Aftermath
by
Beetle
Part Four
Enthralled
You’d never know he’s dead; he still breathes, even in his sleep.
I find myself enrapt by the smallest details of him: his hair flopping onto his forehead, no matter how many times I brush it away. The fact that he’s actually starting to snore a bit. The way his gameface had slowly melted away, leaving the same innocent, untroubled face I spent many a basement night obsessing over. . . .
After my little lesson, I’d bandaged his left arm with a piece of torn bedding then removed the right manacle. The left one comes off when I’m a bit more certain of him.
Now, I’m spooned up next to him, all cozy, one arm draped over his waist, the other serving as his pillow . . . I brush his floppy hair off his face yet again and kiss down the line of his neck.
His complexion is fading under what’s left of his tan. The way the color’s leaching out of him, Harris’ll probably wind up white as scalded milk. Dunno if I like that; I’ve grown accustomed to his bronzy, SoCal looks and fishbelly-white vamps are so very last century. . . .
Who'm I kidding? If the boy turned green, that wouldn't stop me watching him, wanting him.
Not that anyone would blame me. Harris was always pretty, with those big, dark eyes that begged the world not to hurt him, even as he cracked his lame jokes and smiled his idiot smiles.
Now, no amount of pretty can hide what's underneath--not from eyes that can see such things. The harmless, boy-next-door face and sweet, silly smile--these things are a facade, a mask that hides an undead predator. The vulnerability that still twinkles out of his eyes? A bit of artifice that imitates life more completely than any masterpiece I’ve ever seen.
He’s a natural born killer and I made him.
Which makes me bloody Picasso, I suppose.
I turn him onto his side and pull his right leg back over mine, sliding between his cheeks, brushing his opening, breaching him with just the tip of my cock . . . fuck, it'd be easy to just take him like this. I have every right to. He’s mine now, all mine.
“But we’ve been down this road before, haven’t we, pet?" I pull out of him completely, shaking with the effort that is self-restraint. "You sleeping like the dead--which you are--and me trying to wake you with a kiss . . . among other things.”
No response from the undead boy sleeping in my arms; I’m hard enough to pound nails, been this way for hours--and I could’ve taken him any time because it’s my right, and his duty to acquiesce.
But the remains of William the Bloody Victorian have a nasty habit of pointing out that I got the same treatment when I was new.
And I’d hated Angelus as much as I’d ever loved him, hadn’t I?
Less than one night and I’m already addicted to the abject adoration in his gaze. Less than one night and I already want to be a better sire for him than either of mine were for me. I don’t want our--relationship soured by bitterness or calculating hatred.
“Come on, pet . . . I know I took a lot out of you, but that’s over, now, clean slate. I wanna make it good for you, love. Wake up.” I hug my boy closer, nose pressed to his nape.
“This is your sire, Xander,” I murmur into his hair. Can’t really explain sire-voice--it’s a cross between lover and drill-sergeant--but I’ve been hearing it roll out of me since last night. “Wake up.”
Less than a second later, he draws a slightly deeper breath then lets it out in a long, contented sigh.
“‘Lo, pretty,” I say, so low even I can barely hear it.
He sighs again, snuggling closer and turning to look up at me; his remaining manacle clinks softly with the motion. A soft growl that is a purr when a ponce like Harris does it, makes me want to barricade the door to the room and keep him in here forever, away from anyone and everyone else.
He looks into my eyes for a nearly a minute, not searching, just--looking. He's lost his soul, but there’s still something bright shining out of him.
Bright darkness.
So much for my theory that my blood’d be too weak to give him any real power. His darkness could swallow me whole if I let it . . . I think with a twinge of something that isn’t quite apprehension. Hell help us all, if Dru’s powers were in her blood--our blood--and I’ve passed them on to him. . . .
But the boy blinks and whatever thrall, if thrall it was, is broken, my suspicions chased away by a sweet, sunny smile; makes me want to kiss him, so I do. His lips are cold and soft, his mouth tastes faintly of blood and desperation.
“Spike.” God, the way he says my name makes it sound like Sire and I want him so bad I don’t how I’ve restrained myself this long. I turn him onto his left side and drag his right back leg over mine again. A quick moment to make sure my angle’s true and I’m burying my cock in his cool, tight body. We both gasp, but neither of us move, save for the fluttering of muscles torn between fighting me and accepting me.
“Okay . . . ouch and oh, God, more!”
