Chapter Fifteen

By Tam


At the first scent of smoke in the air, Spike thrust his shovel into the earth and turned back to look at the house. Sure enough, there was a plume of black smoke rolling from the kitchen window. He heard the faint slam of the back door and saw the shadowy figure of his slayer run to snatch up the garden hose and feed it through the window. He sighed. Chef Buffy had struck again.


Domesticity had taken a large-sized bite of the slayers delectable ass. Her determination to master the fine art of cooking was going to end up causing them both to expire from smoke inhalation. Well…it would if he found it necessary to breathe.


She tackled cooking the same way she tackled everything else in her new life, including him. She was amazing, really. When she wasn’t reducing the kitchen to charred rubble or gleefully dousing every stitch of his signature black clothing with bleach, she was grubbing happily in the small garden and parading about the place like a modern-day Ellie Mae Clampett, every animal on the place trotting, waddling, or hopping at her heels. She might be Martha Stewart’s worst nightmare, but he couldn’t help but admire her tenacity.


And when the sun went down…well, all Spike could say was hallelujah for slayer stamina! She was a tigress in bed, insatiable and inventive. Hell, some of the things Buffy dreamed up made him blush. Her predilection for kink rivaled even that of Drusilla, but without the viciousness that had colored every aspect of his life with his sire. Spike couldn’t remember a time when he had been so sexually satiated, both man and demon.


Yeah, life on the farm was good, which was why he was fairly certain that something was bound to come along and fuck it all up for him.


Heaving the last of the blaz n’tighr demons into the grave, he began to shovel the dirt back in, still keeping a cautious eye on the house.


They had acquired quite the sizeable demon graveyard since that first cattle rustling demon showed up a month ago, and it didn’t look like Dru was going to give up anytime soon. Something different showed up every other night it seemed, but every cloud had a silver lining. Having something to kill once in a while kept the edge off for both of them. He knew Buffy missed slaying just as much as he missed hunting for a meal, but so far neither had felt the urge to broach the subject of her return to Sunnyhell.


If he had his way, she never would.


Returning to Dru with his prize had ceased to be an option long before he’d realized that the hoards of demons tailing him were part of her demented plan for revenge. If he were brutally honest, any desire to follow along with his original plans floated away into the ether the first time he’d lost himself in the sweet honey of that hot little mouth. She was his, every delicious inch of her, and he had no intention of sharing her.


He was becoming quite domesticated himself.  As much as the thought would have horrified him a month ago, it now had the power to reduce him to a purring ball of fluff in her presence. William the Bloody was well and truly slayer-whipped.


After stomping over the grave to tamp down the soil, Spike gathered up his pick and shovel and headed back to the house, the dog that had laid claim to Buffy bounding along at his side. She was an ugly little beastie, but slavishly devoted to the slayer who had perversely gifted her with the name ‘Beauty’. She tried to follow him right into the house, but Spike nudged her gently back out with the toe of his boot.


The kitchen was looking slightly crispy when he entered, unable to hide his huff of laughter when confronted with two inches of standing water and a soot-smudged, water-logged slayer with wide, apologetic hazel eyes. Standing with arms akimbo, he smirked at the way her hard little nipples were showing through her sodden t-shirt.


“Aww, sweetheart, you shouldn’t have!”


She rubbed at her teary eyes with a grubby fist and gave a mighty sniffle. “I killed the stove, Spike,” she whimpered.


“That you did, luv, and a damned fine job you did, too. What was it? Demon possession, do you think? Or maybe evil faeries?”


In spite of her tears, she gave a snort of mirth. “More like it was possessed by the evil spirit of Betty Crocker.” Her bottom lip commenced to quivering again, though, when she aimed the stream of water at the still smoldering cake pan. The smell of scorched chocolate poisoned the air.


Spike gave in. He couldn’t stand to see her cry and he didn’t have the heart to tease her when she had obviously tried so hard to do it right. “C’mere, baby,” he cajoled. She flew into his outstretched arms without hesitation and allowed him to pet and soothe her as she sniveled into his t-shirt.


“I had this vision of the perfect romantic dinner for two and now it’s ruined,” she wailed, muffled by handfuls of black cotton. “First by those stupid blazing tiger demons and now by me and the flambé-ing of the cake.”


Spike completely dismissed her mispronunciation of the demon’s name. He was too busy battling the surge of hope engendered by the words, ‘romantic dinner’. Romantic implied something more than casual affection, something like love, which was something he didn't dare contemplate in regards to the two of them. It took him a few moments, but he finally managed to gather his scattered wits.


“Buffy…look at me, pet. That a girl,” he praised when she lifted her head. “You know I like human food, yeah?” Well, as long as it was his turn to cook. “But, unlike you, I don’t need it. I’m perfectly satisfied with my usual diet.” He rubbed the pad of his thumb over the recently healed bite mark on her neck and then leaned in to run his tongue over it, catching her as she arched against him. “’Sides, I’ve a hunger of a different sort right now.”


There was no mistaking his meaning as he tugged her closer by her belt loops and ground his erection into the crotch of her soggy shorts. Buffy perked up immediately, a kittenish smile chasing away the last vestiges of her culinary misery. “Yeah?”


“Oh, yeah. In fact…” Nimble fingers made short work of her fastenings, drawing the zipper down with exaggerated slowness. He then swept the kitchen table free of pots and pans with a deafening clatter and had her boosted up on its floury top before her wet shorts even hit the floor. “I think I’m gonna have myself a little snack.”


“Spike!” She giggled and squirmed as she fell back under his insistent hand.  Not too much, because what if he took her seriously and stopped? Oh, to hell with being coy. She tangled her fingers in his unruly hair and guided him right where she wanted him, whispering soft words of praise as he buried his face in her quim with a happy grunt.


It wasn’t long before his highly flexible tongue had her hitting notes that had Beauty howling along outside the back door. Buffy was flushed with a mixture of pleasure and embarrassment as he grasped her hips and hauled her butt to the edge of the sturdy table.


Spike stared down at her, his eyes blazing with blue fire and jaw clenched with the effort of holding back. He loved taking her this way, her body spread out before him like a succulent banquet that only he was allowed to feast upon. His fingers tightened possessively, strong fingers curling into the ripe flesh of her bottom as he surged into her.


“Oh, God…yesss!” Her gasp at his sudden intrusion quickly turned into a rapturous moan and her arms flew over her head to anchor herself against his powerful thrusts. She gazed up at him through lashes that weighed heavy with desire, her moist lips swollen from his kisses and a fine sheen of sweat lying like sparkling dew across her rosy breasts.


They were rattling the hell out of the old table’s legs when they heard the dog barking and snarling, followed by a shrill scream of pain and fear. Pulling out of his slayer with a wet plop, Spike irritably yanked up his jeans and stalked for the door to see what monster Dru had sent to hassle them this time.


“You know, that scream sounds kinda familiar,” Buffy mused as she climbed off the table, her legs wobbly as she struggled back into her clingy shorts. She hurried after him, hoping that it was a something as simple as a stupid marauding raccoon so she could coax Spike into some soapy bathtub goodness upstairs.


“It should, you’ve heard it often enough,” Spike muttered with a snarl. “Bloody hell, Beauty. Get your teeth outtah that fat arse before he poisons you.


“Xander? Is that you?”