Secretary: Part Eight

Chapter Two Hundred and Twenty

After they’ve dressed, they go, not to the living room as usual on a Sunday morning, but to the den, and Wesley settles down with his crossword while she indulges in some serious channel surfing because she’s realizing just how deprived she’s been since she moved in with him.

He endures it for about ten minutes, though his sighs are starting to work her last nerve, and then he flings his pen down and tells her to stop.

“What? You said I could watch it!”

“I said that before I realized you had the attention span of a gnat!”

“Of a what? Wes, it’s –” She casts around for something comparable and them smiles triumphantly. “It’s like when you read,” she says. “You do this flickery thing with your eyes, and, flip, you’re on another page.”

“Yes?” he says cautiously. “I hardly see how –”

“Most people would still be up on word three of the first sentence,” she says. “Now, me, I can’t read as fast as you, but I can see a channel, know it’s crap, and be moving on when you’d still be staring at the screen wondering what the hell was going on and bingo, you’d be sucked into a commercial and hauling out your credit card to buy something in three easy payments that trust me, you’ll never use.”

She presses the channel button again, gets someone gutting a fish – oh, please! She’s just had breakfast – and carries on skipping.

“Faith,” he says, in those measured tones that always mean business. “The television isn’t mentioned in the contract because I didn’t want to spoil the surprise.”

“That’s sweet,” she says, grinning as the screen’s filled with Teletubbies. “We should totally get a Noo-Noo to clean up,” she tells him. “Don’t know why they don’t make them.”

He gives the screen a cursory glance. “I believe you call them vacuum cleaners over here,” he says. Killjoy. “If I may continue?”

“Sure, Wes.”

“With your eyes on me?”

She smothers a smile and, because she loves him, mutes the sound before giving him an expectant look.

“Thank you,” he says, laying the sarcasm on as thick as the butter on her croissants. “Now that it’s here though, it will most certainly be included. I’m not going to have you spending hours watching it, and I’m certainly not going to endure your constant changing of the channels.”

Yesterday she’d had moments of wanting the TV to be back in its box but now she clutches the remote protectively. “You’re not sending it back!” she says, with a quaver in her voice. “Wes, that’d be so mean!”

He gives her a small, tight smile. “As if I would ever be so cruel,” he purrs, like he’s never once denied her what she wanted when it suited him. “I won’t take it away from you, Faith; I’ll simply control your access to it unless you show me that you can use it responsibly.”

Sometimes he sounds more like a parent than a lover, but she doesn’t pursue that thought. “Well, fine,” she says sulkily.

“Don’t look so downcast,” he says, giving up on the crossword when it’s still, from what she can see, only half-done, and standing up. “It’s all negotiable, remember.” The smile’s a confident one now as he holds out his hand to pull her to her feet. “Of course, I might have a slight advantage in that area...”

“Where’re we going?” she asks as he leads her out of the room. “And why? Because you’re a lawyer you mean?”

“Partly,” he says. “But it’s more that I’m very good at getting what I want, exactly as I want it. It’s taken me a long time to get to the point where I can, and I don’t think I’ll give that up easily.”

He draws her close and kisses her throat; the warm press of his mouth against her skin making her laugh a little shakily as she tries to kiss him back. “Wes...” she whispers.

“Shall we go upstairs first though?” he says softly, capturing her earlobe between his teeth and biting down gently. “And you can show me what you wanted to do to me this morning?”

And when she nods eagerly he gives her a cool, smug smile, stepping back out of reach, and saying, “I think I just proved my point. You’re easily swayed from your objective, Faith. I’m not.”

“You bastard! Wes, that was totally –” She glares at him, feeling frustrated because if he’s in this kind of mood God knows when she’ll get to come, and then turns her back on him. “Fine. I’m distractable and swayable. You’re the one not getting any, so chew on that.”

“Go to the study, Faith,” he says pleasantly, ignoring her little snit. “I think, as this is the first time we’ve done this, we should make an early start.”

“Works for me,” she says, starting to walk and, as she’s sure he’s watching, throwing in a nice wiggle of her ass.

It earns her a single slap, stinging and tingling, right across her backside and she turns, folding her arms. “Tell you what; why don’t you go first, Wesley?”

He puts his hand on her shoulder and pushes her around again. “I like the view better this way.” His hand smoothes over her ass. “Though you’re wearing entirely too many clothes.” There’s a final pat and then he links her arm in his and urges her forward. “Wasn’t I going to make you spend the day naked? Perhaps today would be a good day for that.”

And she’s almost certain he’s joking, but she gets this flash of them discussing the contract; her naked, Wes spiffed up in suit, tie and shoes, and she shudders because, damn, would that give him an advantage.

“You’re shivering,” he says solicitously. “Well, perhaps we could wait for it to get a little warmer.”

She’s wearing a T-shirt, tight and sleeveless, over a pair of jeans and she’s feeling plenty warm enough, but she gives him a nod anyway. “Really think we should, Wes,” she agrees.

“Though there’s something to be said for it,” he muses, ushering her into his study. “I’ve always found meetings like this to be unbearably tedious in the past; as I have such a personal interest in this one, I expect it to be less so, but there’s no denying that were you to be, ah, naked, I’d almost certainly be distracted. Possibly even moved to be indulgent. You like it when I indulge you, don’t you?”

And if she’d ever doubted his manipulative skills, she takes it all back now. Indulgent. Like breakfast in bed indulgent. Like letting her watch more than five minutes of TV, and God forbid he ever finds the Discovery Channel because she’d never get a look in, indulgent. All in exchange for her giving him something sweet to eyeball as they negotiate, but there’s more to it than that. Naked, she’d be wet and wanting in minutes, and he’d be looking at her with those cool, appraising eyes, and there’d be all these little touches, and suggestions made in that iced-honey drawl, until she’d end up signing something that left her totally at his mercy.

Which, okay, wasn’t all that horrible a notion, but she had her pride.

“Tempting, Wes,” she says, pretending to consider it, “but the way I see it, this is a time out, yeah? No games, no power plays, just you and me setting down some rules with me getting to make some for a change.” She smiles up at him and flips the collar on his shirt. “Lose this, and I’ll lose mine, otherwise, no way.”

There’s an appreciative, almost admiring look in his eyes as he nods over at the chairs he’s put behind his desk. “Very well, Faith. I hope you won’t regret throwing away –”

“Save it, Wes,” she snaps, going over to the desk and taking his chair. There’s an impressive array of pens and pencils and two neatly stacked copies of the contract set out ready. She picks one contract up and starts to read it. “Might as well go and get us both a coffee, Wes,” she murmurs. “Think we’ll be needing it.”

And that’s pushing it, it really is, but he just chuckles and disappears, coming back five minutes later with two mugs and, fuck, he’s found time to change into a suit and he’s the Wes who decimated Lilah in a courtroom, the Wes who barks orders at her in the office without expecting any response but instant obedience.

“That’s cheating,” she says as he sits down. An eyebrow arches and he waits. "That’s cheating, sir” she bites out.

There’s an irresistibly impish grin that does something to her and he says, “Cheating’s such an ugly word, Faith. I’d call it, oh, maximizing my power base.”

“No, you wouldn’t,” she says indignantly. “You hate bullshit like that.”

“Oh, very well,” he concedes. “I’m cheating.” He hooks one finger in the thin strap of her T-shirt and pulls it away from her shoulder. “No bra. You’re cheating too.” His fingers move to stroke across her nipples, hard enough to be seen through the clinging cotton. “It’s working too; I find myself thinking about peeling this off and spending fifteen minutes or so touching nothing but your nipples with my tongue and teeth, until they’re –”

“It isn’t working, Wesley,” she says, wishing her voice hadn’t gone all husky. “Now about this first part –”

All business in an instant, he picks up his copy and stares at it with the frowning intensity that does more for her than she hopes he knows. “Faith, this seems perfectly straightforward to me. You’re required to dress appropriately at the office; that’s nothing new, nor have you objected before.”

And she hasn’t. The clothes he chose for her still make her feel different when she puts them on, still change her in some indefinable way, holding her safe, her armor, her reassurance that she’s perfect in his eyes.

“Everyone on the face of the planet gets casual Friday and I want it too.”

“Really?” He leans back and taps his pen against his knee. “Very well.”

“What?” Suspicion flares. “That wasn’t negotiated, Wes; that was a walkover.”

“No,” he corrects her, “it was an agreement to the basic principle.” He smiles slowly. “Now we hammer out the details. You’re to wear only black; no jeans, and no dress or skirt with a hemline above your knees.” He looks thoughtful. “My mother says the headmistress at her school used to check their uniform was within acceptable limits by making the pupils kneel down. If their skirts didn’t brush the floor, they were too short.”

“And you plan on doing that with me?” she splutters.

“I think it has a certain appeal,” he says. “There would have to be penalties attached, of course, should your attire fail to meet the conditions, but I’m sure we can devise something mutually acceptable there. Do you have any thoughts on that, or would you like me to come up with something?”

She’s starting to get a sinking feeling. “Wes, there’re, like twenty parts to this, and that’s not counting the television and some extras I thought up...it’s gonna take forever.”

He looks almost dreamy at the thought of it. “A good while, yes, especially if you argue with me.”

She takes a swig of coffee and sets the mug back down. “Argue? Oh, that’s such an accurate word. I’ll agree to no jeans, but what’s this thing you’ve got with black? I wear black four days out of the five; Friday I want a change.”

“You may wear navy. Or gray,” he says, as if he’s making one hell of a concession.

“Yeah, and you can bite me,” she says. “I pick the color of my knee length whatever, OK?”

He studies her face and nods grudgingly. Taking a deep breath she picks up her pen and makes the changes.

One down...

Chapter Two Hundred and Twenty One

“Two fifteen minute breaks for every eight hour shift. Plus a half hour for lunch. That's the goddamn law, Wesley! And, uh, accordingly I think I should be able to break those fifteens into four seven-and-a-halfs. That's not the end of the world.”

They've barely made it to section three, after a relatively easy barter over the office coffee-making and water cooler duties. She'd agreed to always making coffee as long as he changed the dreadfully heavy and awkward bottles on the cooler. And made the lunch run to the diner three times a week.

“I'm well aware of the vagaries of labor law in this state, Faith.” He announces this without looking up, being totally engrossed scribbling something further down the page, and she can't quite make out what it says. “I believe we both worked on Ms. Hellman's case – you may recall she was denied the legally-required breaks at that loathsome chain restaurant?”

“Right. So then, like, there's nothing to discuss here. Wouldn't want to be doing anything illegal, right? Wouldn't want to have to turn you in to the Department of Labor!”

He gives her a look that would make even the most hostile witness shut their trap and stop slouching to boot. She straightens up in her seat, happy to see that this clearly pleases him, even if just for a brief second before he switches back to hardcore trial lawyer mode. “Still, I must insist that you take your fifteen minutes as required by law and not break them down further than that. I simply can't have the phone unattended five times a day – the answering service charges for each rollover. Two fifteen minute breaks, one at 10:30 and one at 3:30 and a half hour for lunch. The matter is not up for further discussion.”

She ponders shoving the pencil in his eye, but decides that's maybe not the most professional or romantic thing to do. Instead, she scans down to the section on her cigarette ration. “If I agree to that, I'll require two concessions.” She likes the way the stilted dialog trips off her tongue, makes her feel a little more powerful and in-charge, even if it's all a big sham, and she's totally in the palm of his hand. Still, it wouldn't do not to put up a good fight.

“Yes?” He drawls it at her and just that one little word makes her nearly forget what they were discussing. She's lost for a moment in staring at the perfect, dimpled tie knot snuggled up against his neck, itching to loosen it just a teensy bit.

“Five per day, Faith. That's all I'll allow.”

She knows she can't get the full twenty of one blessed pack, but she doesn't want to lowball it. “Fifteen.”

“Seven.”

“Twelve.”

“Seven.” He sighs. “Really, Faith. Is this quite worth all this...?”

She cuts him off with no compunction. “Ten. And I have a proviso to have up to a full pack if we go out clubbing or to see a show or if the day is like, inordinately stressful...” She can't believe his words, big clunky legalese monsters like proviso and inordinately are as easy to deploy now as her affected and overused “like” and her personal favorite: “I was all ... whatever, dude!”

“And by inordinately stressful you mean...?”

“Oh, any day your ex-wife shows up. Or we run into any member of my extended family.” If only that would be enough to take care of those little problems.

“Very well, but your ration will be cut to five if I find you've burned any office property.”

Of course. Of course he'd bring that into it, this being the flammable objects section of the contract and all. “Fine. That's fine.” She's already licking the tip of her finger to turn the page and trying to remember the next item when he slips his fingers around her wrist before she can fully flip the page over.

“You're sure, Faith? Because we can always deal with willful destruction of office property in a more... corporal way.” He gives her that wicked grin and her toes curl at the memory of being bent over his desk, one stinging swat of his palm against her ass in exchange for each steno pad reduced to ashes. She flips to section five, paragraph 3 sub-a – admittedly, it's her favorite section. There's a neat little table, perfectly indented and aligned, with each possible infraction and the -- as Wes so delicately put it -- the corporal punishment required for each.

“One per notepad. Unless the number destroyed is over, shall we say...ten? Then two per for every one over that quantity.” His voice has gone husky, and goddamn, she's afraid she'll just melt if she looks up from the page and meets his eyes.

And then there's the little fact that she can't ignore the fact that her mouth's gone dry and he surely can't ignore the fact that she's barely squeaking out a faint, “Sure, yeah. Great,” as he pencils in the new entries into the table.

Chapter Two Hundred and Twenty Two

She’s momentarily fascinated by watching him write in his even, elegant, slightly fussy hand. Like almost everything else about him, it’s so controlled and yeah, pretty.

And damn if it isn’t going to be her mission to make that particular word totally sanctioned under their legally binding agreement. So it might be a hard sell, but hey, anything worthwhile is. And it’s not like she’s asking for an addendum along the lines of “Party of the second part is allowed to practice Japanese rope bondage skills on the party of the first.”

While she’s momentarily distracted by the image that conjures up, Wes clears his throat meaningfully.

“What is the next point of contention, Faith?”

“Adjective use, sir.”

He looks a little thrown off his game for a second there. “’Adjective use’?” He taps his pencil against the page. “Ah yes, I recall your fondness for one in particular.” He smiles coldly. “Very well. As this is all about negotiation, I require a bit of quid pro quo.”

He’s piqued her curiosity. “Yeah?” She arches an eyebrow at him. Quid pro fucking quo.

“Television watching shall be restricted to one hour on weeknight evenings and two hours on the weekend.”

“But Wes—! What about movies? That isn’t enough time for—“

“I’d much rather see you read a book, Faith, and I have an entire library full of them. You hardly need to rot your brain with that drivel that seems to overrun the airwaves.”

She smirks knowingly. “What if there’s a Queer Eye marathon, Wes? You gonna make me turn that off?”

He’s forced to think about that one for a second. Frowning, he concedes, “Perhaps this clause is subject to the whims of the party of the first.”

“I thought you didn’t have whims, Mr. Buttoned Up Lawyer Guy. I mean, sir.” She reaches up to loosen his tie, brushing her fingertips over his crisp shirtfront. “And, gosh, what if I have a whim right now?” She grabs hold of his tie and pulls him closer.

Much to her surprise, he lets her. “Well, I think we’ve made some progress in our …negotiations, and it’s time for a little break. This is hard work, after all.” He starts kissing the slope of her neck, his fingers restless against the thin material of her tank top.

She giggles and pushes him roughly away. “Man, I never thought you’d cave so easily! Now who’s easily swayed, hmm?” He looks totally stunned. Rooked. Hoodwinked. And damn if she doesn’t get some personal satisfaction out of that. That image is sure as hell getting filed away in her own personal album of precious moments.

“You should see the look on your face!” She’s still laughing.

“All right, Faith, you’ve made your point, rhetorically inexact though it may be. Now—” He fixes her that steely look that he fucking knows she can’t resist— “Dare we even broach the potentially charged topic of Orgasms, Frequency of and Allowances Made Regarding?”

Chapter Two Hundred and Twenty Three

Oh, and as much as she wants to take this contractual clause out for a spin right that second, 'cause he's shifting a little in his seat and she knows what that means even before she looks down and sees the now easily-recognizable outline of his hard-on under his trousers, she's not just conceding anything too easily this afternoon. Not when the gridlocks of negotiation are possibly the best damn foreplay ever.

She scrunches up her forehead and ponders a particularly opaque paragraph of the section in question. He's been incredibly thorough, all right. The language is air-tight – even if she wanted to alter the text, she wouldn't know where to begin.

“Is there a problem?” he asks, tapping his pen on her knuckles.

She pulls a sour face, glaring at him, nostrils flared. “You knew! You knew when you wrote this there was nothing I could do to get around any of this.”

“Ah, the value of an excellent legal education. And I suppose this wouldn't be the best moment to tell you that I was at the top of my contract law class.”

“Not really, no.” The thing is that really, she doesn't want to change anything; hadn't wanted to, even the first time she'd read it the other day. That's not really the pressing issue. “Just wondering, Wesley, how exactly am I supposed to remember all these items during the heat of passion?”

“That's really not my problem is it?” He smiles indulgently and tips his chair back, insouciantly crossing his legs.

She's on the edge of fuming now, annoyed that he could turn the tables so effectively in the span of a few minutes. “Fine. For every blowjob I give you, I get one orgasm, no waiting. No teasing. No games. Anything after that is fine. But that first one? My way.”

“Just one, Faith? Is there a way to accurately measure and control that sort of thing?”

If he's about to start laughing, she'll have no choice but to slap him, hard. “At least one.”

“Fair enough, at least one, it is.” He inks that in next to the typewritten block of text. “Anything else? I admit, it was unfair of me to box you in so tightly here, especially placing the onus on you to have this all memorized by ...” He pauses, thinking. “Wednesday...”

