him sitting on the edge of the bed, naked. Her face is a perfect mask of neutrality as she sidles up to him and straddles his thighs, places his hands on her waist.

“Help me out of this dress.” she leans in to whisper in his ear, and in an instant he's freed her and let the pricey frock slip to the floor next to them and as it hits the ground she's already pressing her hot flesh against his, running her fingers through his hair, tilting his head up for another ravenous kiss, swirling her cold, vodka steeped tongue 'round his.

And when she pulls away, the words start slipping out of her brain unchecked. “Interesting that you're still hot for me when I'm the one calling the shots.” He tries to look away but she catches his chin and tilts his head up again, this time to meet her gaze. “You're always fucking me, Wesley.” She sighs with mock disappointment and shakes her head. “Maybe to get what I want, I need to fuck you tonight.”

It's like she's pulled the levers on a slot machine and come up cherries and the coins are crashing into the payout tray; in a seamless chain of motion, she pushes him down onto the bed and mounts him and swivels and bucks her hips with her clit rubbing against him and his cock perfectly slipping against that spot where that tight ache burned inside.

She's surprised he lets her stay there as long as she does, riding him like that. Her moans are long and low and she's just about to come when his strong, warm hands push against her hips, halting her thrusts and he nearly growls at her, “That's quite enough of that...” before pulling out and slipping from under her grasp and not lightly flipping on her back. And she can't help but smile when he grabs her ankles and folds her in half, opening her wide and sliding down to run his tongue over her clit and circle teasingly around her hot, wet hole before slipping his cock back inside and hammering away with a singular ferocity.

“I'm impressed...” she gasps, in between his thrusts.

Even with his face scrunched and focused on fucking her, he still manages to wrinkle his brow in mock confusion, his eyes sparkling. “You're not impressed every time we fuck?”

But she can only get out “No, that you let me...” before the words melt into incoherent blather and then she's whispering his name over and over and the tightening throb of her cunt pulls him deeper inside as he comes with a heart-wrenching moan like no other she's ever heard.

Chapter One Hundred and Sixty Seven

He stays inside her, on top of her and she likes that. His face is pressed tightly against her neck and she can feel his ragged breaths, warm and wet, against her skin as she raises a lazy hand and brushes down his rumpled, damp hair.

"Just keeps on getting better and better," she sighs almost to herself and he makes some small, indistinct noise that might be agreement.

When he finally tries to lever himself off her, she squeaks in protest and wraps her arms and legs even tighter around him.

"Faith, I must be squashing you. You can't be comfortable,” he murmurs, kissing her earlobe fleetingly.

She squirms under him, relishing how close they are, skin to skin, so nothing can come between them. "Nah, I'm good. Unless, like, you wanna take a shower?"

He shakes his head but then he's wriggling out from under her, one of his arms snaking around her waist when she clings to him all limpet-like and rolls them so she can at least smoosh against his side, snuggling into him because sometimes she thinks the only way she can ever get closer to him is to burrow under his skin.

"That took longer than two minutes," he remarks, pressing the flat of his hand against the curve of her ass so she can hitch her leg over his. "Loathe as I am to admit it, but I think your 'IOU an instant orgasm' card is good for another transaction. Though if it was me…"

"Huh! If it was you, you'd like be on your deathbed and still wouldn't have used it," she huffs, then giggles. "And you'd be all dying and stuff, then remember that it was tucked away in your briefcase and you'd make me get on top, really gently, and then I'd fuck you to death."

Sometimes she talks such a lot of shit. And talking about him dying is kinda gross and a good way to kill the afterglow.

"What a charming image that conjures up," he says dryly, but then he chuckles, his chest rumbling underneath her. "I'm sure that when that delightful day comes, well, you'll be somewhere…"

She lifts herself up so she can stare at him, bug-eyed in horror. "What do you mean? I'd be there! I'd so be there. Where the fuck else would I be?"

He looks at her assessingly, eyes narrowed, opens his mouth to say something and then thinks better of it.

"What, Wes? What were you gonna say?" She struggles away from him, and hauls herself into a sitting position. "You think I don't love you? Jesus! No one will ever love you better than me."

