Capturing her arm on the downswing, Spike gripped her by the wrist as he grabbed a fistful of the front of her jacket, using the momentum of her blow to whip her around. He shoved her back, shoulders making contact with rough, icy brick, driving the breath from her lungs as he pressed the length of his wiry body against hers. Without a word, his hands threaded through her thick blond hair, tilting her head back. His lips crushed down onto hers hungrily as her tiny hands scrabbled uselessly against his chest. It seemed she couldn't decide whether to push him away or pull him closer.

 He could feel the sweet, tingling slice of her nails raking over his chest through the material of his t-shirt as she grasped fistfuls of cotton, tugging him closer to her.  He loosed a groan against her lips even as he roughly broke the kiss, pinning her shoulders to the wall. His eyes grown dark with arousal, Spike tamped down the smile winding its way to his lips as he took in her dazed expression, lips ever so slightly bruised from his kisses. Agile, black-tipped fingers worked open the buttons of her heavy jacket, ripped the halves of the offending garment open, startling a gasp from her at his sudden, almost violent, impatience.

"May I have the pleasure of this dance?" he growled through gritted teeth.

Right hand sliding to the base of her throat, gently holding her in place, he moved in once more, pressing his body against hers as his left hand snuck down to the zip on her trousers. Quick tug of the zipper and his hand slid inside, over the warm, supple flesh of her belly, skating over the waistband of her panties, journeying still further. He curled his index finger slightly, feeling the wetness there. Pressing his right shoulder against the wall, he shielded her and his frantic touches from prying eyes, even as he attacked her throat, cool lips teasing and intoxicating her.

"Spike," she shuddered, gripping the lapels of his duster tightly, "wha... what're you doing?"

"Can't you tell, Slayer?" He nipped at her earlobe playfully, tongue mapping the natural curves and hollows of the shell of her ear.

"Not... no, we -- we can't," Buffy ground out, hands pressing against his chest, as though to push him away. Spike lifted his head, midnight blue eyes searching her wide hazel ones. "Not -- not here!"

"Oh, yeah. Here." Capturing her mouth again, his index finger wound its way through the wiry curls at the apex of her thighs, slid inside her deeply even as his tongue was granted entrance past her pursed lips. He swallowed her moans hungrily, as surely as he would have gulped down a gout of warm, fresh blood, tongue rasping against hers, his own body warming due to his proximity to her. "They can't see. Not here. People stay away from the shadows, now." He drove two fingers into her, wringing a pained groan from her tiny frame as he sunk his even white teeth into her lower lip, worrying at it gently. "And even if anyone does see... they won't know what we're doing. For all they know, we're just two people... kissing."

Buffy's breath came in harsh, panting gasps as she lifted her right leg, hooking it on his hip, head falling back against the wall, her neck arched invitingly. He leaned in more closely, lips brushing hers lightly, only to draw back as she lowered her chin, bruised lips seeking his. Letting out a petulant whimper, she tried once more -- the barest nibbling of her chin, followed by yet another retreat. Hoping that the third time would be the charm, she leaned in, wet her lips with the tip of her tongue, and parted them in silent entreaty. Spike ignored her plea, tongue flickering out for just a moment, catching itself on the enticing bow of her lower lip. His thumb circumvented the tight clutch of nerves which throbbed in time to her own racing heartbeat, fingers stroking inside her, raking against the delicate nerve endings mercilessly.

Looping her left arm around Spike's neck, Buffy bit her lower lip and with a weak sob, let her head fall forward. She buried her face in the crook of his shoulder in an effort to keep from crying out, her nostrils assailed by the scent of him: dust, leather, and cigarette smoke, cheap Bronze beer.

"Pl... please," she whimpered as she tried in vain to rock her hips against his hand, impale herself on his long fingers, the impassive brick wall she was pinned against curtailing any and all efforts she made to move her lower body.

"What d'you want, Slayer? What do you need?" The words were spoken gruffly, but not angrily, Spike's voice roughened by his ardor. "Talk to me."