“Next Sunday.”

“Friday evening.”

“C'mon Wesley. A week is fair. There's three pages here. Three pages! And you know, come to think of it, there's quite a bit here about 'Frequency of' but not a whole lot of 'Allowances Made Regarding.' That's one allowance I could sure use right now.”

He leans in close, runs his fingers along the curve of her breast. “Anything else you could use right now?” That smile chasing over his lips could only be described as lascivious.

She wriggles back in her seat, her turn to whip out the steely glare, but that doesn't stop his caresses. “Distracting me like this is an underhanded trick, Mr. Wyndam-Pryce. In addition to reporting you to the Department of Labor, it looks like the State Bar's ethics committee should be notified as well. Sexual overtures during contract negotiations – I'm sure they have some rule against that kind of thing...”

“I believe you were guilty of the same thing just a few moments ago...” He snatches his hand away, but moments later, it's snaking up her inner thigh.

“Yes, but I didn't swear an oath before God and whatever to be all ethical and stuff.”

“But seeing as this is a highly unorthodox contractual situation, I hardly think it's business-as-usual. And I don't think that the ethics committee would even care about this contract once they found out I was involved in illicit relations with my secretary.”

“Well, the way gossip goes around this town, I'm surprised they haven't already beaten down the door, demanding your head.”

He gives a derisive sniff. “Thank goodness it takes time for gossip to reach the state capital. I think they still may relay messages by carrier pigeon.” She rolls her eyes at his lame joke. “Now then, I'll give you until next Sunday for the memorization. But that means your most recent addendum will not go into effect until then.”

The bastard. He would pull something like that. “Fine.” She sticks her bottom lip out, all pouty, for emphasis. Maybe not the most professional act, but she's gotta even the score somehow.

He flashes her a real, sweet smile for the first time all afternoon and traces his finger along the edge of her protruding bottom lip. “Are you sure you wouldn't like a little break?”

Chapter Two Hundred and Twenty Four

She thinks about it for a moment while she's nibbling on the tip of his finger, even gives it a few swipes with her tongue so his eyes darken and he leans closer to her.

Sucker!

"I guess we have been negotiating for, like hours," she muses as he starts worrying at her bottom lip again like it's his favorite thing in the world. "Maybe you should go and get us a glass of water each and we can finish discussing this whole orgasm issue." She shoots him her perkiest smile, all teeth and tits, and gets a pained glare in return.

"Faith…" It's half warning, half endearment but she just snatches up the contract and brandishes it at him.

"Look, Wes, there's a whole bunch of papers here that say I got rights and I don't think you're respecting them. And I don't think you're respecting the letter of the law either," she adds with a smirk. "You're like totally abusing it."

"Yes, in much the same way that you see fit to abuse the English language," he snaps but he's getting to his feet and walking to the door. "You'd better take this time to deliberate on your rights, Faith, because it's only fair to warn you that they're looking more than a little shaky at this juncture."

She sticks her tongue out at his stiff back and picks up her pen. By the time he's back with two icy cold glasses of water and, thanks, Wes, ice and lemon too, she shows him the corrections she's added in her neatest handwriting.

"Better sit down, Wes," she grins, snatching the contract back before he can get a good look, and she'd be shrinking back in her seat at the permafrost in his eyes if he couldn't quite stop that little smile tug at his lips.

"And I advise you to stay seated while you still can, Faith," he murmurs silkily, throwing himself down in the chair with easy grace and folding his arms. "I assume this concerns 'Allowances Made Regarding'?

"You assume right. OK, if the party of the first part makes the party of the second…"

"Really, is it necessary to go through this party and part rigmarole every single time?" he sighs wearily and, fuck!, she's gonna wipe that smug smile off his face if it kills her.

"Don't butt in, Wes! Didn't we cover that in the whole thing about you not respecting my rights?" She'd been mentally rehearsing that exact note of reproach ever since he left the room and she's got it to a fucking tee.

"Very well, carry on," he says with a little wave of his hand but then he's folding his arms again, crossing his legs and staring at her unblinkingly. She's seen him do this in court when he's working the whole judge, jury and executioner thing and she is so not going to let him.

"As I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted," she spits out, because she already knows that her ass has got an urgent appointment with his hand, so she might as well use her snottiest voice and be done with it. "If the party of the first part makes the party of the second part wait longer than an hour for an orgasm, or any other time period previously stated, than the party of the second part is allowed to consume three pieces of junk food, and I defined junk food in an addendum at the back…"

"How very thoughtful of you," he says kindly. "And did you define what you meant by piece? Because really, Faith, this wording is very vague. Three pieces could mean three Cheetos or three packets of Cheetos."

She squinches up her face at him as she picks up the pen and adds, "to be defined as an item sold with the intent to be consumed in its entirety." Though she says it herself, she's damn good. "Right, allowance number two…"

She's added in eight extra clauses, including that she's never, ever to sleep in the damp spot because he's the one who makes them, that she's never ever to be fucked with vegetables or any other kind of organic matter and that no stinky cheese, or cheese of any kind, is to be used in foreplay.

And he just sits there looking bored. He even picks up his letter knife at one point and start cleaning his fingernails with it, even though they're way pristine for someone who's never paid for a manicure in his life. He doesn't disagree with a single clause but then against he doesn't agree with her either. It's getting to the point where even she's starting to get sick of hearing her voice bleat on and on about the party of the first motherfucking part.

She comes to a halt after her last clause about a statutory amount of snuggling time after orgasm to find him stifling a fucking yawn. And she'd bet all her orgasm allowance for the week ("a number greater than five but less than 15, not including instances of multiple orgasm") that he's faking it.

"Wes! You're not taking this seriously," she wails, because she's way into this. Hell, she's thinking of going back to school and doing a law degree.

He lifts his head from silent contemplation of his big toe and pins her with a stare that's more steely than the entire steel output of Pittsburgh. "I'm taking this entirely seriously," he tells her, oozing smugness from every pore. "And do I need to remind you that these are merely hypothetical orgasms and will remain hypothetical if I refuse to sign this contract, which is fast descending into the realms of whimsy on the part of the second party."

Her mouth drops open so wide that she swears her chin just brushed the floor. "You wouldn't fucking dare!"

The elegant arch of his eyebrow says quite plainly that he would.

"I don't need you to have an orgasm," she snarls. "You don't sign this contract, Wes, then I'm gonna be spending some fucking quality time with Mr. Bunny. And yeah, pun intended."

He gives her a pitying smile like he can't even believe that she's that stupid. "But you're forgetting, Faith, that I don't need a contract to fuck you. I just thought that you might welcome the opportunity to have some small say in the matter, though perhaps I under-estimated your enthusiasm. Really, it's rather charming but in the circumstances I'm unable to agree to at least five of these clauses so we find ourselves at a stalemate."

Now it's her turn to fold her arms, with a side order of flouncing. "Fine!"

And he's doing the whole starey thing again and it's beginning to seriously freak her out. Or, like, get her really wet because he's in the suit and he looks so cold, so unapproachable, that her fingers are itching to rumple him up, get him fucking messy.

The effort kills her but she manages to unclench her fingers from the arm of the chair and straighten up so her breasts are all pert and directly in his eye line. "I'll give you a blow job, if you agree to all my clauses," she offers brightly. "No quid pro quo, I'll just blow you off here and now and you don't have to do anything to me. Like, a one time deal kinda thing. What do you say?"

Chapter Two Hundred and Twenty Five

And it’s not often she deprives him of words, but that did it. Despite the pretended boredom, he’s in a legal mindset, what with all the clauses and shit, and she seriously doubts he gets offers like that in court or out of it.

She watches him with her eyebrows lifted enquiringly, serene smile fixed in place as if she’s just asked if he’d like another crust-less cucumber sandwich or something, waiting for him to do more than stare at her with eyes that go from startled to speculative in seconds.

“It would have to be – and please don’t think I’m denigrating your undoubted proficiency in that department – one very special event,” he says finally.

She’s close to giggling because she’s noticed the way he avoided saying the actual words, as if he’s fine with spanking her ass rosy-red, fine with fucking her until she’s begging incoherently, but wrapping his mouth around something as crude as ‘blow job’ leaves him floundering.

“Well, see, Wes, you’ve got to agree up front,” she says. “I’m not going to have you...” She searches her memory and finishes triumphantly, “...reneging on the deal after you’ve come, I’ve swallowed, and the blood’s back north of your belt.”

He gives this fastidious little wince but she watches his Adam’s apple jump and she’s tasting the power, sweet and heavy, that she’s got right now.

“What’s it gonna be, Wes?” she says, with a sober face and if she runs her tongue over her lips as she waits, it’s just because his thumb’s rubbed them and they’re dry. Honest.

“Faith –” He glances away, takes a deep breath and then gives her a long look. “You do realize that I’ve spent the last minute settling on the exact number of times your arse and your hairbrush get to meet?”

He’s going to use the hairbrush? Fuck. It’s not that it hurts that much more, it’s just that she misses the immediacy of his palm cupping her curves, and she’s convinced a spanking with the brush lasts longer, because with nothing to go on but her wails and the artful reddening of her ass, he’s less likely to decide she’s had enough.

When his hand is smarting, and he can feel the heat in her skin, he’s more inclined to be merciful.

“That’s later, Wes,” she says, tapping an insistent finger on the pages before them. “And until we get this settled, I’m not leaving the room and I’m not going over your knee.” His eyes flicker to the desk and there’s a faint smile that she wipes out by adding, “Or bending over the desk, a chair, or anywhere else.”

“I can see you’re set on this,” he says solemnly. “I underestimated your –”

And he takes sixty long, interminable seconds telling her that he’s desperate for her to go down on him, without ever saying anything he couldn’t have said in front of the fucking Queen without raising a blush.

Men.

She stands up and pats the seat of the chair invitingly. It’s wide, leather and there’s room for two; because she grabbed it, he’s spent the last hour perched on a wooden one, which probably didn’t help improve his temper. “Sit down, Wesley,” she says, sultry sweet, pushing it back a little to give her room.

He gives a look that mingles suspicion with anticipation as he changes seats.

“What?” she says indignantly. “Fuck, Wes, I’m not gonna bite you.” She considers that. “Well, not much.” A thought occurs to her. “And you’ve got to promise me not to interrupt, or interfere, or give me orders.” She smirks, “Though if you beg, I’ll, uh, take it under advisement.”

“Every comment like that just adds another stroke,” he says softly. “Would you like me to tell you what the total is at the moment?”

“No!” she says, and fuck, she’s going to be the one begging if this doesn’t work out... “Promise, Wes! I’ve never known you break a promise. I trust you.”

“Really?”

There’s a shadow in his eyes and she’s not having that. Not now. Luckily, she’s got ways of distracting him. She hooks her fingers in the hem of her top and starts to peel it up, pausing just before the lower curve of her bare breasts goes on show.

“I promise,” he says and damn she didn’t know he could speak that fast. “But, Faith, why are you –”

“Wes, questions come under interruptions. I won’t gag you –”

“Consider that a given.”

“You’re interrupting me again,” she spits out, feeling frustrated.

“I’m –” He shakes his head. “Sorry.”

He’s got the sense to leave it at that, and she takes a second to focus before flashing him a mollified smile and two nipples.

She toys with the button and the zip that are keeping her jeans on but settles for pushing them down without making a big thing out of it, taking her thong with them, because she doesn’t want to piss him off with her choice of underwear and get his, ‘adds mystery’ lecture again. Stepping out of them she gives him a chance to admire her – which he does, eyes skimming over her appreciatively, taking in the view – before sinking slowly to her knees. Once there she puts her hands on his knees and pushes them apart, shifting until she’s between his thighs. She can feel him tense in readiness and smiles up at him. “Going to make you whimper, Wes,” she tells him, knowing that’ll pretty much guarantee he’ll be doing his best not to make a sound. “Going to make you come so hard you’ll never sit in this chair without wishing I was right here, about to do this...”

She places her hand over the -definitely- 3-D shape his cock’s making as it presses against his trousers and sighs. Hard and ready. Not that she expected anything else of course. She’s doing this her way, so there’s no question of using her teeth to pull down his zipper; takes way too long and she wants to see him, feel him - taste and smell him, too, because he’s always whatever the equivalent  for cocks of minty-fresh is, clean without being devoid of any scent but the soap he used.

So he’s warm against her fingers and lips in a moment and she’s murmuring something, anything, just to feel his cock jerk as her lips flutter against the most sensitive square inch of flesh he possesses.

She can almost hear him wondering why she bothered to strip when, let’s face it, he can’t see much of her from this angle and she’d made it clear he didn’t have to return the favor. Poor bemused Wesley... so she solves the riddle for him after a few leisurely lapping licks and a devastatingly slow glide down until his cock’s as deep in her throat as she can manage without totally spoiling the effect by choking. Then a few more of the delicate touches of her tongue that have his fingers digging into the arm of the chair and one lightning fast slam-gulp that shocks a moan out of him, but by the time he’s biting his lip in chagrin, she’s pulled off him and she’s looking up at his face and she doesn’t need a mirror when she can see his eyes darken as he stares down at her wet, parted lips and lust-glazed eyes. If there’s a zone for this, she’s in it.

One sinuous slither later and she’s astride his lap. His mouth opens but she closes it with a kiss, darting her tongue against his and not giving him chance to protest.

Not even when she hitches up and sinks back down, impaling herself with a hands-free ease that’s only possible because he helps her instinctively by tilting and because she’s slippery as hell and has been for so long it’s her teeth that bite down on his lip, her whimper they hear first.

He feels so fucking good, she could come just from this.

But she’s promised him something specific and before he starts to think she’s cheating, she takes her mouth away, just a little, and begins to count as she rises and falls like the Roman fucking Empire.

“One... two... God, Wes!... four...”

When she gets to ten, sighs and lifts off him, she only waits to see the amused gleam of comprehension light his eyes before she’s back on her knees.

He tastes different now and she wonders if it’s totally weird to kind of like him like this, with her own juices coating the rigid length of him so that the kisses she plants, in teasing profusion, are sticky and slippery. She tastes good too, she decides, and goes to town on cleaning him up until a sneaky little glance upwards shows her that he’s ready for another lesson in behaving properly during negotiations.

He’s going to pay for that yawn, she thinks. Oh, he’s so gonna pay...

He makes this pitiful sound when her mouth leaves him, and she shushes him with a kiss before moving to sit astride him again. He knows what to expect this time and he’s got the tiniest smirk, as if he thinks maybe she’ll get so caught up in this he’ll get to come, and it won’t be officially be a blow job so he won’t have to agree to her conditions.

So when she grips the base of his cock –hard- and rubs the slick tip of him against her clit, swollen and tingling, rubs it once, twice, three times...well, he’s not smirking by the time she gets to nine, not even when on ‘ten’ she treats herself to one dip down that gives her everything he has, rammed deep enough to hit every sweet spot she’s got.

Pulling off him, after just one – is it still a thrust when he’s held still and you’re the one moving, she wonders? Reverse thrust, maybe? - takes every ounce of self-control she’s got, but thanks to Wes, she’s got more than the average girl...

This time she’s ravenous for the taste of him, swallowing him up, head dipping in a rhythm that’s speeding up like a tap dancer on crack. He’s so close to coming that she can feel that tell-tale hardening, that jerk as the spunk gets set to rise and erupt. Panting, wild-eyed, she lifts her head and gets, not a whimper but a heartfelt groan, and her name, choked out and barely recognizable.

She doesn’t think her legs will hold her up long enough for her to climb into his lap again, so she settles for something that’s cruel and unusual punishment, letting go of him altogether, sitting back on her heels and sucking her fingers into her mouth and then letting them drift down to her nipples, tight and aching now, so that the splash of coolness as the dampness her pinching fingers leaves evaporates is what makes her exhale on a sob, not the stab of perfect pain from her merciless tweaking.

He’s transfixed, hands holding onto the chair arms so tightly his fingers will be aching when he peels them off, eyes on her face as it twists with pleasure that’s so close to pain they’re kissing cousins, gaze dropping to her busy fingers, eyes burning so she can almost feel the scorch on her skin.

She can’t leave him untouched for long, not really, wouldn’t be fair – so she reaches out and swipes her fingers across the thick spill of pre-come and uses that as totally unneeded lubrication as her fingers go down between her legs.

There’s a protest rising, she can see it and she leans back, spreading her legs so he can see, can watch her torment herself with touches that never connect, squeezes that miss her clit, a dozen slides down to where her cunt’s waiting to be filled that leave it empty of all but want and need.

She fucking tortures herself in front of him, repeating every trick she can remember him using, every way he’s kept her on the edge, feverish and flushed with arousal.

The, when she really can’t stand it any longer, when the fingers that are teasing her stop feeling as though they’re hers, she whispers his name, so that his gaze goes to her face and she bends in a beautiful arch and lets him come in her mouth, on her tongue, in her throat, feeling the tears sting her eyes as he gives in and his hands go to wind in her hair and he lets her finish what she’s started.

She lifts her head, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, in a gesture as unstudied as it is necessary. His eyes are closed but as she watches, they open and he stares down at her.

Without speaking, he stands, fastens his trousers and picks up his pen and the contracts. When his name’s on the line, black ink wet, he holds out his hand and helps her up, keeping hold of her hand.

“Wes?” she whispers. “Please?”

Chapter Two Hundred and Twenty Six

Considering that she's naked and dripping wet, it's pretty obvious what she's all weak-voiced and desperate for.

Wes doesn't say anything though, just brings her hand to his mouth and presses a kiss against her knuckles, but when she takes a step forward so the stiff, starched front of  his shirt brushes her breasts in a way that's almost comforting if she wasn't so goddamn worked up, he gently pushes her away.

"Wes," she pleads again, making her eyes go big, like Disney big. "You gonna help a girl out?"

