It was her scent that woke him. The hot tangy scent of her arousal; the scent that went straight to his dick. He was already hard though. Idly he wondered if her scent had gradually aroused him before it woke him, or whether he'd been having a good dream that he couldn't remember anymore.

It was probably the same bloody erection he'd gone to bed with. He'd tried rubbing himself against the mattress but it wasn't very effective, and knowing that just a few feet away was the bitch who kept teasing him, who could so easily make him cum with her hands, her lips, her breasts, her cunt. No, it hadn't worked, just made him angry. Luckily he was still feeling weak enough, that he fell asleep easily.

Now he lay there. Unwilling to let her know he was awake. So he listened; he focused on the sound of her heartbeat, her breathing. He could hear her bare feet walking across the floor. Then she stopped. She was moving something around. After a minute he realized it must be her suitcase. He'd tried to get her to unpack but she had insisted on leaving her stuff in the suitcase. Afraid he'd go through her things he supposed. Which was absurd, he thought, as he wondered what exactly she had in there.

She stopped her rummaging and suddenly the scent of her arousal came even stronger. He could hear her heart beating faster, her breathing speeding up. But there was no other sound. What was she doing? Fuck was she touching herself? The thought of watching Buffy masturbate almost got him to open his eyes but he had that prickly feeling you got when someone was watching you. Of course she was watching him. What else would she be looking at and getting all hot and bothered about?

As much as she'd tried to hide it, he knew how much she'd liked looking at him when she had undressed him the night before. No, she was defiantly looking at him and if he moved, if he opened his eyes, she'd stop whatever she was doing and probably start yelling at him. So he lay there, imagining what she might be doing to herself.

It only lasted a moment though. She finished with her suitcase. He heard her zip it back up and put it back against the wall. He wondered what she'd found in there that had set her off. Black lace panties maybe? No that was what would set him off. Fuck, there was an idea. When she went out for blood he'd try her suitcase, steal a pair of panties, hopefully the set she was creaming right now. Hide it under his pillow, then tonight when she slept he could breath in the scent, wrap them around his dick.

He heard the bathroom door close then a minute later the shower came on. Quickly he sat up. As long as she was in the shower he could move about as much as he pleased. He figured he'd have plenty of time while she was drying off to get back in bed and force her to wake him up. That could be fun in fact.

He went to the bathroom door and stood next to it trying to hear her under the sounds of the water. He couldn't pick up her heartbeat but he didn't need to. She was panting and the steamy air from the shower easily carried her scent around the door and to him. There was no doubt in his mind she was masturbating.

That's right baby, can't look at me without needing to get off can you? He tried to imagine what he was doing in her head. Bending her over the couch maybe. Pounding into her. No that was his fantasy again. She'd loved it the one time he'd fucked her up the ass, but that wouldn't be her fantasy. Buffy's fantasies would be sweet, romantic, not rough and violent like his. Yeah, sweet romantic. He could do that. He could do her anyway she wanted she just had to tell him.

Maybe he was pouring cold champagne down her front. Licking the tiny bubbles off of her nipples. Sucking them, fondling them, gently biting them. Then farther down. Pouring it on her stomach. Licking it out of her belly button. Looking up at her as he gently nipped her and she looked down on him with those green eyes, adoring him.

Farther down. Licking the inside of her thighs. Running his hands over her smooth skin. Kissing, licking, biting. Moving closer to her pussy, then backing away. Making her beg for it. Beg for him. Not the other way around. And when she begged him, when she made him know how much she needed him to touch her, his fingers would be inside her as his tongue found her clit.

He was pressing his dick against the cool door of the bathroom, listening to her. Wondering how many fingers she had inside herself, wishing that they were, that they could be, his fingers. Her breath was more ragged. It came in short gasps. Cut off. She was trying to be quiet. Trying not to make noise.

And then it came, a low moan "Oh, god," and she came. He was sure of it. He wanted her. His hand reached for the door knob. If he went in now he was sure she'd give in. Let him have her. Push her against the tile and fuck her senseless. But when he tried to grab the door knob he found he couldn't. His fingers wouldn't quite close around it. He didn't have the strength in them to turn it.

He nearly banged himself against the door. His fingers might be weak but the rest of his body was okay. He could bash the door down. But he knew that wouldn't get him what he wanted so instead he crawled back into bed.

He tried to pull the sheets back over himself but it was frustrating work. He couldn't seem to get his fingers to close around the thin cloth. Finally he gave up lying back. Closing his eyes, he tried not to cry. This was worse than being in that wheelchair, worse than being a ghost. At least as a ghost he hadn't needed anything.

But he was a ghost again. Haunting her. He wasn't real to her. If he was real, she'd talk to him. She used to talk to him. But now every time he asked her about herself she changed the subject. She insisted that nothing had happened to her since Sunnydale. All he knew was that she was living in Rome with Dawn, and helping to train Slayers. He tried to ask questions, to draw stuff out of her. But she wouldn't answer. No she didn't have a boyfriend, she insisted, she wasn't seeing any one. But that was it. Nothing beyond that.

Her life in Rome, it was just that, her life, and he was not allowed in. She was just leaving flowers at his grave so that she wouldn't feel guilty about his death. So every time she shut him out he would start up about how he needed her to jerk him off, or blow him, or whatever. He knew it pushed her farther away but it was better to be rejected because he was being a crude jerk than because she didn't want to let him in.

It had been different in Sunnydale. It used to be she talked to him. Even when he was evil she had talked to him more. Let him in more. And those last few days. God, those last few days when he knew that he was the closest person in the world to her. When she told him everything. When she cried in his arms. When she let him comfort her, and let him make her laugh. He would give anything to go back to that. Even if it meant he couldn't touch her.

But Buffy would never believe that. She still thought it was all about 'doing a Slayer'. He didn't care about that. Or at least not much. He wasn't even her friend anymore. What she'd said to Angel at the hospital wasn't true. They weren't friends. Not anymore. He was nothing to her. Nothing at all.

"Spike, are you okay?"

She was there, suddenly. Next to him. Sitting on the edge of his bed. Smelling clean and fresh, like vanilla. She reached over and brushed away his tears.

"Spike what is it? Do you need something? Are you in pain?"

"I'm fine, pet. Just feeling a little useless and imp. . ."

"Impotent?" she smiled at him, "Well, if it makes you feel any better, you're looking very potent this morning," she actually looked directly and obviously at his dick which he hadn't managed to cover back up with the sheets.

"Oh really?" he tried to move close to her, to pull her on top of him, but she was too quick and got off the bed readjusting the towel on top of her head.

"Do you want a shower?"

"With you? Of course pet."

"By yourself. I'll start the water for you. I just hope I didn't use to much hot water."

He sighed. "It doesn't matter. Vampire, remember. Temperature doesn't bother me much." 'Except for how cold you are bitch,' he thought.

"Too bad, looks like you could really use a cold shower. Come on."

She took him to the bathroom, turned on the water, and helped him in. She even closed the shower curtain for him. As she left the room, she told him to call her when he was done, then she shut the door.

He stood there under the water, dead, empty. He leaned his arms and his head against the wall of the shower. That was the second time she'd seen him crying in almost as many days. He'd tried to tease her. To make it seem like it was no big deal. Tried to make her angry, but she wouldn't get angry. She was just gentle and caring.

He sank down to his knees and began to sob. Hard uncontrollable sobs. He hated her for seeing him like this. For seeing him crying like a child. He tried to be quiet, afraid she would hear. He was terrified, any moment she would come through the door. But she didn't and after a while he didn't care anymore. He just curled up and cried, letting the water wash away his tears.