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Disclaimer: I donít own these characters, and I donít know the people who do, so if any of this can somehow cause me profit, Iím oblivious to it, and would like to be enlightened, please! ::grin::
Rating: Thereís some naughty imagery that makes it R, but mostly itís PG
Spoilers: technically, if you havenít seen Hellís Bells, there could be a spoiler. But I havenít seen it either, and I donít read spoilers, so really, there might not be a spoiler. I donít know.
Authorís Notes: Spikeís Point of View. This is just a little ficlet.




When He Touches Me


by
Robin the Crossover Junkie



I breathe when he touches me.

I donít understand. Heís not the one I want to be with. Iíve been sleeping with the woman of my dreams, sheís been with me, in my bed, letting me do anything I want to her, because it makes her feel good. But he brushes by me, and I breathe.

I take in his scent, his presence, the slight rise in temperature in the few inches of space around his body. The gentle aroma of sun, sawdust, and sweat lingers on the back of my tongue for long minutes after Iíve been in a room with him. And when Iím standing beside the door, and he walks out of the room, and his sleeve brushes against the thick leather duster around my shoulders, I breathe.

I donít need to breathe.

But I breathe when he touches me.

One deep breathe in, and a slow exhalation that doesnít take the slight tingly scent off the back of my tongue.

Heís married. I know that, and I donít want him. Thereís just something about him that makes my nostrils flare a little when heís nearby, scenting the air, taking in his position and his mood and his signature smell. Sawdust, sun, and sweat. I wonder if thatís his natural odor, or just from working construction with a bunch of slower-than-the-bloody-sunset high-school dropouts.

When he touches me, I breathe. I donít mean to breathe. Most of the time, I make a conscious effort to not breathe. I still do, when that heated, slightly hairy skin comes within an inch of mine. When I can feel the heat of him run down to my toes like an electric shock, and I wonder, where am I, and what am I doing here, when I should be pounding into this lovely man-child from behind while his demon of a wife watches from the sofa with a bowl of popcorn in one hand and a vibrator in the other.

And itís that imagery that flashes into my mind every time I feel his heat, every time he touches me. And it makes me breathe.







The End










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