For a minute she stood there, let him look at her. Slayer’s posture was casual, arms crossed in front of her, mouth set almost into a frown. Slick green eyes, wide open, eyelashes like scaffolding hanging above.

“You got a name?” Her voice was leathery.

In this room, just the two of them there, she was smaller.

And bigger.

And she smelled so delicious it sent his cock to filling right off. She‘d barely made it through the door when he’d tracked what was new about her scent: she’d come, just minutes ago, by her own hands from what he could gather. The aroma of her climax, the wet, heavy heat of it, activated a persistent quiver low in his belly. It spread.

“Spike.”

“Spike?”

“Spike.”

He was lounged deep into the posh velvet sofa, color of the fabric a dead ringer for blood. A lot of that in the décor, actually: crimson taffeta drapery, though there were no windows: oriental carpet underneath, all red and rust, monochrome ornate pattern. There were a couple metal candelabras balancing long red tapers, lit, one on a mahogany side table, one on a wrought iron piece of shelving that spanned the wall opposite him. His empty blood glass was near the second set of candles, retaining a filmy red coating that caused it to seem to glow.

It was a small cavity of a room. Kind of place a lucky vampire would nest.

This was really beginning to fuck with him.

“Okay, Spike,” she slunk over to him, balanced herself on one of his thighs like a child, “what do you want?”

Oh, this was terrible, gagging for her sodden little sex like this. He’d come to destroy her, flash his stunning violence at her, clutch her sleek neck in his jaw. He’d come to fight, fists and fangs, work her over until she was nothing but a story. He’d come to face a warrior, and here instead was this exquisite tangle of cunt and tease and pulse and strength and the warmth where the curve of her arse was pressed down flat against his leg.

She wound a bare arm around his neck, lifted the other to finger the tiny ribbing of his t-shirt collar. Beneath her flimsy little dress, fabric hanging loose enough to invite a peek down the front, Spike saw her breasts were flushed into a lovely pink mottle, nipples puckered up hard.

“Came to kill you, Slayer.” Arms at his sides, gaze cemented back to the three still flames across the room, he struggled to appear resolved.

“Didn’t ask what you came for.” Almost in a whisper, she nuzzled the crook of his neck, put her teeth to a bit of a drag. “I asked you what you wanted.”

He answered her with deliberate silence, and kept quite stern-looking until she began pawing at his erection, held in tight by his fly. “You don’t have to say, Spike. I think I can figure it out.”

Buffy painted one long lick from his collarbone to his earlobe, then looked pointedly up into a corner of the ceiling and nodded. As the music began, she threw one leg across him, dress hiked to the very tops of her dense, tan thighs. She held herself above him, the humidity of her pussy hanging inches from his own bits.

He cocked his head at her. “This bein’ recorded?”

“Why,” she asked, absently, as she swirled slow revelations over him, still keeping their personals out of contact, “you want a copy of the tape?” Eyebrows lifted, lips a full, pretty pout, she grabbed at the cloth of her dress with both hands, shifted it further up her body. There were her sharp hipbones, the meek cords across that passed for knickers. Fabric gathered in her dainty, deadly hands, she got to squeezing her breasts next, still writhing, beating over him, pulse flickering.

Way she was moving, girl herself was a throbbing heart.

“Curious. With the intended slaughter an’ all.”

She pitched her pelvis, and, for a short moment, her heated, salivating cunny crushed his dick. One of his hands came up to clamp her hip, bring her down again, but she seized it, put it back in its place, without a word or glance to acknowledge his bad behavior. She just kept purring at him, touching herself. “I ask them to turn the cameras off for my dances, as a favor.”

“Don’t like anyone keepin’ tabs?”

“Don’t like explaining why my customers have a tendency to get fangy out of nowhere and then suddenly explode into dust.”

There was no reason for him to be, but he felt taken aback. “You kill them, here, like this?”

Her lips turned up into a cold smile. “I kill you. Here. Like this.”

Before he could react, Buffy was stretching her spine into a deep arch, falling backwards until her hair grazed the floor. The dress pooled around her breasts, and he took in her flat belly, the slight basin in the center. Wanted to lick into it, tiny, salty hollow in the thin cushion. Wanted to…

Bugger.

Spike was usually a sure thing. Man in motion, that sort. He set off to accomplish a task, and then there it was, done up tidy. He hadn’t planned for this, ending up shut in a room with her, hardly space to fight even if he’d been able to keep a mind for it, and down eighty dollars besides, going rate, apparently, for five legendary minutes with the Chosen One.

He hadn’t planned for this quantity of attraction to her. Hadn’t imagined any other desire could eclipse tasting her, downing her in a swallow, casting her, lifeless, into his past, with the others.

