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Buffy Summers triple checked the address her best friend had text’d over that morning. Tiny battered brass letters spelled out “caritas.” Yup, this was it. Somehow she hadn’t expected it to be such a hotspot. Even on a Tuesday barely past eight, a line stretched out behind the velvet rope.

She approached the bouncer with a boldness she didn’t even begin to feel. “Hey. Um, my friend Willow, she uh, put me on the list.”

The bouncer looked her up and down with a critical eye. Dark jeans, tottering high heels and a silky camisole top … Buffy knew she looked the part. It was spending the better half of her 26 years in Sunnydale that left her feeling like an imposter.

“Charlie Gunn, you take it easy now!” A crowd exited the club’s VIP door and headed straight for a waiting limo.

“Was that –,” Buffy started breathlessly.

A look from the bouncer froze her.

“Sorry.” Note to self: Los Angelenos do not show excitement, no matter who walks by.

“Yeah. You’re on the list. Your friend’s working the main bar tonight.”

“Thanks.” Buffy slid past the rope and through the door, feeling like she’d already failed her first test.

***

“Buffy!” The girl hopped up to hug her friend, knocking over cocktail napkins in her haste.

“Wil! I’m so excited to be here … thank you so much!”

“It’s about time you left sleepy little Sunnydale behind.”

“This place is so … and hey, that’s a new hair color.”

“You like?”

“Wow.” She noticed a flash of something silver. “No way – stick out your tongue!”

The girl stuck her tongue out as far as it would go.

“Willow Rosenberg! Black hair, pierced tongue? You have been in LA for a while now, huh?”

Willow shrugged.

“So what time are you off tonight?”

“Midnight, maybe one if it gets crazy – I’ve got the early shift Tuesdays and Wednesdays.”

“How do you get up for class?”

“Coffee. Lots of strong, dark coffee.” She paused and looked at her friend closely. It was a wonder Gunn had let her past. Buffy has always been a bit of a fashionista, so to see her still wearing her go-out jeans from freshman year in college was a surprise. She didn’t look like a middle-aged librarian, not by a long shot, but Willow doubted her friend realized just how far out of step she was with current trends.

“Will this place really be packed tonight?”

“Probably. The house band’s really hot.”

“Anyone I’ve heard of? Not that I’ve heard of anyone.”

“The Pratts.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. Kind of a post punk Green Day vibe.” Willow expertly mixed two martinis and handed them off to a cocktail waitress, then starting uncorking mini bottles of Piper for another server. “What?”

“It’s just funny to see you all with the dexterity and the alcohol and all.” Neither of the girls drank during high school. Buffy still didn’t.

“Oh, yeah, well … pays the bills.”

“Yeah.”

“Oooh … they’re gonna do a warm up set. Always do real early in the night instead of a sound check.”

Buffy didn’t think she’d be much into it, but obediently pivoted on her stool to watch the band take the stage. There was no preamble – just the drummer counting off and then an explosive guitar riff. She recognized this track – was it a cover?

And then the lead singer opened his mouth and Buffy’s eyes were glued on him.

Long ago life was clean
Sex was bad and obscene
And the rich were so mean
Stately homes for the Lords
Croquet lawns, village greens
Victoria was my queen
Victoria, Victoria, Victoria, 'toria

Buffy knew zero ‘bout music, but she knew that she was in the presence of some serious animal magnetism. The guy wasn’t tall and she couldn’t decide if he was crazy handsome or just kinda good looking. Either way he was using everything to his advantage. With a strut across the stage, he was nearly at the edge, coming out of another refrain when their eyes locked and Buffy decided.

Crazy handsome.

The band segued into something louder, “Hello to all you merry few who managed to slip past Charlie Gunn before 9!” A few shouts echoed back from the crowd. “This is just a little taste of what you’ll get later … much later, maybe after your bedtimes.”

“Tasty, isn’t he? And yeah, the accent is real.”

“Wil, I wasn’t … I mean, totally not my type.”

“A guy like that is everybody’s type, Buffy.”

She blushed furiously. “Yeah, well … he’d never …”

The second song wound to a close and before she knew it, the object of her curiosity was leaning over the barstool to her left, not a drop of sweat on him, even though leather pants under stage lights had to be hot.

Hot … yeah, that’s the word.

“Wil, pour us a little something?”

***

He hadn’t stayed long.