His brow wrinkles in confusion. "Help you out?" he echoes incredulously, as if she's just asked if they go out on a baby-murdering spree. "Surely you're not suggesting…"

"Damn fucking right I'm not suggesting," she hisses, trying to grab him by the waist, which he manages to avoid with an adroit side step, his hands reaching to seize her upper arms in an almost punishing grip so she can't work on a bit of follow through. "I'm begging, Wes. OK? I'm begging you. I made you come, didn't I?"

He allows himself a tiny, teeny smile of smug satisfaction. "Yes, you did. And thank you for that, it was rather inspired."

"So you get some, then I get some," she insists, wriggling in his hold. "I get a whole load of some."

She really should have insisted on a clause in the contract about the party of the first part's way annoying collection of smirks, sneers and really fucking smug smiles, pretty much like the one he's giving her now as he looks down at her frantic struggles and heaving breasts and shakes his head sorrowfully. "Believe me, Faith, there's nothing I'd like more than to alleviate your suffering but you were adamant that the favor wasn't to be returned."

"Yeah, but…"

"If I recall correctly, your exact words were, 'No quid pro quo, I'll just blow you off here and now and you don't have to do anything to me.'" The smile turns sympathetic but resolute. "Now, I have to respect the letter of the law."

And with that totally bogus argument, he thinks he's won. Which he so hasn't. "I said you don't have to do anything to me. Didn't say you can't." She pauses and then smiles triumphantly. "Or that you shouldn't. 'Sides you signed the contract, buster, and can I direct your attention to section 3, paragraph 5, clause b: for every blow job I give you, you have to give me a no-waiting orgasm and I need one right now. C'mon, Wes!"

Yeah, it's not like she expected him to go down (girl's gotta dream?) without putting up a fight, but she's like found her inner Ally McBeal, 'cept her inner Ally McBeal isn't some anorexic, uptight bitch who doesn't know how to dress, and he could at least look impressed at her legal prowess. Or the way her nipples are tight and peaked, her thighs starting to glisten with her juices.

He shrugs off his jacket and folds it neatly over the back of the chair and she's one crazy, mixed-up girl 'cause that gets her even hotter than if he'd said something really obscene in his most clipped voice or just went straight for the main course and jammed his fingers inside her. "Really, Faith, you made certain insensitive suggestions concerning the possibilities of me reneging on your kind offer and now I find that the boot's very firmly on the other foot." He stares down at her toes, which are curling into the nap of the rug and seems momentarily distracted before he lifts his head and gives her a bright smile. "Still, no need to look so dismayed, I still plan to give your arse a relentless spanking even if I don't plan on making you come."

"God!" she bursts out, throwing her arms into the air in frustration. "You're such a bas…"

"Yes, yes, I'm a bastard," he says in a bored voice but his eyes are gleaming in a really unsettling way. "Now how shall I administer your much deserved chastisement?"

And there's no way she's not coming in the next five minutes, either with or without his help. "I'll just go and get my hairbrush," she says in her most innocent voice, which actually not so much, as he sits down on his chair and looks around the room as if he's searching for new and cunning ways to make her ass burn.

She's almost skipping out of the room when his "tsk tsk" pulls her back and she turns round to see him wagging his finger at her. "I think it best if I keep you within my sights, Faith," he tells her pleasantly. "We really don't need the hairbrush anyway. I'm sure I can improvise something."

Chapter Two Hundred and Twenty Seven

“I wasn’t going to –” she begins, but he hasn’t even started to arch a disbelieving eyebrow before she’s ‘fessing up. “OK., I was. I was going to get the brush and take, like, thirty fucking seconds to get myself off. Could probably do it in less. Fine! Are you satisfied?”

She can feel her face heat up, less with embarrassment than frustration. Nothing, absolutely nothing, is helping her to calm down right now. Not the way he’s sitting, in the exact position he’ll be in when she’s over his knee, not the way his hand’s open, palm up, not the way he’s still looking just the littlest bit mussed.

And, oh, fuck, not the way he’s moving and unbuttoning his cuffs and rolling – God – rolling up his sleeves, with precise, careful folds so that they’re each the same distance away from his strong, beautifully shaped wrists.

“Oh, I’ve been very well satisfied, thank you, Faith,” he purrs. “So thoroughly so in fact that I’m not quite up to the task of satisfying you.”

She can’t believe he’s making jokes right now but he’s looking insufferably pleased with himself for such a fucking lame attempt at humor.

“You don’t have to fuck me, Wes,” she says, hearing the desperation edge out the dignity. “You can –”

“Spread you out on the desk in front of me and touch you with my fingers?” he interrupts. “Find every place that makes you quiver; stroke every spot that makes you squirm. I can push my fingers into you, where you’re wet, where you’re hot and you grip onto me with a strength that’s always a surprise. One finger, two... you’d like even more than that though, wouldn’t you? The way you feel now... I could fuck you with my hand and you’d mewl and beg and love it.”

Her hand’s holding onto the door handle and she can feel the shape of it, smoothly rounded, the metal warming against her hand, but it’s all she’s conscious of because she’s lost in what he’s saying, drowning in that blue-iced stare.

“Too direct, not subtle enough? Perhaps you’re right. Would you like me to use my mouth on you instead, Faith? Have you hold yourself open for me, wide, wide open, so I could see you, could see how wet you were, see how much you wanted me, needed me... ”

She thinks she’s nodding, but she’s not speaking. She’s not sure she can. Every word he’s saying, in that cool, deliberate voice, is stroking her skin, tugging her inexorably towards the edge, and he knows it. There’s no satisfaction in his eyes, just a watchful, tense waiting but she doesn’t know what for.

“I’d touch you with my tongue so lightly you barely felt it, Faith. Taste you against my lips, kiss you, bite you, lick you...open like that, I could go anywhere I pleased, fuck your cunt and your arse with my tongue, driven as deeply as I could. You’d let me do that, wouldn’t you?”

And if ever there was a competition for most rhetorical question, that one would win and there wouldn’t be a dissenting voice in the house. She lets go of the handle and starts to walk to him, drawn by his voice and he stops her with a word.

No. A command.

And as she crawls to him, gaze fixed on his face, she wonders why it feels like he’s the supplicant, not her.

Chapter Two Hundred and Twenty Eight

Though, once she's on all fours, with the prickly kilim rug stinging her knees and the fleshy bits of her palms, she feels like one of those pilgrims who climb up a jagged mountain, all the way on their knees, just to kiss the hallowed ground of a shrine. The way he's looking at her, still devouring her with that cold look of appraisal that she can't read, it's both utterly frightening and utterly seductive. But he's involuntarily biting his lower lip, just a tiny bit of flesh caught between his teeth -- he probably doesn't even know he's doing it, which is perhaps the hottest thing of all. It's a little crack in this game, the kind they hadn't played in ages. And the prospect of that is enough to make her forget all about the damn rug rubbing her skin the wrong way and she's become positively feline, slinking along the rest of the distance between them, then leaning in to curl around his calf, tipping her face up to rest on his knee.

When he runs his hand through her hair, half-absentmindedly, it's nearly enough to make her start purring, for real – until with a twist of his wrist he's pulling her up on to his lap, not face-down, as she'd expected, but up to his greedy mouth, up for a kiss that's half hungry and half satisfied, 'cause if there's anyone who can make a kiss feel like that, it’s him. He's pulling so much out of her that she's not sure what to do with her arms, her hands, and just lets them drape limply across her knees.

The first thing he spots when they pull apart is that reddened flesh, still indented with the tiny teeth-marks of the rug's rough fibers. His free hand strokes her palms, her knees, seemingly entranced by the slight damage inflicted there. She can't help but whimper when one soft fingertip traces idly across the zigzagging creases that meet in the center of her palm.

“But before we get to any of the aforementioned activities, I think it's only best to redden your lovely arse to match this,” he says, sweeping his hand over her knees again. “It seems pointless to even inquire as to whether you'll like that...” She's glad he's not expecting her to reply because her mouth's so dry she can hardly swallow, much less actually speak. He extricates his hand from her hair and deliberately undoes his tie the rest of the way, pulling the narrow end out of the perfect Windsor knot first, then letting the elaborate construction collapse before whisking the whole thing out from under his collar and popping the top button of his shirt open.

The divot where his neck meets breastbone is so inviting, begging her to brush her lips across it – but before she can dip her head to do so, he snatches the side of her face up in one hand, almost as if to slap her, but instead pulling her in for another forceful kiss that leaves her panting and lightheaded so that she almost doesn't hear him order her into position, draped over his knees.

Now the wool of his trousers is prickly on her skin instead, and she's kind of snuggling into it when he strokes her hair away from her neck and bends over to murmur “Hands behind your back, Faith.”

He threads the tie 'round her wrists, twisting her arms gently so that the back of her hands are pressed to the small of her back. There's an economy to the knot he uses, but he takes his time, deliberately brushing his hands across her ass or along the ridge of her spine.

Tutting in satisfaction, he returns his attention to her hair, tilting her head on to the armrest of the chair, so she can almost see him his face, but not quite. It pulls her neck in an odd way, and that, combined with the awkward angle of her arms, makes her suddenly very self-conscious of the fabricated pose he's placed her in.

“Now,” he says, warming his palm across one ass cheek. “I know you were quite eager to use the brush, and I'm almost sad I didn't have you fetch it, even if you would have taken that time out of my sight to immediately get up to no good.” She can tell from the tone of his voice that he's smiling in that wry, sardonic way – even if she can't clearly see his lips from that angle. “And of course, my belt is out of the question – we don't want a repeat of the last time some Italian leather met this flesh.” She cringes, not from the sense memory, but from the thought that in this state, in this moment, she wouldn't resist the resounding, hot lashes of the smooth calfskin across her ass.

“I...” she sputters, before she can stop herself. “I'd like that this time, Wesley.” She almost believes it too, for a minute.

His hands stroking her other ass cheek now, and if he doesn't do something soon, she's gonna squirm away and take the brush to her own ass up in the master bathroom.

“No,” he says, bringing his hand down crashing down on the same place he'd just been caressing; the slap and her resulting cry of surprise mingled with desire echoes hollowly in the high corners of the room. “No, Faith.” Another slap, another whimper. His voice drips with honeyed concern: “I know you too well now. I know you want it like this.”

Chapter Two Hundred and Twenty Nine

And she does. And she needs him like this too —calm and detached; the steadiness of his voice and the nearly metronomic regularity of the flat of his palm against her ass —all of it keeps her just short of going over the edge. The illusion of him being in complete control is so very crucial to the game. There’s a delicious heat radiating out from the various points where his hand has already met her tenderized flesh.

“Keep talking, Wes. Please.” If she sounds desperate, well, maybe she is, a little.

“And what shall I talk about, Faith? The weather?” The pads of his fingertips ghost lightly, thoughtfully across her back. Her ass may be thankful for the momentary reprieve, but the delicate, slow touches are devastating in their own right. She arches impatiently against him, eager to gain contact with the promising erection that she can feel through the light wool of his trousers. If he doesn’t start talking soon she’s going to fucking lose it. Then again, if he does start talking she’s going to lose it, so really it’s win/win.

“Always so impatient.” He says it quietly, under his breath, but there’s no hint of a scold there. Deep down she knows he wouldn’t have her any other way. He gives her one last, indulgent pat before he lifts his hand away. She’s come to fetishize that little cooling waft of breeze that she feels right before his hand is about to connect. And when it does, she bites her lip against the shock of the familiar. She doesn’t want to make a sound, doesn’t want to betray her desire even if it’s written all over her face.

He’s alternating sharp, quick blows with these little massaging, gentle touches and it’s killing her by degrees. She manages to wriggle forward a bit so she can feel the insistence of his hard-on. He must be feeling indulgent because he lets her.

“You came for me once, just like this. Shall we see if you can do it again? Would you like me to introduce my fingers to the equation, Faith? Or would that be cheating? Hmm?”

“Thought you weren’t going to make me come, sir,” she grits out, but just barely, because his fingers dip down in between her legs, briefly, to see just how wet she is before they come to rest again at the small of her back. He’s testing her resolve. The question is: is she going to beg, or not?

Her arms are starting to ache, just a little, and she’s trying not to squirm but she’s feeling heavy and feverish and she just wants to get off, quick and dirty, rather than have it drawn out in all this agonizing glory.

But she’s determined to not say a fucking word. Not a—

“I’m thinking about my options. Should I indulge you or not? And in what fashion, exactly? So many choices.”

Things haven’t really changed so much since the early days, when he’d make her wait and wait; those days when fuck me now was her daily mantra. Hell, it seemed to work better for her than “I’m good enough, I’m smart enough, and people like me!”

And godammit, he knows damn well what he’s going to do. He always does. He’s just being smug. A flash of annoyance pushes her desire out of the way for one split second.

She’s still thinking about that when he gives her one last resounding smack and hauls her roughly up by her shoulders until she’s sitting on his lap facing him. She winces involuntarily as she rocks back on her stinging, reddened ass. Just as quickly, partly to alleviate the pressure and partly because it’s payback time, she leans forward to brush her breasts against Wes’ chest and to sneak a kiss at the vertex where his collarbone and shirt meet.

And again, he lets her. At the same moment, his hands reach behind her and start to undo the knot in the tie that’s binding her wrists together.

The surprise must register on her face because usually? The slow torment by pleasure could go on for hours. The shock makes her bolder than she’d normally be, because she finds herself asking him, “What game is this, Wes?”

He tips her chin back and gives her this look that’s so sweet and immediate, and so different from his chilly, intense glare of the past hour that she can feel her heart hitch in her chest.

“It isn’t one.” With that her arms slip free and he leans forward to kiss her.

Chapter Two Hundred and Thirty

“Not a game, hmm?” She murmurs into his ear, nuzzling his neck after pulling away from that kiss. “Just another tease, or are you telling the truth?” And, damn, she's feeling as bold as brass tonight.

“You doubt my intentions, Faith?” He tries to pull up his cold facade again, but doesn't get very far; with her hands free, she can concentrate on undoing the rest of the buttons on his shirt with a deliberate coolness she's definitely picked up from him.

Looking up from her task, she tries not to roll her eyes at him, but doesn't succeed. “Am I going to regret saying yes?”

She decides his little snuffling snicker -- magnified by the slow wagging of his head, eyes downcast to hide what she's sure must be mirth -- must be the cutest thing he's done in the past day or two.

“Hey, hey. Don't think you're getting off that easy, sir.” She's only undone more two buttons and is toying with the third, and she can feel his heart thumping at hummingbird speed inches from her fingers.

In return, his hands are curled around her breasts, the round knob of his wrist bone a comfortable pressure against her flesh. “I never entertained any idea of the sort.”

“Good, 'cause you're not getting off the hook with adorableness tonight.” She pauses with well-timed pensiveness. “Or at least not until you've made me come and carried me up to the bed 'cause I'm too spent to walk.”

“Adorableness?” The sibilant end of the word drips with incredulity when he says it.

She slips the third button open. “Yeah, Wes. Add that to the list of words you're gonna get used to, right up there with pretty. I'll attach an addendum to the contract tomorrow.”

“Mmm. I thought we'd finished our negotiations for the week...” His fingers hover over her hard nipples, dragging the tiniest swirl of air over them – she's so sensitive even that slim disturbance of the air is enough to magnify the the insistent tug of desire inside her cunt.

“Well, a girl's got a right to change her mind, right?”

“Absolutely, but not until next week. And I'm sure this particular addendum will, unlike some of the others, require copious amounts of quid pro quo.” He clamps his mouth shut purposefully when the Latin phrase brings out a little mischievous glint in her eye.

“Speaking of...” She can't help the huge grin that's spreading across her face.

He clears his throat. “Of course...”

She's freed another button, and yanks the shirt out from his trousers, letting it fall open and admiring the view. “You were getting off track...”

“No I wasn't.” His fingers swoop in finally, giving her nipples a gentle twist.

Now it's her turn to clear her throat and try to stay focused. “Yes you were, Wesley. I assume you'd come to a decision while you were still tanning my ass...” She shifts her still-tingling ass in his lap, sliding against his hard cock, just as a little reminder that they weren't through, not by a long shot. “And this is some new non-game game you've come up with to keep me waiting.”

“I assure you it's nothing of the sort.”

“Uh, huh, and then this small talk and wandering hands, you're okay with that?”

“Of course.” One hand still toying with a breast, the other slips down below her waist, the warm pads of his fingertips gently stroking her still perfectly-shorn pussy with over-deliberate care. “May I ask you something, Faith?”

She's lolling her head on his shoulder, planting a row of kisses along the edge of his neck, and can barely muster an affirmative “Mmmhmm...” in reply.

“A moment ago, you said 'spent' – and I don' t recall you ever using that particular antiquated word before; I was so distracted by that endearment you employed...” His fingers haven't paused their diligent work, and her head's gone fuzzy and all she really cares about are his hands and their business; and her lips, absentmindedly skimming his collarbone now, her arms draped crookedly 'round his neck, her fingers curling in his hair.

“Read it... one night. When I couldn't sleep.” she gasps when he slides two fingers inside, immediately crooking them to reach that damn elusive throbbing spot while his thumb still works over her clit. “One of your books... in the library... an old one. Victorian, maybe?”

His voice is tinged with slight amusement. “No doubt, as that's the bulk of the collection... Do you remember the title?”

“Wes, c'mon. I'm a little... distracted here. I don't remember.” She sighs and shifts so he can thrust his fingers in a little further.

“Oh, I'm sure you do.” There's a slight variation in his handiwork, and a split second later she realizes it's connected to the gear shift in his brain. “As a matter of fact, I don't believe I can allow you to come until you do remember.”

Any whimper she'd let out now wouldn't even begin to convey her frustration. “Wes, I thought you said this wasn't a game...”

“I think I've got right to change my mind, right?”

