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(Title from The Ramones’ song of the same name.)
Of all the things that Spike had ever believed could lead right up to the doorstep of bloodshed, a cartoon dog had never been on the list. As he ducked the remote and the shrapnel that resulted from its slam into the wall, however, he was forced to reevaluate his former conclusions.
Stalking straight into the eye of the storm, he crossed the room to where Faith stood by the television and hit the power button, watching as the screen came to sudden, full-color life. Her hand shot out towards the console, and he grabbed her wrist in a grip just on the right side of painful. “Don’t. Touch. It. Again,” he growled, ducking his head towards her when she took a challenging step into the small space between them. “I mean it. Don’t know what’s turned you into such a righteous bitch, and I’m near to certain I don’t give a good goddamn, but stay out of my path while you’re workin’ out whatever’s goin’ on in that head of yours.”
He released his grip and went to the sofa, propping bare feet on the coffee table as he fixed his eyes pointedly on the bright and busy screen, avoiding even a sidelong glance at Faith. She was positively vibrating with fury, but then again, so was he. Tired of walking on eggshells, he’d drawn his line in the sand; if she wanted to stay on the irrational side of it, she was welcome to it. He took a long draught of his beer, then pointed the bottle towards the screen. “You gonna watch, or you want to fume some more? You’re blockin’ part of the screen, so decide on one or the other soon, yeah?”
Faith’s eyes narrowed another fraction of an inch before she stormed past him, wrenching his beer from his hand on the way. “Got better things to do,” she answered as she slammed her way into the bedroom.
“Good luck with that,” he answered blandly, retrieving the second beer he’d hidden behind the sofa pillow.
“Asshole,” she yelled, punctuating her sentence with the vibration of the walls that resulted from her none-too-gentle closing of the door.
“Bloody bitch,” he grumbled as he wedged his pocketknife under the bottle top and sent it flying. “Merry bloody Christmas, Charlie Brown,” he added, mock-toasting the screen and staring balefully at the broken pile of plastic that had been the remote as the sound of thuds to the punching bag in the other room threatened to drown out the television.
~*~*~*
Spike watched morosely as the characters onscreen danced about in a reasonable imitation of the cokeheads he and Dru had favored as prey in the days leading up to his showdown with his second Slayer. It was the way things stood with the fourth Slayer he’d had in his life, however, that had taken over his mind and sucked the enjoyment out of his night.
It had been building for weeks; even as short-fused as they both could be, nothing like this ever came from nowhere. The months they’d spent together had never been drama or anger-free, but it usually took little more than a two-minute screaming match and then shagging each other blind to get everything settled. He was completely unprepared, however, for the sheer rage that she seemed to have been holding just beneath the surface, wasn’t certain where it came from; more importantly, he had no idea how to go about fixing it.
He’d noticed small things first, odd little quirks that slowly began to mount and gain credence as evidence to something heavy weighing on her mind. She’d been quick on the trigger whenever a hint of Christmas music came through the speakers, spinning the dial restlessly or blasting a CD and then luring him to dance when he shot her a questioning look. She’d go out of her way to avoid the tree vendors that appeared with increasing frequency along the city sidewalks. She’d avoided stores whenever possible after a mid-November trip had seen them momentarily stalled in the seasonal decorations aisle of the drugstore on their corner.
It was, however, the mistletoe—or, more specifically, her reaction to it—that had spurred his curiosities into full-blown intrigued theories and made him even more determined to figure out what she was hiding behind her suddenly reestablished, miles-thick defenses.
He’d picked it up as a spur of the moment impulse on his walk home, something he’d thought would be an interesting sort of surprise; good for a laugh, and a shag, and little more. She hadn’t recognized it at first, even when he held it over her head as he pinned her to the wall and kissed her ravenously; she’d been an enthusiastic participant in the clinch until he whispered the green sprig’s identity in her ear as he trailed it teasingly down her throat.
