"I bet I can make you come without touching you," Spike said, watching Buffy closely. She had come back to his crypt after they had patrolled together and was mellow enough after the slaying to stay to chat, and even have a drink. The topic had veered around to sex somehow. He couldn’t think how.

Buffy snorted. "You vampires," she said. "Think you know it all."

"Had plenty of time to practice," Spike pointed out reasonably. "We don't rush; don't get impatient, always ready for seconds..."

He let his voice trail off suggestively and was rewarded by narrowed, intrigued eyes. His Slayer loved a challenge...

"Go on then," she said abruptly. "Try it. But there's got to be a time limit, too."

"Half an hour," Spike suggested, trying to keep the jubilation from peeking through.

"Fifteen minutes," she countered.

"Fine."

She glanced around and went over to the blanket covered slab, perching on it and looking at him expectantly. "Off you go then."

He came over to her, the smooth, swaggering prowl of a predator making his movements fluid, and stood looking down at her. “Strip,” he said.

“What? No way!”

Spike shrugged. “You want to forfeit, fine. I win.”

“You never said I had to get naked!”

“I’m a vampire, not a sodding magician. Got to give me something to work with.” He grinned, letting her glimpse a pink tongue and a flash of fangs. “If it makes you happier, I will too.”

“This still counts as part of the fifteen minutes,” Buffy warned, skinning her T shirt over her head.

Spike swallowed hard as he saw her breasts, small and softly curved, filling out the pink satin bra so nicely. A moment later the bra hit him in the face. “Move it, Spike. It’s cold in here.”

He didn’t think she’d really do it, but by the time he’d kicked off his boots, peeled off his jeans and dared to look, she was lying on her side, propped up on an elbow, studying him with a direct appraisal that made him want to throw back his head and howl. He took two steps and then stopped as she raised a warning hand. “No touching, remember? And you’ve got ten minutes left.”

“Not a problem, love,” he murmured. The expression, ‘feasting your eyes’ was more than a saying, he discovered. The sight of her was filling him, flooding into every empty place, suffusing him with a pleasure that had its roots in lust but which was flowering into something infinitely more. Reminding himself that her patience was as short as her temper, he began.

Leaning over her, so close that a blink would have brought his eyelashes fluttering against her cheek, he drew the scent of her into him, sighing with appreciation. “No touching,” Buffy said, her breath catching in her dry throat. He watched her nipples harden and her legs spread, just a little, as she rolled over onto her back, away from him, and allowed himself a smile.

“No touching,” he agreed. “Not of you, anyway.”

Her eyes widened as she looked at him, twisting her head around. He took a step back and ran his hand over his chest, down to his flat stomach. Casually, he let it drop until it was hovering over his cock, hard, jutting out arrogantly. Buffy squirmed against the blanket as his fingers curled around it and slid up the length lazily. He was so close that she wouldn’t have even needed to stretch to reach him.

“See this? See how it’s hard; see how it’s ready to please you? Think about that, Slayer. Think about how long I’d make you wait before I slid it inside you. Not going to rush you. I’d start by kissing you. Every inch, every succulent, soft inch, until I had the taste of you in me, on me - and then I’d kiss your mouth last of all so you could steal it back from my lips.” He bent over her, hands on either side of her head and leaned in until his mouth was hovering over her, like a hesitant butterfly. Laughing, the sound deep and low, he pushed away just as she pouted and carried on talking.

“Then I’d touch you. ‘License my roving hands, and let them go/Before, behind, between, above, below.’ Love that poem and that’s what I’d do to you. Touches like snowflakes falling on your back, with you not knowing where they were going to fall next. Then I’d start to scratch your back, raking my nails down it, not hard, not to hurt. Not yet. I’d watch you arch and moan and whimper until the only word you could say was ‘please’.”

His hand was working his erection now, moving faster as he spoke. He was watching her breathe faster, her own hand resting on her thigh, the nails digging into the skin as she kept it still, with an effort of will.

“Then I’d turn you over. Your face would be all flushed and your lips would be parted. I’d have to kiss them again, wouldn’t be able to help myself. Your arms would pull me down and you’d wrap yourself around me. God, you’re so beautiful...”

Buffy watched him, feeling the mood break and reform as his words faltered and his eyes blazed with need. “Look at you lying there, your eyes watching me. Do you know how hungry you look? How needy? You drive me crazy with wanting you, needing you. You’re perfect, love, so strong, so, God, I’m going to come but I want to come inside you. Can I, Buffy? Can I? Please?”

She met his eyes, and slowly, reluctantly, shook her head. “I can’t,” she said. “And you’ve had ten minutes.”

Spike’s hand dropped away. “Then go,” he said, looking anywhere but at her, defeated and bitter.

Buffy smiled ruefully. “As if I can walk after that...”

His head jerked around. Buffy held his gaze and then spread her legs, her hand going between them, the fingers moving rapidly. She came in moments, fast and hard, lying there shuddering as Spike watched her face, enraptured and amazed.

Then she sat up, and looked at him. “Come here.”

Spike went to her and stood beside her. Looking up at him with a mischievous look in her eyes, she took her hand and put it where his had been, squeezing and stroking him in a teasing rhythm. He tried to make it last but he couldn’t, not with the rich scent of her arousal in a cloud around him, not when she was using the same hand that had brought her to a climax. He came, spilling over her hand and his belly, gasping and grabbing the edge of the stone slab for support.

She slid out, wiping her hand on the blanket, and got dressed while he was still trying to focus.

“Looks like you lost, then, Spike,” she said. “Though it was close.”

He turned, still naked and looked at her. Slowly his lips curved into a smile. That was losing? “Want to make it best out of three?”


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