CHAPTER ONE

“I shouldn’t be doing this... I can’t... He’s evil... He’s bad... He’s...” unbelievably bad. Buffy shuddered slightly at the memory of his mouth, his tongue, at her neck, her breast, her stomach, her...

“No.” She shook the wanton thoughts away like flies. “I can’t.”

Why on earth had she come here? To accept his offer? To ride into the sunset in his stupid black car and...

Fuck.

No, not fuck. Don’t think about... that.

She paced in front of the door, fingering the key in her hand. The key he’d left her.

Don’t stop believing.

Memories flashed behind her eyes. Falling from the catwalk and onto his face. Sitting side-by-side, drinking scotch and giggling. Agreeing to a truce for as long as there was scotch left in the bottle. The truce...

She stopped and stared at the door accusingly. How dare he? How dare he expect her, the Slayer, to forget everything and run away with him. To forget her duty and birthright and... Angel.

Angel. Angelus. The evil version of her ex was gone. But so was Angel. He had parboiled into dust with Drusilla after being bound, gagged and left unconscious in the book-cage in the school library. By the time Buffy had shaken off her mum and gotten to the library, she’d been too late. The sunrise had beaten her. She’d seen that last peaceful look of sleep before he’d crumpled to dust...

He was gone.

And.... and now what? The love of her life had died only a week ago and what was she doing? Standing outside the hotel door of the soulless monster responsible for Angel’s death. Sure, he had killed Drusilla in the process, but he was a creep. Love meant nothing to him. One hundred or so years together were nothing. One hundred plus years of endless, mind-blowing, amazing... No.

No. No. No. No. NO. NO!

She couldn’t... She shouldn’t... She mustn’t... She was fast running out of n’ts.

And the door had just opened.
 

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Spike leaned his shoulder against the door frame and watched the slayer with lidded eyes as she turned to face him. Tongue curling against the roof of his mouth, he absorbed the sight. Buffy stood before him, wearing a white button-down shirt with legs clad in skin-tight jeans. As she folded her arms over her chest defensively he caught the slightest flash of dull red lace. Tongue in cheek, he grinned.

“Hey there, Slayer. Not lost are we?” He slid his thumb through his belt and flicked his eyebrows up suggestively.

“What? I....No! I’m just here to, uh...” Buffy grappled widely for an excuse. To what? Find herself a room for rent? How dare he stand there all calm and nonchalant-like all shirtless and... Without a shirt... all half-naked and... Godlike... She was almost drooling again. “To... to....”

“Relive memories, Slayer?”

“I... No!  No way! That... that was a mistake. I came to tell you...”

“Tell me...” Spike prowled slowly towards her, head down and looking up through his lashes. Predatory. “What?”

“That I wouldn’t come... h-here.”  Her breathing was becoming shallow, short. He was too close. She could practically smell him. Cigarettes, alcohol and... Soap? Did he bathe?

“You came here to tell me you wouldn’t come here?” Spike raised his eyebrows in amusement.

Buffy’s head was becoming foggy. She couldn’t be here. This was wrong.

Spike edged closer.

Very wrong...

His face was inches from hers.

Very, very... wrong...

Their lips met.