She curses the fact that she'd ever said that, her breathing ragged and torn by the little cries of pleasure escaping from her throat. “Fine... It was...”

Shit! What was it? She can't remember – it was about a girl married off to a rich prick to save her family from poverty and has all these erotic adventures – but she's pretty sure that kind of plot point won't differentiate it from most of the other books in his library, based on some of the other volumes she'd flipped through. And it doesn't help that the warm tingle of near-orgasm is turning hot and burning the longer she tamps down the burgeoning waves of pleasure.

“Yes Faith?” Her cunt's locked tight around his fingers, and he's still working them mercilessly, pushing her closer and closer to the point where she won't be able to fend off the insistent orgasm any longer.

A little tiny light bulb in a far corner of her brain switches on. “Emily... something about Emily and her voluptuous delights.”

He lets out one of those indulgent chuckles that she loves and loathes in equal measure. “See now, that wasn't so difficult, was it?”

She can't reply for the frustrated scream she lets rip before succumbing to the pressure of his thumb against her throbbing clit; of the slight, twitching thrusts of his fingers, twisting as far as he can reach, deep inside her.

Chapter Two Hundred and Thirty One

It's pretty good as orgasms go, her back arching against the arm of the chair, her muscles clamping down on his wicked, wicked fingers as he presses hard against that maddening, demanding little spot inside her, but it's not enough.

And when he slowly takes his fingers out of her and licks them clean with slow swipes of his pretty, pink tongue, she's shifting restlessly against the hard cock nudging against her buttocks, riding out these delicious little shudders that aren't satisfying her, just making her wriggle on his lap.

He gives her a keen look even as he runs his damp fingers almost experimentally along her twitching thighs, watching in rapt fascination as she can't decide whether to fling herself away from him or do what she eventually does and lean into his touch. Her skin's adorned with a collection of goose bumps, which makes her hiss as his caresses become more deliberate.

"Why, Faith, what ever can the matter be?" he asks in his most solicitous voice and she gives a groan of frustration and her hands are reaching up to clutch at his shoulders.

"Want more, Wes," she mutters, trying to drag him down for a messy, wet kiss which he avoids by throwing his head back and giving her a reproachful look. "Need more..."

"But I do believe we've resolved the issue of quid pro quo to our mutual satisfaction," he drawls, his hand cupping her sticky mound, a finger darting to tease her swollen clit so she's writhing against his knowing, insistent touch and letting out panting little breaths between gritted teeth.

"Want you to fuck me, go down on me, make me come." She's spitting out the words 'cause he's gotta know and they're painting these flesh-toned pictures in her head of the things he described before. Of her splayed out on the desk, holding herself open and letting him, well, do pretty much anything he fucking wants and really, what else is new?

His eyes are heavy-lidded and she has to lean over and kiss them because she knows that he's seeing exactly the same thing. "Want your cock in me, Wes," she husks in his ear, just to make sure they're on the same page and when his eyebrow quirks upwards and he gives just the tiniest start, it's enough motivation to slide off his lap onto really shaky feet and tug at his arms.

He evades her desperate hands with light, little slaps and he's chuckling like she's too fucking amusing for words. "What on earth are you doing, Faith?"

And she stamps her foot then, she really does. And growls at him for good measure. "Stop playing games, Wes! It's mean and I know you want to fuck me so why won't you?"

He gets up from the chair on one easy movement and a shocked gasp, hand to his heart. "I'm being mean?"

But she's not in the mood for any more of his bullshit because he's not being funny or charming any more, he's just annoying the fuck out of her and not in a good way either.

"You're being fucking mean," she clarifies and he's saying something, a whole lot of something which she tunes out because she's clutching his arm and dragging him out of there. Well, not dragging but she's tugging him out of the room and up the stairs and he's not exactly digging his heels in and refusing to follow.

"I can't imagine what you hope to achieve by this display of willfulness," he tells her sorrowfully when they finally get to the bedroom and she pushes him down on the bed and straddles him.

"Gonna get fucked, by you, right the hell now," she tells him, still very much on the growl setting and he's sprawled under her, shirt halfway unbuttoned, hair rumpled by her angry fingers and she doesn't even remember doing it but the button of his trousers has popped free and his zip is halfway down so she can see skin and that little trail of hair and his cock twitching against the dark gray wool. "You're so fucking pretty," she murmurs, not even trying to make him mad enough to pin her down and fuck her into the middle of the next decade. Just stating the obvious.

His eyes roll so far back that she can't even see the pupils anymore but it's not got fuck all to do with how exasperating she may or may not be but more about the frantic movements of her hands, wrenching the last of his shirt buttons free and scratching at his nipples with her blunt nails.

"I think you must be going down with a fever," he announces firmly, eyes dancing with delight in the dim light of the room, as he rolls her over.

At fucking last, she thinks, trying to squirm herself upwards so she can get the hard jut of his cock against her clit which feels like it's twice the size it should be but he's sinking down on her and wrapping his arms tight against her writhing body so she can't move.

"I think we should lie here quietly until it abates," he murmurs in her ear. "You're obviously unwell and I really think you need to sleep, Faith."

She lies there quietly for about three seconds before she renews her wriggling, making damn sure to grind back against his cock. ""Maybe you should the fuck the fever out of me," she suggests, clinging onto the edge of the mattress and pushing back so she can get free of his heavy limbs.

"That's not really an approach that would find much favor with the medical community," he begins, but he shuts up at the exact moment that her hand delves between her legs and she plunges two fingers inside her twitching cunt. She shuffles further away from him so he can see what she's doing and lets her head fall back against his lap.

"I could do this then," she moans, turning her head so she can nuzzle against his cock. "You like watching me come, don't you?"

"You're very beautiful when you come," he says immediately, gravely bending over her so he can gently still her hand. "So abandoned, so completely lost in the moment; you give yourself so utterly to your pleasure and then your eyes snap open and you're mine again."

His words are soft and there's this note of, like, reverence to them that calms her down from the Big Orgasm Quest to scramble to her knees and press a soft kiss against his cheek. Considering that she's been acting like a demented, horny, teen nympho for the last half hour, it's innocent enough to make his eyes soften and his hands brush the hair back from her flushed face.

"I do love you, Wes," she says fiercely like he's questioned the way her heart still goes pitter patter every time he walks into a room and his lips curve into the sweetest, gentlest smile she's ever seen him wear.

"I know," he says simply. "Though probably not as much as I love you," he adds so her pittering pattering heart ends up somewhere around the ceiling and then he's kissing her, taking tiny, little sips from her mouth that only become fierce and fuck-me-now when his tongue curls against hers and she throws her arms around her neck.

"I love you even when you won't fuck me," she breathes against his mouth. "When you make me wait."

"I don't think I'll be making you wait much longer," he says and she gives a tiny, incredulous groan as he then has the fucking nerve to gently disentangle himself and slide off the bed.

"Wes..." Her whine is going to get its very own page in the Guinness Book Of Records as she slumps back against the pillows and watches him not take off the rest of his clothes.

"No need to sound quite so petulant, Faith," he calls over his shoulder, staggering to the corner of the room where the old-fashioned looking glass reflects back the speculative gleam in his eyes. "I once asked you if you'd like to see yourself come," he reminds her, sizing up the mirror and then carefully pulling it away from its resting place. "You weren't that keen, as I recall, but I'd really like you to reconsider."

She narrows her eyes and parts her thighs. "You gonna make me come by fucking me?"

He nods as he drags the heavy frame closer to the bed. "Yes, that was the general idea."

Chapter Two Hundred and Thirty Two

And she can’t help remembering the night he first suggested she watched herself come and how she’d stood in front of this mirror, naked from the ankles up, Cinderella-clad feet pretty in pink.

And it’s impossible not to think about what happened after that, and her right hand goes to her left wrist, rubbing at skin his belt left bleeding.

“It won’t be like that,” he says, and it’s uncanny how he reads her mind and honestly, just a little fucking scary, because if he can work out what she’s thinking, then he must know – She stamps out that spark of conjecture before it turns into a forest fire, telling herself that it’s only natural he’s remembering what she is.

“It can be,” she tells him. “I know you’d never hurt me, Wes. Not really.”

“I don’t find that reassuring,” he said, and there’s a frown on his face. “Faith – don’t – when we’re –”

He gives a groan of pure frustration and seeing him stumbling to explain himself gives her the chance to speak for him for once. “I won’t, Wes. If I think you’re too involved to realize you’re hurting me, I’ll tell you, I promise. I won’t let you go farther than you want.”

And that’s just about as weird a promise as it gets, when she stops to think about it, but his face clears, and he gives her a small, grateful smile. “My darling Faith,” he murmurs, and there’s this moment where they’re both separated by space, but smiling at each other, and she feels so fucking mature she can’t believe it.

Before she reacts to that by doing something totally juvenile, he turns away, closing the curtains against the fading sunlight and turning on enough lamps that she can see herself reflected, with no detail lost, in the mirror at the foot of the bed, but the room around her is deep in shadows. When he joins her, he’s naked too, kneeling behind her and kissing her shoulder gently.

“You’re to watch yourself,” he instructs her. “I want you to see your face, the way your mouth falls open as you pant and moan, the way your teeth catch your lip and you bite down hard.” His hand drifts across her mouth and down to her breasts and she can feel the heat from his body prickle against her back. “I want you to see how your skin flushes here and your nipples tighten and swell – does that hurt? When they do that?”

“They ache, but it feels good,” she tells him. “And when you pinch them –”

“Like this?” he says, forefinger and thumb applying a pressure that builds until she arches her back, pushing up against his hand.

“Yes! That feels – oh –”

“I can see how it makes you feel,” he says, releasing her abruptly, his voice cold. “I can see because I was watching you, but you weren’t, Faith. Your eyes were closed.” He shifts back a little and she’s staring into the mirror, hardly daring to blink, and when mirror Faith’s ass gets slapped by his palm, cupped so it’s more sound than pain, it takes her a second to feel the smart.

“You’re to watch,” he drawls in her ear, “all the time, no matter what I do, is that clear?”

She nods slowly. “Yes, Wes,”

“I promise you it’ll be worth it,” he says, and she’s wondering, because if she’s watching, will she do it the same as always? Will she disappoint him?

“Wes, I don’t know –” she begins and her head turns to glance at him, just for a second, before she realizes what she’s done.

Any faint warmth that had returned to his voice goes south for the winter and she’s flooded with panic as he hisses, “Are you disobeying me deliberately, Faith?”

“No, Wes. I’m sorry, it’s just, it’s - this is difficult.”

He draws his finger down her spine, nape of neck to cleft of ass; a slow deliberate stroke of skin. Then he places his palm against her ass and slides it upwards, equally slowly, until his hand’s cupping the back of her neck, sending shocks down her, atavistic thrills and chills because his hand’s only got to tighten –

And then it does, and he’s pushing her forward, forcing her back to curve inward because she’s trying not to lose sight of her reflection. It’s not painful, not really, but it’s awkward, and when he tells her to cross her wrists behind her, she’d not sure she can.

He sighs, and that’s enough to spur her on, because for once she can see exactly what expression he’s got when he’s behind her, and he’s looking – not pleased because fuck, she’s meeting his eyes in the fucking mirror and she should be looking –

“-at yourself, Faith, is that really so hard to comprehend?”

“No! No, it fucking isn’t, I just can’t do it.”

She closes her eyes because she’d gonna cry, she knows she is, and this is turning into something so far removed from the frantic necessary fuck she’d been longing for that she’s primed for frustrated tears.

He leans over and takes something from the drawer beside the bed and she doesn’t have to see it, because as soon as it’s wrapped around her wrists, she knows it’s a scarf, soft but more than strong enough to hold her in place and he knows it.

The way he ties her up, swiftly and with a decisive tug on the knot, she knows his annoyance isn’t fake. There’s an impatience that’s foreign to him and she sighs.

“Wes; can we start over? Please?”

“I don’t know, Faith,” he says tersely. “Do you think your ability to comply will improve if I permit that?”

“Worth a shot,” she says, striving for chirpiness, and the chuckle she gets is water in the desert.

“I’ll allow it then,” he tells her, “but I can’t let your recent behavior pass entirely, you know.”

As if she’d thought for one moment that he would.

“I’ve usually confined my attentions to your arse, Faith,” he says, stroking his fingers over it until her fingers are curling against each other as the tender, smarting skin reignites, “but it’s been dealt with once today, and I’m sure you’re going to feel fairly uncomfortable at work tomorrow as it is. But there are other places...” There’s a slight pause and then he pulls her up, so that she’s kneeling again, and tied as she is, her breasts are thrust out and prominent.

“Wes?” she says uncertainly, because fuck, if this is going where she thinks it is...

“No, Faith,” he whispers, “not now. But I will do, you know.”

And this would be the point where she freaks, she thinks in some distant part of her mind, but it isn’t. It’s the point where curiosity and fear mix with arousal and she knows if he wants that, she’ll let him, as always, and she wonders how far he’s gone in his fantasies and what he’s got waiting for her.

“You missed that,” he says, breaking her reverie, “but I didn’t. When you were thinking about that, imagining it, you smiled, and your breath caught in your throat in the most delightful way.” He purses his lips. “Spread your knees, Faith. I think you’ve pleased me enough with that little display for me to overlook your lapse in concentration.”

The cashmere blanket’s warm and soft against her knees as she obeys and they both stare. The girl in the mirror’s wet enough that there’s no hiding it and she’s all wide eyed and wanting.

“I have to watch?” she whispers, and with every second that she does, it’s getting easier, as if the girl she’s watching isn’t her, and the way she moves is her choice, not Faith’s.

“Watch,” he tells her, freeing her wrists so she can fall forward onto her hands and knees. “Just that.”

And she watches as his fingers tease her, watches as his tongue laps at her as he nuzzles into the warmth of her body, sees how the girl’s eyes widen and flutter almost closed, how the muscles in her neck stand out as she cries a name over and over.

Then his cock nudges against her and her attention wavers, because she wants to see him, needs to see him and she’s going to look, going to look –

He slams into her, in one hard, fast jolt and her eyes snap back to the girl in the mirror, because oh, see, she’s loving that, and there’s a fierce heat in her eyes and her arms are locked, bracing herself as the thrusts hammer against her, in a rapid, relentless remorseless –

They pause – he pauses, and the girl’s crying out, mouth twisting in disappointment, eyes desperate, mouth pleading, because she’d been so close and now he’s sliding into her in shallow, slow strokes that tease her and she’s hammering a fist against the bed in a rising frustration, teeth bared, lips peeled back.

It’s a glorious anger, and she looks beautiful indulging it, but the relief that wipes it away as his hands grip her hips and he starts to fuck her deep and fast again is even better.

And when they come, though the girl in the mirror’s eyes close, Faith doesn’t miss a thing.

Chapter Two Hundred and Thirty Three

She's still kneeling on the bed, arms shaking slightly from the effort of keeping herself upright and when she glances up, there she is, pale-faced and smudgy in the mirror, Wes looming behind her like a dark shadow.

It's beginning to feel like there's four of them in the room and she looks to see what Mirror Wes and Mirror Faith are doing. And he's smoothing a hand down her back and she can feel the warm glide of his fingers against her spine, against the dimples just above her buttocks and the Faith in the mirror has this secret smile that she doesn't think anyone else has ever seen.

"Wes," she murmurs. "Come here, look at us."

She gives up the fight and flops forwards onto her tummy so she's a nose away from her reflection. And she has to tear her gaze away for just one second so she can look over her shoulder at Wes who's somewhere down around her ankles.

"I know what we look like, Faith," he says testily and she grins like a shark with lipstick because the biter's just about to get bit.

"Wesley Wyndam-Pryce get your ass over here and see how pretty we both are," she bites out in her best don't fuck-with-me voice and he gives a tiny sigh and then throws himself down next to her, jostling her with his elbow and looking everywhere but at the pissed off Wes in the glass.

"If you use that word again, you're going to be infracting the contract," he announces in a manner that could be construed as sulky, your honor. "I'm sure you've said it more than five times during the course of the afternoon."

She pokes her tongue out at him and then pulls a face before rolling over and craning her neck to make sure that her tits are doing a damn good job of staying perky. "We're beautiful," she gloats. "We are one kickass couple."

And because of the mirror, she gets to see the exasperated glance he gives her, how it stops looking pained and becomes fond and tender. "I do hope that that isn't going to be your new adjective of choice, Faith."

Her face looks all mouth upside down and his eyebrows pull together in outrage when she lifts up one of her legs so she can nudge his ass with her foot. "No, Wes," she says in a sing-songy voice. "’Sides, I'm way more beautiful than you are. There could be a copyright problem."

The expression on his face makes her giggle as he bites down what she's sure is going to be a furious denial at her bogarting the beauty side of their relationship. He opens his mouth a couple of times and then closes his lips with a little 'humph'ing sound.

"You're in a very peculiar mood, Faith," he says finally. "I'm not entirely sure I like it."

"Man, Wes, don't be such a big baby," she coos, letting her foot rock against his ass cheek again, testing it for springiness and not missing the clenching of his jaw. "You're still mighty pretty."

She can see him move before she even feels the sudden coiling of his limbs and she's already shrieking and trying to scramble off the bed and away from him as he rolls over and yanks her back with a grin that's positively feral.

"Get off me!" she yelps as he pins her arms above her head with one hand, while his fingers skitter over her rib cage. "Don't tickle me! You know I don't like it."

"Don't call me pretty," he says reasonably, delving for her armpit and clamping his knees on either side of her wriggling legs as she bucks up and tries to dislodge him.

"I promise I won't, Wes," she gasps between pained giggles as his fingers lightly press against all her most ticklish spots. "Promise."

He narrows his eyes suspiciously but his fingers still. "I'm not sure I quite believe the sincerity of that statement."