And it's the honest-to-God truth. She can't feel this way about him, this complicated mixture of tenderness and want and big, stinky fear and have him think it's not real.

"I know you do," he says softly, fingers cobwebbing against her knee, his gaze troubled as he keeps skittering away from looking her in the eyes. "I know you do now, Faith, but you're so terribly young and one day you'll wake up and I won't be what you want or need any more. And it will probably break both our hearts a little but it's just the way these things…"

"NO!" She's off the bed and vibrating with terror. Not knowing what to do with her body because she has this urge to start throwing herself against the walls. "Fuck that shit, Wes! It's not gonna happen! I love you. Why is that so fucking hard for you to accept? Is this because of what I said outside? Is it? Because I didn't mean it, I was just, like, riled up…"

"Faith, please calm down," he says, his voice low and urgent. "It wasn't my intention to upset you. But think about it logically. You're so young…"

"Yeah you keep saying that like it's meant to be important," she snaps, folding her arms so she doesn't do anything stupid. "It's not."

"You're young, you're beautiful - you have your whole life ahead of you. Why on earth would you choose to spend it with me?" He sounds so incredulous and she can't quite believe what she's hearing.

"What the fuck are you talking about, Wesley? Before… before you, I was horrible. I hated myself. I hated every thing.” She's choking out the words now, tears and snot getting in her way. "Every day I wake up and I have to fucking pinch myself that this is real, that you're real and you want me half as much as I want you. And why the fuck are we even having this conversation?"

He's sitting on the edge of the bed and makes a gesture with his arms, this despairing movement of his limbs, which is half an invitation for her to go to him but she shakes her head.

"The things I do to you… the things you let me do to you," he mutters so quietly, that she has to strain her ears to hear him. "I'm not entirely sure that it's healthy. We can't do this every day."

"I don't care!"

And because there's nothing else to do and if she has to try and reason with him about things that she can't even articulate, the top of her head might just explode, she yanks out the drawer from the dresser and swings it through the air, her underwear flying in all directions and crashes it against the wall.

It takes a couple of goes before it cracks and breaks with a satisfying smashing sound so she can let what's left of the frame fall at her feet. Then she's sweeping her arm across the bottles and jars arranged on the polished surface and screaming as they land on the wooden floor in a shower of broken glass.

"Faith! Stop it!" He's shouting at her but she can barely hear him, until his arms are tight around her, picking her up as she flails and kicks her legs, tries to lash out at him. He drops her on the bed hard, so she bounces once, then pins her motionless, legs weighing down on her thrashing body, hands holding her wrists above her head.

"If you leave me, I'll fucking die," she sobs. "I wouldn't want to live if I wasn't with you."

"I have no intention of leaving you, you silly girl," he bites out, but his voice is all throaty and throbbing and when he shakes her slightly and she's slowly coming back to herself, she realizes that he's on the verge of tears, his eyes glassine with moisture.

"You promise me, Wes. You have to promise me!"

He clears his throat and when he speaks his voice is calmer, crisper so she's already preparing herself to obey him. "I'm going to let go of you and I want you to lie perfectly still. Can you do that?"

She nods tearfully and bites her lip to stop from bursting into tears again as he takes his hands away. He stands up and pulls on his trousers and she's not sure why but it can't be for any good reason, which becomes clear when he walks out the door. "Perfectly still, Faith," he calls to her as he walks down the stairs and apart from her shuddering gasps for breath, she follows him to the letter.

If she cranes her neck, which isn't really moving, she can see the mess she's made of one half of the room. It looks like a mini tornado has whistled through and she's fucked up their perfect weekend, like she's fucked up them. And, fuck it, she's crying again just as he walks back into the room, with a glass and the throw rug in his hands.

"I want you to stop that," he barks, but then he puts down the glass, sits on the edge of the bed and pats his knee. "Come here."

She crawls over to him, lets him lift her onto his lap and tuck the rug around her and she hadn't realized how cold she was, how she was shivering from it. He's lifting the glass to her mouth so she can drink greedy gulps of water before he takes it away.

