Something had definitely changed.
Angelus didn’t care, at the moment, what that something was, however. He’d think on it when Buffy’s hot little hands weren’t roaming down his back, pulling him closer. He’d think on it when her aroused body wasn’t pressing upwards against his, her legs wrapping around his waist. Maybe that was what changed, the god thought; the fact that she responded to his touch, his body, willingly.
He didn’t have to tease the reactions from her.
Breaking the kiss, he looked into her eyes, silver again with her passion. “What is this?” He demanded, needing to know why, why now, why so suddenly.
Panting, her blood racing through her, heart beating a wild tattoo, Buffy looked into his angry colorful eyes. “What is what?” Why did he always ask her questions when she had no thought in her head but him? His body, his taste, touch, feel?
“Why the sudden change, lover?” And it was a smoothly delivered question, one that was meant to allay her fears and give her a false sense of security. “Why accept my touch now?”
“I…” Buffy swallowed, and admitted the truth she didn’t want to admit. It was too soon, she wanted to protest, but was deathly afraid that if she waited, if she truly became comfortable with this, with Angelus, with her and Angelus, then it’d be too late. Timetables really weren’t her thing.
“I want you, Angelus. Isn’t that what you wanted? For me to willingly want you? For me to willingly accept that I do? Well, I do. I want you to…” She trailed off unsure, unable to say the words. What was she supposed to say, anyway? Making love took on a softer, gentler, more loving connotation, and yet it was more than fucking. Wasn’t it? On her part, maybe, yes. But on his?
She was so new at this, it’d only been a few days, and already so much had changed. She couldn’t go back to the way things were, couldn’t change anything. Knowing this was scary enough, acclimating herself to it was something entirely different. Buffy clearly remembered what Angel had told her, what he warned her of. It terrified her that there could come a time when Angelus no longer wanted her, and that would mean not only the deaths of those below, but her own circumstances would become less certain than they were even now.
But she couldn’t, she didn’t know this new game, this new world. Angelus moved through it with ease and gracefulness, and Buffy felt like a gauche child next to him. Naïve, alone, buffeted in every direction by forces she couldn’t control, forces that wanted her capitulation.
“Say it,” Angelus demanded when she hadn’t finished her sentence, his long fingers trailing down her neck, fingering the necklace that lay heavily between her breasts, lightly over her heaving breasts. “Say the words, Buffy.” He brushed over a nipple, lightly, teasingly. Buffy gasped and arched into his touch, her body begging for more. “Say what you want, lover, tell me what you want.”
“You,” she whispered finally, and his nails scraped over her nipple, the peak hardening to an aching point. “I want you, Angelus. I want you to…to…”
“Yes?” He switched to the other nipple, performing the same teasing dance he’d done to the first one. He wouldn’t give her more until she admitted what she wanted. His eyes hardened when Buffy didn’t answer right away. “What do you want, lover?” More harshly, demanding.
Love me, she wanted to say, I want you to love me. But the words never passed her lips.
Could he, she wondered, could he love her? He courted her, wooed her with gifts and flowers and attention. He possessed her and demanded all of her, no exceptions. But could he love her? On some deep primal level she knew that, as much as he, himself, needed the depth and honesty of her emotions, she needed the commitment in return. She needed that, or the core of what drew him to her would wither and die…and with it, her.
“I want you to fuck me,” the whispered admission echoed loudly in the silent room.
The silence stretched, seeming to have a life of its own. Her breathing stuttered, freezing; his eyes narrowed as if staring into the core of her soul. As if on some level he had heard her deepest desires, and, even now, was trying to decide how much of himself he was willing to place into her safe keeping.
The triumphant smirk wasn’t lost on her, but Buffy couldn’t bring herself to care. She’d care later, when Angelus’ hands weren’t on her body, when his mouth wasn’t tasting her neck, when his sole attention wasn’t focused on her, all on her, completely on her. When she could think again, and mourn whatever innocence she had left before this game; the innocence now solely and completely in Angelus’ hands.
“Yes,” She breathed out, eyes locked with his, head reflexively tilting to the side, nails digging into his back in response to her own body’s reactions. “Yes, Angelus.”
Not to be rushed, Angelus took a moment to stare at her, breathing deeply at her arousal, smirking at her capitulation, her needy acceptance. Dru knew something about this acceptance, and Angelus would ask – or beat – it out of her later. For now, it was step one in acclimating Buffy to his tastes and desires. The previous days were to accommodate her only, to get her used to him and their situation, to get her still virginal body used to his.