"You... please, you, you," Buffy gripped the sleeve of his duster tightly in her fingers -- the duster he'd taken as a trophy of the second slayer he defeated in 1977. A chill ran through her at the thought -- if Spike were to slip in one day, as he had told, no, promised her he would -- just what would he take from her? "Inside me, please," she tipped her head back against the wall, feeling the chain link fencing and brick pressing against her skull and fought the urge to pound her head against the unyielding surface.

"I am inside you, kitten," he whispered softly into her ear, his tone oddly solicitous. "Can't you feel me?"

"That's not what I meant," Buffy growled as her left hand shot up and tightly gripped the hair at the nape of his neck.

"Ahh! Now, now... no need to get violent." Spike carefully uncurled her fingers from his hair with his free hand, settling her hand back onto his shoulder. His right hand slid between her back and the wall, pulling her even more closely to him and Buffy let out a soft mewl as his fingers were driven a bit further up into her. Pinching her eyes closed, she growled in frustration and turned her face away.

With his right hand, Spike reached down and grasped her left leg, just behind her knee, and carefully lifted it, lifted her, until both of her legs were wrapped firmly around his narrow waist. Right hand coming to rest at the small of her back, beneath her heavy winter coat and her revealing gold halter top, startling a gasp from her at the feel of his hand on her feverish skin.

Spike leaned in and pressed a kiss to Buffy's temple, the tip of his tongue playfully tracing the arc of her eyebrow as his left hand resumed its deep, steady thrusting.

"I'm inside you," he said, right hand sliding up her left thigh, reaching up to cup her breast, silently appreciating the weight of it against his palm, the pleasing hardness of her nipple under his thumb. "You can feel me," his fingers continued to move inside her as he spoke, "cool ... and still. No heartbeat, but not like Soul Man... no, 'cause he thinks you're too much the lady, too much the delicate little virgin to be gettin' finger-fucked up against a wall in an alley in broad daylight... well, so to speak." He leaned in until the tip of his nose almost brushed against her cheek, silently daring her to meet his eyes, but they remained closed. "And it's not your soldier... 'cause he has a heartbeat and you can feel it throbbin' when he's inside you..."

Spike paused, ever so gradually increasing the pace of his thrusts, right hand sneaking under her top. He bit into his lower lip to prevent a moan from escaping at the sensation of her warm, silky skin under his hand. "He adds to your heat; he doesn't absorb it, like a lizard sittin' on a rock out in some sun-bleached desert somewhere."

Spike caught her nipple between his thumb and forefinger, pinching lightly, then with a bit more pressure. Buffy moaned softly, her head lolling back on her shoulders, hands still gripping both of his shoulders tightly. Her tongue darted out and wetted her swollen lips, her eyes still lightly closed, dark lashes resting against her cheeks.

"That's right, kitten," he murmured and nuzzled her cheek as he gently worked a third finger inside her. A low keening from her as she ground herself down onto his hand, the old, well-loved leather of his duster creaking in her fingers as she fought to keep even the most tenuous hold on herself as well as her control. "Feel me..." Once again, he increased the cadence of his thrusts and began rocking his hips up in time with each one, mimicking the motions of a dance much older than either one of them, and wishing, in spite of himself, that he could be buried within her. The way he had always longed to be.

"Ahh, Spike," Buffy reached out one trembling hand and cupped his cheek, her thumb smoothing over the hollow she found there, her entire body wracked with involuntary tremors. "Pl-please."

"Not yet, not yet," he crooned, capturing the tip of her index finger in his mouth as it brushed over his lips. Buffy cried out as his tongue lapped at her finger, drawing it deeply into his mouth and lavishing it with long, torturous swipes of his tongue before releasing it. "Hold on just a bit longer... for me..." Another strangled cry from the Slayer as her hand scrambled at the back of his neck, searching for purchase and finding it. "You can do this; I know you can. Just a little bit longer... and it'll be so good... so good, I promise..."