"You haven't promised me," she croaks out and he sighs so heavily that his exhalation of breath lifts her hair, then he's rocking her oh-so-gently.

"I promise that I won't leave you," he whispers. "I couldn't leave you, but it's not a promise that I would ever ask you to make, Faith."

"But I would," she insists, burying her face into the curve where his shoulder meets his neck. "I don't ever want to not be with you."

"Two negatives equals a positive," he points out and then smiles as she glares at him. "You have no idea of just how besotted I am, do you? Do you really think I could walk away?"

"I don't know." Her glance keeps coming back to the debris on the floor. "I try to be good but I always end up doing bad stuff, hurting people and what if I did something to you, something really terrible, even if I didn't mean to?"

He follows her gaze. "It's just a few broken things, Faith. See, there's nothing so very bad about that, is there?"

Her hands are freezing and he flinches slightly when she cups them against his warm cheeks. "Even if I did something really whacked and you were mad at me, I want you to know that I love you and maybe I only did it because being in love with you makes me a little bit crazy."

And it's not what she wants to say. She's trying to force other words out - a confession that she's buried so deep that she'd need a pick-ax to chip it out.

He smoothes the hair back from her flushed face and stares deep into her eyes so she can't tear herself away from him. "There's nothing you could do that would ever stop me loving you, Faith. We'll have worse fights than this and say hurtful things to each other and you'll no doubt smash various objects that I'm inordinately fond of but we'll get through it."

"Do you promise?" She's a broken record. She's a fucking broken girl but his hands are smoothing the rug firmly around her, holding her together.

"Yes," he says in that cool, smooth tone that leaves absolutely no room for questions. "Now really this is quite enough sturm und drang, well, for the rest of the month. I want you to lie down and try to get some sleep; we've got a long drive tomorrow."

She lets him arrange her back on the bed, huddling under the covers. "I don't want to go back," she announces piteously. "I hate that town, I feel like there's something pressing down on me all the time, just here." And she places her hand on his heart, as he bends over her and kisses her on the forehead.

"Faith, you have to calm down," he announces tersely but for once his sternest voice isn't having its usual effect. "It's only for a few more weeks."

"Sometimes I feel like I can't breathe when I'm there, like it's going to smother me." And she thought her tear ducts had dried up but that was just wishful thinking because she's curling herself up into a ball and pouring out all the misery that she's been tamping down for the last two days. "If we go back, it's all gonna be shit. Oh, Wes, why can't we go to New York now? Please, can we just not go back?"

She doesn't even realize that he's left until he returns with another glass of water and coaxes her to sit up, his arm around her shaking shoulders.

"I'm going to give you something to help you sleep," he says, showing her the small, white pill resting in his palm and she opens her mouth obediently so he can place it on her tongue and pulls a face at the bitter taste that she washes down with water.

He sweeps up the broken glass and wood, then closes the drapes while she watches him with heavy-lidded eyes. She can feel the waves of sleep licking at the edges but it's not until he climbs into bed and gathers her to him that she starts to give in to the pull.

"Faith? Are you asleep?"

She yawns and curls herself tighter into his embrace. "Almost."

She can feel his lips pressing soft kisses against the back of her neck. "I meant what I said. We can't always live like this."

His hand reaches between her legs, cupping her sticky mound when she makes a faint noise of protest.

"Sssh, listen to me, Faith. I'm not saying that I'm going to leave you. But when we get back, until we go to New York, I want things to be different between us."

It's weird but the weight of his hand against her is comforting. He's not delving or trying to get his way with sneaky, insidious touches, just holding her. "How different?" she murmurs sleepily.

"No spanking, no making you wait hours to come, no tying you up," he says and she's sure that he sounds wistful, regretful. "We need to stop playing these games. We should be normal for a while."

"We're not normal, Wes, isn't that kinda the point?"

And she knows that he's talking and that she should listen but somehow it's easier to go to sleep instead.

Chapter One Hundred and Sixty Eight

When she wakes, he’s standing over her with a mug of coffee and the steam from it is drifting up slowly, the way she’s drifting from dreams to reality.

