When He Touches Me
Author:
Robin the Crossover Junkie
Disclaimer:
I don’t own these characters, and I don’t know the people who do, so if any of this can somehow cause me profit, I’m oblivious to it, and would like to be enlightened, please! ::grin::
Rating:
There’s some naughty imagery that makes it R, but mostly it’s PG
Spoilers:
technically, if you haven’t seen Hell’s Bells, there could be a spoiler. But I haven’t seen it either, and I don’t read spoilers, so really, there might not be a spoiler. I don’t know.
Author’s Notes:
Spike’s Point of View. This is just a little ficlet.
I breathe when he touches me.
I don’t understand. He’s not the one I want to be with. I’ve been sleeping with the woman of my dreams, she’s 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 I’ve been in a room with him. And when I’m 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 don’t need to breathe.
But I breathe when he touches me.
One deep breathe in, and a slow exhalation that doesn’t make take the slight tingly scent off the back of my tongue.
He’s married. I know that, and I don’t want him. There’s just something about him that makes my nostrils flare a little when he’s nearby, scenting the air, taking in his position and his mood and his signature smell. Sawdust, sun, and sweat. I wonder if that’s 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 don’t 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 it’s that imagery that flashes into my mind every time I feel his heat, every time he touches me. And it makes me breathe.
END
