Faith is still hurting. Wes can tell by the way she moves, the way one side of her face tenses from time to time as if she’s suppressing a wince. He isn’t surprised. Slayer healing or no, she’s had the shit kicked out of her, and it’ll take her time to recover.
He sits on the couch, watching her. She is taut and tight-lipped, still angry at him. She unpacks her gear, scattering wooden stakes haphazardly over his chairs.
“That was fucked up, Wes,” she finally says.
“Yes. Orpheus is a terrible thing. It makes people do things they would never do under other circumstances.”
Her glare stabs through him like a blade. “I didn’t mean that. I meant you.”
Wes says nothing.
“There’s a line,” Faith goes on. “You went over it.”
His lips tighten against his teeth. He doesn’t like her questioning him. “I did what had to be done. If you’re not willing to do what it takes to get him back, maybe I need to find another ally.” His voice is harsh, harsher than he intended, and betrays too much. Faith can’t know, though. There’s no way she can guess.
But she narrows her eyes at him in a look that is far to evaluating for his comfort. “Tell me, Wes. Why didn’t you call Buffy?”
Wes is silent a moment, then says quietly, “She would have killed him.”
“There was a time you were ready to let him die, Wes. What changed?”
“We’ve worked together a long time.”
Her gaze is sharp, discerning. “That all, Wes?”
He stands, his body taut. “I’m gong to save him. If you want to help, then help. If not…”
Faith just looks at him, then away. “Know what I always wondered, Wes?”
Her constant repetition of his name is annoying him. “What have you always wondered, Faith?”
A small smile curves Faith’s mouth. “What’s he like to fuck?”
There is a long pause. After a moment, Faith’s gaze moves back to Wes, scraping him slowly from head to toe, evaluating him. Wes just sits there and waits. She can’t know, he thinks, then, I don’t care if she knows.
Faith watches him, and as she does, the set of his jaw shifts just that tiny bit, that fraction of an inch that turns his placid expression into one of mocking knowledge. She is taken aback. No, shocked. Every bit as much as she was shocked by his behavior at the bar. Not because of the implications of Wes’ slow smirk, but because he’s making no effort to hide it. In fact, he’s flaunting it.
Then he turns away a little, no longer meeting her eyes, looking out the window at the empty street below. Still with that faint, knowing quirk to his mouth.
Faith gives a barking laugh. “What do you know? I was right.”
Wes’ head jerks back toward her, his expression fluttering into a frown, and Faith is pleased she’s disturbed his composure. “Right about what?”
“Think about it. I could have taken Cordy. I took you.”
His mouth opens, then closes again. “I—I didn’t—I don’t—We weren’t—”
He stops. Faith just sits there watching him, grinning. This is more the Wes she used to know, what with the stammering and the fish-like mouth-gaping. It amuses her.
“Maybe you weren’t,” she says, then leans close, goading him with her quiet voice. “But you were damn sure thinking about it.”
Wesley’s eyes go hard, cold, steely blue like sapphires. “Your logic is faulty.”
“Yeah, it is. Without the other half of the equation.”
“And what’s that?”
“Angel, of course. I scoped it out soon as I saw the three of you. Woulda thought Cordy. Came in figuring it’d be Cordy. But it was you.” She whispers the last into his ear, and his body stiffens. Arousal or anger, she can’t tell, but she doesn’t care, either. She nips his earlobe. “Fuck me,” she murmurs. “Fuck me like he fucks you.”
He looks directly into her eyes, his expression flinty now. His hand closes on her upper arm. “No,” he says. “I’ll fuck you like I fuck him.”
His hand on her arm tightens, the fingers digging in. She’d always thought his hands looked delicate, effeminate, bird-like and breakable, but the fingers on her now are hard, brutal. A thrill runs through her body, and she looks into his cold sapphire eyes.
She tosses her hair back. “He lets you fuck him? Find that a little hard to believe, Wes.”
His lips thin against his teeth. “Then you don’t know anything about him.”
Before she can respond, he has thrown her onto the couch, belly down, half-sprawled. She doesn’t fight it. She could snap him like toothpicks, but she doesn’t want to. This Wes intrigues her. Appalls her, too—she cringes again thinking of the knife twisting in the girl’s shoulder at the bar—but she wants him to overcome her, dominate her. Hurt her.
Which he does, as his slim fingers dig into her, dragging at her jeans. Though she’s healing fast, she’s still bruised and sore from the confrontation with the Beast. Every time he jostles her, a dull, pounding pain jolts through her.