The change had been immediate; her pliant form shifted into rigidity, the smile on her face changing from lustful to sardonic as she drew back to give him a mocking leer, snatching the plant from his hand. “We don’t need weeds, Blondie. Haven’t been together that long, have we?” she’d taunted, grabbing his collar and pulling him towards her, the kiss she initiated nothing short of voracious in the moments before she turned from him. The crumpled and torn leaves were tossed onto the table as she sashayed into the bedroom, casting an inviting glance over her shoulder as she crossed the threshold. He’d followed, enthralled, leaving the questions symbolized by that crushed plant outside their door for one more day.
Until something as banal as a television program had shattered the tenuous calm.
~*~*~*
“Is that shit still on?” Faith sneered as she stomped through the living room on her way to the kitchen. She wrenched open the refrigerator with enough force to yield a satisfying ‘bang’ as the door struck the wall, removed a bottle of water, and then kicked the door closed with her foot as she twisted the lid from the bottle.
“It’s winding up,” Spike answered, not turning from the onscreen tree decorating to look towards her.
“I thought religious symbols were supposed to burn you or something,” she commented, propping herself against the wall and taking a drink of her water.
That got the reaction he was certain she was trying to provoke. Spike turned scornful eyes towards her as he challenged, “Through the TV? An’ that’s not to mention that I’m not sure what book of the Bible it was that featured the scraggly tree, the dancin’ cartoon mutt, an’ the depressive roundheaded tyke, though my education was thorough enough back in my day. I didn’t miss the addition of a new book, what with the changin’ of teams from human to demon, now did I?”
“And I would know?” she shot back, expression and tone equally scathing.
“Unlikelihood of that struck me, too,” he answered, rising to his feet and stalking towards her. “So why don’t you tell me once and for all what it is about this that has you pitchin’ and breakin’ everything we have?”
“It was just the remote that got broke,” she contested, jaw set angrily.
“An’ that was enough. What the devil is wrong with you, hellcat? Never known you to act like this.” His tone had softened with the last words, the concern that had been buried under his increasing annoyance peeking through with the promise of an end to hostilities.
“I just don’t like Christmas,” she replied, shifting uncomfortably under his stare.
His laugh seemed to startle her, but he couldn’t hold it back. “That could well be the biggest line of bullshit I’ve heard this side of, ‘You and Daddy will be such good friends.’ Sell it to someone who’s buyin’, Faith, and tell me what’s going on here.”
“It’s just… why would I care about it, Spike? What part of my life do you think resembled a fucking greeting card?”
Her cheeks had turned rosy, flushed; whether with anger or embarrassment he wasn’t sure, but whatever the reason, the sight of her assuaged his anger further, and he raised a hand to card through her hair. “You tell me, Faith. So far, I’m the open book, and you’re the bleedin’ cipher. It’d be nice to have you fill in your own blanks now an’ again.”
She shrugged, though her attempt at nonchalance utterly failed. “It’s stupid. Kid stuff.”
“Is that what I asked?” Spike asked, determined to get the truth from her. “I don’t care if all this is because Santa brought you the wrong doll clothes and you cried for a week before swearing vengeance. I just want to know why I’m spendin’ my time dodging projectiles.”
His teasing grin urged a reluctant smile to her face, and she sighed as she brought her hands to his shoulders and pushed him back from her. “You’re not going to let up, are you?” A shake of his head was her only reply, and she gave a short laugh as she walked towards and collapsed onto the sofa.
Faith waited until he was sitting on the edge of the coffee table, then began hesitantly, “The first time Mom had a boyfriend to come visit was on Christmas Eve. I was six—just old enough to really be excited about everything, you know?” She paused for a moment, shaking her head before continuing, “So anyway, he shows up, and…”
Spike’s growl had found its way free before he could stop it, his hands tightening into fists where they rested between his knees as a ball of ice formed in his stomach; he didn’t like where he thought this was heading.