He leaned in, lips pressed against her ear, forehead pressed to her temple. "Look at me," he said, hips still pistoning against her, the hardness in his jeans rasping almost painfully against his zipper with each movement of his hips. "Buffy... look at me." Buffy whimpered softly at the sound of his voice. "Please." With obvious effort, she swallowed and turned her head. Immediately, he pressed his forehead against hers, trapping her and keeping her still so she couldn't turn away. Eye to eye.

"Spike, please..." she began, her voice nothing more than a strained rasp in her throat. Her eyes were bright with tears of frustration, her face having taken on a becoming rosy flush.

"When it starts to hurt, then you can let go," he replied, placing a kiss on her chin.

"Don't hurt me," her lower lip quivered and fear caused the tears to well up even further, threatening to spill down her cheeks.

"Shhh, none of that," Spike kissed her lips lightly, reassuringly. "I'm not gonna hurt you. When it starts to hurt, when you feel like you can't wait any longer... when it burns, that's when I'll let you go."

"But I am," she sobbed, a single tear slowly working its way down her cheek. "I am burning."

"Not yet," he whispered again. And, with the tip of his tongue, he caught her tear and gently retraced its path. She pinched her eyes tightly shut with a stifled sob as his fingers twisted deep inside her, her entire body wracked with tremors, a thin sheen of perspiration covering her face and throat.

Burying his face in the crook of her throat, he fastened his lips onto a moist, salty patch of skin and drew on it deeply. Buffy let out another startled cry, her arms wrapping themselves around his neck, pulling him close to her as she buried her face in his shoulder.

So close to death... he was in her, around her, against her... so close. All it would take was one tiny motion. All he'd need do is bite down... and the richness of her would fill his mouth, take away the cruel ache and the emptiness left there by so many months of starvation. Spike could feel the velvety warmth of her, clenching around him, crushing him, scalding him. To be buried inside her to the hilt would be like fucking a bonfire. The center of a flame was always the hottest -- with her, it was doubly true.

He allowed her to rock down onto his fingers, impaling herself, her hips having established their own quick, hungry rhythm. Cupping her cheek, he continued to thrust against her, her harsh, panting breaths moist and hot against his lips. Spike's lips crushed against hers, any semblance of patience and gentleness having long since been burned away by the heat generated between their two bodies. Buffy bit at his lips, nearly hard enough to draw blood -- taking her frustration out on his mouth -- he hissed softly at the sensation, his cock pulsing at the sensation of those tiny white teeth sinking into his flesh. He could almost feel them on his cock, raking oh so lightly, and he groaned into her mouth, cupping the back of her head and holding her tightly against him even as he plundered her mouth hungrily.

So this was what it meant to love a demon. Even when Buffy had made love with Angel, he had done his utmost to rein in his demon and shield her from it. But even as Spike put forth concerted effort to hold his own demon back, he had managed to unleash something in Buffy.

The only sounds that could be heard were those of fabric and leather and skin shifting against one another, sounds of sweat slick skin rubbing together, sounds of lips meeting and parting.

Breaking the kiss, Buffy opened her wet, tearstained eyes and met Spike's dark, glazed stare head on. With a low, plaintive moan, she cupped his cheek, mimicking his own touch, her kiss swollen lips parted over his, just barely touching.

"I'm bur -- burning." Her voice was a broken, breathless whisper against his lips.

With quick, impatient movements, Spike gripped the front of her blouse, yanking it aside to reveal her left breast. He brought his mouth down on her nipple, suckling greedily as his fingers stroked the tender spot hidden deep inside her. He teased the diamond hard peak with his tongue, nipping at it lightly with his teeth.

"Let go, luv," Spike murmured into her ear as he drew her lobe between his lips, nipping hard.