It feels good. There’s more than a little masochist in her—one reason she always craved Angel’s touch. Imagining what he might do to her if she let him…
Wes shoves a finger into her ass and she cries out with the sudden spear of pain. He stops, but he doesn’t pull out. “Angel likes it when it hurts.” His voice is a breathy rasp in her ear. “Do you?”
“Yes. God, yes.”
“I thought you would.” She can hear the thin smile in his voice. He sounds menacing, brittle. Suddenly she is afraid, remembering what she did to him, how she hurt him, remembering the smell of his blood and the gemstone hardness in his eyes as he bore it. This, perhaps, will be his revenge.
It is a swift and primal reaction, the fear, and she quickly pushes it away. She can stop him any time she likes. Kill him if she wants to, and he knows this.
He shifts behind her, still impaling her with that long, slim finger. She pushes back against him; the pain has faded, and she wants to feel it again. Her body shivers, and she is wet with need.
Wes chuckles, and suddenly she feels a cold wetness on her. His finger slides deeper, more easily this time, and she moans at the fiery burn. She wants him inside her, now. Hard. But he’s going to make her wait.
She opens her thighs for him, tipping her hips back. He’s got her in an impossibly awkward position on the couch, but she doesn’t care. She just clings to the cushions and hopes for the best.
“Easy on the lube,” she says, then jumps again as, aided by the cold slickness, he inserts another finger and pushes them both in farther than she can quite handle yet. She bends her head down into the couch, just letting him work her open.
“Just do it, Wes,” she finally says. Her whole body is on fire with the burning ache, the intense, violent lust that always takes her after a fight, that she hasn’t been able to slake in a long time.
Wes says nothing, but she hears his breath hitch. He leans into the couch, shoves the back of her shirt up and reaches around her, one hand clasping her breast. She’s surprised to feel chest hair rasp against her back. His shirt’s just unbuttoned, though; his arms are still in the sleeves. Long fingers press and mold her breast through her shirt, then pinch her nipple hard enough to make her jump. His teeth scrape along the back of her shoulder. She wonders if he’s thinking about her at all, then decides she doesn’t give a fuck as his fingers slide free of her ass, that hand clenching her buttock now, lube-slicked fingertips digging bruisingly into her, and the head of his cock butts up against her. She’s flared and ready for him, and resigned to the fact that her cunt is just not going to get any attention tonight, unless she does it herself.
She feels him arch over her, and then he’s inside, pushing slowly but steadily and God, who knew he’d been packing something that long in his prissy Watcher pants all that time? It seems to take him forever to seat himself, the burn of penetration sending her whole body into flames that waver between lust and pain.
Finally he’s still for a moment, just resting inside her. She clenches on him and hears his intake of breath. Then his teeth are on her shoulder again, biting into her, and he begins to ride her.
It’s a slow, easy glide at first, the thrusting punctuated by a rhythmic tightening of his teeth. She’s so lost in it she can barely see. Ecstasy pulses through her in waves that are still half pain, and suddenly she climaxes, moaning incoherently as a deep undertow pulls her down. Her vision goes red and black, and when she comes back he shifts again, loosens his teeth from her shoulders, straightens, and pounds her.
Faith’s been fucked by a lot of men—women, too, to be honest—but it’s never been like this. There’s a desperation in Wes that edges on violence. His cock slams again and again into her ass, the sensation so raw she’s not sure how long she can take it. The fact she knows damn well he’s pretending she’s Angel just makes it that much intense.
He’s making noises now, incoherent, whimpering sounds, as he thrusts faster and harder, deeper. She feels like she’s going to split open, and she isn’t entirely certain she’ll live through her next orgasm, because it’s crawling up her body from the conflagration in her loins, and suddenly it explodes inside her and she lets out a tearing, animal howl as the spasms rip through her.
He freezes then, too, letting out a gasp that sounds like a sob, and she can feel his cock pulsing inside her. And he breathes her name, and she feels like he’s pulled her all open to look inside, without asking first, and she clenches her fists in the cushions and tries not to cry.
* * *
He leaves her for a time. While he’s gone, she takes the liberty of crawling into his bed. Figures she has the right to, now. The shower is running, and he comes back smelling of Irish Spring. She wonders if it’s a hindrance, showering with half the tile smashed off the wall. But when he’s done, he slips into the bed beside her and puts his arms around her.