He hadn’t even asked her name. She’d volunteered it, in an awkward stuttering voice. She’d asked if the first song was a cover, and he’d replied that it was a cover of a cover, yeah. Was she into The Fall? He’d met Mark Smith at Lesser Free Trade back during the first Sex Pistols show, always thought he was a bit daft, but genius with the lyrical part. His voice was hypnotizing. Buffy had no clue what he was talking about, so she’d just smiled weakly. He’d downed his drink and moved on.

Not her finest moment, but it was hitting her harder than she’d imagined. “I’m in LA for five minutes, meet one hot guy and fall to pieces,” she murmured as she fixed her makeup in the ladies room.

The band was back on stage as she made her way to the bar.

“Hey, Wil … Wil …”

“Sorry, Buffy. This is rush hour. What’s up?”

“If it’s okay, I’ll just head back now. I’m tired from the trip.”

“Uh, yeah. Sure. Give me two minutes and I’ll get the keys and toss you in a cab.”

“Thanks.”

There was a chill in the air as she stood outside, willing herself to not think about Spike’s eyes.

And his growl.

It was … well, it was the kind of thing a girl obsesses about when she’s just broken up with her super-safe nice-guy boyfriend and moved to the big city.

She was lost in thought when Willow came outside and motioned for Gunn to queue up a taxi.

“Okay, I’ll be home by 1 or so. You’ll be okay?”

“Me? Yeah. Just want to get some sleep.”

“Listen, Buffy … about Spike … he’s … dangerous.”

“Heartbreaker?”

“Let’s say heartstopper.”

“Okay, well, thanks for the warning.”

“Buf - ” but the taxi was already speeding away.


***

NOTE: The song is Victoria, originally recorded by the Kinks, but I'm thinking of the version recorded The Fall. In any case, the lyrics are not mine. ~ VW

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Three nights passed. Buffy started her job. That meant she’d managed to drive across L.A. during rush hour six times without killing herself or anyone else.

She’d been confined to the house during most of her non-work hours. Willow’s hectic school – sleep – bartend routine meant that they rarely crossed paths.

And so it was after midnight and she was lonely, waiting for her roommate outside of Caritas, hugging her arms around her chest as the night breeze picked up.

“She’ll be at least another hour, pet.”

And the blue eyes were there, without so much as a shiver when he approached. “Sorry?”

“Some spoiled Valley brat has the VIP room rented for a party. She’ll be uncorking champagne ‘til 3.”

“Oh.” Buffy thought about leaving Willow to put herself into a cab. After all, she had to be at her desk at the museum in less then eight hours.

“Diner’s around the corner.”

He took a drag of his cigarette and cocked his head.

Buffy didn’t follow immediately – she was too busy arguing with herself if he’d uttered an invitation or a simple declarative sentence.

Of course, she couldn’t stand in front of the club forever.

She heard her heels clicking on the sidewalk as she rushed to catch up to her companion. He was disappearing behind a door with the words Millie’s Diner stenciled on the front. It was dingy, the linoleum peeling and the waitresses sagging.

But he was greeted warmly and ushered into a cozy booth.

In a minute, Buffy had scampered through the door and into the seat opposite.

***

“Willow said you were dangerous.”

“She’s right.”

“She’s dated musicians. Don’t know what the big deal is.”

“Don’t think she was warning you about the music, love.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

***

In the next few weeks, it became a ritual. If Buffy was waiting for Willow, he’d almost always be there. The now familiar waitresses would pour them bottomless cups of coffee. He’d eat sometimes, sometimes not. He’d fiddle with things, edgy. Always drank decaf. “Don’t need caffeine.” He knew the whole staff at the diner – only one waitress, a pretty Jamaican girl named Kendra, didn’t seem totally charmed by him.

“She knows the real me,” he’d explained.

Buffy imagined they’d slept together.

***

“So you came to L.A. for adventure, then?”

“I don’t know, exactly. I just knew it was time to try something new.”

“So wot I said – adventure,” he grinned one of his Cheshire grins.

Buffy blushed and sipped her tea to avoid meeting his eyes.

“And the bloke?”

“What makes you say that?”

“Girl like you? There’s always an upstanding gent in the prom picture.”

“Yeah, well … Riley is upstanding.”

“And dull?”

“He’s not exactly a future rock star.”

***

“You waitin’ for the bleached wonder again, sweetheart?”