I bite his shoulder hard enough to leave a monster of a hickey, but not hard enough to break skin. “You alright then, pet?” Not what I should be asking, I suppose. If he was anyvamp’s child but mine, that vamp’d be more likely to ask: lesson learned then, pet?
“Let’s see . . . still manacled to the bed, laying in sheets that are still tacky with my own blood--still missing a few inches of skin, and taking it up the ass from a homicidal vampire? Actually, I’ve never been better in my whole life. My whole existence. . . .” he laughs a little, his face turned away from mine, and further obscured by his damn floppy hair. “That’s pretty fucked up.”
“Be serious, pillock.” As gentle as if I’m talking to Dru during one of her fits. If he can muster the energy to crack wise, he must be fine, but I want to hear him say it.
He glances back at me and smiles so warmly, looks so bloody human . . . he’d take my breath away if it wasn’t over a century too late for that.
“I’ve been worse . . . but rarely better,” he adds in a fuck me voice I’d never heard him use when he was alive. And as soon as I find some finesse, some sodding self-control, I’ll be happy to oblige him.
“Is that so?”
He tilts his face up to mine for another kiss. I study him for a moment--the fading tan, still-kissable lips and sooty lashes framing half-closed eyes--before placing the chastest of kisses on the corner of his mouth.
“Like being disciplined, do you?” My voice isn’t exactly steady, remembering the look on his face when I tore that swatch of skin off him; remembering that he came like he’d been fucked to a fare-thee-well, my name ripped out of his throat like a howl.
“When you’re the one doing the disciplining? Oh, yeah,” curls out from his lips like cigarette smoke.
“Well, you’re just all sorts of surprises lately, pet,” I tell him and he flashes me a half-arsed version of his idiotic zeppo-grin. But I know what he is, what’s been hiding underneath that soul of his all this time. “All sorts of lovely surprises.”
I take his hand and wrap it around his cock, encouraging him to stroke. By the time I let go of his hand, his cock’s doing it’s damnedest to lay flat against his belly and he’s shivering.
“Anyway, at least you’re not hurting me ‘cause you hate me . . . .” Uncertainty makes the bright darkness that radiates from him flicker and dim. “Or am I assuming too much?”
I shrug. “I guess you could call this non-hatred, yeah.”
“Thank you, Sire.” He glances back at me anxiously, managing to blush despite his lack of circulation. Bloody eery that he has that much control over his body and newly risen. “If you don’t hate me, does that mean you, um, lo--”
“Do I plan on keepin’ you?” I cut in before he can finish that endearingly stammered little trap. Just a week ago, it was so easy to forget that he could play at being the Zeppo seamlessly, wore that mantle like Superman wears Clark Kent. But it most certainly wouldn’t do to forget now. “That what you wanna know?”
Harris nods. “Dunno. Suppose I just might, provided you remember how to behave around the ‘bit.”
“I was stupid and disrespectful to you, and to Dawn. Dawnie,” he says contritely. “I was wrong, Sire, wrong and stupid and I’ll try to be a better childe. I won’t ever make you sorry you turned me.”
He projects such earnestness and honesty. I don’t believe a damn bit of it, but I do believe he’ll behave himself around the nibblet and that’s good enough, for now. “Don’t be too pious, love . . . might wanna discipline you every now and again.” I pull out and drive right back into him, hard and fast, destroying this demonic Hallmark-moment before it draws out any longer.
“Oh, fuck, Spike!” Really, it’s as if the boy finds a way to add ten extra syllables to my name. Bloody hell, what that does to me . . . what he does to me.
“Was there something you needed, love?” Like I don’t already know every little dirty want or need that's making his cock twitch like a frog on a hot skillet. I put my wrist up to his lips for intensive nuzzling and licking and . . . nothing else. He’s smart, alright. Smarter than I was when I was first turned. He learns his lessons quickly and well. “Alright, come on, boy. Out with it. Tell me what you need.”
“Fuck, Spike--need you,” he breathes meeting each and every thrust eagerly, apparently trying to tear himself apart on me. But the careful, nipping bites on my wrist don’t even come close to breaking skin. “Please, Sire, please--I love you, please let me?”
Bugger, I couldn’t dust you now, even if I wanted to . . . and you know that, don’t you, pet? You manipulative little bastard . . . .
A growl and pull my wrist away; he freezes, then offers his neck, the picture of perfect, dutiful submission. Such a clever, clever boy. We’re going to have such fun together.