It doesn’t take a look at the bare dresser, with the gaping hole where the drawer used to be to bring it all back to her. It just takes Wesley’s expression; half hesitant, because he’s not sure what mood she’s in, half determined because he hasn’t changed his mind overnight.

About anything.

“Good morning, Faith,” he says in a voice that’s so neutral it’s fucking beige.

“Hey, Wes,” she says. “That for me or is it the carrot you plan to lure me downstairs with?”

He relaxes, an infinitesimal slackening of his shoulders the only sign that her smiling and joking is a relief. “Oh, it’s yours. I breakfasted a while ago.”

“Yeah? What time is it?”

“Gone ten. We’d best get on the road soon, but there’s no real rush; you can shower if you’d like.”

“Oh, I’d like,” she says with a grimace. She’s in desperate need of hot water sluicing down on her and washing away every scrap of last night that’s still clinging to her skin – and she never wants to wear that dress again, if it’s even salvageable after what it got put through.

“Fine.” He hesitates and steps forward, placing the mug beside the bed. “I meant it, Faith,” he says quietly. “All of it.”

He’s gone before she has chance to reply, gone without a kiss, without a touch. She comes so close to hurling the coffee across the room that it’s almost a surprise to find the taste of it in her mouth as she walks, stark naked, down the stairs and past him to the shower.

He glances up from the paper he’s reading and his lips part but she doesn’t pause, just throws in a wiggle that’s subtle enough to be – barely – natural and feels his gaze linger on her ass where the faint blue bruises show him just what he’s planning on missing.

Two months of no games? She tries to imagine how wound he’d be by the end and fails. He made it, what, two weeks last time, right at the start, and now... now he can’t do without it. Without her. She knows that. Games, normal...they’re just words, spoken and lost. His hand on her, his eyes burning hot with a conviction and a certainty that melts her from the inside out – that’s real.

She’s not going to lose it.

She walks out of the shower, wet hair clinging to her shoulders, and waits for his gaze to move from what he’s reading to her. Takes no time at all. Casually, she lifts her hands and flips the soaked strands back, knowing he’s looking at her tits because it’s like a law of nature or something and he doesn’t have a fucking choice.

“Aren’t you a little chilly?” he drawls.

She glances down at her nipples, which are as hard as if she’s in the freezer aisle, yes, but for a different reason. “No. Kinda hot actually.”

“Faith...” There’s a warning implicit in every syllable – and Wes can make her name sound like Ana-fucking-stasia when he wants to - but she ignores them all.

“Sorry, Wes. Thought we were just done with all the kinky shit, you know. Didn’t realize you were planning on tying a knot in it.”

His eyes are flint-hard. “I’m not. That doesn’t mean it’s in order for you to flaunt yourself, like –”

“What? What the fuck did you just say?” She’s over beside him and in his face before he’s got time to blink. “You change the rules on me, in a heartbeat, in a fucking heartbeat and then get pissed with me, me who never got asked what she thought, ‘cause, guess I don’t get a vote, when I wake up in a whole new world and don’t know what I’m supposed to do?”

She’s spitting out the words in a venomous splutter and his face is tightening with every one.

“Are you done?” he asks quietly.

“No.” She folds her arms under her breasts and stands her ground. “You said we’re not normal. Well, maybe we’re not. Don’t think we’re the only people in the world who play this way, but I don’t give a fuck what anyone else does or don’t. This is about us, what we do. No one else matters.”

“Granted,” he says slowly, “but it wasn’t the way you played, Faith. I – I made you, I – forced you into trying something I seriously doubt you’d ever have sought on your own.”

“You didn’t,” she says, and the anger’s seeping away now, like a receding wave. “Wes, you know I’d never tried it – anything like that before, with anyone. Because there was no one to show me. You saw the men – the boys – I was with. They were as close to virgins as it gets, most of them.” She reaches out a hand and his slips into hers, his fingers curling around in a gentle grip. “What you did that first time, yeah, startled me. Scared me a bit, just a bit. But once you’d started, I didn’t want you to stop. I don’t want you to stop now. I need this.”

“You can get it in other places,” he says, his voice cool. “Even in our small town. I can provide you with a list of numbers, addresses...”