Buffy turned to the bouncer and smiled. “Um, yeah …”

“Be careful going off into the night with strangers.”

“I’ll be okay.”

He scowled, but she had the sense it wasn’t about her. It was as if he couldn’t make up his mind what to say next.

“Gunn, it’s okay. I know what I’m doing.”

“Yeah. Well, Willow wouldn’t like it if you got into any sticky situations.”

***

“Charlie giving you a hard time?”

“No. Just friendly advice. I think,” Buffy stifled a yawn.

“Long day in the salt mines?”

“Something like that. We have a big donor event on Friday and my boss is worked over every little detail.”

“So what makes you want to do this job anyhow?”

“Dunno. It pays the bills.”

“But it isn’t your life’s ambition to ask rich folk for generous donations?”

She took a sip of her decaf. “No.”

“And?”

“And then what is?”

Buffy sighed. She hadn’t talked about this in a while. Not since high school – actually not since the divorce and then mom being sick and the gallery. “I was really into art, once. Back in high school. If it all works out, I’ll manage to save up enough money and put together enough of a portfolio to go back to college.”

“Back?”

“When mom died … I’d missed so much class with her being sick, and then I was pretty much running the gallery full-time. I probably only have three or four semesters left, depending.”

“And portfolio implies you’d like to graduate and then put your originals up on someone else’s gallery walls.”

“Ummm … yeah. That’s the general idea.”

“You any good?”

“Maybe.”

“Oh, that’s confidence inspiring. D’ya think Picasso boasted of his mediocrity?”

Buffy shrugged. “Easy for you to say.”

“That right?” he pulled on his cigarette in that funny underhanded way of his. Buffy didn’t know anyone who smoked, much less anyone who made it look so sinfully good.

“Well, you’re gonna be this big rock star. Everyone says.”

“What says that’s my plan?”

“Who wouldn’t want that?”

Spike blinked and she had the sense that she’d said the wrong thing.

“So … ummmm … who’s Cathy McGowan?”

“Cathy McGowan.”

“In that song … the one you close with.”

“Been listening past the velvet rope, then?” he gave her a wolfish smile.

“Maybe. Is she an old girlfriend?”

“My, haven’t you gotten bold since we’ve started our little chats?”

Buffy blushed. A night didn’t go by that something left her at least a little bit embarrassed.

“She’s a television host, love. From a BBC show back in the 60s. Music tv, y’know?”

“The 1960s? I didn’t know they had videos back then.”

Spike’s eyes went wide for a split second, but he bit back his thought and stubbed out his cigarette. “Past time to toss you in a cab, pet.”

***

Buffy was back from the museum early and Willow had traded shifts to study for a chem exam. They’d lived under the same roof for nearly a month, and this was the first time they’d shared oolong tea in the apartment’s tiny kitchen.

“Hey, Buf. How’s life in the lofty part of L.A.?”

“Lofty? Can’t help you with that. Drafty, though, I know drafty. They don’t exactly put the staff offices in the main gallery.”

“I’ve heard that. But do you like it?”

Buffy thought for a minute. “Yeah. I mean, it is mostly data entering who gave how much money this month and figuring out if Mrs. Moneybags paid off her last pledge or not, but after having the whole gallery on my shoulders? Feels kind of good to know that I’m just responsible for this one part.”

“I get that,” Willow grimaced. “I know I haven’t been much of a roomie – or a friend – these past few weeks, and I feel awful about that.”

“No, don’t! You’re busy and I’m busy and … it’s just a busy-thon. It’ll be better over the summer, right?”

“Yeah. But Buffy … Gunn told me you’ve been meeting up with Spike.”

“We go to the diner. When I’m waiting, y’know, for you. And we talk.”

“You sure that’s a good idea?”

“What? He seems really down to earth.”

“Yeah. Why don’t you ask him when he was born?”

“I know that. In London. His birthday is … wait, he told me … um, May maybe? He’s a Taurus.”

“Ask him the year.”

“Is he older than me? I mean, who cares, I’m just over the Riley break-up, I’m not looking for …”

“Just ask.”

***

“How old are you?”

“Willow told you to ask, huh?”

“Yeah.”

“Smart bird, that one. Doesn’t want you getting hurt.”

“Yeah. So? Are you 38 and divorced with three kids?”

“Not exactly.”

“Well then? What’s the big deal?”

