'Cause I Don't Love Him
Summary: Simple Buffy POV set maybe post Older and Far Away. Ficlet.
Rating: R for naughty thoughts *g*
Disclaimer: They belong to Joss Whedon, please don't sure *g*
Archiving: Please, please ask, I want to know were my fiction is placed.
Thanks to Marie-Claude for doing this quick beta for me, thanks, ducks!!
I should've known that his skin tasted like silk, like raw excretion of the divine, like something so rare it was not meant to be found.
I should've known that he would love me, the girl, the woman, the warrior. The taste of my skin, the swell of my breast, the pout of my lip when I'm not sure of things. I know he'd like to kiss me, even hold my hand.
But the fear that was in me has melted into him.
He's not so much afraid of what my friends would say but he's more afraid of me pulling away... Yes, it's better to not even touch.
A touch can mean a million things. It can be sweet a caress or a first too hard. It can be a slight brush when you pass by. It can be full-body molding when mouths hungrily meet.
I feel my skin tingle when he's hyper, because I know what he can do with that energy. I know he could drive me crazy with his constant pounding and my constant need and want.
I've been horny for months. Even with him not around I feel myself get wet and I curse his name from here to San Diego, though I've never been there but if he'd go there I might not want him I might not need him I might not...
I don't love him, pretty girl.
I will deny it till my dying day - besides, no one is denying anything. I did burn my toast that morning and I did deny it to Dawn, but I'm not denying anything.
I think he's looking at me now; I know it by the way those little baby hairs in the back of my neck seem to respond.
I want him to fuck me senseless now, please, can I ask? What would the others think if I confessed the reason why I was crossing my legs so hard they ached?
I knew my scent would get to him and maybe it's the way he chews on his thumb nail or the way he makes sure Dawn is okay with a slight glance... or maybe it's the way his hard stomach dents when he leans back... Yes, I've seen what's there, Mr. Rogers, I've seen the promised land.
I think I might go crazy if I continue this sweet torture, because I know tonight, a little past 2, he'll crawl through my window and I'll wake up in the morning with a sore back from arching up to him.
And yes, I know I'm addicted to this testosteron elixir, but who the hell wouldn't be? I know now that I'm a perfectly normal girl, therefore there's only one conclusion to be reached.
He's my black widow. Teasing me with his nail-biting and his concern, waiting for the right moment in his seduction to pounce.
Damn him and his good looks and his stupid bleached hair. I should forget the way he bruises my hips, the pelvis slapping motion...
Damn, damn, damn.
Like he's not damned enough in life, like we all are. Like I think I see two of them and I pray to that god I don't believe in.
Save me father for I have sinned, and I pray and pray and I cross my legs tighter until I'm squeezing my clit and short waves of pleasure shoot through me.
Yes, dear, this is what he'll be doing later on. And can I play with time and make it come sooner?
God, I have to stop or I'll go crazy if I haven't already since I'm talking to myself and getting turned on by stomach denting and nail biting.
And he notices.
Have I told you how I hate your vampire senses?
He smiles as if answering, 'It's not vamp sense but male sense... a male that smells his female.'
I look away much too fast and now I know he's grinning.
He likes this game, it keeps it exciting for him. He can't get enough of it. He wants it as much as I do and I can tell because now I smell him and he doesn't have the luxury crossing his legs until they ache and all he does is sit there and open them up, like an invitation, the bastard.
And I want to run all the way home and know that he'd be there, maybe chained up and hissing.
I like the visual but I might have to stop otherwise I might break a leg bone.
This is so not of the good.
I used to be a normal girl. I'm a good girl, I am.
No need for nasty sexy boys to worm themselves into my hea... my bed and between my thighs. No need at all.
And I think he smells of beer. Has he been drinking? Cause the only alcohol I can take is the one from his lips. And I want to fight and I want to breathe but I've learned you can't do both at the same time.
And I refuse to say that I love him because I don't.
I love the way he makes me feel... and somehow love shouldn't be used.
But I know I'm melting. And my resolve is fading because of the things I know he'd do.
And I hate him more than I love him but I don't love him... not at all.