“Can hardly say no to such pretty manners as that, can I?”
“No, say yes, please say yes, need you, need you--" he begs. He's shaking and thrashing so much, I have to turn him on his stomach and hold him down just to stay in him. Fucking him's like riding an unbroken horse.
I cover his body with my own and kiss his neck gently.
“You are evil. Beautiful, manipulative, clever and evil. . . .” dirty nothings I whisper in his ear as he writhes and shudders against me, calling me Sire and pleaseohpleaseharderohfuckohgodharder. “Think I will keep you, pet.”
“Please keep me, don’t let me go, I promise, I’ll beha--“
I stop his babble the only way I know how. I bring my wrist to his lips again. “Go on, boy, it’s past time.”
Sudden as death, his fangs pierce my wrist like needles, rather than the mini-chainsaws I’d been expecting. He draws my blood slowly, steadily, doesn’t guzzle it despite his injuries and hunger. This is the first time I’ve ever willingly let someone other than Dru feed from me.
But she’s just a memory, now, another fading regret. A lovelier, darker pair of eyes has eclipsed her eyes; a harder, stronger form has burned away the longing for her angular softness.
He’s my childe; barely out of the ground--so to speak--and already got me wrapped around his fangs.
The scary bit is how badly I want to be wrapped. Whether through guile, or thrall, or loneliness, what it boils down to is: love's bitch has gone and done it again.
Oh, bloody hell.
Part Five
Flirty
He’s hot and so out of my league.
Sitting alone at his table, pale and pretty under thick, dark hair, eyes as wide and dramatic as a Bollywood starlet. . . .
He’s probably here to meet a date, not get cruised or ogled by every loser in this place. Not that that’s stopping any of us. I’m one of maybe a dozen guys having braingasms while mentally undressing him.
And I’m the only one brave enough--read: stupid enough--to approach him. Of course, by the time I get to his table, I’m giving my deodorant a run for it’s money.
“Excuse me--” I turn on the old charm as he looks up at me. “Mind if I sit with you?”
The guy’s obviously about to say no, he’d prefer to sit alone, when we make eye contact and I’m--
deepdarkwildbrightlovelydangerousohholyg
--caught.
He blinks once, slowly, and I’m surfacing, like climbing out of a heated pool on a cold night.
“This place is a madhouse tonight, or I wouldn’t impose.” I plonk my Rolling Rock on the table and my ass in the best seat in the bar. The momentary glitch has thankfully passed; my brain is rebooting like a pro.
The devastating eyes scan me before glancing pointedly around the bar . . . at all the empty tables and seats still available. I grin and shrug, hoping he’s one of those mythological guys that’s not repulsed by goofballs.
“It’s a free country.” His voice is soft, rich; not wild with welcome, but he’s not telling me to go fuck myself, either. When his gaze travels the bar again, I take another good look at the guy that comes with those eyes.
He’s kinda muscular, confident and relaxed; wearing “distressed” blue jeans, a faded acapulco shirt over a white t-shirt and battered Converse All-Stars--a thrift-store hipster if ever there was one.
Not usually my type, but man, oh, man could I acquire a taste for guys like him . . . or maybe him in particular.
“Used to be this place wasn’t such a meat-market, but I guess the times, they are a-changin’.” God, that was a pitiful attempt at an ice-breaker. Not that I’m normally James Bond or something, but I haven’t been on my game since we made eye contact.
He looks at me again, all calmly assessing eyes and wry smile, and I’m frozen, like a fly in amber. Turns out The Smile is just as devastating as The Eyes, spurring me to stammer on like a coked-up monkey.
“Not that I make a habit of coming to places like this . . . I’m not much of a cruiser, but sometimes I just feel like a night out--”
“You got a name to go with that line of bullshit?” He takes a sip of his Magner’s, his eyes never leaving mine. Looking into his eyes is a little like getting vertigo, and he knows it, too. He’s used to guys looking into his eyes and going all babbley and lame. It amuses him.
I sift my gaze to slightly above is eyes and that vertiginous feeling passes, but my mouth is already moving without my brain’s dubious input. ”Sure do! John Jacob Jingleheimer Schmidt, and you are--?”
At the hipster’s quirked eyebrow, my face turns red--and probably blotchy, God bless my genes--and I immerse myself in peeling the label off my beer. “Sorry, humor’s not only my defense against a cruel, uncaring world, but also the means by which I ensnare guys in my web of seduction. It might actually work, some night. Not tonight, but some night, is all I’m saying,” I add at his incredulous snort.