She can't help but pout slightly because is that just a fancy way of saying that he doesn't trust her? Which, actually, yeah. But she chases the thought away as soon as it pops into her head because they're having fun and he looks so fucking cute. "Wes, I promise I won't call you pretty again today," she says with every ounce of credibility she can muster even if she can't do anything about the smile that's cracking out.

"Very well then," he says almost reluctantly, like he doesn't want to let her go as he takes his hands away slowly.

She lies there for a second, feeling his weight on her and she makes a little groaning sound like he's too heavy and he's shifting away…

"Sucker!" she squeals, slithering out from under him like a supercharged eel and launching herself at his back, her arms wrapping round his neck.

"Faith!" he growls, giving a little shimmy to try and shake her off while she clings on for dear life. "Stop it immediately."

"Nope," she purrs in his ear, tightening her hold as he staggers to his feet. "You might not be pretty, Wes, but you're still cute."

"I'm going to…"

"And adorable."

"Be exceedingly angry if…"

"And beautiful, but not as much as me…"

"You don't desist from…"

"Still fucking gorgeous though, Wes…"

"This appalling behavior."

He sounds all wrath of God but he's hooking his arms under her knees so she can't fall off and hurt herself even as he shoulders the door open. She takes that as a good sign and licks his ear as a prelude to biting down on the plump of his earlobe so he giggles. He really fucking giggles then tries to cover it up with a manly cough.

"Where we going, Wes?"

He shifts her a little bit so she can relax her death-grip around her throat. "I'm glad you asked me that, Faith. I'm going to put you out on the street and not let you back in until you apologize."

"Oh, whatever, Wes," she crows, as he gingerly starts down the stairs. "No way am I letting go."

"As you would say, Faith, you've worked my last nerve," he tells her gravely but she just squeezes her thighs together and this little piggy back ride is getting her all kinds of good feelings where her breasts and spread pussy lips are smooshed against the smooth length of his spine.

"Giddy up, Wes, you can go faster than that."

And she's shrieking again as he reaches the bottom of the stairs and picks up speed so he's running towards the front door.

"Not to worry, Faith, it's really not that cold at this time of year," he drawls, skidding over the parquet flooring.

"No! Wes!" she gurgles, as he lifts the latch. "You're naked and I'm naked and OK, I won't say it again."

He opens the door just a fraction. "I'm afraid you'll have to do better than that."

"I won't call you any adjective that describes how freakishly hot and attractive you are, especially girly ones," she laughs, pressing a kiss to the nape of his neck. "Doesn't mean you'll know whether I'm just saying them in my head though."

"I suppose that will have to do." He slams the door shut again. "Are you going to get down now?" he asks her in a deceptively mild manner.

She pauses from kissing his nape again because it's one bit of him that she's woefully neglected. "Kinda depends on what evil revenge you're plotting."

He walks over to the stairs and turns round so she can slide off him onto the second step and just to make sure he can't whip her over his knee, she waits until he's turned round, with arms folded so he can glare at her and jumps on him again, curling herself round him and not doubting for one second that his arms won't be there to break her fall.

"I know you're not really mad at me, Wes," she wheedles, kissing the tight line of his mouth. "Your eyes are too blue to be angry with me." And it's true - when he's really pissed off, his eyes darken so they're practically navy.

"That makes absolutely no sense," he begins but she kisses him to shut him up and to feel his tongue slide into her mouth.

And when neither of them can breathe too well, he has to let her go, their lips clinging for one brief second. "I take it you approve of the mirror then?" he asks, stroking her hair away from her eyes.

She nods and she can feel the blush heat her cheeks, which just makes him all kinds of interested.

"What is it, Faith?"

"Just well… I get that you wanted me to see what I look like when I come." She hesitates and he tightens his arms round her, shifting her up a little bit so she can look down at him. "But I couldn't see anything else."

"And what did you want to see?" He sounds genuinely curious.

"I want to see what you see when you're fucking me, like, from behind." Her face is poppy red but she struggles on because she's only just thought it but now it seems terribly important that he's denied her a front row seat all the time. "I want to see everything," she finishes on a whisper.

She's never seen him look so, well, horny, even if she can't feel what she's sure is one hell of an erection. "Well, that's a very tempting thought," he breathes. "And it is still early."

But she's not sure she's ready for it right this minute. She wants to process the idea, torment herself with images of watching his cock slide into her cunt for a little bit longer. And besides, there's other things that are way more important right now.

"Maybe you should think about it while you're making me lunch," she suggests with a demure smile. "Because I'm fucking starving."

Chapter Two Hundred and Thirty Four

He quirks his eyebrow for a second at that, but doesn’t say anything, just takes his very attractive ass toward the kitchen. She starts to follow, but he pauses in the doorway, blocking the way. “I’d prefer if you stay out of the kitchen, Faith.” There’s a peculiar glint in his eye she doesn’t wholly trust.

“Wes! What the hell are you going to make?” she barks at him, wincing at how shrill she sounds. She mutters, almost as an afterthought, “Shit! Did we add ‘brains’ to the icky food codicil?”

He must have heard her because he just smiles impishly and disappears into the kitchen, leaving her alone —hungry, bored, and still kinda horny.

Well, if he’s going to be whipping up some infernal delight designed to “improve” her unsophisticated palate and positively guaranteed to make her long for her mother’s atrocious Spam Surprise, then she knows she’s got some time to kill. She finds herself wandering down the hallway to the library. Just the sight of the heavy red door gives her chills and makes her limbs feel heavy.

Once inside, she runs her fingers along the spines of the books. Does she want words or pictures? Decisions, decisions. She passes over Emily’s voluptuous delights in favor of the rather promising-looking La Rose D’Amour. The book is old, worn, musty. Not so long ago she would have scrunched up her face and put it back on the shelf; but she’s grown to appreciate older things. And if it’s something of Wes’, well then, she’s fond of it by extension.

She slides the book off the shelf, carefully, takes it and settles down into the overstuffed chaise. She knows he’d never approve of her using one of his precious books for one-handed reading, but if he’s going to be making something frightful for lunch then it’s a quid pro quo he’s going to have to fucking live with.

She can’t help but smile at the fussy little bookplate on the first page.

The language is strange but fascinating. The names still make her giggle —“cunny”? “dart of love”?— but after a certain period of acclimation she’s come to appreciate them. Anyway, the books are a charming novelty after the skanky Penthouse Letters-style junk she and Xander used to pilfer from the 7-11. She got off on that, too, but then, she didn’t know there was any alternative.

As she starts to fuck herself she’s surprised to find herself trying to replicate the play of his nimble fingers —the deft way he circles her clit, or the deliberate, agonizing slowness with which he finger-fucks her. She’s never had the patience he has —when she’s done this it’s usually rushed, artless. He’s shown her another way, and it’s not even a conscious thought, she knows implicitly that even her own touch feels different now. He’s taught her so well—

As her fingers speed up, the lines in the book start to blur together until they’re just gibberish on the page. Her eyes drift shut, and there’s this formless rush of images unspooling in the darkness that are more about sensation and sense memory than about a logical sequence of events. Words, pictures, impressions —doesn’t make sense but it doesn’t have to. “Si quelque chose me séduit.” Watching him jack himself off. “I’m not going to fuck you.” She’s splayed open on the desk, his tongue working in her, fingers everywhere at once. The sun is shining and he’s fucking her slowly, indulgently and she whispers, “Please, don’t make me wait,” and then they’re in the bedroom and it’s not a lazy fuck at all but something a little urgent, fast and intense and she can see it all in the mirror —see everything she’s wanted to.

“You like to watch, don’t you? My curious girl,” the-Wes-in-the-dream whispers, and he looks as deadly serious as the real Wes would when he says it —he’s a perfect corollary.

She’s so close to coming, every muscle tense and expectant, when she hears quiet footsteps in the hall and the telltale creak of the heavy door. She pulls her fingers out of her pussy and tries to sit up before he can see what she’s been doing.

Too late for that.

“How did I know I’d find you here?” he asks casually, pausing on the threshold, fully dressed again. She just sits there, sure there’s a look of guilt written all over her face, her whole body in fact.

“Been awhile since I watched you bring yourself off.” He sits down on the chair opposite, settling in comfortably and looking slightly wistful. “Brings back such lovely memories,” he whispers, and the fondness she hears in his voice raises goose bumps on her arms, makes her shiver as she flexes her fingers against the walls of her cunt. She stops to look at him but her eyes feel heavy-lidded —like she’s in a dream she doesn’t want to wake up from and he’s the only real thing in it. By way of reply he gives her such a lovely smile.

She’s just lying there, fingers poised but not moving, waiting for him to forbid it, or issue her a terse command, or something. But he’s silent and still, as though he’s just waiting for her to finish what she’s started. She doesn’t know why she’s feeling so apologetic about getting herself off on her own whim rather than his, but she does. In his house, in the quiet formality of his library, it feels almost furtive. Which makes no sense really, but there you have it. Nevertheless, she’s deeply relieved when he says quietly, as though he doesn’t want to startle her, “Please, continue. I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

And if she blushes scarlet from head to toe she doesn’t care, she’s feverish with want. She’s close now. And she wants him to watch her come again. The mere thought gets her really fucking hot but the reality is going to be that much better.

He kneels down beside her. Runs his fingertips across her skin, ever-so-lightly, letting them come to rest gently flat against her back. “Please,” he whispers again.

He stays by her side as she masturbates, hand skimming across her skin as she bucks and writhes. She’s just a little shocked when his fingers slip inside her from behind, but the extra pressure is welcomed, and she can feel her orgasm start to crest again.

She can’t help but cry out when it finally hits. After so much build-up, it’s forceful and a little violent; he merely waits patiently for the aftershocks to abate. The whole time he just keeps touching her —keeping her in the moment, not letting her drift off.

After a few moments of quiet bliss, she finally forces herself to sit up. She’s still kinda self-conscious for some reason, but he sets her at ease by producing her kimono (which he must have brought in with him). He holds it open for her so she can slip her arms into it.

“I made us some lunch,” he says quietly.

She giggles. “Good, ‘cause now I’m really starving.”

“You certainly know how to work up an appetite,” he adds appreciatively.

“I’m a growing girl, you know,” she chides him as they head towards the kitchen.

Speaking of which, he’s got this elaborate spread laid out on the kitchen table. There’s food enough for at least four. He’s made these large, hearty sandwiches for both of them, and there’s a bowl of exotic fruit salad and fresh squeezed juice. It’s all a fucking work of art and she tells him so. “What’s in this, Wes?” she asks, her mouth pleasantly full.

“Guess.” She’d like to wipe that smug smile off his smug face.

God, the bread is light and chewy and faintly redolent of garlic. Then something spicy assails her palette —it’s strong and sharp but just as quickly it’s counteracted by something tangy, creamy, and slightly sweet. The next texture she bites through is the crisp, cool crunch of Granny Smith apple, a thin sliver to cut through the creamy sweetness of the —whatever it is. Finally she gets to something familiar —thinly sliced steak. But this isn’t gray and stringy, but full-flavored and buttery. Tender. She could get used to that, for sure.

“I don’t have a clue. C’mon, spill. I know guilt when I see it.”

He looks almost sheepish to have to admit it. “If you must know, it’s gorgonzola dolce.”

She just out her lower lip, folds her arms defensively across her chest, and gives Wes her best glare. “Clearly a written contract means nothing to you, Wes. And you a lawyer and all. I’m very disappointed.”

He evades her query. And then curiosity must get the better of him because he says, “You liked it, though, didn’t you?”

She can’t bring herself to lie to him. “Yeah, yeah I did.”

“See?”

She doesn’t want to admit that he’s right, so she just cocks her head to one side and grins. “So, Wes —how exactly are you gonna make it up to me?”

Chapter Two Hundred and Thirty Five

“And I need to make this up to you because... why, exactly, Faith?” he asks, popping a chunk of vivid prickly pear fruit into his mouth, sucking the red juice from the tips of his fingers and chewing slowly and deliberately, never breaking eye contact.

He's totally playing her, pushing her for the sheer fun of it. She sighs heavily, rolling her eyes. “No, uh, stinky cheese, remember? The disgusting food rider?”

“Of course, of course.” His voice is even and measured, his brain whirring away – she can see it in his eyes, and it's vaguely disconcerting. “You might have a case, I admit, if we hadn't just had that charming interlude in the library...”

“Didn't break any rules there, Wes.” At least, she thinks she didn't.

“Dear me, I thought I'd trained you better than that. Certainly you read the fine print?” He's indulgently patting her hand now, shaking his head with a disapproving air.

She doesn't want to ask, just snatches her hand away and gamely takes another bite of sandwich that's gone from delectable to chewy sawdust in her dry, nervous mouth. “What fine print?” she finally chokes out after a long gulp of juice.

“Section 7, paragraphs 3, 4, and 5. Specifically 5 sub-a.” The ease with which he rattles that out makes her rip another bite out of the sandwich and swallow it down quickly and half-chewed, even though her appetite is rapidly fading.

“Five sub-a?” She can't even remember section 7, not at all. “You're making this up -- I don't remember a section 7, Wes.”

“Oh, I assure you, I'm not. Section 7 specifically deals with a number of things, including, if I'm not mistaken, the disturbance of certain books in the library in paragraph 4 as well as, conveniently enough, the appropriate punishments for bringing yourself to orgasm without my permission. Paragraph 5 sub-a.”

Oh, and how her palm itches to smack that smug look off his face. “You are making this up. There isn't a section 7.” Her voice is thin, and getting more shrill by the minute. “I would remember... And hey, I think I did have your permission there.” Oh, yeah. That part's easy enough to remember. She bites back the impulse to remind him he'd practically begged her to continue, if she wasn't mistaken.

He waves his hand dismissively, and indulgent smile crossing his lips. “True, true. I'll grant you that – though technically you did begin before permission was granted.” She fights back the really childish urge to stick her tongue out at him for that, mostly because now she's sure that this elusive section 7 doesn't really exist and he's just dragging this out to see if she'll snap, she's sure of it. “But there's still the matter of the book.”

Of course, that's the most important thing, the damn book. She's picking at the crusts of the sandwich now, not even looking at him anymore.

“That's a rather rare edition of La Rose d'Amour; the color plates are in exquisite condition, considering.”

“Of course, considering...” she says, faintly bored of this game. But he won't have any of her pouting, reaching out and tipping her chin up and for a moment there's a perceptible shift in what's now clearly his faux-stern demeanor as he kisses her on the lips before letting his hand drop back into his lap.

“Yes, considering it belonged to my great-grandfather, and my grandmother, upon discovering it among the massive collection of his library after his death, attempted to burn it rather than have it cataloged and passed on to me, as part of my inheritance.”

And yeah, the image of Wes' thick-ankled, bi-focaled grandmother snapping the book shut in horror at the first glimpse of the bawdy and explicit frontispiece is enough to make her giggle.

“Little did she know that a great majority of the volumes that were specifically directed as belonging to me, aged three and a half, were full of much more questionable content.”

“Wait, you were a freakin' toddler and your great-grandfather left you his secret library of porn?”

“As ever, Faith, your word choice is both charming and utterly horrifying at the same time. But yes, basically – he'd had some rather curious ideas in his later years. Except I never fell into this inheritance. My father, after rescuing La Rose d'Amour from certain destruction in the library fireplace, realized the incredible value of the collection, and was able to convince dear gran to sell the entire pile and keep the funds in trust for me.”

“But like, those books were yours!”

“Indeed, they were. But I admit, certain current facets of my personality had yet to appear at that tender age, and off to auction they went.” She's laughing now, completely convinced that the whole thing was a setup so he could tell her this story. And she can't be mad for that, because he so rarely ever spoke of his family, and especially never laughed about them. “The story had become one of those apocryphal family tales.” He puts on a quavery old lady voice: “'Oh Wesley, you're so much like your dear great-grandfather, God rest his soul! And to think he'd left you all those horrid, dirty books...!”

“Did she really sound like that?”

“That's a fair impression of the old bat, yes.” He clears his throat, continuing the narrative. “And so, when I gained control of the trust at age twenty-five, I spent the next three years carefully rebuilding the collection based on the auction records.”

“You didn't!”

“I did.”

She can't help but reach out and affectionately run a finger along his stubbly cheek. “There's no section 7 of the contract, is there?”

He shakes his head, snickering. “I'm sorry, Faith. I didn't mean to drag out the joke so long, but you were so indignant, it really was rather charming.”

“Oh, sure. Laugh it up, buster, 'cause you're so gonna pay for this.”

She's grateful that he's still laughing. “I imagine I will. What did you have in mind?”

“Oh, I'm beginning to think that you shouldn't argue with any request I have, for the rest of the evening, for starters. And right now, I'm thinking you, me, and a bubble bath...”

“Well, we'll see about that first part,” he says, patting her knee as if to say: In your dreams, dearest Faith. “But the second's not an unwelcome prospect, actually. I was afraid you were going to ask to tie me up and have your way with me, as you so often threaten to do in these situations.”

She doesn't respond at first, but pries open the second portion of her sandwich and removes the cheese with exaggerated care, slapping the two halves back together with a grin. “Now, see, Wes, you're givin' a girl the idea that you'd actually want that to happen, since you've brought it up and all.”

Chapter Two Hundred and Thirty Six

His grin is swift and wicked as he toys with the rim of his glass. "If it were to ever happen, Faith, and I stress the word 'if', the amounts of quid pro quo involved would be quite staggering, I assure you."

Which is about as close to a 'yes' as she's ever got. He's breaking, she can tell. "Man, Wes, you know you want to," she teases, looking at him from under her lashes as she slowly pops a chunk of watermelon into her mouth. "What if I said I'd… y'know, um, I'd let you act out your favorite bit of your favorite book with me if you let me tie you up and do my worst?"

Like, how bad could it be? She's thinking it might involve getting dressed up in something Victorian and letting him fuck her up the ass, which, good times, but the dark glint in his eyes and the almost feverish way his tongue keeps popping out to lick his bottom lip reminds her that when it comes to guessing even half the stuff that Wesley would actually like to do to her, she's still stumbling around in the dark with a dying battery in her flashlight.

