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Get Away by Sigyn
 
Hold
 
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    Spike had not had a good day. He was stuck in the collapsed house until nearly sunset, when the shadows became long enough that he could climb his way out of the rubble and make his way back to the crypt. He kept jumping back and forth from frustration to elation, and he was annoyed to discover that the twisted maelstrom of emotion did not get any easier to navigate even when he wasn’t trapped by the sun. He ran his head through the memories of the previous night all over again, the memories he’d been cherishing all day.

    God, how good it felt to hit her again. Properly! I’ve been longing to dance with that girl for so long. The rush of it, the exchange of blows, finally, finally, not having to just lay there and submit to it, but give back as good as I got, feel the power in my fists, listen to the smack of bruising flesh. And god, did she need it! Someone equal to her power and her passion, who understood her death wish and wanted to caress it. She’s needed a devil to dance with properly ever since she was Chosen, I know it.

    The street lamps turned on as he headed back, little pools of light in the darkness. He stretched his neck. He wasn’t sure what she’d done to it, twisted it or something, and everything ached deliciously.

    She looked so alive. Finally, alive. She hasn’t looked alive since she crawled out of the sodding grave. Such life and vigor in her fury and her passion. Her friends have all been stroking her, or coddling her, or bloody Giles, up and abandoning her – like that’s gonna help! – when I knew all she needed was to have the life knocked back into her. Kindle the light inside her, fire her up, get her going again. It’s been so painful, seeing her in such pain. It hurt a thousand times more than these bloody... did she crack a rib?

    Spike crossed into the cemetery, trying to assess damage, but it was difficult with the memories of the pleasure singing through every sting of pain.

   Bloody hell, how she looked when she finally took me. Pulled me out and claimed me, claimed my cock and drew it inside her. I couldn’t believe it. I just couldn’t believe it. All these years, all my heated fantasies, and it was better, a thousand times better. All that rage and pain and violence firing through us, and then to be part of her. The heat of her, the power of her. Squeeze me till I pop like warm champaign, indeed.

    His cock twitched again at the memory, as it had been jumping all day, though it had had plenty to satisfy it the night before. The cemetery was dark and peaceful, and his mind was a heated swirl of memory, memory that he simply wouldn’t leave alone.

    I didn’t expect her to take me so hard. I thought, when it finally happened, that she’d just be letting me, finally letting me, like that sodding robot, but I was wrong. I was so wrong, and it was so much better this way. To sink under her, bow down before her, be grabbed and forced and ripped to shreds. Then playing with her, wrestling against her strength, like tumbling puppies, nipping and scratching and holding each other down, trading places, Hands on skin, mouth against flesh, life against death, bloody hell, I’m alive. I’ve been dead for a century, why do I feel so alive?

    He made it to his crypt. There were no lights in the upper chamber, but he just walked through the darkness to the ladder. He didn’t have the energy to light his candles.

    How she finally went soft under me, her lust – and mine – finally slaked enough that I could do what I wanted, what I’d dreamed of, so many times. Just to taste her, taste her lips, her breath, her sweat, her skin, and the sweet, sweet, heady taste of blood. Tiny little scratches and scrapes she barely even noticed, and every one of them I claimed as mine, kissed them and claimed them and tasted them, tasted her. No fangs. No biting. As tempting as it was, not yet. Not yet, not till she’s sure of me... not till I can be sure of her. But just those little kisses of blood were like a drug. And oh, god, the heat between her legs! The taste of her, the hot feel of her cunt around my fingers and she clenched herself, as I pulled on her clit with my tongue, feeling the blood, the blood inside her, filling her, firing her. Listening to her scream and scream as I make her feel every second of it. Then how she pounced me again, like a cat with a rat, unable to keep off me....

    He took a shaky breath as he unbuttoned his shirt, staring down at his chest in the lamplight. He was bruised. Marked. Scratched, scraped, knocked about... Oh yeah! Oh, beautiful! Every mark was hers, every bruise, every welt. He lifted his hand and caressed every one he could reach, claiming them as gifts she’d given him. The feel of the pain, the memory of each blow and bite and scratch, making him shudder with remembered ecstacy.

    She bit me here, so hard, I remember crying out. And this was from earlier, when she threw me against the wall. And these, these are from when we fell through the floor, and I caught her above me, and her nails sank into me. This was when she scratched me as I made her scream the fourth time, and this, this was where she held me down and pounded on me until I couldn’t even think. Bloody hell, all these marks. All these memories. How the hell could she walk away from this this morning? All that passion between us... a gift from god and the devil himself.

    Spike rolled into bed, hoping sleep would finally come to him, as it had eluded him all day. The wrecked house hadn’t been comfortable, though it was the memories that had shouted in his head, keeping him awake. But as he lay down, he finally allowed himself the luxury of the best moment of all. Not the sudden switch from violence to passion, not the final moments of fulfilled ecstacy, not the feel of her pussy, or her touch on his cock, or the fire in the blood, or the heated breaths between them.

    Just at dawn. Just as the sun was rising... when she was finally sated. The fire between us had burned down to smoldering embers, and the exhaustion and the adrenaline crash, when all of those heated moments had finally taken their toll, and she collapsed. Oh, that moment. When she lay there, so still, and so safe in my arms, and she let me pull my coat over her to keep her warm, tuck her in safely, her head on my arm, curl her up beside me like a kitten. When I got to hold her. Just hold her. I was so damn knackered, it was hard to stay awake, but the feel of her against me, warm and soft and smooth. Her even breath, her softened body, the scent....

    He hadn’t known what was about to happen. He hadn’t realized that an hour or so later she’d open her eyes full of rage and regret. It was only an hour, and he’d spent half of it asleep, but it didn’t matter. Just that hour. That hour of peace and security, that brief moment when she was sated and satisfied, when he’d listened to her heartbeat and felt her heat against him, and was able to nuzzle her hair, breathe in her scent, bask in the moment when he’d thought... he’d dared to think... she could love him....

    He’d been afraid to think of that moment all day. All day as he spent trapped, imprisoned and alone, aching and bruising from what she’d done to him the night before... bleeding inside from what she’d done the morning after. The sex... oh, that was power. That was passion, that was life. But that golden hour of peace... that was what had risen last night to surpass the night he’d killed his first slayer as the best night of his life. He had to try and separate that moment from the morning after, or it felt like being ripped apart.

    Still, it happened. That golden hour was real. She has claimed me, and ridden me, and screamed for me, and nothing is going to change that. Nothing is going to make it unhappen. I’m inside her now, just as she’s always been burning inside me. I held her.

    I can’t let her get away. 

 
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