“Yeah? Well, good luck with that, John,” he says dismissively, standing up to walk away. Not that I don’t mind the view of his ass--and what an ass, Jesus, Mary and Joseph, what an ass--but I haven’t finished working my mojo, such as it is.
“Wait, please--” I jump up, reaching out to touch his arm, but I don’t quite dare when those gorgeous, disturbing eyes meet mine yet again. All of a sudden, I’m seventeen, sweating and stammering my way through asking Becky Slidell to junior prom.
“Look, can we just travel back in time to, like, before I nixed any miniscule chance I might have had with you?” I hold out my hand, but the hipster doesn’t take it. “My name’s Jesse . . . and you are?”
He still isn’t taking my hand and he’s gone extremely pale. A neat trick, considering he already looks like he might need a transfusion. I’ve seen primer with more color than this guy.
“Jesse?” That amused self-confidence has been replaced by a look of blank surprise that can’t bode well for my chances of escorting him home tonight.
“Thatsa me. . . Jesse Rawlins, but people just call me J.R. Except for that dirty bitch my father married, she calls me the faggot stepson--which makes me wonder what she says about me behind my back--but the less said about her, the better.” I’m grinning and yeah, it’s hardly possible, but I’m making my chances even worse by turning this into free therapy.
Hey, maybe that time-travel line’ll work twice . . . ah, who’m I kidding? It didn’t even work the first time.
“Your name is Jesse?”
“Uh-huh.”
"But everyone calls you J.R."
I nod. It seems like the wisest course of action. But y'know, if this was some freaky alternate universe where I got laid on a nightly basis--shut up, I said alternate, damnit--and I was some super-suave alternate me, I’d think he was some guy I’d already boinked and forgotten, only to try to pick him up again because I didn’t remember him.
But this is this universe and I’m this me and I remember every one of the less than twenty guys I’ve done the mattress mambo with. I’d never forget this one, not in a million years.
“Jesse,” he says wonderingly, looking me over like he’s gonna devour me. I’m torn between squirming and coming in my pants. The story of my life.
“Look, if you wanna run off into the night screaming, feel free,” I tell him. We’ve barely had an entire conversation and I feel like I’ve run a 10k. “Honestly, I get that a lot. Usually not this early on, but hey, I’m breaking my own record, so I should be proud, right? Go, me!”
I tip an imaginary hat to him, snag my beer and head for the bar. This night’s going weird in a way that I’m rapidly losing interest in.
I’m halfway to the bar, chugging the rest of my bottle when a cool hand closes on my arm, sending a scalding wave of want through my body like electrical current. But I’m strong. I’m not gonna let this guy, no matter how hot he is, yank my chain back and forth.
“Wait, I didn’t--it’s not you, it’s me--”
Now there’s something I’ve never heard before, I think, turning to give him a sarcastic smile. He drops my arm reluctantly, blushing and looking anywhere but my eyes.
“I just--I had a friend named Jesse. And you . . . you kinda remind me of him, a little and it threw me for a loop.” The way he’s sneaking peeks at me and the noticeable quaver in his voice says maybe more than a little and for more than a loop.
It’s like we’ve switched roles and he’s the one who’s off his game and desperate. If I wanted, I could turn his aloof-act back on him--payback’s a bitch--and really make him squirm.
But fuck that, I don’t play mind games.
“Was this other Jesse also a debonair and rakishly handsome man?” I ask, smiling a little.
Something like surprise--something like pain--flares behind his eyes, but he chuckles. “Uh, try funny and had a great personality.”
“Ouch!” I cover my heart with my hand and stagger backward melodramatically, nearly spilling the rest of my beer all over myself. “You’ve wounded me to the core!”
“Jesse was also kinda obnoxious.” The hipster is still chuckling, but that wounded look has left his eyes and they’re bright again, with something that might be a distant species of--dare I say?--interest.
“Sexy-obnoxious?” I flash him my bridge-work.
“Maybe,” he allows, taking me in with that slow, predatory, intense once-over that makes me feel both over- and underdressed. When I return the favor, he looks down at his hands with a shy smile.
“Maybe is good, maybe I can work with.” I hold out my hand and this time he takes it without hesitation. His grip is firm and cool and I wonder if he’s as cool inside as he is out. My chances of finding out are looking better and better. “I’m J.R. and you’re awfully gorgeous to be so single.”