And oh, how she accepted him, how her body molded to his, how her reactions to the simplest of caresses sparked something within him he’d never experienced. Not in over a hundred years of sexual encounters had Angelus ever felt what Buffy made him feel, what her body wrapped around his, her breathy moans, how she shouted his name when her orgasm overcame her; how, even in sleep, he didn’t feel the need to leave her, didn’t want to leave her.
She did this to him, her reactions, her needs, her wants, all her, it did something to him.
Kissing her slowly, deeply, accepting her breath into him, Angelus gripped her hands, twining her smaller, slightly darker ones with his large, cool, paler ones, feeling the ring he’d given her bite into his own fingers, the claddagh rings of both of them rubbing together. Raising them over her head, stretching her taunt, his lips never left her body, blazing a cool trail down her neck and over her chest. Buffy’s breathing sped up, her entire torso heaving with her panted breaths.
“You want me to fuck you,” he whispered, and it was a sensuous sound, despite the crude words, that moved over her heated skin, sending a shiver of need straight through her. “You want me, my beautiful lover, but are you ready to have all of me?”
His eyes bored into hers, blue and red into pure silver. “Yes,” Buffy breathed, needy, ready, nearly desperate just to feel him inside her again, to feel him moving deep, deep within her. Her legs flexed, trying to wrap around his still clothed waist but the hard body that was pinning her to the mattress was unyielding, unmoving. “Yes I am.”
Angelus crushed his lips to hers, tongue moving within her mouth in methodical exploration of secrets he already possessed, his body blanketed hers, keeping her still beneath him, trapped on the bed. The slightest movement rubbed the satin negligee against her skin, against her pebbled nipples, against her womanhood. So caught up in the sensations, of what Angelus did to her, Buffy hadn’t realized that he had released her hands, replacing his cool hands with cushioned manacles, quickly clasping them around her delicate wrists.
Leaning back, his hands slowly trailing down the underside of her arms, along her sides, Angelus watched her reactions with a smug grin. She was ready for him now, and he hadn’t really done anything to her yet. Stopping once he reached the hem of the satin creation he’d had made especially for her, Angelus slipped his hands beneath the material, smoothing back up her body to where she lay open for him, wet and ready.
“You want me, lover,” his whisper floated around her, his mouth moving up her leg as he bunched up her nightdress. “You want me, you willingly invite me into your body, and that’s good,” a line of kisses all the way up her inner thigh, and just when Buffy thought he was going to allow her release of the ever building tension he’d created, Angelus stopped.
“You want me, you say, all of me. You’re going to learn just what all of me means, lover.”
He kissed back down her other thigh, his cool tongue lightly swirling behind her kneecap for a moment. Her womb clenched but her legs liquefied, and Buffy wondered just what he meant by those words. She moved her arms then, unsure if she wanted to hold him closer, beg him to finish what he so expertly started, or simply dig her nails into the bedding in a vain attempt to anchor herself in the storm of passion Angelus stirred within her.
But she couldn’t move her arms.
Hearing the clink of metal against metal, Buffy arched to look behind her, bringing her body closer to Angelus’ in the process. Her wrists were enclosed in padded manacles, which hung from a bolt, dead center in the wall above the massive wrought iron headboard. Giving a hard, experimental tug, Buffy realized that she wasn’t going anywhere; whatever, however Angelus secured the chains, they were strong enough to counter even her considerable strength.
Angelus watched her and smiled at her attempt to escape; willing, yes, but not completely passive. His hands continued to caress her skin, and he watched her eyes drift closed once more. Pulling back to a whimper of protest from the woman beneath him, Angelus waited until Buffy opened her eyes, wanting her to see as well as feel all he did to her. He intended for this to be a lesson, her first, a lesson in pleasure, indeed. But a lesson sprinkled with pain as well. Hers, not his.
Oh, Angelus loved pain in his pleasure, enjoyed it so much more that way, but that little lesson would come later; because he enjoyed Buffy’s pain, too.
He so enjoyed her pain. And she was ever so expressive in that pain.
Cupping her cheek, Angelus brought her gaze to his, molten silver, awash in a sea of reds and blues. What power did she hold, he wondered; what power was she still unaware of?