"Well, now, that's a very generous offer, Faith," he purrs, raising his eyebrows, like he's deep in thought. "My favorite part of my favorite book? Tell me, have you ever read ‘120 Days of Sodom’ by de Sade?"

She tries to look nonchalant, relaxed even, but it's completely ruined when she chokes on the mouthful of sandwich she's just swallowed.

He pats her gently on the back while she takes a huge gulp of juice before waving a casual hand in the air. "Yeah, sure, ‘120 Days of Sodom’, that's the one where the hero makes sweet, beautiful love to his girlfriend and then takes her out for ice cream, right?" she asks hopefully and he bursts out laughing, throwing his head back so she's mesmerized by the lean column of his throat.

"I don't believe I'm familiar with that version, Faith," he chuckles. Then he leans forward so he can cup her cheek. "I do think that this conversation should be revisited once you've done the appropriate research, Faith, as I'd hate you to bite off more than you can chew. Figuratively speaking, that is."

And even though she turns her head so she can nuzzle his wrist, she can't let him have the last word. "I'm gonna tie you up one day, Wes," she promises. "And you're gonna love it. Gonna beg me to do it again."

"Oh, whatever, Faith," he drawls and while she's still goggling at the inflection he manages to achieve, which she knows for a fact that he's picked up from her, he stands up and begins to clear the table.

"You're so mean, Wes," she pouts, reaching up to snag a piece of mango from the bowl he's just picked up. "You're always teasing me."

"And you always react so beautifully," he tells her with a wink. "Though there are a couple of requests you mentioned which I feel duty bound to honor."

"Bubble bath?" she asks hopefully because she's a sticky mess of his cum and her own juices between her legs and now she thinks about it, she's sure that she's starting to smell pretty ripe.

He opens the fridge door and fusses around for a few seconds because he has a system. Fuck, does he have a system. It's got to the stage where she refuses to put anything in there or take anything out because he gets all pissy if she has the audacity to put the milk where the mayonnaise should live.

"Bubble bath, Wes?" she prompts again when he's re-arranged the contents of the fridge to his liking and starts loading the dishwasher, which is another no-go zone as far as she's concerned. "I'm feeling a little skanky, y'know."

"I love knowing that you still have my spunk inside you," he murmurs half to himself and while she's reeling from that unexpected little confession, face heating up like a Fourth Of July fireworks display, he continues. "But, yes, a bath does sound rather timely."

"Cool," she sighs happily, getting up from the chair and stretching luxuriously. "That should work out all those little kinks. Or, like, maybe just a few of them."

That earns her another grin and he must be getting serious face ache from all that uncharacteristic smiling he's been doing this afternoon. "Well, now that you've brought up the subject of kinks, I must confess I was rather taken with your wish to repeat our little experiment with the mirror."

She's determined not to start blushing again so she just shrugs like she's not bothered one way or another, even though she can feel the familiar slicking up of her cunt at the thought of getting to watch as his cock finds its way in there, see his fingers rubbing against her clit. "Yeah, I'd like that," she mutters thickly.

He closes the dishwasher door with a decisive thud and holds out his hand so she can curl her fingers round it. "Then we find ourselves in complete agreement for once," he says with another face-splitting beam. "Shall we?"

And unresisting, she lets him tug her towards the stairs.

Chapter Two Hundred and Thirty Seven

He runs the bath hot enough that she knows when she gets out her skin will be the same color as it would be if he’d spanked her, but minus the bruises. She’s relaxed, weightless as the bubbles that part for her as she slips into the bath, and ready for anything Wesley has in mind.

He pins her hair up high on her head, frowning with concentration and fussing with a wayward curl that refuses to stay in place, until she dabs his nose with a cloud of bubbles, and giggles as he sneezes and gives her an indignant, outraged glare. They stay in long enough to get clean, with his hands caressing her under the cover of the scented froth, so that she closes her eyes in the end and leans back, supine, letting him touch her where he wants, letting him lift her legs, dripping foam, and drape them over the side of the bath, spreading her wide as his curious, deft fingers explore flesh he knows better than she does by now.

She’s drifting in distant sensations, nipples hard, despite the heat, and when he murmurs, “You’re wet,” she doesn’t annoy him by pointing out the obvious, just smiles a secret, knowing smile, and arches her back, pushing his fingers even deeper inside her and riding out a climax that laps her skin in silky, gentle heat, like the water.

“Never was much for baths before I met you,” she tells him. “Never had time.”

“They’re wonderful places to relax in,” he says. The tip of his cock’s just visible and she snickers and crowns it with bubbles, which earns her a tickle of skin so water-logged it’s not really ticklish anymore. She gives him a smug smile, knowing she’ll pay for it later, and distracts him with a question.

“So what’s the worst thing you’ve ever done in a bath, Wes? The wickedest, naughtiest, going to make you blush to tell me, thing?”

“I don’t blush,” he says as dryly as possible given that he’s water-sleeked and damn, it suits him... “and you’ve known me for long enough –”

“Twelve weeks tomorrow,” she says promptly.

He arches his eyebrow, though she’s fairly certain he knew that already. “Really? It seems like longer.”

“Is that a dig?” she asks, deeply suspicious.

“No. I’m just a little... well, it’s a relatively short time to have one’s life completely altered, wouldn’t you say?”

“Sometimes it only takes a minute,” she tells him. “But that’s usually when something bad happens.”

His hand reaches up to cup her face. “I would never class meeting you as that, Faith.” He grins. “Though I do find myself with a peculiar fondness for you when you’re drenched, it seems.”

“Hmm.” She lets that go and asks, “So what have I known you for long enough for?”

He tsks. “Never end a sentence –”

“Wesley!”

She splashes him and he relents. “It’s just that you should, knowing me as intimately as you do –”

She reaches out and slides her fingers along his cock, hotter than the water and way more fun than the squeakiest of rubber ducks. “Got to say, when you’re right, you’re right, Wes...”

“Really, Faith!” The reprimand would work much better if his cock wasn’t twitching in her grasp but she pouts and releases him. “You should know the answer already.” She frowns and he adds, “Guess correctly, and I’ll give you a small reward.”

“What? Not -” She starts to picture him spread out on the bed, a black scarf tethering each wrist and ankle and he smiles, reading her mind with effortless ease.

“Not that, no. A small reward, remember.” He leans back and sighs with pleasure, slipping under the water so it comes to his chin and closing his eyes. “I know; I’ll allow you to choose the color scheme for our bedroom in New York.” He opens his eyes a little. “I don’t think I’ll permit you a room of your own with a bed in it again, Faith, though you may certainly have one as a sitting room, or study. You’ll sleep with me, always.”

“Never want to sleep anywhere else, Wes,” she tells him and there’s a moment of stillness as he absorbs that, giving her a grateful, almost wistful look.

“You’ve got until I decide I’m bored with bathing to guess,” he says.

She sits up and stares at him, lying back, eyes shut again, hands on the side of the bath, long, elegant fingers loosely curled against the cool porcelain. He thinks she knows? Why? It can’t be anything they’d done, though the memory of that first night with his careful scissor snips baring her flesh to his gaze is enough to make her gasp and shudder a little. So...

“Oh!”

“Yes?” he drawls.

“You were reading and you dropped a book in the water,” she says, with complete certainty.

He nods, giving her an amused look. “Good girl! I was, ah, using it in much the same way you were earlier,” he says, and she can’t tell if he’s blushing, though he probably isn’t, because they’re both pink cheeked by now. “At a rather crucial moment, I felt it slide from my grip and –” He shrugged. “I was devastated and remorseful, but that goes without saying.” He stares up at the ceiling and laughs quietly. “I punished myself with a self-imposed ban on reading in the bath for a month and a similar moratorium on jerking off.”

“How old were you?” she says.

“Fourteen.” He stands up, giving her one hell of a nice view, and runs his hands down his body, to get rid of the clinging bubbles.

“And did you make it? The jerking off, not the reading in the bath?”

“For a month? At that age? What do you think?” He picks up a towel and begins to rub his hair dry, wrapping another around his hips. “You can get out now,” he says, spreading a towel for her to step onto.

“I think, knowing how stubborn you are, you’d have stuck to it,” she says, pulling out the plug and leaving the bath with a pang of regret.

He gives her a long look, as if weighing her sincerity and then grins. “I tried, I really did... and I lasted for –”

“A week? Two?”

He gives her an astonished glance. “Faith, you’re sweet to credit me with that much will power, but no. Three nights.”

She shakes her head in mute astonishment of her own and lets him dry her. Guess he’s changed since then, though come to think of it, maybe not. He’s certainly never let three nights go without making love to her...

“And now,” he says, with an undercurrent of anticipation that makes her realize that ever since she mentioned it, he’s been thinking about nothing else, pushing away the event itself with food and baths and chat so that he could savor the waiting. “Now, Faith, I think we can satisfy your curiosity.”

He nods at the bench in front of the mirror. “You remember the first time you sat on there? What I did to you?” And there’re an awful lot of first times and memories floating around, but she pushes the thought away and nods back. Positioned, whipped, fucked with the handle of the razor he’d used... oh, she remembered.

He moves the bench far enough back that the mirror reflects it, then sits. “Come here.”

She walks over to him and hesitates, unsure of what he has in mind. He spreads his knees and pulls her between them and slides his arm around her waist, bringing her onto his lap so that he can kiss her. His skin’s hot against her hand, and she can feel the steady beat of his heart. His cock’s rigid and heavy, but when she rubs against it, feeling it grind against her cunt, already wet, despite the careful attention he’d given it when he dried her off – or because of it – he shifts her back, breaking the kiss.

“Turn around,” he says in a whisper, eyes glittering.

She stands and lets him move her as he pleases, bending forward to place her palms against the counter, finding her reflection and smiling at it. The girl in the mirror’s looking expectant and no fucking wonder, because there, right there - and oh, she can look now, she’s allowed to - between her thighs is Wesley’s cock and even as she watches, that Faith, the lucky one, bites her lip and moans as it nudges and bumps against her, before sliding in, inch by inch, until it disappears.

“Sit back,” he says, and she obeys him, lying back against his shoulder and feeling him brace himself, taking her weight and leaning forward just enough to keep his cock inside her. It feels odd, this angle, this position, but she’s too enraptured by what she’s seeing to care.

The mirror’s holding them and she can go from Wesley’s face, hidden as he bends to nuzzle at her neck, her throat, to her breasts, one bare, one cupped by his hand, those clever, knowing fingers hard and demanding as they pluck and play with her nipple, and down, to where he lies hidden within her.

“Move,” he says nipping at her shoulder and lifting his head so he can watch them too. “Watch.”

And she lifts up a little and sighs as she sees his cock, glistening darkly, and his hands slip to her hips and lift her even higher, so she’s poised, with just the tip of him inside her, and then he moves his hands down and takes her with them and there’s a rush of feeling as she’s filled again, cunt with cock, eyes with the sight of it, and she cries out.

“God, Wes, we look ...”

“Hot,” he says, in a whisper. “You look unbelievably erotic like this, Faith.” He turns her head so that he can kiss her and slaps her leg in a not entirely serious rebuke when he sees that her gaze is straying to where mirror Faith’s being kissed.

“Narcissa...” he says. “Not Olympia...”

The sound of his hand on her makes her shiver and he smiles and she sees every emotion play across his face; the satisfaction and the faintest trace of cruelty beneath the tenderness, that she’s come to accept, come to crave.

She knows if she ever had him tied up, she wouldn’t be all that kind, not really, no, but she knows he’d love anything she did, just as he knows that she’s happy with the place they’ve reached, where she’s moving on him, muscles quivering because it’s hard without his hands supporting her, but he can’t help her, because one hand’s teasing at her clit, and he’s careful not to obscure her view, and the other’s slapping her flank in a rhythm she’s controlling, because every time she sinks back, sheathing him inside her, she’s rewarded with a smack, and she makes him hit her faster and faster, until her skin’s burning, a scarlet patch of stinging heat, but he won’t come, though she can see he’s close, see the muscles in his neck stand out as he grits his teeth then throws back his head, moaning her name even as his hands continue and she can’t watch anything now but his face and he’s not looking away.

She slows down, just a little, just to see, just to play with being in charge –

And he growls and lifts her up and forward, slamming her against the counter so it digs into her hips, just where his desk does, thrusting his fingers into her hair, locking them around her skull, spreading them wide and pulling her head up so she has to look.

And she can’t see his cock like this, but she can feel it and it’s in her and he’s fucking her hard, fucking her fast, fucking her with his gaze never wavering, meeting her eyes in the mirror so that when he comes, face twisting, mouth open on a soundless cry that turns vocal only after his hips have jerked once, twice, she can only remember that split second of loss when his eyes squeezed tight shut because he couldn’t help it, because for that one moment, he was alone with what his body was feeling.

And then she’s coming too, and she doesn’t look away, doesn’t hold back, and it’s easy to see why he watches her come with such wonder in his eyes because yes, she’s pretty. She’s so very fucking pretty.

“Never knew I looked like that,” she whispers as he eases out of her and snuggles her to him, his hand able to press gently against the mark he’s imprinted on her skin, shockingly cool because it wasn’t the one he’d used to hit her with.

“Say, ‘thank you, Wesley’,” he tells her, with a kiss after every word.

“Why?”

“Because it was mine and I shared it with you.”

“Thank you, Wesley,” she says solemnly and then cracks up into a goofy smile and gives him an ardent smoosh of a kiss because she loves making him laugh when he’s kissing her.

Chapter Two Hundred and Thirty Eight

“Got lots more to thank you for than that, Wes,” she murmurs against his lips.

“I know, Faith. I know. And I, well... ah, I...”

“Oh come on, now – you're not clamming up after all your little secrets you've told me today!” She knows she shouldn't really prod him like this, for fear that he'll snap shut and shove everything back behind his cool glances and enigmatic smiles – but she can't help but risk it as he seems in such a chatty mood, the current stammering notwithstanding. “I was really getting to like this sharing and caring version of you, Wes. If you're not careful, I may demand that we play a little game of I Never.”

“Oh dear, Faith. A game concocted in your capricious mind could only lead to trouble...”

“C'mon! Don't be such a party pooper!”

“Is this anything like Truth or Dare? Had a rather awful experience with Truth or Dare once...”

“Hasn't everyone?” she laughs. “It is a little like that, I guess. You just have to 'fess up to things you've never done.”

“But there's no forfeits?”

“Hey, I wasn't finished, don't interrupt!” She wags a finger at him and he dutifully snaps his mouth shut. “It's actually more like a drinking game, see. If you have done the thing the other person says they haven't, you have to take a drink. Which, you know, is kind of a forfeit.”

“With our opposing natures, I imagine we'll get drunk relatively quickly.”

She hadn't thought of that, really. And it seems a bit early for that kind of thing; they haven't even had dinner yet. “Uh, yeah. Well, we don't have to drink every time...”

“No, no. I believe in playing games by the rules...” Of course he does.

“I'm just worried about what happened the last time you had a belly full of wine...”

“Oh really, Faith. I promise not to get maudlin.”

“Promise?”

“Absolutely. And you won't either.”



Now, not in a million years did she ever think that they'd be curled up in the big bed, fingers wrapped around crystal stems, trying desperately to keep the wine from sloshing on to the sheets 'cause they're laughing so hard. They've long digressed from the formula of the game and are just giving up little secrets now; the kinds of stories that only seem to come out in wine-fueled post-coital chatter. Like the fact that he'd just ‘fessed up to trying to steal a book once – which wasn't all that surprising when she stopped to think about it.

“So you have done your share of shoplifting, then? That's a shocker!” Even if it wasn't surprising, she felt obligated to yank his chain a bit.

For a moment he looks a little offended that she'd doubt him. “I sacrificed my chance for prefect that year because of that little incident! A little more sympathy, please.”

“I'm just surprised, Wes. Doesn't seem like you to pull something like that, especially when your academic standing was on the line...”

“Well, doesn't everyone go through that phase?”

“Yeah, suppose so. Just took me longer to grow out of it than other people. And I had bigger quarry than forbidden books and a beer or two from the convenience store.”

“Now, now. No getting maudlin, remember, Faith? I would hate to subject you to the forfeit.” In their version of the game, any teetering on the brink of melancholia was to be met with threats of an unknown forfeit – that was his idea, of course.

“Who says I wouldn't want one?” she says, vamping it up: voice smoky; tracing a finger along his chest.

“Really, Faith – I'd think your arse would still be a little tender from this afternoon?”

She drops the seductress act, waves a hand dismissively “Oh that! I'm fine...”

“Mmm. Yes, we'll see if you still feel that way when I finally take your hairbrush in hand...”

“Okay, okay.” She backpedals furiously and punches him playfully on the arm. “Yeah, it's still fucking tender...”

That smug grin and tilt of the eyebrows is so fucking frustrating, but it's one of his faces she loves the most, when it comes down to it. “I believe it's your turn now...”

“Way to change the subject there -- real smooth.” She tilts her head up a little higher to give him a dainty peck on the cheek. “Well, since we're on the topic of commerce -- I tried to sell rocks to the neighbors once.”

“And I'm sure they queued up 'round the block...”

“Mmm, not exactly. When Darla found out what I was up to, she was mortified. That look on her face, it was priceless. I can still remember it.”

“Whatever possessed you to sell rocks?” His free hand strokes her hair, smoothing away the sharp part of the memory.

She sighs, slipping past the jagged corners of happy days gone wrong to find the core of the story. “We lived in this nice house once, when Darla was kinda serious about this investment banker guy, over on Sheffield Lane. I was, like, six or seven maybe. Anyway, he had this perfectly landscaped garden in his backyard – he never lifted a finger to take care of it though, that's what the Mexican day laborers were for. And there were these pretty rocks – black and flat and they got hot in the sun. I liked that, and I thought other people might too. So I piled them all into my wagon, and I walked up the street yelling, 'Rocks for sale! Rocks for sale!'”

