Summary: A metaphorical bloodsucker meets a literal one in a seedy bar.
Disclaimer: Not mine. Joss's. Damn him.
Lilah is the best looking woman in the bar, as always. She turns one of the barstools and sits facing outwards, legs slowly crossed with a rasp of her stockings. There's a mirror to her left, and she inspects her appearance for any flaws she may have picked up on the way. There are none.
She's wearing deadly looking heels that she wouldn't be able to walk in if she didn't have a whole lot of practice, and sheer stocking on long legs kept shapely by a lot of exercise. Her dress is a simple but visibly expensive black shift, and her only jewellery is the short row of pearls around her throat. They have that special gleam that tells a careful observer that they're real and they've been loved because they shine so much prettier when they've been worn, absorbed the oils from the wearer's skin... It isn't visible that she isn't wearing panties, but oh, how she knows.
She winks at herself in the mirror and turns around. There's someone slouched over the bar at the stool next to her, which she hadn't been expecting. He looks familiar, and - she checks in the mirror behind the bar - he's a vampire. Normally that would be a bad thing. Most of the vampires she recognizes only respect her due to her function at Wolfram and Hart and tonight she's out without her business cards. But now she's placed the face. He looks a lot better in leather than in tweed.
"Nice to finally meet you, Spike," she says, and his eyes dart to hers in shock. He glares at her, and she raises an eyebrow, takes a sip of her whisky.
They stare at each other for a few moments. Lilah could win the contest, easily - she wouldn't be where she is today if not for a certain amount of presence - but she doesn't care to. She flutters her impeccable lashes and gazes at the line of his jaw. "You could say I'm a family friend," she says. "Lilah." She waves a languid hand at him, not expecting him to catch it and bring it to his lips.
"Charmed," he mutters, and doesn't quite touch his lips to her skin. "Which part of the family?"
Lilah attempts to pull her hand back so she can fold her arms at him, but her hand doesn't move; Spike keeps possession of it without even tightening his grip. She frowns, and he smirks, and repeats his question.
"I've met the rest of the Fearsome Foursome, in various capacities, of course," she says, and glances meaningfully at their joined hands - she's given a little, and now it's his turn. Instead of letting her go, he kisses her hand, genuinely this time, the feel of cool lips on her skin one that she's never been able to forget. She shudders.
"Met or fucked?" he asks with a mix of contempt and amusement in his voice. She bites her lower lip and looks up at him through her eyelashes.
"I plead the Fifth," she replies, lilting flirtatiously, and flicks her eyes towards the door. He lets go of her hand and slides off the stool, waiting for her to stand. He places his hand in the small of her back and lets her lead the way out of the door. She turns to him as the door closes behind them, and is surprised to find that she's taller - it's not that she isn't used to looking down on half the men she meets, it's just that Spike, like all of the line of Aurelius, has always seemed somehow larger than life.
They walk halfway down the block before Lilah spots a suitable doorway - deeply recessed and unlit - and turns to enter it. Spike seems surprised, and lags behind a little, giving her time to position herself against the near side of the entrance, leaning against it with one leg bent at the knee, her foot against the wall, hair tossed over her shoulder. It's a somewhat cliched pose, but she looks good in it.
Her latest confirmation of that is the look on Spike's face as he walks up to her. He covers her body with his own and kisses her forcefully, a wet nasty kiss that couldn't be anything other than a prelude to hot nasty sex, and she lets him. It's nice to let go of her control, and it's not as if he can actually hurt her - not any more than she wants him to. And that's not about to include biting. Ow.
He pushes her skirt up, and leans back to grin, shark-like, when he doesn't encounter any underwear. She grins back, because the joke about professional courtesy is even more applicable in her firm (where getting thrown to the sharks could be a literal possibility, though sharks aren't the favoured literal man-eaters), and unbuttons his jeans.
She strokes him a couple of times and wraps her leg around his waist. He grabs her hips and lifts her easily, his strength sending a thrill through her. He pushes inside her without hesitating, a long smooth stroke that's the best thing that's happened to her all week. He fucks her fast and hard, and she'll have bruises tomorrow where his hands are clenching on her hips, and this dress may never be wearable again but she'll gladly sacrifice it for this.
Spike moves a hand between them to rub her clit with his thumb, then leans in to mouth at her throat. Lilah feels a pull as her necklace catches on his teeth, and tries to warn him that if he breaks it she'll kill him slowly, but she can't quite breathe and anyway he's moving up her neck and away from it, so all she has to care about is coming. Which she does, quite satisfactorily, and she relaxes against him as he thrusts a few final times.
He leans his forehead against her shoulder as he - ridiculously - catches his breath, and after a few moments he lifts her again and sets her down gently, away from the wall. She smoothes down her dress as he pulls up his jeans, and then she walks away. She doesn't look back.
Back to the fiction index