“Depends on how you count things.”

“What?”

“How old do I look?”

“Hard to say, actually. Older than me. Younger than my dad.”

“Thanks.”

“No, I mean … I guess I’d figure 30 or 32. Maybe 28?”

“Depends on how you count, but either way, I’m well over 100.”

“But how can you be …”

Spike grabbed her wrist. “You know what I feel, right?”

For a fragile second Buffy thought he meant what he felt for her. And then she realized, “my pulse?”

“Yeah. Do the same,” he guided her hand to his wrist. “Now feel.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Gimme your bag.”

“Sorry?”

Spike had already reached her for knock-off Louis Vuitton. He rummaged for a compact, flipped it open and held it sideways. “See, there’s your pert little nose and bouncy blonde locks. And here’s … not a bloody thing.”

The space where his reflection should be was vacant.

“Okay, so that’s kind of a neat party trick, but …”

“Not a trick. Vampire.”

“What?”

“Vampires are real.”

“And you’re one of them.”

“Yeah.”

“So you kill people?”

“As a matter of fact.”

“Are you going to kill me?”

“Haven’t decided yet.”

“I’ve gotta go.” As she retreated, she couldn’t help but hear something following her.

Laughter.

Author's Note: The song referenced is "Ready, Steady, Go" by Generation X - Billy Idol's first band. And Millie's is an homage to Mil-lee's Luv-In Diner in Philadephia, a favorite haunt from my brief time in the City of Brotherly Love. Wonder if it's still there ...

Banner by the amazing always_jbj.

The upside to having an office in a drafty corner of the sub-basement, Buffy realized at nine the next morning, was that you could camp out with your Starbuck’s venti chai latte and Google whatever you desperately needed to know about, work-related or no.

And so she Googled and Wiki’d vampires – myth, lore, ancient cultures, Mercy Brown, Elizabeth Bathory. Anne Rice. Until she found a reference to Edvard Munch’s work and realized that a trip upstairs was in order.

There it was – the Expressionism show. The fundraising to underwrite the exhibit took place months before she came on staff, so she hadn’t paid attention. Now she rushed through the galleries, passing Kandinsky and Rouault, Soutine and Schiele. It wasn’t what she loved, but she could appreciate the use of color and line.

And there it was.

Vampyren.

This vamp was a woman, with long straggly red hair, spilled out over her victim, a man with the graying skin of death.

Not sexy.

This image plain didn’t fit with her experience of Spike – vital, larger-than-life, sexual as anything, but kinda chatty, too. And not scary, even though she’d freaked last night.

As she stared at the canvas, truth hit her like a freight train.

It wasn’t that she thought he wouldn’t hurt her.

It was that she thought she might like the hurt.

***

Common sense told her to stay miles away.

Buffy had always had oodles of common sense. She’d been the good girl, the one to help out mom through her illness, to understand when dad bailed for the arms of a younger woman, to take over the gallery even though she was still trying to get through college, to keep the family home nice and neat, to date handsome, polite Riley Finn.

She was done with common sense. What was that lyric? “Y’know I’ve been a good girl, but I hit a limit,” she mumbled as she waited outside Caritas on a surprisingly chill, rainy night.

“You’ll meet your death out here in the cold, love.”

“Where did you come from?”

He smirked.

And he made it easy. As if there had been no revelation the night before, he headed straight for Millie’s at an easy pace.

Since her master plan had gone no farther than the front door to the club, she followed.

***

He ordered decaf and a side of garlic bread.

“Are you teasing me?”

“I’m just havin’ a snack.”

“Yeah.”

“So tell me what you read today, pet.”

Buffy frowned.

“If I know girls like you – and I think I do, love – you went off to your good girl job and spent the day on your computer, looking up tales about creatures like me.”

“So what if I did?”

“Fascinating thing, the internet.”

“It said you couldn’t eat garlic. Well, it said that Satan left behind garlic in his footprint when he left the Garden of Eden. Why that made it poisonous … that was a little unclear.”

“Not true, anyhow. Next?”

“Crosses?”

“Can’t say I much care for them.”

“Holy water?”

“Stings.”

“Decapitation?”

“Would do pretty much anyone in, yeah?”

“Fair enough.” She paused to search her memory. “A little sunlight? Stake to the heart?”

“I’ll never know if I freckle. And from what I’ve seen, a stake does the job. If you can aim straight and true.”