Oh, but she was magnificent, her hair spread over the midnight blue bedding, a sparkle of sunlight in the dark room. The only spark of sunlight, his spark. Her eyes were bright, locking with his as he watched her reactions. Her body was covered in a fine dew from her arousal already, and heating more with every caress of his cool hand. The green material molded to her curves, the slight flare of her hips, her rounded breasts; the bunched up negligee ended just below her curls, casting them in fragrant shadow.
A growl escaped him, and Angelus felt his fangs lengthen. She was hot, ready, needy. And she was his. Scraping against the top of her thigh, Angelus lapped at the line of blood that welled there, growling in appreciation. Lust, hot pumping lust burst, on his tongue, need, want. Fear, even, though of him or herself Angelus wasn’t sure. And something else, something more than the secrets he could taste, something more than the things she hid from him.
Love?
Allowing his tongue to lave at the line once again before it closed, Angelus tried to taste that elusive emotion. He wasn’t sure, couldn’t be. Was this it then? All his months of courting her, all his personal presents and gifts to her, his unswerving devotion…did she finally understand? Did she, could she, finally admit it?
He could sense her need, the tightly wound coil deep within her that desperately wanted release. She almost cried out in frustration at him, but she didn’t. Ah, his little slayer was learning. Good. She was trapped, and she knew it…and she loved it.
Twisting her wrists, Buffy tried again to break free of the binds, but couldn’t; she wasn’t sure if that thrilled her or scared her. Angelus well and truly had her; restrained on his bed, vulnerable to everything and anything he desired. His dark eyes were deep and fathomless, but she detected a hint of something there, some emotion that called to her.
What was that? Buffy had no idea, and then it was gone, replaced with the unending lust she knew he felt for her.
Watching her movements closely, Angelus shifted his weight against her calves, leaning back on his heels. His hands still caressed the tops of her thighs, his eyes still watched her, and Buffy knew that whatever he had in mind, it was something she never would have dreamed of before. The tight leather of his pants rubbed her bare legs, drawing Buffy’s eyes to the bulge there.
Her breath backed up again, and Buffy felt her body respond. His hands glided back up her stomach, the muscles there quivering in anticipation, settling on her puckered nipples. Slowly, deliberately, Angelus worked the hardened points, lowering his head to them to taste them again and again. Buffy’s eyes drifted closed at the exquisite sensations; she bit her lip to stop the plea that wanted to escape, drawing blood.
Angelus growled at that, the movement, the scent. “Never,” he whispered harshly, hands still working their magic on her breasts, his voice so close to her ear. “Never deny me, my love,” his tongue shot out to taste the drop of blood on her lip, and he growled again, this time in approval. “Let yourself go, beloved.”
Buffy wasn’t sure if she could, wasn’t sure of her own body’s reactions, but then Angelus was doing wonderful things to her breasts again, and she forgot to be nervous, to be scared, to be ashamed.
“Oh!” She cried out, eyes opening in shock. Looking down she saw Angelus tightening something onto her nipples. She knew he was tightening something because she could feel it and it was a delicious pain. The nipple clamps matched the rest of her jewelry, with medium sized ruby pendants hanging from the clamps themselves.
With her pulse pounding in her ears, her blood roaring through her, Buffy couldn’t hear what he said, but those strong hands were soothing her taunt body, as if he knew the pain shooting through her…and the pleasure that shot straight to her core. Buffy gasped again when she realized that the pain was something more, that even though her breasts ached, her body loved it, wanted more of it.
Mortified at her response, she closed her eyes. Angelus’ hand jerked her chin and he growled, “Open your eyes, beloved.” Waiting while she did so, he viciously tightened the clamps to prove his point. “This is your first lesson, Buffy, the first of many pleasurable…and somewhat painful lessons in what I enjoy. And,” he added with a sensual smile and a slow kiss, “What you will enjoy.”
A tug on the chain hanging between her breasts earned him another gasp, and Buffy felt another bolt of pleasure race through her. She wanted to clench her legs together, wanted to ease the burn slowly consuming her, but Angelus’ weight atop her legs prevented that.
“Not yet,” he whispered, and scraped his fangs along one breast, lapping at the blood there. Buffy was straining upwards now, writhing under him in near abandon. It wasn’t enough.
Rising from the bed, Angelus went to retrieve some of his…gifts. Balancing the whip in one hand, he eyed Buffy’s prone form with expectation. And smiled wider when her scent shifted to fear. And curiosity tinged with an unwanted need.