The glance he shoots me is meek, almost coy, and he hasn’t let go of my hand. “Xander. And what makes you so sure I’m single? How do you know I'm not here to meet my very possessive boyfriend, who's got a vicious temper and a really short fuse . . . who'd just as soon kill you as look at you?"
Yeah, right. A quality guy like Xander is gonna be caught dead dating a jerk like that? Nuh-uh, I don't think so.
"See, if you had a bruiser like that for a boyfriend, he’d probably never let you out of his sight,” I say, tugging his hand so he’ll follow me to the back of the bar and the relative privacy of a booth. “Not when some obnoxious, funny guy with a great personality could just sweep you right off your feet.”
“. . . and there I was, broke as a joke and up on a stage in front of dozens of screaming, predatory women, shaking my ass for the money they threw.” Xander smiles self-deprecatingly and my heart beats a little faster.
Those lucky women, I think, wishing, not for the first time in my life--or even the first time this evening--for x-ray vision.
“Okay, I’ve been babbling about nothing but myself for the past hour,” Xander says with a laugh. “Your turn, J.R. Tell me about yourself.”
I groan, polishing off my fourth beer in as many swallows. “What’s to tell? Boy from Anytown, USA, grows up, leaves the two-storey colonial in suburbia to pursue his dream in the bright lights and big city.”
“And what dream would that be?”
“You’ll lose all respect for me if I tell you.”
His eyes twinkle at me in silent laughter. “I lost all respect for you half an hour ago, might as well tell me.”
“And the wounding continues.” I slouch in my chair, trying not to pout--not my best look--and failing.
“Come on, don’t be such a whiner . . . tell me. I told you my stripping story, so you owe me, mister.”
Imagining the mileage I’ll get out of the mental images that story gave me, I guess he’s right.
“Fine--I guess you could say I'm in showbiz . . . and I should be home right now, working on my act, but--”
"You're in stand-up, aren't you?" All kinds of bright light up those dark eyes and they're wider and rounder than ever. “Holy shit, you're a comedian!”
He sounds so impressed. Obviously, he’s never met one of my ilk before. "Yeah, I'm a real laff-a-minute. Not consecutive minutes, mind, but a minute here, a minute there. I do alright."
“Wow." The look he's giving me makes me wanna fuck him, then tuck him into bed with a cup of hot cocoa. "I could never do that. I mean, stripping aside, I’ve got wicked stage-fright . . . do you ever get nervous? Get afraid you’re gonna be heckled?”
I try to shrug off his surely short-lived awe and fascination. “Sometimes, the only laughs I get are the results of being heckled. But that’s how it is, you know? Some nights you kill, some nights you get killed--the circle of life continues.”
“Hakuna matata.” Xander toasts me with his Magners, the same one he’s been nursing all evening, and takes a sip. The waiter bustles over for my empty and leaves a full in it’s place. For a few minutes, neither Xander or I talk, just stare at our drinks or at each other. His gaze is a strange mixture of nostalgia and desire, which gets me to wondering about this “Jesse” I remind him of.
“So . . . can I ask you something that's very personal and none of my business at all?”
I'm a sucker for his smile. I'm a sucker period. “Sure. I may not answer, but ask away.”
“This friend of yours, this--other Jesse . . . were you and he--?”
The opposite of being offended or evasive, Xander smiles wistfully. “Jesse was my best friend. He was also straighter than a ruled edge, as far as I know.”
“Was?” I ask, and there’s that flash of surprise-pain in Xander’s eyes again.
“He--Jesse's dead, J.R. There was an accident five years back. . . .” Xander’s mouth purses and he takes a swig of his cider. For a moment his eyes are old and cold, like ancient ashes. “Accident . . . yeah, Sunnydale has lot of those.”
“Whoa, wait--Sunnydale?” I feel like a prime-A bastard for being nosy about Xander’s dead best friend, but--“You’re from Sunnydale?”
“Born and raised . . . what’s it to ya?” Xander’s gaze is cool, cautious.
“Man, you’re from the original Twilight Zone, or didn’tcha know? Shit, you got any idea how many parapsychology theses are written on Sunnydale? How many textbooks have dedicated whole chapters to your hometown?” I have to laugh. “A Sunnydale native . . . fuck me sideways. This is like meeting a celebrity!”
“You’re kidding, right?” Xander asks, all dark-eyed confusion.