Buffy pursed her lips tightly together, eyes pinched shut, as her shaking body found release at last. As the second wave hit her, Spike clapped his free hand firmly over her mouth, muffling her cries, even as his fingers continued to thrust in and out of her. She clung to the lapels of Spike's duster with a white-knuckled grip, screaming into his hand as the orgasm tore through her, muscles spasming, fresh, molten tears filling her eyes, her entire body wracked with violent shudders.

"Shhh, shhh," he soothed her, lips brushing lightly against her temple. "It's alright."

Her last cry was still echoing off the walls as Spike carefully withdrew his fingers and set her back on her own two feet. Buffy weaved back and forth for a moment, her watery legs threatening to give way right out from under her, as he pressed her shoulders back against the wall, steadying her.

The moment he was sure she could stand up on her own, Spike released her. She gazed at him silently for a moment, catching her breath, and then reached out, tiny hands attacking his belt buckle. Spike glanced down, watching in silent horror, as her shaking hands attempted to unbuckle his belt. Placing both of his hands over hers, he stilled her frantic movements.

"No," he gently extricated her hands.

"What?" She bit her swollen lower lip. "What's wrong?" She reached for his buckle again, eyes dark and determined.

"Don't." Spike snapped, pulling her hands away more forcefully, then. Grasping each of her wrists, he folded them over chest and pushed her back until she was slouched against the cold bricks once more. The wounded, confused look in her eyes cut to the very heart of him, made his still heart weep.

Buffy's eyes darted around for a moment -- never daring to look straight at Spike or look him in the eyes -- silently assessing the situation. She pulled up her trousers and zipped them, a humiliated flush heating her cheeks as she put her clothes to rights again with stiff, awkward movements.

"So... tell me what this means, Slayer." Spike stepped back, watching her as she smoothed her mussed hair.

"What --? I don't -- I don't understand." The tears brimming in her downcast eyes streamed down her cheeks as trembling fingertips ran over her bruised lips. She pulled her jacket tightly around her, almost as if she were trying to disappear into its warm, comforting folds.

"Fine, you wanna play the part of the blond bim, feel free. I'll humor you. This means nothing; this changes nothing. This means that you go back to your real American hero, have a snuggle and pretend none of this ever happened. Not tonight, not this, not any of it. That's what this means. Understanding me now, luv?"

"But I --" Buffy flattened herself against the unyielding brick behind her, the torment roiling inside her causing her to writhe in place.

"Good. You have a nice evening, now." He turned on his heel and strode down the alley, black leather lapping at his calves as he walked.

"Why?" She screamed at his retreating back.

That single word - such a simple one - just one syllable, three letters. Such a plain, straightforward question. Why. And it stopped him in his tracks, as though a legion of crosses strewn about in a veritable sea of holy water lay before him. Just one more step, and he'd burn.

She huddled down into her heavy winter coat, her large hazel eyes pained and desolate as he turned back to face her.

Why what? Why had he agreed to help her? Why had he so willingly revealed to her the truth behind his most cherished kills? Why had he given up the one secret that was the key to her survival, in this, the deadliest of professions? Why had he followed her into the alley? Why had he let her beat him limp? Why had he pounded her against that wall and treated her like a whore? And, more importantly, why had he told her to forget it? Why, why, why?

Because he loved her. Because he was terrified of loving her.

Because he dreaded the thought of touching her, of being inside her, and having those words come tumbling out of his mouth of their own volition.

Because he was the Big Bad and he was in control, dammit, and he'd tell her when he was good and ready.

Because he knew that unburdening his heart to her would ruin the already fragile alliance they had formed. At the same time, the insufferable weight of his secret became harder to carry with each passing day.  The time would come when it would no longer matter: the wound would prove itself mortal, whether he confessed or not.

"You're not ready to know."

His answer -- the one that he had given to her when she'd pressed for his knowledge about how he'd killed the Slayers -- served many functions. Simple, to the point, much like her question. Yet it had so many meanings. It was an answer to all the questions her own question could possibly infer and then some.

She would just have to accept that....

For now.