Return

by: Amy

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He's angry with me, my Spike. His fury is like a song in my heart and body and I want to dance with him, dance and dance, dance naked, watch him move with me under the moonlight. Free, free. The word is lovely, jasmine-smelling and the stars are out tonight.

He takes my hair roughly in his palm, a harsh, hurting pain and I smile, waiting for the kiss to come. It does, and our tongues duel, anger and pain and lust and Spike. Princess has gotten her heart's desire this year. She was a bad little girl and must be punished. Oh yes, her heart's desire indeed.

I feel his teeth grow against my mouth, cold, sharp teeth, like a wolf. He slices my lip and feeds from the blood that flows freely, it mingles with saliva, beautiful taste. My Spike always knew what I liked best.

He smells of the Slayer, stinks of her, but I no longer care. He is back, back from the light that kills, back to his dark Princess. I will shelter him, no sunlight for my Spike, it burns and burns and he no longer likes it, he no longer thinks of anyone but Princess.

There is a red smell on him, too, of a young girl, a virgin. I wonder briefly if he drank from her, but I already know that he did not. The girl was fire for hair, the girl who's hair does not burn her. Little, small hands, my hands, her hands, holding hands, Spike hands.... I'm happy, I love the dark.

She is in his thoughts and I can tell he wishes he would have fed from her. Magic spice, I know, was in she, and would have made his blood tingle as his hands roamed over her soft soft skin, pulling blood to the surface, eternally seductive in death. His hands wander over my skin now, hurting, hurting, but softly hurting, not wanting to really hurt, but wanting to claim what is his.

"Oh yes, Spike. Princess is ever yours," I murmur against his mouth. His eyes open as the kiss, the kiss of death and destruction and ultimate seduction continues and I catch his gaze, dark and icy. Icy as a winter lake at night. Everything at night, always the night. Night, night, night, stars and moon and laughing gazes of men in them both. The speak to me, unwavering in their relief that I am with my Spike.

His hands still wander, always wander over the milk of his Princesses skin, the soft, coldness, sweet tasty as honey. Pomegranates, juice spilling over my tongue as Spike kisses me, as his hands stroke my belly and breasts. I am glad he is home, so so glad for my Spike.

The End

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