“I kid you not, brown eyes. Your hometown is on the map. And that weird case of mass hallucination last summer?" I shake my head. "A whole town fulla people seein’ dragons and vampires and demons and lights in the sky . . . you wanna bet shit like that’ll make the six o’clock news!”
“Mass hallucination,” Xander murmurs, rolling the phrase around his mouth, as if he’s never heard it before, which is impossible, seeing where he comes from. “Is that what they’re saying happened?”
“Yeah . . . no one's claiming anything else, actually. For once. Even the conspiracy nuts on the internet aren't saying peep that isn't government issue."
Xander’s still smiling, but his eyes are angrier than any I’ve ever seen. Then they flutter shut and he takes a deep, deep breath, exhaling shakily.
"I've seen things happen, J.R.; things that'd make you shit your pants. I watched people I love die at the hands of things that shouldn't even exist. Mass hallucination? Bullshit. I could tell you exactly what happened, down to my last breath. . . ."
When no details are forthcoming, I cover his hand with my own--paltry comfort, but all I can give since I honestly don’t know what to say.
A small part of me wants to hear what he was going to say, hear what put the darkness in his eyes and the bitter edge in his smile. But a much larger part of me just doesn’t want to know. I’ve never been to Sunnydale, but I’ve seen enough strange things in my short life to know there are some things I simply do not want to know.
It’s a luxury, that not-knowing; a luxury not everyone has been afforded.
“I’m so sorry,” I say, squeezing his hand gently. His eyes open immediately, startled. “Sorry you had to grow up in the Bermuda Triangle of North America, sorry it sucked your friends under . . . But I’m glad you’re here and alive--glad you’re a survivor.”
For a moment, something cold and almost alien moves in Xander’s eyes. “Yeah. Survival. That’s the name of the game . . . and everyone’s playing,” he says distractedly, looking down at his hand in mine. He bites his fingernails, I’ve noticed. The tips look so raw and worked over, they’ve gotta hurt. I should be grossed out but I just wanna kiss his fingertips until pain of any kind is the furthest thing from his mind. . . .
Shit.
“Hey, wanna hear a joke?” I blurt out, all the while kicking myself. Not only for putting myself on the spot, but for already being so invested in his moods.
“Um, sure.” He looks up at me expectantly, his poor fingers momentarily forgotten. I dig through the vault of useless crap that is my mind and come up with a joke that always put a smile on my face.
“Why did the chicken cross the playground?”
After a few seconds to think it over--his nose wrinkles slightly when he thinks and damn, that's gotta be the cutest thing I've ever seen--Xander shrugs. “I dunno, why?”
“To get to the other slide.” I finish with the kind of comedic timing and emphasis that comes only with practice or with being Don Rickles--but to a distinct lack of laughter or applause.
Xander’s biting his lip and smiling as if he’s trying to find the most tactful way to phrase his response.
“I think I may know why you’ve been getting heckled,” he says finally.
“That wasn’t actually one of my jokes!” It’s not, but I’m still kinda offended, I mean, that's a playground classic, as American as guns and cheerleaders.
“Really?” Xander sighs in apparent relief. “Oh, thank heavens.”
“I thought it’d make you laugh.” I get a doubtful eyebrow quirk that only makes me jump to the defense of my borrowed joke. “It’s funny!”
“Yeah, so funny I forgot to laugh.”
“You’re really taking a wrecking-ball to my ego, Xan.”
He leans closer to me. “So are you gonna invite me back to your place, or tell me more bad jokes till I actually do run screaming into the night?”
“I’m telling you, it’s a fucking hilarious joke--”
“Okay, you’re so missing the point of what I just said.” Xander rolls his eyes and leans even closer. Close enough for me to see how dilated his pupils are. “Invite me back to your place, J.R.”
Oh.
“You’re not just buildin' me up, buttercup, baby, just to get let me down?” Yes, I’m the king of cool, all bow before me.
“Or mess you around?" Xander's wry smile turns wistful again. "No, I’m 99.998% sure I won't be letting you down or messing you around. Hey-hey-hey,” he reassures me, turning his hand in mine to stroke my palm and wrist. I swallow and it sounds louder than a gun-shot.
"Well, them's my kinda odds." I clear my throat and, in my best wish-I-sounded-like-Barry-White-instead-o
Xander laughs and for a moment--must be the beer--I could swear his eyes flicker as yellow as an alley cat’s. But the moment passes and Xander’s still stroking my wrist and oh, God, am I hard.
“I thought you’d never ask.”
The End
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