“It isn’t easy?”

“I’m swift of foot, love. And I don’t intend to be offed for many a year.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

It was his turn to stop.

“I like you.”

***

“You did WHAT, Buffy?”

“I met up with Spike.”

“After everything …”

“I don’t think he’s that bad, Wil. He seems kind of lonely.”

“Well, yeah. Duh. Soulless killer, not exactly the kind to win friends and influence people. Even if it he is a hottie singer in a rock’n’roll band.”

“He hasn’t done anything that made me even a little bit nervous.”

“Sweetie … I love you, you know that right? Best friends for life and all that?”

Buffy nodded.

“Then listen to me. You’ve been in small town America your entire life. Surrounded by … by small town Americans. This guy eats small town Americans for lunch.”

“Yeah, but …”

“No, he has them for lunch. They’re on the menu. Happy meals with legs. Do you GET how wrong that is?”

***

“So is Elizabeth Bathory real?”

“Bathory?”

“The Countess. She killed and tortured hundreds of young girls in Hungary in the sixteenth century.”

“Never met her. But I’m not that old.” He shrugged and chomped on a french fry.

“Dracula?”

This time he snorted. “Poncy bugger owes me eleven quid.”

“So he’s real?”

“Unfortunately. Can’t stand for all those theatrics.”

“You sing in a band.”

“I’m no Lestat. By the way, he’s not real either. And don’t get me started on Tom Cruise playing a vampire. Or Anne Rice and her parvenu Vampire Ball. Attracts all sorts of nutters.”

“Whatever. You’re not exactly laying low.”

Spike laughed out loud. “True.” He grabbed her hands, so fast she couldn’t see him reach. “True enough, pet. But you’re not afraid of me, are you?”

Their eyes locked.

“No. No, I’m not afraid of you.”

***

She opened the envelope, knowing that it was good news.

Dear Ms. Summers,

We are pleased to offer you admission to the Los Angeles College of the Arts. Pending final review of your full transcript …

That was enough to send Buffy into a happy dance in the apartment lobby, one that lasted all the way up the steps to the third floor.

And then she flipped through the admissions package to the financial aid page. Her eyes scanned the page twice before she let it sink in.

Despite her careful note on the financial aid application that explained about Hank Summers gracelessly bowing out of her life at about the same time Joyce’s death became a matter of when instead of if, the financial aid package assumed a hefty parental contribution, plus a work-study job that would leave her with precious few hours to earn any money to actually pay for all sorts of luxuries … like food and clothing.

It had been the same old story at UC Sunnydale. The counselor there had told her she’d have to wait until she was 26 or try a private college that might have more liberal policies about these kinds of situations. When she’d went to talk to the admissions office at Crestwood, the only other school in her hometown, they’d suggested she seriously consider bringing a lawsuit against her dad.

All these miles south in Los Angeles, and she was no closer to a college education. She’d traded backbreaking 70-plus hour weeks keeping the gallery afloat for mind-numbing work; she’d given up her nice safe boyfriend and was keeping time with a fictional creature.

She flopped onto the second-hand sofa and faced facts.

Buffy Summers had nothing left to lose.


The lyric is from Poe's Lemon Meringue - someone made a fabulous Spuffy vid for the song way back.

Banner by the fabulous always_jbj

Author's Note: If you've been wondering why this is rated NC-17, it's near the end of this - the fourth and final chapter.


The line stretched halfway down the block on Saturday night. Word was out that the Pratts had finally been offered that record deal and everyone wanted to see LA’s next big thing.

Buffy sidled up to her favorite bouncer.

“I can’t be doin’ favors tonight, sweetheart. Look at this mob scene.”

“Yeah, right, Gunn.”

“Alright. You owe me.”

Buffy smiled and walked past the velvet rope like she owned the place.

Willow was working the VIP room. She knew she’d never get past the bouncer there, not on a night like this. But that didn’t matter. She was here for someone else.

“Buy you a drink?”

“Umm … no, no thanks. I’m waiting for someone.” When she’d laced into the borrowed thigh high boots and micro mini, when she’d pulled on her brand new lacy black thong and matching bra, when she’d tied on the pretty black and white swirling silk sleeveless, deep v-necked tank, she’d forgotten that she’d face a crowd full of strangers before she saw him.

But then she saw him, and it didn’t matter.