“Do you know what this is, beloved?” He asked, letting the tip drag across the floor.
“A whip?” She shot back, and instantly regretted it when said whip landed across her calf. She cried out in wordless pain, and tried to shift away from him. She moved her legs, but stopped at his growl of warning, leaving them open to him, and to that whip. There was no place to go, chained to the bed as she was.
“Don’t be a smart ass, Buffy; you know I don’t like that.” Actually, Angelus did; he loved her mouth, loved that she constantly came up with something to counter him, that her wit was never bowed no matter what she was thinking or feeling. Of course, that mouth could also be put to better use, such as swallowing his cock, but there was time to introduce her to that, too.
“This is the whip that was used to flay Jesus Christ,” he said, and watched as the reality registered in Buffy’s lust clouded mind. The blasphemy that he held such an artifact, and the incredulousness that he could. That a religious relic like the whip that was used against the Son of God couldn’t and didn’t harm Angelus.
“Turn over, lover,” Angelus ordered, and watched as Buffy did so after a moment’s hesitation. “Now raise that delectable virgin ass in the air, baby.”
With an audible swallow, Buffy did, peeking over her shoulder at Angelus. He frowned and Buffy’s stomach clenched again, not in arousal, but in fear. What was he going to do to her with that? And could the relic hurt her for the blasphemy she, herself, was guilty of? This goddess thing, the fact that she’d failed in her sacred duty, God must surely be angered with her; would he strike her down for this?
“Spread those legs, Buffy,” he ordered silkily, waiting while she did as he demanded. He could hear her heart racing; feel her fear rolling off her in waves that buffeted him across the room. Angelus hardened more at the scent. And more at the knowledge that she was still wet, that she still wanted him.
“Wider.”
Balanced on her elbows and forearms, Buffy continued to look over her shoulder at Angelus’ waiting form, feeling defenseless and, God help her, aroused. She was completely open for him, open and bare, and he had that whip and please, please don’t let him-
The ancient leather streaked out and smacked Buffy on the ass, creating a red welt and eliciting a cry of shocked pain from her. Another and another stung along her buttocks until she was sure she wouldn’t be able to sit for a week. Suddenly Angelus was there, his cool tongue soothing the heated burn he had created.
Buffy’s breath stopped altogether at the delicious feel, and she wondered if there was ever a sensation such as this. The welts hurt, oh how they hurt, but with his cool tongue tracing them so tenderly, so carefully, and even, though she dared not think this…lovingly. His fangs sank into her ass, and Buffy cried out…she knew it wasn’t in pain, for the feeling of Angelus’ fangs slipping into her flesh did not hurt.
No, the feeling was unlike anything she could name, erotic, unbearably pleasurable, the feel of him pulling her blood from her body enough to have her wanting more.
Oh, yes, she wanted more, more of his mouth on her, more of his fangs. Still holding back, Buffy didn’t, wouldn’t let herself find release in this enjoyment. She didn’t think she should enjoy the fact that the whip (oh, my God, I am heartily sorry for having offended thee) on her ass turned her on, that Angelus’ cool tongue tracing the welts made her wetter, that his fangs sinking into her made her womb clench in desire so strong, she wondered she didn’t die from it.
Angelus knew she enjoyed it, he could feel the tension in her body, smell her increasing arousal in the air, taste it on her blood, and yet she wouldn’t let go, just let go and enjoy. Her blood revealed all the secrets she wouldn’t; she wanted this, but was terrified of what it said about her. He’d change that, if it took him the rest of their eternity together.
“Come on, baby,” he whispered as he placed tiny kisses along her spine. “Let go for me. There’s nothing wrong in enjoying this, there’s nothing to be ashamed of. You like it, I know you do.” To demonstrate just how much he knew, and how much she did like it, Angelus plunged two fingers into her, growling again at her clenching passage.
“You can’t deny it, lover, you can’t deny me or yourself.” Slowly he moved his fingers in and out of her, then adding a third. Buffy hissed and rocked her hips backwards, silently seeking release. He wasn’t about to give it to her, not after such an impassioned plea for him to fuck her.
“Just let go,” he lapped at the back of her neck, teeth scraping along a shoulder blade. “Don’t let what you think you should feel get in the way,” his fingers were moving faster now, and Buffy couldn’t stop her response to that, her hips slamming against his hand, wishing it was his cock within her rather than those long fingers, and please, please, just let her come…
“Come on, baby, show me what you want.”