Momentarily confused by his response, Faith looked up into eyes glittering with far more gold than blue; reading the anger there, she shook her head and shifted one leg forward, kneading the muscle of his thigh with her toes. “It’s not... Just ease off a little, all right? It’s nothin’ like that; told you it was stupid.”
“You have a tendency to say that about a lot of things that’re nothing of the sort,” he answered, eyes still that curious combination of feral rage and human tenderness, hands relaxing but shoulders still tense.
“Yeah, well, I mean it about this.” She fixed her eyes on some point on the wall above his shoulder and spilled the rest of the story in a rush. “So the boyfriend’s coming over, and she wanted to look nice so she could ‘win me a daddy,’ so she goes and buys new clothes and gets herself fixed up. She looked… really pretty, I remember; fancy in a way she wasn’t, usually. But she’d used up all the Christmas money, I guess, if she even had any; she never really said.” She banded her arms self-consciously, protectively, across her chest, and Spike ran his fingers along the leg propped against him in a gesture he hoped was reassuring.
“Anyway, so there’s no money, or she knows she’s gonna have something better to do than lay out toys for tots later on, or she just didn’t give a fuck; doesn’t matter why. She sits me down, says, ‘Santa isn’t real, baby, and Mommy doesn’t have presents this year, but she loves you very much, and that’s why she’s doing this;’ she heads out to the bar with Johnny-Come-Lately, and I spend the night eating cereal and watching cartoons.”
Spike sat back, mouth working for a moment before he said the only thing he felt appropriate. “Fuck.”
She rolled her eyes and gave him that resigned half-smile that always managed to make him hurt for her, made him long to undo everything that had happened to create that expression. “It’s not that big of a deal, Spike; she was right. Santa’s not real, and life gets in the way.”
He arched a brow at her in challenge. “Kid shouldn’t have to worry about that.”
“Maybe not, but there you go.”
He might’ve believed that she’d told him everything there was to tell if she hadn’t drawn in and tucked the leg he’d been caressing beneath her, evading his touch as she looked everywhere but into his eyes. By now, he knew all too well when she was hiding.
“What else, wildcat?” He leaned towards her, brushing his fingers along her cheek.
“Nothing. No Christmas for baby Faithy equals cynical, bitchy adult Faithy. Easy math.” She met his eyes for the barest instant before looking away. “It’s nothing, all right?” She tried to maneuver out of his reach, but he shifted his hand to cup her chin, forcing her to look at him, silently demanding that she lie to him while looking him in the eye, something he knew she wouldn’t do.
He hadn’t been wrong. She huffed and slapped his hand away, then grumbled, “Fine. Three years later, she’d found a ‘daddy’ for me, but he didn’t want kids, and she wanted him anyway. Wanted him more, I guess. So mom’s out, foster care’s in, and I start running more than staying where they send me. I run away, they drag me back, juvie, another home; lather, rinse, repeat ‘til a Watcher shows up with adoption papers and carts me out of home number twelve. Then I’m a Slayer, and there’s too much real ‘imaginary’ crap to fight to worry about it. Christmas joyfully becomes just another day, except for the singular occasion when someone decides to take me in as a stray, and I carry on with my life. God bless us every one,” she finished, tone sharply sarcastic.
Spike rocked back silently, watching as Faith curled in on herself; he doubted that the movement was anything but subconscious, the drawing up of knees and the wrapping of arms around her legs clearly a shield born of the pain she only revealed in fits and spurts. He’d long since stopped letting her find refuge only in herself, however. Within moments, he was on the couch and she was draped across his lap, the sound of the television a background drone that never so much as tempted his attention from her exasperated features.
“I’m not a kid,” she grumbled, squirming on his lap and attempting to escape the arms banded tightly in anticipation of her protests.
“Didn’t say you were.”
“Then let me down. You playing Pervy Claus now isn’t going to change anything.”