***

They were covering the Cathy McGowan song. Spike exploded with fierce, raw energy.

I’m not in love with television
I’m not in love with the radio
I’m not in love with the Kings Road
Because I’m in love with Cathy McGowan

Buffy lost herself in the music, found herself dancing in the crowd up by the front of the stage. She’d never been here, not with her best girlfriends, not ever hoping to catch the eye of a would-be rock star.

She didn’t know who she was tonight.

Well, I was in love with the Beatles – oooh!
I was in love with the Stones - a little satisfaction!

He saw her! He leaned down into her to sing that last lyric, so quick that you might think he was just playing to the audience.

Except that he winked.

Ready steady go!
Go! go! go!
Ready steady go!
Ready steady who
Ready steady stone
Go! go go go

Exactly, she thought.

***

“Nice try, honeybunches. But no visitors in the dressing room, not never, just a little rule we have here at Caritas.”

“She’s with me, Lorne.”

“Even for you, Cheekbones.”

“And we’re just leaving.”

Spike nodded towards a side door and Buffy followed him into the alley.

“You’re not dressed for Millie’s, pet.”

“No. Not tonight.”

“I see. Tell us then, what do you expect us to do with our evening?”

Buffy pushed him against the brick with a boldness she wasn’t sure she could pull off.

“My, who’s the curious little kitten?”

She leaned in and crushed her mouth against his, still not sure if he was laughing at her. Or if it mattered.

After a few seconds, he returned her kiss, his tongue snaking into her mouth and his hands cupping her ass and she decided that it didn’t matter one bit.

Buffy could feel his erection through his leather pants. She’d never reached down and grabbed for Riley’s cock – not ever – and not before, either. In high school, she’d pull her hand away and cut short the make-out session if the boy went that far. But tonight, she confidently grabbed at him, squeezing through his trousers until she felt him gasp against her mouth.

“You know what you’re after then, pet?”

Spike pulled back, propping her against the steps and reaching up to undo her artfully messy ponytail. Blonde hair spilled over her shoulders. The look he gave her – pure, burning lust, his blue eyes nearly black – was nearly enough to send her over the edge.

She shivered, and for a split second pictured herself back on the little sofa in Willow’s apartment, curled up with a cup of oolong tea and her favorite throw.

He dropped to his knees, shoved up her skirt, and pried apart her thighs. Buffy stumbled. “Steady as she goes, love,” he murmured, staying her hip with his hand. His fingers shoved aside the scrap of lace covering her, and his tongue explored her lips, gently searching until he fastened on to her nubbin and gently sucked.

Buffy arched forward like a rocket, grinding her pelvis against him and gasping, breathless.

“That good, then?” he asked, and she could barely nod. “Don’t hear you, kitten.”

“Yeah. So good …” She couldn’t meet his eyes, especially as his fingers – first one, then another and finally a third were stretching her with gentle but insistent strokes. When he pulled out, she whimpered. “Don’t stop!”

“Take your skirt off.” He’d pulled back, his leather pants and long-sleeved tee, all his jewelry still in place.

She did as he asked. “And the top.”

Oh God, this was so dirty … she looked for a safe place to place her finery. Spike arched an amused eyebrow, taking her garments and tossing them to the iron railing of the stairs.

“My … my boots, too?”

His eyes traced her from the top of her head all the way down to her leather-clad toes. “No. I think we both know those are called fuck-me boots for a reason, kitten.” He stepped forward and cupped her breasts, running his thumbs over her hardening nipples through the lace of her bra. “You like that?”

She nodded, and reached up to kiss him again.

Sirens blared in the distance; Gunn’s voice bouncing out a drunken gate crasher carried. But somehow, on this one night, Buffy knew they wouldn’t get caught.

Spike wouldn’t allow it.

He’d left her bra in place, but bared her breasts to the night air. Her nipples made insistent little points.

“What about you?” she grabbed for his shirt, but he stepped back, slowly lifting the hem and peeling it off his body.

“Careful now. It’s vintage.”

A tattoo curled around his bicep, some unfamiliar design, both pretty and exotic at once. She reached out and traced a finger around the bracelet’s swirl. He growled in appreciation, and she dragged her fingertip to his chest, tracing first one nipple, then the other.

