Riley can tell, she knows - his eyes wrinkle. She must move differently. The electricity in her skin must show.
Not like they don’t do it otherwise. But when he’s out there… Fingertips on tingly skin, tingles tingling until she explodes like fireworks, comes apart like she never does on other nights.
It’s not her fault. No way to explain, not without Riley’s meathead friends infesting her yard and waking her mom with their walkie talkies. Not her fault that he’s out there. Not her fault she can feel him. Slayer, right? Slayers feel vampires. Vampires tingle. And so does she.
*
He can smell it on her. Told her so, took her fingers in his mouth and buckled her knees. Laughed, sharp as razors. Crave me, he said, you crave me.
Lies. He’s lying. It’s hers, all hers, her hand shaping the weight of a breast, her nerves writhing under damp skin. It still sings, her body, and wouldn’t that musical demon get a pervy charge from that? Hers, all hers, her fingers, her tension. Even if it’s different, smaller somehow, too quiet. Even if he is always there, pushing into her mind, pushing into her harder than her fingers can.
*
He thinks he knows what she wants. He doesn’t. Too fast, too gentle, a little too far to the left, just off.
Pierro would change for her, any of it, all of it. He’s been around long enough to know the filthy games she can’t stop herself from wanting. But it’s better like this, off just a little, better for him – her eyes can’t slip closed, his face replaced. Better for her. He’s dead, he’s dead but she can’t help but think he’s watching, watching her pleasure penance, loves that he taught her well, too well to forget him.
*
She’d always wondered. When Faith looked at her sideways, lush and knowing. When Willow whispered about it, so good that even Oz couldn’t tempt her.
She wonders what she looks like, porn for frat boys with her fumbling fingers and long blonde hair. Porn, period, when she pants and screams while Satsu finds her way around.
Sick, really, but she imagines him, arm curling around Angel’s sturdy neck, grey eyes going dark, mouth half open, cock bobbling in front of him. Two Slayers. Buffy and a girl. A girl, bittersweet smile between Buffy’s legs. Maybe she can see them, too.
*
She’s shaking, with want, yes, but also with the effort of reigning in. Gentle, she’ll be so gentle. Conquer her mouth, her naughty mouth that wants to wander behind and get inside him, deep inside while her hands hold him prisoner. Treacherous hands, itching to press him down into the mattress, against the bedstead, to press bruises into his white back, press him so close against her that they fuse.
Gentle. She can, they can. His hands skim like fairies. Her touch too light, his smile grows wider, wider, OH…
His mouth quirks, her wrists pushed upward. Oh, they can.
The End
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