“Not trying to. Just wanted to hold you.” That stilled her, and she turned towards him, lips slightly parted in surprise. “You’ve been so busy hiding from me,” he murmured, leaning forward and brushing a kiss against her mouth. “Now that you’ve stopped, I’m takin’ advantage.”
“Wasn’t hiding,” she retorted, but the way she shifted towards him, cozied into his embrace took whatever edge remaining from her words, left them softer and more petulant than furious.
“Whatever you say.”
Silence took over between them, punctuated by the chatter of the television and Faith’s deep, regular breaths. Spike was half-certain that she’d fallen asleep when the warmth of her breath tickled the side of his neck, bringing with it a question he hadn’t anticipated. “So what was it like for you? Christmas, I mean.”
He chuckled as she shifted, sliding out of his lap to sit on the sofa, facing him, her legs still draped over his. “It was something all its own; social event of the season, most times. Family and trees and food, parties and presents and church. A whole whirlwind of things to do, places to go, and people to see.”
“So you liked it?”
“Bloody well hated it.” At her confused look, he shrugged. “Wasn’t exactly the most social of people; was happier sittin’ at home than in a roomful of people spoutin’ about dresses and betrothals and whatever they thought would make them seem more worldly than the next twit without a clue. The church and family bits of it were fine, and the caroling wasn’t so bad, but the parties were a sodding nightmare.”
“So why’d you go?” She laid back, still propped up on her elbows, watching him closely.
“Had to, didn’t I? Man of the family, with Father gone, an’ Mum needed an escort; then she got sicker an’ needed someone to take care of her, make sure she wasn’t pressin’ her luck. All of it fell to me, and whether or not I felt like sitting about in other people’s drawin’ rooms or if I’d rather be in my own didn’t really come into the equation.”
She nodded thoughtfully, giving him an enigmatic half-smile. He might’ve been nervous about the meaning of the expression, had she not known the truth of him, had he not known how she felt about it.
She’d known about William for a while, had sussed it out months before after waking, unsettled, from some formless nightmare and drifting from the bedroom to find Spike engrossed in a book. He’d attempted to hide it, but she had been faster, plucking it from between the sofa cushions and holding it out to him, saying, “If you’re gonna read it, share with the class.” With her head against his shoulder, and then pillowed in his lap, he’d done just that.
A century of making his bookishness a clandestine habit hadn’t dulled his love for the words or their rhythms; he’d read earnestly, unfalteringly, until the book was done. She hadn’t spoken the question about this other voice he seemed to harbor, though it was in her eyes, and he’d reluctantly broached the subject of the Victorian poet who’d found a peculiar sort of salvation in a London alley.
Spike had expected laughter, had, in truth, braced himself for it, but none was forthcoming. Faith had just winked at him, said, “Knew you’d always been a rebel,” and drifted back to sleep.
She’d mentioned it since, but only in passing, whenever a question struck her and the curiosity was great enough to make her ask. As it apparently had been on the subject of Christmases past.
“What was the family part like?” she asked, her voice pulling him from his reverie; she was clearly attempting to keep her tone casual, free of any sort of wistfulness; to a more casual observer, her efforts may have been successful, but he saw through her.
“Was nice, like I said; happy. Lot of decorations an’ things of that sort.” He tilted his head back against the sofa back, looking to the ceiling. “Father an’ Mum hadn’t had a lot of the Christmas things, trees an’ such, when they were kids; all the frippery and Father Christmas an’ all the celebrations weren’t really in vogue ‘til after they’d gotten married. But they were determined that I’d have all of those things.” He looked down, giving her a thoughtful half-smile. “We’d have a tree, with candles on the branches…”
“Well, that’s safe.”
“Was before those little mini-lights, now wasn’t it?” he retorted, running a finger up the sole of her foot, tickling her. “Wanna hear this or not? ‘Cause me continuin’ is dependent on you keepin’ that pretty, smart mouth shut.”