“That's very charming -- that you'd want to sell the rocks, rather than give them away.”

“Well, you know, I'd already learned the value of having a little money squirreled away somewhere, even back then...” Her forehead crinkles in dismay -- damn it all; she'd picked a stupid memory that wasn't happy after all.

“Ah, ah. None of that, Faith.” He flashes a quick, brilliant grin she wishes were enough to erase the rest of the story: Darla slapped her across the face for embarrassing them in front of the entire neighborhood and that hot shot boyfriend of hers was pretty pissed too, 'cause she'd disturbed his stupid, precious landscaping.

“Guess there's not all that many happy stories in my past, really. I'm sorry...” Even the most innocent ones, like this one, had a way of turning sour when she dug down deep enough. “Guess I told 'em all.”

He pulls her now-empty wine glass from her hand, placing it next to his on the bedside table and then wrapping his warm arms 'round her, pulling her close and planting a tender kiss on top of her head. “Don't think about that now, please don't.”

“I didn't mean to ruin the game, I didn't...” He doesn't let her continue, interrupting her apology with a faint shushing noise pulls her even closer, so that her head rests against his chest and the comforting hammering of his heart and the even rise and fall of his chest pull her away from the quagmire of bad memories.

Chapter Two Hundred and Thirty Nine

The last thing she remembers just before she dozes off is his voice whispering in her ear, "Soon you'll only have happy stories, Faith, I promise you. You won't even be able to remember the unhappy ones…"

And the first thing she hears as she slowly comes to is his voice from somewhere above her. "Wake up, sleepy girl," he says and his fingers are pulling the covers off her and there's a sharp breeze from the open window.

She squints up at him, blinking furiously at the late afternoon sun that floods the corners of the room and gives a little yawn. "Cold, Wes. Shut the window," she mumbles, trying to wrest the quilt out of his grasp.

He must have been up for a while because he's dressed in jeans and a T-shirt and looks disgustingly chipper, even as she's running her fingers through the tangles in her hair, which is still half secured in the sloppy pony tail he put it into before the bath. "The room needs some air," he announces firmly. "It's starting to smell, well…"

"Like a whorehouse?" she suggest with another yawn. "Wes, come back to bed, we don't have to fuck…"

And she's sinking back down into the pillows and curling up on his side of the bed to try and get away from the draught when he seizes her ankle and begins to tug her firmly and inexorably towards the end of the bed. "Up!" he snaps and she's trying to grab onto the sheet but it's descending with her so all she can do is feebly kick her heels and moan mightily.

"Wes, please! Don't wanna get up," she wheedles as he pulls her upright and snakes his arms round her waist so she can't crawl right back on to the bed. "C'mon, I'll give you a blow job."

She pouts up at him but he's shaking his head firmly and not even bothering to fake a glare, because he's too busy sighing. "I don't think that's going to be possible, Faith," he informs her sorrowfully. "I think you're going to have to join me in my new life as a celibate."

And she can't have heard him right, or is he trying to pull that normal crap all over again? Her heart thuds painfully and she's giving him the mother of all evil looks. "What the fuck are you talking about?"

"Language," he admonishes her, tapping her still-tingling ass with two fingers.

"Never mind language," she hisses, trying to dig her heels into the carpet as he yanks her towards the bathroom. "What do you mean celibate?"

"I mean that I think you've succeeded in breaking me," he says without even the glimmer of a smile. "Even in my days of youthful excess, I can’t seem to recall being asked to perform quite so frequently as I have today."

She doesn't even bother to hide her sigh of relief. "You came, what? Like, three times. I came way more than that and I'm still good to go."

"Five times," he reminds her, opening the bathroom door and tugging her through it. "You're a third of your way through your orgasm allowance for the week already, Faith."

"Still got another ten to go," she says smartly, yanking the band out of her hair and making ouch faces as it snags on a stubborn knot.

"Here, let me do that for you." He carefully works the elastic free, while she stands there patiently. Or tries to, but her hand's sneaking to his crotch and her fingers are tracing the familiar length of his cock beneath the denim and yeah, it's not exactly standing up and trying to get her attention but it all seems to be in working order. "Faith, please don't do that."

"Feels all right to me. Though maybe I should have a look, just to be on the safe side," she suggests, giving him a sly smile and a sideways look, her hand curling round a now promising bulge.

"Maybe later," he says vaguely, firmly removing her hand and giving her a nudge. "Shower, please. I want to go into town to take the DVDs back. I'd hate to think what retribution Blockbuster might wreak if we return them late."

"They fine you, Wes, it's no biggie." Then a thought occurs to her and she leans back against the tiled wall of the shower cubicle, weight resting on one leg, hand on her hip, tits pushed out. "Hey Wes. We should go and get dinner, my treat. There's this great pizza place on Spring…"

His eyes are running across her body, displayed just how he likes it, and when his gaze finally gets to her face, she raises her eyebrows. "Seen anything you like?"

"Just a girl who's absolutely not going to have pizza for her dinner," he drawls. "I've already made reservations for eight o’clock at a charming little Italian restaurant…"

"Ha! Italian! So I can have pizza!"

"Which doesn't serve pizza because it's a respectable establishment," he finishes, sitting down on the bench where he'd fucked her and giving her an expectant look. "Are you going to shower sometime before Christmas?"

"You could help me," she whines prettily, but he doesn't answer, just picks up her hairbrush from the counter and taps it against his palm significantly.

And in some ways it's weird to wash herself when he's just sitting there and watching her as she rubs the flannel over her breasts, between her legs, not even trying to turn him on, but just to get clean. And she's teasing him about what color she's going to paint their bedroom in New York – ‘bright orange with this violet trim, it's gonna look wicked cool, Wes’ – and he's clamping his hands over his ears until she chucks the sponge at him and she suddenly realizes that this whole day kinda personifies their version of normal and she wouldn't swap it for all the world.



After they've returned the DVDs so Wes won't be kicked out of the Rotary Club for getting them back late, they drive into the city and she's wearing her favorite little black dress and her even more favorite pink shoes. Wes has got his hand on her knee and letting her listen to The White Stripes and everything is right in her world.

Even driving past the pawn shop can't prick holes in her bliss. But it does make her cover his hand, stroking his knuckles with her fingertips so he takes his eyes off the road briefly to give her a swift, tender smile.

And it's then that she decides that she's going to tell him. 'Fess up all the wrongs she's done him. She's not sure how and she's not sure when but she's suddenly certain, like she's never been certain of anything before, that it will be all right. That he's gonna be righteously pissed with her, and yeah, she deserves it. Might not talk to her for a couple of day, which she can handle. And she knows that she'll have to get used to him not trusting her for a while. But she loves him and he loves her and they'll be able to sort it out.

It's like she's suddenly had a ten ton weight lifted off her shoulders so she's sinking back in to the leather and making a solemn vow to herself that by this time next week she'll have told him.

"Tell me something, Faith," he suddenly says and he sounds so serious and like he's just fucking read her mind that she shudders and turns startled eyes to him.

"W-what?"

"There's no need to sound quite so alarmed, I just wondered exactly how you planned to decorate our bedroom."

Now it's his turn to look surprised at her sudden and blinding smile, all gums and giddy-around-the-gills with sheer relief. "Oh that. I don't know," she babbles. Then she pauses and thinks about it. "White. But, like, weathered white. So I'm gonna paint the floorboard and then sand them down and have all these rough edges round the trim and floaty white drapes and I'm gonna find all this old furniture in junk shops and flea markets and I'm gonna paint that white too and then fuck it up so it doesn't look too perfect."

He's not making any obvious gagging noises because he's actually nodding his head. "Very Martha's Vineyard."

She settles back in the seat again and tries to get used to this new, relaxed feeling. "I want it to look like we're really living by the sea even if we're in the middle of New York."

"I'll tell the realtor to leave the room as a shell and we can see about hiring contractors…"

"I want to do it myself!" she exclaims sharply. "And anyway, they'll just rip you off. Like, they'll charge extra to make stuff look distressed when you can do it with a 50 cent piece of sandpaper."

"Faith, you really need to stop worrying about how much things cost," he says softly, stroking her knee. "I have ridiculous amounts of money…"

"I know but, like, it's our room and I want to do it so it's perfect," she explains haltingly, even though it's not what she really wants to say. "It's, like, you have money and you share it with me and I have other… like, stuff. I have stuff… shit, Wes… I'd want to be with you if you were dirt poor and we had to live in a fucking trailer!"

It's almost on the tip of her tongue. She's opening her mouth, tasting the words. Maybe gonna start with a clichéd but effective, "There's something I have to tell you…" but he's pulling over onto the grass verge so quickly and sharply that she's jerked back by her seatbelt and when she turns to him, he's freeing himself and leaning over so he can cup her face in his hands.

"All the gold in California couldn't feed the unbridled horde of my desires," he whispers and then takes her mouth in a kiss that's exactly like something out of a Hollywood movie.

Then he gently unwinds her arms from around his neck, places one last kiss on her clinging lips, clips his seatbelt back on and starts the car.

Chapter Two Hundred and Forty

She's thankful that his eyes are back on the road, because between his words and the kiss she's got a catch in her throat and —Jesus, hormonal much? — she's even tearing up a little bit. She quickly stares out the window and surreptitiously wipes the corner of her eyes with the back of her hand, hoping he doesn't notice. He doesn't; too busy trying to evade this pickup truck that seems to be right on their ass. She tries not to pay attention, just keeps staring out the window at the reflected car lights and the dusky evening light.

When she shifts in the seat, the fabric of her dress rustles rather tantalizingly against her bare flesh, and she smiles secretly to herself. Wes probably won't recreate what happened the last time they went out to a restaurant, but hey, a girl can dream, right? And anyway, what matters is that she feels beautiful and it's a beautiful evening and she's so very happy.

"Wes?"

"Hmm?" Still not taking his eyes off the road.

“How do you say, ‘I love you’ in Italian?”

There’s a pause and she watches his lips quirk up in a smile. “'Ti amo',” he says.

“Thanks, Wes,” she says demurely. “That’s so sweet of you.” Before he has time to work up to getting huffy because she’s tricked him into saying it – and it’d be too funny if he ended up ordering her to repeat it, she leans over and kisses him quickly enough not to be distracting. “Ti amo too.”

“Hmm.”

“I do!” she protests.

“I know you do, my little zabaglione.”

And though she spends the rest of the drive demanding to know what he just called her, he just grins and keeps making up more and more unlikely answers, until she sees it on the menu and kicks him hard just as he’s being best buds with the wine waiter who gives Wes a pained look because Wesley’s face screws up in agony and he thinks it’s down to his suggestion of a ’96 Gaja Sito Moresco and the poor guy’s almost tearful as he describes its total yumminess.

When he’s gone, placated by Wesley’s fulsome apologies, delivered without so much as a glance at Faith, she gets the death glare.

"You seem absolutely determined to be as bratty as possible this evening."

"But I'm so damn good at it, Wes," she smirks as she reaches under the table. He intercepts her hand before she reaches her goal. She's disappointed, but not surprised. He's the only one who gets to do that.

If he's annoyed he doesn't acknowledge it, just responds with, "I do believe there are vegetables to be eaten in your future, young lady. And absolutely no dessert."

She rolls her eyes at him. "Christ, Wes. Now you're just being an ass."

That sets off a little spark. For her trouble she gets all her favorite expressions of his at once —the quirk of his eyebrow, a certain hard set of his jaw, that fucking intense blue stare. "Am I going to have to take you over my knee?"

"That'd be a start," she says in her best sullen teen voice and she fucking loves it when they just fall in to this patter that you'd think they alone had perfected.

"I think you're trying to get a rise out of me, Faith."

She sidles close, giving him a good view of her cleavage. "So, is it working?"

His gaze drops down and then back up and he’s giving her a chilly smile. “Rest assured, Faith, if my exhausted, drained body is capable of responding to your undoubted allure –” OK, she thinks there’s a compliment in there somewhere... “You’ll be the first to know.”

“Cool!” she says brightly.

He snips a slightly faded petal off the carnation in the vase between them with his fingers. “I didn’t say you’d benefit from it,” he says dryly.

“Huh? Kind of a waste if I don’t,” she protests.

He smiles. “A salutary lesson in manners is never a waste, Faith.”

She snatches up a bread roll and splits it with her thumb and slathers butter on an inch thick before biting into it with a defiant look.

“Fine,” she snaps, when her mouth’s less full.

“You know,” he says, and there’s a disquieting gleam in his eyes, “I think I’ve been entirely too lenient with your transgressions of late. Certain basic rules are being overlooked, and there’s nothing for it but a refresher course.”

She starts to say something, but the waiter arrives and begins to prepare a Caesar salad at the table, with a dramatic shredding of leaves and sprinkling of fresh Parmigiano and he’s waving a wooden spoon around which’d be fine if it wasn’t for the way Wes was staring at it speculatively. There’s one just like it in the kitchen at home...

She’s too busy panicking to notice the anchovies being laid tenderly on top of the mound of salad but Wesley’s grin alerts her and she gives a full body shudder at the sight of them. “I’m not eating them,” she hisses.

“Very well,” he says agreeably, placing them both on his plate. “Really, Faith, there’s no need to be quite so emotional over a garnish.”

Put like that it does seem kinda childish, so she’s all set to apologize, when he carries on, “And I’d like your attention, please. As I was saying, you’ve become lax in certain areas.”

“Name one.”

His eyes narrow. “Very well. Your posture. You’re slouching and I’ve told you repeatedly that I won’t allow it.” His mouth thins as he bites out some orders. “You’ll sit up straight. The chair is not to touch your back at all for the duration of the meal.”

“Wes –”

He ignores her. “If it does, you’re to make a mental note of it. At the end of the meal, I’ll expect you to furnish me with the exact number of times you failed to obey my instructions.”

“Suppose I just don’t notice?” she says, feeling a flutter start, low down and frantic.

He gives her a tiny smile. “Perhaps I should provide an incentive.” She’s hopeful for a second, because that’s like a reward, and Wes thinks up good ones... “Such as pointing out that I’ll be watching too? And that if your tally is inaccurate – or, no, I won’t penalize you for a higher number – if it’s less than mine, well, we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it, shall we?” He’s got the snootiest smile ever on his face as he picks up his fork and he’s not even looking when he murmurs, “One,” under his breath as she slumps down in dismayed silence.

She does a pretty good job of sitting up straight through the salad but it means she barely talks to him because she’s so busy concentrating and he tells her that’s not good enough.

“It’s polite to converse, Faith, and I do enjoy talking to you as well as reducing you to helpless whimpers.”

She gives him a furious look, because she’s fairly certain the clatter of almost dropped plates at the next table is down to him saying that without bothering to lower his voice. “What do you want to talk about? The weather?”

“That’s only a viable topic in Britain, because it’s so varied. Here the relentless sunshine does tend to make it a bit of a non-starter.”

And by now she’s felt the padding of her chair against her spine at least three times and she gives him an imploring look that softens him enough to start a story about his first time in court, and although there’s a drop in temperature when she puts her elbows on the table and an icy, ‘Kindly add two to the running total for that,’ that has her pouting, it’s not going too badly.

By the time dessert arrives – and zabaglione’s not bad, but there’s a distressing lack of chocolate – her back is aching and she’s drooping.

“Poor Faith,” he whispers because he drops his voice to be nice to her; wouldn’t want that getting out and ruining his rep, oh no. “Perhaps later I can rub your back. Would you like that?”

“Really would,” she says eagerly. He hasn’t done that often, but he’s so good at finding every ache and soothing it away with strong fingers.

The waiter returns with his credit card and the bill and Wesley scrawls his signature on it, barely pausing when he works out the tip and probably leaving more than he has to, because he usually does.

“Well, Faith?”

She leans back against the chair with a sigh of relief, wriggling her shoulders blissfully. “Counting this one?”

“I really should, but no, the meal’s over.”

And now it’s crunch time and she doesn’t know whether to hope she’s safe, or add on a few.

“Tell me what’s going to happen,” she stalls.

“I’m going to add five unless you reply right now,” he says blandly, dropping his napkin on the table.

“That’s not –” She gives in, and goes with the truth. “Twenty-three.”

“You’re sure about that?” he purrs.

“It’s what I counted,” she says, goaded beyond endurance. “Might not be what you counted, might have missed some, but you wanted to know and that’s it.”

He stands up and holds out his hand, drawing her to her feet. As he ushers her past smiling waiters, nodding goodbye, he murmurs. “Strange; I made it twenty-nine, but you know, I think just this once, we’ll split the difference; twenty-six. Does that sound fair?”

“Whatever,” she mutters stalking past him as the door’s held open for them. “I’ll save any objection ‘til I know what you’ve got planned.”


Chapter Two Hundred and Forty One

And yeah, she's pouting a little on the drive home, even though the food part of the dinner was pretty incredible and she's actually starting to understand why Wes listens to Glenn Gould on long car rides. The buoyant arpeggios provide the perfect postprandial soundtrack; just goes to show that garage rock isn't always the best for screaming down the highway at a speed most certainly way above the limit

Still, there's only two things she can think about through the haze of her food coma – the fact that even cradled in those cushy leather seats, her back is still killing her and there's the little nagging matter of her twenty six punishments. Which, you know, she's glad wasn't twenty-nine, actually.

“You're awfully quiet, Faith. Was it something I said?” They haven't exchanged words in about ten minutes, and he's still in a teasing mode despite the fact that's she's been telegraphing her best “don't fuck with me” attitude since she got in the car.

“Oh no, Wes, I'm fine. Really. Don't worry about me.” The sticky sweet falseness of her voice is enough to make her gag. “Thanks for dinner, by the way. I really did have a wonderful time.”