Buffy threw her head back then, hair trailing over her shoulders in that splash of sunlight Angelus admired not long ago. When he pulled his wet fingers from within her, Buffy growled and mindlessly moved her hips back again (and I detest all my sins, because of Your just punishments).
Angelus merely chuckled, and circled the puckered hole of her ass, eliciting another sharp cry from his lover.
Her breath sped up, and she tensed at the feel; but Angelus knew she was aroused enough, far enough gone in her need for release, that she wouldn’t protest even that. But now wasn’t the time for that particular lesson, there’d be time enough later. Now was pain, now was just too much pain, now was how to turn that pain into pleasure, to come so hard she passed out and when she recovered, she begged him for more.
Pulling back, Angelus let the tip of the whip follow the curve of her spine. His little darling was so stubborn, so dogged in her beliefs. Well, he had plenty of time to break her of that, too.
“You’re resisting me, beloved,” he whispered, and Buffy felt a chill in the depths of her soul. His hand petted down her hair, lips still kissing her back, shoulders, neck. “I know what you want, I’m willing to give it to you, and yet you resist me. It’s so simple, so easy to just give in. And I promise to make it as pleasurable as I can.”
With lightening quick speed he moved off her and let the whip fly again, hitting her squarely across the back and drawing a line of blood. “You are mine, Buffy, and you know that. You’ve admitted it, and now, my love; it’s time to prove that. You will submit to me in every way I say, understood?”
Another stinging line of blood appeared on her back when Buffy didn’t answer immediately. (But most of all because they offend You, my God, who are all-good and deserving of all my love.) She deserved to be in hell, Buffy thought. She deserved this because she enjoyed it. She deserved it for failing in her duty, for failing God and the World, and all those she loved, and every single person she didn’t even know…every person she couldn’t save.
He appeared to be a master with the whip, never hitting hard enough to cause lasting damage, just enough for the things he wanted her to learn. Soft and light on those places most sensitive, hard and demanding on back and thighs, and buttocks. And she got it. She understood. She deserved this, and he wanted to make sure she knew it. Well, she knew, and Buffy understood.
“Y-yes, Angelus,” she cried, and the tears were from pain, for the marks hurt, but her tears were from pleasure, too. Such pleasurable pain that she wanted to curl up and die, beg Angelus for release, do it herself because she wasn’t sure she could survive in this state much longer.
The first tear escaped her rigid control when that whip, so expertly wielded, slipped between her thighs, lightly hitting her feminine core. “Angelus!” She screamed, and shuddered at the fire the hit caused. She thought she wanted him before. Buffy was wrong. That one hit, the lick of pain in that one lightly administered stroke from the Blessed Whip, was enough to send her careening into bliss, and still, she held herself back.
She was getting off on something that had beaten and bled the Holy Son of God. How could she?
“If you don’t let yourself go, baby,” he whispered again right next to her, and Buffy wondered how he could move that quickly. “Then it’ll only be more painful. Not that I mind, Buffy,” he added with a light kiss to her neck, “Because your pain is delicious, so tangible, so mine. But you’ll only hurt yourself, and I want to be the one to do that.”
Another light touch from the whip, and Buffy bit into the pillow beneath her, stifling her moans and cries of enjoyment. Another and another and another, and Buffy knew, despite her humiliation, that he had won. That she’d do anything for release, anything to stop the stinging pleasure from the braided whip, anything to prolong the buildup of such desire, such utter satisfaction.
“Angelus!” She screamed and begged. Twisting to look behind her, eyes a mass of colors, her scent heady arousal and begging lust, Buffy pleaded, “Angelus, please.”
“Please what, beloved?” He asked in that silken whisper, his hands running softly over her body, his tongue dipping to trace the already closing cuts he’d caused on her smooth skin.
“Please…” She thought for a moment that she couldn’t say it, but found that whatever well of humiliation and shame that previously blanketed her was gone. All that remained was her need for release, for him.
And for that, she hated herself even more.
“Please let me come…”
It was a harsh but honest whisper, and Angelus purred in victory. With one last lick along her spine, Angelus turned her over and settled between her spread thighs; unmindful of the fire the welts caused her. Maybe later he’d ease those pains, but now was for other pleasures. Her hips arched, beckoning him, the scent of her blood, heady in the dim room, was enough to push him forward; Angelus entered her in a smooth swift thrust that had Buffy sobbing in near completion. When he’d stripped she didn’t know, nor did she care; as long as he filled her, as long as he was inside her, she didn’t care about anything.