“I’ll behave,” she promised, eyes wide and mock-innocent.
“Believe that the day I see it,” Spike snorted. “So yeah, tree, candles on the branches. Lots of holly an’ such through the house. The maids would put all the decorations up except the tree—that was the family thing. Father would do the candles, an’ Mum an’ I would do the ornaments, paper birds an’ glass balls, things like that. Then we’d do letters to Father Christmas and throw ‘em in the fireplace so he could read the smoke an’ bring us what we asked for.”
“Sounds like a very pyro Christmas,” she deadpanned, squirming out of his reach when he dove for her.
“What did I tell you about that mouth?” he challenged before kissing her soundly, grinning smugly at the little moan that sounded in her throat. “Yeah, lots of fire. An’ I haven’t even gotten to the Yule log.”
“So was there anything you didn’t set on fire?”
“The gifts. And dinner on Christmas day, goose and veggies, mincemeat and plum pudding.”
“And all of that was just you and your folks?”
“For the most part, ‘less any of the rest of the family came to visit. Happened a bit when I was younger, but once Father was gone it was pretty much just me an’ Mum, and I filled in with the candles and carving the goose and the pudding and such.”
“Sounds nice,” she murmured thoughtfully. “Weird, though.”
“Yeah, well, was a hundred plus years ago. Things’ve changed, but it was nice.” A nostalgic smile shaped his lips, and he stretched out alongside her, tangling his fingers in her hair. “Would you want…”
“Nah.” She interrupted, shaking her head and turning her eyes to the television. “Too old for it now.” That edge of longing hadn’t disappeared from her voice; if anything, it suffused the words, gave them an edge that twisted his heart.
He propped himself up on his elbow, watching her with keen, tender eyes. “So we’ll just have it be a regular night instead, then.”
“Sounds good.”
~*~*~*~*
The sounds of string instruments streaming from their apartment drew him up short for a long moment; he froze, head tilted in curiosity, staring at the door before shaking himself and sliding his key into the lock. Was likely just the intro for some sort of driving house or rock song that Faith had discovered, even if there was a haunting, elusive sort of familiarity to the chords.
Certain that his parcels were just out of sight for when he opened the door, all the better for the springing of his surprise, he twisted the key and eased the door open, only to freeze anew from the sight that greeted him.
Faith, at the kitchen counter, a pile of evergreen boughs and candles before her. A bag brimming with what he immediately recognized as holly to her left, propped against the wall. And above it all, wide, startled brown eyes in a face that was rapidly becoming sheepish in its expression.
She hadn’t… except she very clearly had. Nearly a week had passed, and he’d thought she’d all but forgotten, had been content to let it go; yet here she was, surrounded by makings of the memories he’d recounted to her. He had absolutely no idea what to say.
As he searched for words, as he watched her
own struggle to find something to say, the instrumental tones he’d heard as he’d
approached the door registered in his consciousness; a look of completely
befuddled wonder shaped his features as he finally identified the sounds in the
background, stopping and tilting his head to listen for a moment before walking
slowly towards her. “So where did you find the carols?” he asked, breaking the
stillness between them.
“Hallmark,” she answered, shifting a little uneasily under a gaze that was
dangerously close to worshipful in the instant before it turned distinctly
amused.
“Wait a minute. After damn near stakin’ me over a TV movie, you went in a bloody card shop?” he asked, choking back a laugh but unsuccessful in keeping his smirk hidden. “With the cards and the bits and bobs and the… potpourri?” He said the word as though it was the vilest of curses, a solemnity echoed by Faith’s level gaze and short nod.
“Yeah, I did,” she answered, challenge and a hint of defiance coming into her voice and her bearing. “Victorian Yule songs aren’t big on the playlist at the record store, even around now. I tried to find something and even asked, but they sent me to Hallmark.”
Spike winced in sympathy. “This close to Christmas?”