Too quickly, he was reaching for the fly of his leather pants and tugging them down past his hips. She gasped as his cock sprung free of his trousers. She hadn’t imagined that he’d be going commando and she definitely hadn’t imagined him so big. A tremor of doubt made her shiver, and she stepped back, ramming her back against the cement steps.

“Shh … shh … love, gonna make this good, yeah?” He was on her, soothing and consoling her as he kissed his way from her lips to her breasts. He’d gone from distant-and-demanding to solicitous in nothing flat.

He knew, she realized. Somehow her heartbeat or something clued him into her reactions and he was just seconds behind, reacting and even anticipating what would keep her at a slow, eager burn.

It was working. His cock was up against her warmth, his hands were everywhere at once, his lips traveled from her earlobe to her cheekbone and to her hungry mouth.

“Please,” she moaned.

He didn’t break the kiss, just reached down to tear the fabric of her panties. She felt them slip away into the muck and mire of an L.A. alley. And then it didn’t matter at all, because he was nudging insistently, slipping the tip of his cock just barely inside of her, willing her to relax and take him in.

She shifted onto her toes, stretching to allow him access, and then with a frustrated growl, he grabbed her legs and wrapped them around his waist. With a final thrust, he was buried deep inside of her, the kind of deep that ached.

Omigod, he’s strong, she thought. One hand steadied her, helping her balance between the cement that tore at her back and his strong, hard body. His other hand anchored them both, grasping the stair rail as he pumped into her, slowly, rhythmically.

It went on just long enough for her to get used to it, and he was forcing her body closer to his, shifting the angle just so.

Now with every thrust he was hitting her clit. If she’d had a tiny, pre-orgasm before, Buffy could feel something serious building now. It was the whole reason she was naked in this alley, letting this strange not-so-stranger thrust into her with increasing force.

“Am I hurting you?” he whispered.

“Not yet,” she replied, and he moaned in response.

“You’ll do me in, sweet.”

“Somehow I doubt that.”

Buffy grabbed at his shoulders, her nails tearing into his skin like a bad cliché. He was cold and everything about him was hard muscle, but his skin had a silky quality, almost like a girl. She folded herself in closer, feeling his strokes quicken.

Another minute, and she couldn’t even pretend to hold back. With a roar, she orgasmed, clenching up around his cock and tossing her head back until it smashed against brick.

As she came down, he kept thrusting, violently now. She slowly became aware of a studded leather cuff digging into her thigh, but no matter. He quickly followed her over the edge, spilling inside of her with a growl and sinking blunt teeth into her shoulder.

Then he was just resting his head on her shoulder, a little longer than she was totally comfortable. With a wriggle she shifted back, landing on her tiptoes, his softening cock still buried in her folds.

And came face to face with the glittering gold eyes and ridged brow of a horror movie monster.

She would’ve screamed, but his mouth covered hers in a painful kiss, his fangs cutting her. Just when she thought it had all been an awful mistake, she could feel something shift.

By the time she met his eyes again, they were back to too-blue and he’d slipped out of her, gently kissing away the spots where he’d drawn blood.

***

“Buffy?”

She was still sleeping it off. Who knew that freaky mind-blowing sex with a dangerous stranger could do as much damage as a few glasses of cheap champagne.

“Hey, Wil.”

“You okay?”

“Yeah. Just … just sleeping in on a Sunday.”

“Okay. Well, um, it’s like, almost two. And this came for you. Via messenger. I didn’t want to wake you up, but I thought it might be important.”

Buffy reached for the manila envelope, blank except for the delivery instructions from the courier service. She tore it open and a second envelope fell out, this one heavy and creamy, engraved with the address of what must be a fashionable hotel in Istanbul. Confused, she opened it to find a letter inside. The flowery handwriting didn’t fit with her image of Spike.

“So anyhow, I hope you won’t be upset, but Lorne called me about an hour ago. He said … well, he said that Spike took off. Something about needing to get out of town for a while, maybe Buenos Aires. Everyone’s shocked. I mean, we figured they wouldn’t be playing Caritas much longer anyhow, but Lorne was really hoping for a good run with all the buzz about the band being signed. Sucks for me, too – I made a mint in tips last night. Buffy? What is it?”

She handed over the slip of paper.

“Omigod!” It was a check for $250,000, made out to Buffy Summers. “This is tuition and everything else, too!”

Drawn on the account of William Pratt IX.

“What does the note say?”

Buffy smiled and read it again.

Warn your granddaughters about me.