She lays against him for a long time, her face in his chest, breathing his smell. He’s playing with her hair, the long fingers stirring it, caressing her scalp. Her body is still thrumming, the raw ache in her ass making her crave him again. Her cunt throbs and wants him.
“Shoulda fucked me like that in Sunnydale,” she says after a time. “Might not have bugged out on you.”
He chuckles, and she feels him kiss her hair. When he speaks, though, his voice is sober. “What made you…” He pauses, and Faith realizes with some surprise that he’s afraid to ask the question. Finally, though, he forges on. “What made you take me?”
Faith starts to shrug the question off, then stops to consider it. “Not a part of my life I’m real proud of, Wes.” She stops, hoping he’ll let her off the hook, but he just waits, silent, fingers softly stirring her hair. “Animal instinct,” she finally says. “There was something—maybe he smelled a little different when you were around.”
Wes’ hand stills a moment in her hair, before beginning the soft, stirring movement again. She decides maybe he’s fair game now for the tough question. “You in love with him, Wes?”
“No,” he says, right away. There’s a long silence, then he adds softly, “Perhaps I am.”
“Me, too,” she murmurs, and slides down his body to suck his cock.
His hand on her shoulder stops her. She looks up to see the sapphire eyes regarding her. His expression is soft, and God, but he is sex on a stick right now and when the fucking hell did that happen?
He reaches down to cup her breast, his thumb rolling over her nipple. Her body thrums, like he’s tuning her strings. He draws her up toward him, using his soft grip on her breast, and the next thing she knows he’s kissing her, his tongue tracing her lips. He is tender, and she draws a sharp breath.
Before she quite registers what he’s up to, he has ducked down and buried his face between her thighs, his mouth wet and soft, drinking her in slow, steady movements. His tongue slides inside her and the hot, gentle invasion makes her body fall apart again. She climaxes on his mouth, shaking so hard she’s not sure how he’s keeping hold of her. While she’s still shivering, making wet, gasping noises, he replaces his tongue with two long fingers, then finally he moves over her and moans softly as his cock sinks in.
He’s still for a moment, just resting inside her, and suddenly she feels tears well. A small smile curves his mouth, and he opens his eyes to meet hers. The smile fades.
“Faith?” His voice is gentle, and he brushes a tear from her face.
She nods and draws him down to kiss him, tasting his mouth, letting herself be vulnerable because she knows, in this moment, he won’t take advantage of her if she lets her armor slip a bit.
When she draws back, he has a small crease between his eyebrows. “Oh, dear,” he says, and suddenly he’s Sunnydale Wes again, prissy and proper, and she can’t help laughing.
“What?” She slides a hand down to cup his ass.
“Should I have found a condom?”
His question is so sincere, his expression so earnest with genuine concern, that she feels herself tearing up again. “It’s all right,” she tells him.
The little smile quirks again over his lips. His hips tilt, pushing him a bit deeper inside her. Her body reacts to him, but it’s a slower flame that she usually feels, heating and melting her languidly, like she’s a lit candle. Slowly, he begins to thrust, sliding deep inside her, slipping back out, his movement slow but firm. His hand curls around her breast, possessive, somehow protective. He quickens the tempo, and bends to kiss her forehead.
She just lets him ride her. It’s been a long time—a very long time—since she’s been made love to. Fucked, yes, but this is different. There’s a softness to it, a grace and caring she never expects from anyone, much less Wesley. But he’s totally focused on her now, watching her face. He changes the rhythm, moving in short, hard thrusts, and reaches between them. His long fingers cradle her warm clit, and she melts, the hot, soft candle wax of her body collapsing into a single powerful jolt of orgasm.
Vaguely, she hears his soft intake of breath, feels his cock pulse inside her as he too lets go. She grips his shoulder for anchorage and allows herself to cry.
* * *
Later, she wraps herself in a robe she found in the closet and goes into the kitchen. He left her alone for a bit, with her tears and her shaking hands, and she’s grateful for that. She still feels displaced, but somehow his smell on her, his come on her thighs, makes her feel more settled.
Oh, if only he’d Watched her this way back in the day.
The thought makes her smile. He looks up from where he’s making coffee and smiles back. “How are you feeling?”
Wrapping the robe around her, she takes a seat at the kitchen table. “At the moment? Well-fucked.”
He chuckles and flips on the coffee pot. When he turns back to her, she has sobered. She folds her hands on the table.
“We can save him,” she says quietly.
His expression sharpens, focused once again on the problem at hand. “How?”
She looks directly into his eyes, daring him to challenge her, and speaks a single word.
“Orpheus.”