Faith just shrugged. “It’s not like I’ve never been in the middle of a mob scene before, Spike.” She brushed her hair back off her shoulder, then added in a grumble, “But this time I didn’t get to kill anybody.”
“Guess you’re thinkin’ that I owe you, then,” he teased, sidling across the small space between them and looping one arm easily around her waist.
“See, yet another way I know this with you and me is gonna work out fine,” she answered, grinning at him. “Cause I was thinking that same thing while I watched Grandma Matilda block the aisle and pick out Christmas ornaments for the fifteen generations that are coming to dinner.” At Spike’s raised eyebrow, she added dryly, “She was having trouble deciding.”
“And…?” he asked, not even bothering to attempt to quell his smile any longer.
Faith squirmed. “I couldn’t get out with her where she was, and things were mad crazy behind me because bows or something were on sale…”
“And?” he repeated, tugging her closer and bringing his hand to her face, forcing her to look at him.
“And she made me help her pick,” she grimaced in response. “Baby foxes, and penguins, and what the hell do motorcycles and giraffes have to do with Christmas? The Santa and the elves and the other stuff I get, but…”
“Oh, love,” he chuckled, ducking his head for a kiss that broke off her litany and then leaning forward, trailing teasing licks down her neck until she groaned and arched against him. “So what’s all that gonna cost me?” he teased, the cool tickle of his breath against her ear sending the most delicious sort of chill down her back.
She drew back out of his arms a bit, giving him a wicked grin. “You know that whole not breathing thing that you do so well?”
He raised a brow and nodded, completely
satisfied with the direction her demands seemed to be taking. “It’s kind of a
force of not habit there, pet, but yeah?”
“Well, get ready to practice it for hours,” she answered, pressing her
hips forward into his, giving the movement a little twist and grind that made
his hands drift down and clutch tightly at her hips, his lids sliding slowly
closed as his cheeks hollowed with sharply-indrawn breath. “Maybe even days.
And then…”
“Might get tired,” he rasped, walking her backwards towards the counter. “Maybe even sore.”
“Got a remedy for that. In fact, might just be the perfect warm-up for you,” she answered, lifting her arms to drape around his neck and helping him lift her to the countertop.
“Do you now?”
“Mm-hmm,” she hummed, lips trailing down his throat.
“Give a bloke a clue?” he prodded, voice husky with need.
“It involves you, and me, and candles… and you showing me how to fix the damned things to that wreath without catching it on fire.”
“You’re kidding.” Spike’s voice was drenched with incredulity, his expression even more so, but as soon as he drew back to look at her, there was no doubt. “You aren’t kidding.”
“No. I went out and got all this stuff, and we’re using it.”
“We can do it after,” he suggested hopefully.
Faith snorted. “What, three days from now? You forget I’ve been around for a while, and I know what’s going to happen the second anybody’s pants hit the floor.” He gave her a skeptical look, and she rolled her eyes as she jumped back to the floor. “Believe me, I’m down for it, but I just… I want to do this, and the guy at the tree place where I got this stuff said I’d need to wire the candles on, and I can’t make it work right, so just show me how, okay?”
The last words had been muttered in an uncomfortable flurry, and he watched as her hair shifted forward to shield her face as she bent over the counter. She wanted to do this for him, a thought that he was still trying to process, and she’d clearly gone out of her way in the attempt. What else could he do?
“Right, then. Shouldn’t be too bad once I’ve shown you how,” he said, shrugging out of his coat and throwing it across the back of the sofa as he walked back to the door. “Just make sure you pay attention, ‘cause we’ve got a night ahead of us,” he added as he stepped into the hallway and returned dragging a small tree. He had his pocketknife out and the twine that bound the branches cut before Faith could say a word; he merely looked up at her silently, eyes twinkling, as he shook out the branches.
Faith’s eyes widened, flicking back and forth between the waist-high tree and the vampire holding it. “What is that?”