“You bastard,” she whispers, hurt so badly it’s hard to breathe. “Like I’d let anyone but you do that to me. Ever. Wes, you fucking bastard...”

She doesn’t realize she’s crying until he makes an inarticulate sound and pulls her to him. “Faith –”

“You owe me an apology, Wes,” she says with as much dignity as she can dredge up when she’s a hiccupy mess.

“I do,” he says ruefully. “I’ve been thinking about this for a while and forgot that you weren’t privy to my thoughts.”

“And that’s something else you owe me for!” she says accusingly, jabbing a finger at him. “You don’t think about stuff by yourself when it’s both of us. You just don’t do that, Wes!”

He draws her over to the couch and pulls her onto his lap. “I know. I’m just not accustomed to... sharing.” The face he pulls at the last word almost makes her smile, but she’s still too pissed off to forgive him that easily. “It’s just... Faith, last night, what we did...i n the restaurant, by the road... it was, well, it was indiscreet and reckless, to say the least. Inside our home, even in the office; that’s safe –”

No, no, it isn’t, she wants to scream but she’s silent, watching his face as he talks to her, the words spilling out of him now, too late, at last.

“ – but you’re so amenable to anything I suggest that you encourage me to go farther than I should.” He smiles at her and brushes his fingers against her cheek. “You’re a temptation I can’t resist, Faith, but I feel I must. My career can’t withstand what would happen if we’d got caught last night, but that’s of secondary importance. I don’t want – I need to know –”

She’s struggling to get free, but his arms are locked around her. “If I’ll stay without the benefits,” she grinds out. “You’ve found out I’ll let you fuck me, spank me, tie me up – found out I get off on it as much as you do - now you want to find out if that’s all we’ve got. The games. Well, fuck you, sir, because you don’t get to be the one to decide that!”

“Please, Faith,” he whispers. “I need to do this. You said you were scared at the start; do you think I never was? Do you think I’ve done all this to you and never once panicked, never once made mistakes and been terrified that I’ve gone too far, that I’ve hurt you beyond what you can take?”

She stares at him. “You’re kidding me?” she says uncertainly. “You – Wes, you always seemed so in control. Freaked me out, but it made me feel safe, you know?”

His eyebrow quirks up. “And now you’ve lost even that small measure of security?” he asks.

“No, I haven’t,” she says indignantly. “I trust you, Wes. Always. Fine; you want to take a break, fine. We’ll do it for as long as it takes for you to get over this and chill.” He gives him a suspicious look because she’s stopped fighting him and she frowns. “We still get to fuck though, right?”

He chuckles, tightening his arms around her. “Oh, I think so, don’t you?”

She lets him kiss her and then squirms away so she can look at him. “We’re not done, yet, Wes,” she says seriously.

“I’m sorry?”

“New rules... but they don’t start until we get back home. You promised me today, remember? said this was part of the holiday.”

“We have to leave soon,” he reminds her, but there’s a little spark deep down in his blue eyes.

“Yeah... and it’s a long drive back.”

“Your point would be?”

“I want something to remember this place by, Wes. I want to spend every minute of that drive with my ass smarting, trying to get comfortable on your fancy leather seats. I want you to be hard the whole time you’re driving because every time I whimper or shift position it’s because you know why. Know you did it.”

“Faith...”

She twists and gets into position across his lap. “Do it, Wes. Or I’ll fucking walk home.”

“You’ll never make it to your desk in time for 8.30, tomorrow morning,” he says mildly, his hand stroking lightly against her ass as if he can’t help touching it.

“So? What’re you going to do to me?” she taunts him. “Can’t spank -”

“Be silent,”  he hisses and there’s that rush of empty noise as his hand comes down and slaps against her ass and then there’s the heat she’s come to know, come to expect, grown to need.

And if, when he finishes and rolls her off his knee, his face unreadable, his breath coming in short, harsh gasps, the tears starring her eyelashes aren’t because he’s left her skin burnished and seared, but because she doesn’t know when he’ll do it again.

But that’s fine. He’s taught her how to wait.

Part Six

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