He looks away from the road long enough to give her one of those blood-chilling warning glances, 'cause somewhere in the middle of that last sentence, her tone's slipped from honey-dripping to bitterly saccharine, but she just flashes him a smile and turns up the volume on the stereo before he can protest.

It's a long drive with just the Goldberg Variations to pass the time, 'specially during that long slow one in the middle. Though she has to admit that Wes is pretty damn darling when he's humming along, long fingers drumming out a completely out of whack rhythm on the steering wheel. Even if she's still technically in a snit, she can't help but sneak little sidelong glances at him, always turning away a spit second before he tries to sneak a glance at her. She's biting back giggles as they weave through the quiet residential streets, up the hill to the house – and if she's not mistaken she thinks she sees a little flare of the nostrils that betrays his straight faced-act as well.

So, she's not really surprised when it's his turn to flash her a smile once they've pulled into the garage. She can read them all now, and this one's the sweet one crossed with the wolfish, predatory one.

“Wesley... What the hell have you dreamed up now? You have a new plan, don't you?” She eyes him cautiously as he makes a rather pathetic attempt at playing innocent. “You can't hide it – it's written all over your face.” Her chin tilts up defiantly. So there!, she almost adds, but thinks the better of it.

“I can't imagine why this is such an earth-shattering moment, Faith. It's not like you had any idea what my plan was when we left the restaurant...”

And yeah, so he's right about that. “Whatever, dude,” she says with a heavy sigh and leans back in the seat before popping her seatbelt open and reaching for the door.

“I wouldn't leave yet if I were you.”

“You wouldn't?”

“No.” He leans over and peels her hand away from the door handle, and starts idly tracing his finger tips over her palm. “This is what I want you to do.” His voice drops to that chilling level and dammit if he isn't playing dirty, but she's willingly hanging on his every word now; his every breath, even.

“You're to go upstairs and undress.” His precise, crisp diction is making her wetter by the minute, and he's leaning in close, so close his breath is hot on her cheek and she just knows he can hear her heart thumping in her chest because it's pretty damn loud in her head. “Wait for me there, I'll be along shortly.”

She squeaks out what she thinks might be an affirmative sound, before pulling away.

“Oh, and, Faith?” She can only nod dimly in response. “Sit on the bed, hands to your sides.” Right, 'cause she wouldn't want to violate that non-existent clause in the contract again.

Getting out of the car with any modicum of grace is a challenge – she's pretty sure her knees are shaking – but she manages fairly well, slamming the door for good measure to punctuate her exit.


So, she thinks he's gonna make her wait 26 minutes, maybe; that she'll get off easy. But he didn't exactly have that look in his eye, so she's not surprised when he's in the doorway after just a few minutes, glass of scotch on the rocks in his hand.

“Good, I'm glad to see you haven't decided to continue your little snit up here,” he says, pointedly eying her erect nipples and swirling his drink around, ice cubes tinkling against the glass.

“Who says I haven't?”

“Oh, Faith, really? Was it as bad as all that? Don't you think you deserved that punishment just a little? You were being unconscionably bratty.”

“Just having a little fun, Wes. No harm in that.”

“It went further than fun...”

“You wanted me to eat anchovies! And you gave me a lecture on table manners in a crowded restaurant. Not cool.”

She's never seen him walk like that in a long time, the way he's crossing toward her now. There's a purposeful glint in his eye, and as much as she used to love these open-ended games -- tonight, maybe not so much.

That is, until he sits down on the bed next to her, brushes her hair away from her neck, plants a soft kiss on her shoulder, a dotted row of them along her clavicle. “I'm sorry. That was, as you say, not cool. It won't happen again.” His lips tickle her ear and send a parade of goose bumps crawling down her neck. When she reaches up to stroke his stubbly cheek, she thinks her hands might be shaking, too.

“Thanks,” she manages to choke out before he kisses her, his lips warm and pliant and spicy from the scotch.

And he's really rather lucky she didn't bite off his tongue when she feels the ice cube slipping down from the hollow of her throat down over one nipple, then the other. For a split second she thought he might have spilled his drink, but this was no gaffe. When she pulls away, she sees those impossibly long fingers of his clamped around an ice cube that's rapidly melting, raining tiny droplets on her thighs.

“I've got a whole glass here of ice cubes. And very little whiskey...” he says, setting the glass down gently on the night table. “You've been so horribly hotheaded this evening, perhaps this will ... cool you down a bit. And by my calculations, you've still got 23 more minutes before you're allowed to come... Now, lie back and scoot up a bit...”

And for the first time in a few hours, it's something she does without a complaint crossing her lips first. And she's pretty sure she's never really seen him get undressed that fast either, tossing his clothes aside with a hurriedness he rarely displays.

Carefully picking another cube from the glass, he wields it like a piece of chalk, tracing invisible designs across her flesh, leaving a cold and burning trail that cranks up the sensitivity of every nerve in her body until she's writhing and begging him to ease up -- just as the cube melts down to nothing – giving her a tiny reprieve while he pops two ice cubes in his mouth.

“Oh fuck,” she whispers hoarsely as he brings his head down and snatches one of her nipples in his mouth, sucking on it ferociously, his tongue cold and rough against her sensitive flesh. “Oh. Oh. Fuck. Damn that's cold, Wes!”

“Mmm. Yes, it is, isn't it?” he says, looking up at her with a look of unmitigated glee before turning his attentions to her other nipple, lapping and nibbling at her near-frozen flesh until it's nearly warm again.

He only pauses in his ministrations for a few moments to take a swig of the watery scotch before plucking another cube from the glass, carefully tracing it along her inner thighs, pushing them apart. “And it's so very hot here.” He oh-so-carefully drags it closer to her pussy, ever-so-slightly tracing it along the edge of her hole, up over the lips, and cautiously circling it around her clit. And yeah, it is pretty hot because the cube melts in no time at all, leaving just his fingers gently toying with her as he dips his head to lap up the water with long, slow strokes of his tongue.

And when he pulls away and takes yet another cube from the glass, she thinks she might just die right there 'cause she knows what's coming next, and her heart's racing with horror and anticipation.

“Spread your legs.” And even though she'd give anything to clamp 'em shut, she does what he says. “Good girl...” he murmurs as he drags the ice cube across her inner thigh again and gently pushes it into her cunt and any lapping flames of desire that were smoldering there become white hot and she's amazed the damn thing didn't melt immediately because he's already pushing another one in, and she screams as the first hits right at that perfect little spot and threatens to throw her into an orgasm before she realizes what's happening.

“No, Faith. Not yet...” he whispers, running his fingers across her burning cheeks, smearing away the tears of frustration glittering in the corner of her eye before – fuck! -- taking another cube and placing it on his tongue.

It's amazing how even though her pussy is so hot and pretty much drenched now between the rapidly melting ice cubes and her own copious juices, his tongue stays cold long after that last ice cube on his tongue has melted away, the tip swirling lazy figure eights around her clit again and again as she comes hard, practically kicking him off the bed.

Chapter Two Hundred and Forty Two

She’s gasping and shuddering when it’s over, tiny trembles that won’t stop, even when she’s curled up against him.

“You’re wet,” he whispers. “And so am I,” he discovers, as he moves out of her arms and glances down his body, where the dribbles and drips of ice water have left the hair on his stomach dark and clinging flatly to his skin.

“Sorry, Wes,” she says, finding the strength for a tiny smirk.

He rolls his eyes and saunters into the bathroom, coming back huddled into a robe and carrying a hand towel. She lies still and lets him dry her, doing it efficiently, but, being Wes, making it more than an exchange of damp, chilled skin for warmly tingling. He finishes and tries to tug the cover off the bed, making her moan because it means moving, and she really doesn’t want to.

“Shush,” he says. “It’s quite soaked in places and I refuse to sleep in a puddle.”

Still making little sounds of protest, she lifts her hips so he can snatch it away and soon she’s snuggled up against warm cashmere again and he’s rolling her to her stomach and straddling her hips, robe thankfully discarded so she can feel his skin against hers and the muscles of his legs flexing against her ass, still tender in spots.

“Do you still need this?” he asks, fingers poised. “I have to say, you seem adequately relaxed already. Positively limp, in fact.”

She snuggles her face into the blanket. “You promised...”

“So I did.”

She feels a kiss pressed gently against her shoulder and then his hands go to work, strong fingers digging in hard enough to make her yelp, then groan, with an ecstatic ‘uhnnn’ sound that makes him chuckle.

“I’m more accustomed to you making those sounds when you’re coming, Faith. This isn’t supposed to be erotic, you know.”

“It isn’t? Guess I never got the memo, Wes, ‘cos I have to say, the way you do it, it’s practically fucking R rated.” She feels his fingers pause, as he works out if he should be pleased or annoyed, and then continue their rhythmic exploration of a square inch of skin just below her shoulder blade and she wriggles and sighs in pure contentment.

Positioned as he is, it’s impossible to miss the fact that he’s hard and when he finally gives up, as it’s not easy massaging a puddle of goop, which is pretty much what she’s become, she reaches out and touches him.

“Want me to go and get some more ice?” she asks, with a sly grin.

“I don’t think so,” he says, with a yawn that looks genuine. “It’s getting late and we have a busy day tomorrow.”

“Oh, come on, Wes,” she wheedles. “Would be fun.”

“No. Doing it to you is fun,” he says, getting under the covers in a real hurry. “You squeaked.” He smiles. “That was rather sweet,” he reveals. “I, on the other hand, have sufficient control that I’d be no fun at all.”

“Oh, I bet I could get one or two sounds out of you,” she says, starting to wriggle off the bed. “Especially if I had a mouthful of ice when I went down on you...”

His hand shoots out and clamps around her wrist. “I said ‘no’,” he reminds her, pulling her back on the bed. “Please don’t make me say it again.”

The outrage she feels goes way beyond pouting. Lips thin, she gets in beside him and flounces into a position that puts her on the extreme edge of the mattress.

Wesley sighs and flicks off the light, making the room as dark as her mood. “If you think sulking will do anything but make me annoyed –”

“I’m not sulking.” Which is a Big Lie and they both know it. “But I’ve just added one more thing to the list of stuff I’m gonna do to you when you’re –”

“Tied up and totally at your mercy,” he says in a bored drawl. “Which might have happened by now if you didn’t mention it so often and hadn’t embellished your plans so frequently.”

She’s practically fucking speechless by now and vibrating head to toe with suppressed fury.

“A word of advice,” he whispers, moving so he’s lying on his back, not touching her. “Never give too much away when you’re planning a strategy to get what you want.”

She doesn’t answer and he waits for long enough to be sure she won’t, before saying, “Faith? I’m too tired to deal with you as you deserve, though I think you’ll find my fatigue has left my memory unimpaired, but if you could rouse yourself from your fit of petulance to kiss me goodnight, I’d –” There’s a pause, and then he continues, “I’d like that.”

And she’s the most ungrateful bitch ever and she’s all set to fling herself at him in an orgy of tearful sniffling apologies when she remembers that he’s tired.

Turning, she slides into his waiting arms and kisses him as gently as she can, stroking her fingers across his forehead until it’s smooth, letting her kisses tell him she’s sorry without saying more than, “Go to sleep, Wes.”

He gives her a grateful, fleeting brush of his lips that’s about as far away from his usual kisses as it gets, but still leaves her feeling loved and he’s asleep before she’s got the pillows just right.

Chapter Two Hundred and Forty Three

She sleeps like the dead. But then coming at least six times and a big dinner will do that to a girl.

And she's in the middle of this dream where Wes and her are adrift in the middle of this big sea full of ice caps, and they're clinging to this piece of wood and he's asking her to let go and start swimming because there's a little tropical island just behind this big iceberg and he's made dinner reservations…

"I'm scared," she tells him, clinging on to his arm so he can't start making with a front crawl. "It's, like, icy. And I can't see anything but more ice."

"You have to trust me," he says, shaking her hand loose. "And we can have coconuts and bananas for dessert."

Then she's on her own, watching his sleek head bobbing away from her while she tries to call to him. "Come back, Wes. I don't like coconuts."

And there's something tugging at her legs and she tries to wriggle free but its grip is unrelenting, unyielding and then there's this soft, furry thing brushing against her inner thigh and her eyes snap open and she's clutching handfuls of sheets because his head is between her legs and his tongue drags once against her clit and he must have brushed his teeth because it tickles and tingles but then she's not thinking about dental hygiene or much of anything because he's pushed it into her cunt and he's fucking her with it.

"Wes," she moans. "What are you doing?"

He laughs right into her pussy because it's pretty obvious what he's doing and she can tell from the weighted heaviness of her limbs; of how wet and swollen she is that he's been doing this for a while.

"It's rude to start without me," she complains but there's no bite to it because if he wants to have her for breakfast, instead of his usual croissant and coffee then she's not really in a position to argue.

What she is in a position for is to run her fingers through his hair and press up against his hungry mouth, reveling in the bite of his fingers as they push her thighs further apart.

He backs off slightly so he can slowly and languidly suck at her clit and she's not rushing to come for once, but concentrating hard on the wet, tugging sensation and suddenly it's not enough and she's wriggling away from him, shifting down the bed so she can clutch at his shoulders.

"Wes… morning Wes," she sighs, trying to pull him up. "Don’t wanna come without you this time."

He places one last slither of a kiss against her pussy and slides up and over, into her waiting arms.

"Good morning, Faith," he smiles and she's already licking her juices from his sticky lips. "I trust you slept well."

And even though the wet head of his cock is nudging against the crease of her thigh and her hips can't stop moving, trying to get him inside her, the heavenly weight of him in her arms and the soft, sunny smile on his face seems more important.

"I love you," she gasps, like it's only just occurred to her and she's pretty damn certain that she's never meant it as much as she means it right now. "I love you so fucking much, Wes. I had this dream that we were shipwrecked and you swam away and left me…"

He's kissing the words out of her mouth. "I would never do that," he whispers fiercely. "And I had to wake you because I missed you so terribly…"

She rolls onto her side, taking him with her, reaching down to stroke his cock and get it inside her. "I was right here," she protests with a smile, kissing the high plane of his cheekbones. "Wasn't going anywhere."

"I missed your croaky morning voice," he tells her softly. "And that little half smile you give me before you're properly conscious… yes, that one right there," he adds, tracing the corner of her mouth with his finger.

She slowly arches up against him, tightening round his cock and hoping that she never comes because she wants to stay like this forever.

And it seems like hours that they spend pressed tight together, murmuring oh-so-fucking-sweet nothings to each other until his hand burrows between them, fingers ghosting gently over her clit and she comes in these long, languid waves, dragging him with her, spilling over him while he tells her how beautiful she is and how much he loves her.




Even when they finally manage to drag themselves out of bed and he confesses with an almost shameful smirk that he set the alarm clock an hour earlier so he could give her his own special brand of wake-up call and still be able to get to work on time, she can't shake the goofy smile off her face.

It seems to her that while they were both asleep, something strange happened. Like, they fell more in love with each other so that their morning routine is interrupted by kisses and she can't even reach around him to get a mug down from the kitchen cupboard without curling her fingers around his neck first so she can feel his warm skin.

She's still wrapped up in dreams during the drive in to work. Words like "auditors" and "inventories" barely penetrating as she brushes them away like they're flies just buzzing away at the corner of her vision.

"I'm trying to get into work mode, Faith," he says as he parks the car in front of the office. "But I'm starting to see the benefits of four day weekends. Maybe I should write a stern letter to the State legislature."

He opens her door and she tucks her hand into his as she gets out of the car and doesn't let go. "We could always have a mental health day, Wes. I don't want you working too hard."

"I thought we had one of those last week." He's swinging her arm as they walk to the door, which makes her giggle and bump him with her hip. "Though maybe we could take Friday off if you're particularly industrious, though…"

"Faith? Faithy?"

She turns round and collides with Darla's tear-soaked gaze as she staggers up the drive behind them.

"Mom?"

And Wes lets his hand drop just as Darla launches herself at her, arms tight round Faith's waist and she's shaking, trembling, sobbing something against her shoulder.

"What is it? What's wrong?" she asks in a shrill voice, struggling to get away from the soft weight of Darla because it feels wrong. Like majorly wrong. Like baby aliens suddenly sprouting out of her stomach wrong.

But Darla isn't going anywhere, just clings on tighter, cries a bit harder.

"Darla," Wes says hesitantly, hand reaching out to gingerly pat her shoulder. "Maybe we should go inside and Faith will get you a glass of water."

Then he's practically lifting Darla off her and handing Faith the office keys so she can open the door and he can guide Darla carefully inside like she's a doddery old lady. Then he takes her down the corridor and she's left to trail after them, wondering what the fuck's happened now. And knowing Darla it's gonna be the same, tired old story. That she only had one drink and then another one after that and then one for the road and she's lost her job/got fucked over by some guy/lost that week's rent…

But it isn't until they're all in the office and Darla is perched on the edge of the couch, still hiccupping and spluttering into one of Wes' handkerchiefs that she starts to worry that maybe this isn't just another one of Darla's monthly meltdowns that can be made better by a hundred dollars and a trip to Al's Liquor Warehouse.

"Has something happened to Xander?" she asks tremulously. "Is it Granny? Fuck, has she got cancer or something?"

"Faith, maybe you should get your mother that glass…"

"It's Liam…" Darla chokes out suddenly. "Stupid bastard's gone and nearly killed himself."

And she's going straight to hell because she's wishing that the words "and nearly" weren't part of that sentence and that he's lying dead and gone in the fucking morgue.

"What happened?" Wes asks all cool and detached like he's taking a witness statement and Darla looks at him like she's only just realized he's there. Then she remembers that he is there and she doesn't like him.

"Can you excuse us?" she says in her snootiest, I used-to-be-a-goddamn cheerleader voice. "I need to talk to my daughter."