Finally giving her release, finally filling her with his pulsing cock, finally buried deep within her, Angelus hissed in…fulfillment? Satisfaction? Home? He didn’t know, couldn’t name the sensation…nor did he care. Moving slowly within her, keeping her right on the edge of orgasm, Angelus pushed her legs upward, opening her wider to his penetration, moving deeper within her.
“Angelus,” she panted, over and over again, “Please.”
He didn’t give in, holding onto the last shreds of his control with vicious need. To prove to both himself and Buffy that he could. To prove who was master and who was slave. To prove…his movements increased in speed, and soon he pounded into her with a force that moved her further up the bed. His long fingers gripped her hips, holding her closely to him as Buffy, pulling tighter on the chains that held her prisoner, met him pounding thrust for pounding thrust.
“Mine,” he growled, feeling his release approach, his control shatter as Buffy’s hot, tight body clenched around him.
“Yes,” she moaned, “Yours, only yours.”
Pleased, Angelus flicked his fingers against her straining clit, shattering her around him as her orgasm finally found release. She tightened around his aching cock with a cry that echoed her body’s; fingers white on the chains, pulling hard enough to cause the metal to groan from the force of her release. She continued to come, waves washing over her in sight and sound and red-hot color, and still she tightened more around him, drawing his own release from deep within him.
His mouth latched against her neck, but he did not mark her no matter how he wanted to. Moving down her body, he sank his fangs into her plump breast, drawing a mouthful of hot, passionate blood, Buffy and something more, into him. She screamed again with the bite, pressing her breast further into his mouth for more of the exquisite torment.
“Buffy,” he growled against her neck, releasing his dead seed into her waiting body as she clenched around him a second time. His mouth sucked greedily on her pulse point, and his fangs begged to sink themselves in the sweet flesh there, to bite and mark, and proclaim for all to see that she was his, but Angelus refused.
Now was not the time, and he’d content himself with the closing marks on her breast.
Collapsing atop her, the both of them finally, finally spent, Angelus breathed in the scent of her completion, of their combined orgasms, and licked the side of her neck, as yet unmarked. That would change soon enough, but for now, it was enough that Buffy sighed and arched the pulsing artery further into his mouth, as if asking for him to mark her.
Soon, beloved, he thought, reaching up to unchain her wrists, fingers now slack as she did, indeed, pass out from her orgasm. Soon.
Her arms fell heavily to the bed, and Angelus took them in his hands, slowly massaging them back to life. Rolling so her prone form lay atop him, head cushioned against his shoulder, Angelus smoothed the sweaty hair off her neck, wondering how long it would take her to grow the beautiful locks longer. Longer so he could wrap the thick mass around his hands, so he could spread her beautiful golden hair around her, framing her body as well as her face with a taste of sunlight.
Time had no more meaning here, but Angelus, though possessing a well of patience when he wished, was still an impatient man when it came to several aspects of his lover.
Buffy’s soft lips touched his skin in a brief kiss, her breath whispering out a sigh as she dropped further into sleep. Angelus watched her for a moment longer; the whip marks were already closing, the lines of blood fading. He brought her wrist up, gently kissing the veins visible beneath the skin, and breathed deeply of her scent.
There was an added dimension to her emotions, to her scent, that wasn’t there before…no not new. There was a distant, hazy memory of the soul’s, from the night he took her virginity, as she showered his worthless other half with the full measure of her body, her passion…and…her cries of…love…love….
Hidden no longer, it drew Angelus, tantalized him, disturbed his control in ways he wasn’t sure he liked. He teetered on the edge of a frenzy of conflicting feelings, making Acathla’s awaking seem child’s play.
She murmured in her sleep pulling him back from the edge. Buffy smiled against his chest, and Angelus looked down at her, but she was still asleep. She was exhausted, sated for the moment, but Angelus could tell the arousal ever present even in sleep. Placing another gentle kiss on her wrist, then her ring finger, Angelus joined his lover in slumber.
Forcing his mind to quiet, to rest, and away from questions he just didn’t have answers for. Questions he wasn’t sure he wanted answers for.
Not yet anyway...
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