“You really are quite the city girl, aren’t you?” he needled, laughing as she scowled. “’s a tree, isn’t it? Figured we could put it up on the table there. Ornaments and such are in the hall; there’s more candles, too.” He leaned the tree against the table and walked towards her, eyes suddenly bashful. “If you want. If not, we’ll sit the lot of it outside and forget—”
“No we won’t,” she answered. “We’re going to have a tree. And a wreath, and all this other stuff. And carols, and there was this British section in the grocery store, so we’ve got that pudding you were talking about and all the other stuff that said Christmas on the box. And I went to Chinatown and got one of those ducks they always have hanging in the window; I figured it was close enough to a goose.”
“Had a spree, did you?” His hand cupped her cheek, and she smiled a little contritely.
“Never really had a reason to go out like this. Or the money to do it. It’s hard to say no to some of that stuff.”
“So it was all about the joy of glorious consumerism, then? Not a bit of anything else?” The answer was all there in her eyes, the quiet, unspoken glee that had sparked when she’d seen his face as he’d realized what she’d done. Much like the happiness he’d felt take root when she’d looked at the tree with that hint of wonderment.
“Like what?” she asked, eyes challenging, though her lips were curved into a playful smirk.
He laughed, combing his fingers through her hair and bending to kiss her fervently, pulling back and nodding his head towards the door. “It’s nothing, wildcat. Just help me drag those bags in, an’ then we’ll get to the wire, yeah?”
“What am I, your valet?” she scoffed, although she was already in motion behind him. “Who do you think helped me carry these bags in here?”
He turned and fixed her with a mock-stern glare. “Coal in your stocking.”
She turned the knob, stepping across the threshold into the hall. “So, the bags are out here?”
~*~*~*~*
Five hours later, the stack of dirty dishes by the sofa lay in evidence of their now-past-tense Christmas dinner; holly, boughs of candlelit greenery, and most significantly, a candle- and colored glass-bedecked tree stood on the coffee table, which had been pushed towards the wall.
The pads of Spike’s fingers drew random, scrolling patterns along the bare flesh of Faith’s back as they lay curled together in the living room floor, under the relocated comforter, staring up at the tree.
“It really hasn’t burned the place down,” she said wonderingly, fingers curling into the muscles of his chest as his chuckle resonated beneath her cheek.
“Told you,” he answered, cocking a brow as he looked down at her. “Didn’t believe me?”
“Had my doubts,” she answered, letting out a combination of moan and squeak when he shifted suddenly, rolling them and propping himself on one elbow above her.
“Doubted me? I’m hurt.” He was, in fact, amused, aroused, and cycling through any number of emotions involving his current state of ‘holding beautiful girl;’ hurt, however, had nothing to do with how he felt.
“Oh, come on,” she wheedled, shifting slightly, edging her legs just far enough apart to allow him to settle himself between her thighs. “For what it’s worth, I shouldn’t have.”
“Damn right.” He ground against her ever-so-slightly, grinning evilly when her head fell back, her eyes drifting closed.
“Should’ve had faith,” she gasped, bowing upwards as he nipped down the column of her throat playfully.
“How ‘bout you let me take care of having Faith, and you just believe in me?” he challenged, raising smoky eyes to hers.
“Deal.”
A shift of his hips, an arch of hers, and he was moving inside her, backlit by the luminescence of the decorations.
“Merry Christmas,” he murmured against her ear.
“Back at you,” she whispered, smiling, before flipping their positions, laughing as the slow undulations of her hips urged a growl from his chest. “Didn’t get you a present, though,” she continued, almost regretfully, as her hands slid up over the planes of his stomach.
“Doesn’t matter. Got all this. Besides,” Spike’s hands reached for hers, tangled with them as he tugged her forward to lay against his chest, “you’re the best damn thing I’ve ever had waiting for me under a tree.”