Buffy lifted herself upright again, tantalizingly, and sunk at last full into his lap, churning an increasingly quick grind across the bunched erection, which was certainly losing a slow drool of fluid from the tip by now. He’d be coming in his pants like a fledging before long if he couldn’t sort out what was happening, collect his stones.

His brain felt carbonated, the fizz back-dropping one hell of a tug o war. He wasn’t ready to be slain. Had come to do her in, for the high of it, high that could sustain him decades if he it needed too, longer. He’d come for his very best fix.

Then again, one day he would die, inevitably he would, and all what was waiting for him on the other end of the stake was the infinite punishment of hell. Likely he wouldn’t get this chance again, to go out like this, filmy-sweet Slayer pussy juice wetting a spot on his jeans, little grunts, like puffs of smoke, tipping from the stack of her throat, head lolling around, sending her hair into a delirium of sweat-dampened fringe, flicking all manner of her body’s delectable, filthy perfume into the air like confetti.

He felt it then, suddenly, the splintery point tracing the outline of his jaw. The panic that whipped up immediately in him made him feel ashamed. A protest formed on his face as he searched hers and found only vulgar amusement. The stake she clutched was redolent of her quim, the recent orgasm it had spilled, and it was with a sickening arousal that he understood what she’d been doing while he waited for her.

“You’re fun, Spike. Almost wish I could let you live a little while longer, so we could do this again sometime.” A trace of breathlessness wove through her words, equally wistful and growly. She was fast on him now, humping him brutally, hung across his shoulders. “D’you want to come first?” She pushed her face in tight to his, so he could feel her voice. “You’re close, I know.”

“Not…not…” He clenched his teeth, closed his eyes, tried to separate from the sensation of her fingers twisting and grabbing in the hair at the back of his neck, the hot rush of her breath clouding his face.

“What, Spike? Want me to dust you before you get there?” She pulled the stake roughly down his neck and onto the plane of his chest, pulling a ragged scrape as it went. She was locked and loaded now; he felt the prick through his t-shirt, spot on.

This was the closest he’d come to dying since the last time he’d died.

“Slayer…Buffy…please…”

It wasn’t that he couldn’t stop her, if he wanted to. It was that he couldn’t bring himself to want to. His balls were pulled up, cock a throb so convincing he’d have sworn there was a live heart pumping in him. He was spoiling for a bite of her. His fangs dropped and pulled the rest of his face down with it, releasing the callous folds of his demon visage. He fought the urge to go for her neck. He’d be dust before he could penetrate her. He fought the urge to come. He’d lose the last slivers of his resolve if he did.

Buffy’s mouth, gorgeous, terrible, hot little volcano, was pressed into his neck, devouring him, blunt teeth opening him up. When she lifted her face, traces of his blood smeared her lips. He brought his hands up and twisted them desperately into her hair. She permitted it. Shoving his face forward, he flicked his tongue out to her lower lip.

He didn’t expect to end up with a mouthful of the deep, guttural noise she emitted when he tasted himself on her, and he especially didn’t expect her to follow him when he withdrew, to chase her own groan down his throat with her tongue.

Still she held him at stake point. He gave her kiss back to her with his fang-crowded mouth, aware of the collection of miniature slashes he was administering as he did, aware that she could choose any moment for his death, or even just slip a little in the throes and jab him by mistake. He was no match for this Slayer. She would seduce him to his death.

The swallow he took a second later wasn’t a thing he meant, just a reflex. But with it came blood, hers, streaking his saliva, foraging for his demon. It reminded him of what he’d come for, of just how good a thing it was.

A second after that he had her pinned against the opposite wall, stake knocked from her fist, falling silently on the plush carpet. Both of her wrists threaded easily into the grip of one of his hands, and his other took her throat, pushing into her windpipe.

“Don’t talk now, pet,” he growled, vampire hackles indisputably up, “‘cause I have to be clear about a thing. You. Me. Fight to the death. What we’re built for, meant for, and there’s beauty an’ honor in it. But this…” he motioned around the room with his head, his voice revealing notes of disgust. “Where’s your dignity, Slayer? You a warrior, or a trick? Because I kill girls like you everyday. Didn’t drag my arse hell and gone for some whoring bint I could have done for across the pond. Came here for you, the Vampire Slayer, for the fight of my life, fight of yours.”

He released some of the pressure from her throat, and she gasped sharply, sputtered, coughed. Her eyes had a new, sad haunt to them. His demon reveled in it.

“I could kill you now, and since I’ve a taste for you already, can’t say I’d mind moving right along to the main course. Or,” his face took on the seriousness of religion, of law. “Or, we both walk away, and beginning tomorrow at sundown, we hunt each other, vampire, Slayer. Time-honored and that sort.”

Buffy sucked her lower lip into her mouth, and it unfolded from between her teeth cleaner, but still open in a series of pretty little wounds. She nodded, looking pissed off, defeated.

And he couldn’t tell for sure, but maybe the slightest bit lit up.