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Felinity
by Buffonia
She closes the door behind her and scans the room for him. Lilah doesn't
knock these days. Not since Wesley stopped locking the door. He's nowhere
in the front of the apartment, which means he's in bed. Waiting with a book.
And she knows that even when he sees her enter, he'll keep reading. Because
he likes to make her feel unimportant.
As she stalks towards the bedroom in a heel to toe, sultry manner, she discards
the unnecessary. Purse. Jacket. Blouse. Skirt. Dignity. No need for any of it.
Quietly, she pads toward his room, hips still asway, despite the loss of her
intimidating pumps.
But she's still adjusting to the absurdity of it all. Never in all her relationships,
ones far more screwed up than this, was she the first to be unclothed. A sneer
on her lips, she would always patiently watch her partner undress. Then, and
only then, did Lilah bare all. Yet it was only in invitation to the other. "Yes, you
*may* come fuck me now."
Always in control. Lilah. She chuckles to herself, in disgust.
She leans her nude body against the doorframe and tilts her head slightly, smirking.
His face is buried in a 12th Century volume of god-knows-what. The blankets cling
to his warm skin and settle on his stomach. His chest is bare, as is the rest of him,
even the parts beneath the sheets.
"Wes...," purrs Lilah. Soft and low. Because she knows he knows she's there, and he
knows all of this. But this is the routine, and at least there are no surprises. Except
how he'll choose to slice her down tonight. Because that's always new and exciting.
"What do you want?" he sighs, turning the page and then adjusting his glasses.
Never once looking up at her.
"I was wondering if I could borrow some sugar," she improvises, smirk growing.
God, she wants him. But this is the routine, and she can't stray from The Routine...
"Cute," says Wes, with infinite boredom coloring his tone. He's much better at this
than she is. A fucking natural.
And, as expected, she's the one who gives in. Moving towards him in proud defeat.
Even though he's reading the book, and she isn't sure if his part of the show is just
that, show. But just in case he's watching her through the corner of his third eye,
she swaggers her way to the bed.
When she reaches the mattress she gets down. On all fours now. Still with that
generous sway, she continues her torturously slow journey to Wesley. Well,
torturous to her. Hot, naked and wet, she hates that she'll have to play first. But
that's how it goes. And it's partially the reason she comes back to unlocked doors
and a man who likes to make her feel like a flattened penny.
She meets the bulge of his right leg through the blankets, and straddles it. Her
hands move up his thigh. He's hard.
"Must be some book," she teases, stroking his cock. His leg doesn't move as she
brings her pelvis down and caresses him through the quilts.
"C'mon Wes...," she says, coaxing, playful. She's still smiling, but the tension
between her legs is killing her as she lightly grinds into his knee. Any minute
now, she knows he'll cave. He has to. "What's a girl got to do to get your
attention around here...cut your throat?"
That's it. Right there. Line number two thousand and forty-six, crossed by Lilah
Morgan. Thankyouverymuch. Self-satisfaction sings through her gut as his fingers
tighten their grip on the book. He closes it. And his gaze is burning on her. With
one hand, he places the book on the bedside table and removes his glasses with
the other, placing them on the tome's leather cover.
Before she can cackle with victory, his steel grip is on the scruff of her neck, just
below the back of her skull. Thumb violently pushing on her quickened pulse.
"Is it that you want a scar of your very own, Lilah?" his voice is patronizingly calm.
But that fire in his eyes makes her stop being wet with lust and starts making her
wet with fear.
For a second, she imagines fucking him while he holds a knife to her throat.
"To smell your own blood in such high quantity as it pours in front of you, and
down you," she would want him to whisper into her ear, as he pressed the blade
into her soft skin, while screwing her at an excruciatingly slow pace. "The way it
zings across your jugular, like a crude violin bow. The music it makes in your
head, as you lie there dripping dry. Do you want it?"
She wonders if she would nod or cum. Maybe both.
It takes her a minute to dissolve the fantasy. But when she fully retreats back into
reality, she realizes Wesley would never be so intimate with her to discuss the poetry
of near death. Especially if he knew how she craved to hear it.
"Getting your throat slit changes you," he says, staring at her. A little less romantic
than she hoped, but he was actually being honest. Wesley *had* changed. And
part of her isn't sure if he would have gone back to Angel Investigations even if
they had open arms and warm, fuzzy feelings for him. Lilah likes to think that it
was she who seduced him into this lightless abyss. But it's her that has been
getting darker by the day.
"I noticed," she replies.
Wesley relaxes his hold and brushes his hand forward and down, over her
collarbone, and lets it fall to rest at the peak of her breast. When he squeezes the
firm tip of her nipple, she purrs in delight and throws her head back. Because this
*is* victory. And she giggles. Giggles. A delightful, rippling tremor deep in her
throat. As he feels his way down. Down. Down to the damp lust past her belly
button.
And he's still staring. Which makes her shiver. And he slides two fingers over and
under and *in* and out and *in* and out. Which makes her shiver some more and
gasp.
"Fuck me," says Lilah, back arching, eyes closing, lip trembling. She's begging.
Whimpering. Mewling. Frantically reclining as his fingers slowly retreat before
thrusting back in. And what the hell is he staring at? "Do it!"
Removing his fingers, slowly, he'll have none of it. Her head rolls forward and she
glares at his resolved features. No. Horny? Yes. Angry? Yes. Chock full of moral
ambiguities? Yes. Domesticated? No.
"Fuck *them*," she growls, climbing atop him, pushing him flat on the mattress.
Now she stares back. And she sees that flicker of British trauma in his eyes as he is
caught off guard. She smiles down at him because that's the key. "Fuck each and
every one of them."
She mounts him, easing herself down. They've come a long way from that first
night where she watched the ceiling and he, the pillow. Not that it hadn't been
great sex. Not that she hadn't melted into a quivering, soaking wreck beneath him.
Because it was, and she did. But now they are done with pushing back and forth
(for the time being) and now they are at one, same goddamned level as she rides
him. Nails scratching down the fragile flesh of his sides.
Her spine curves as she lowers herself to kiss his lips. Leaving his mouth to trail
her tongue over his cheek and over more, moistening the shell of his ear. Suddenly,
she's on her back again, and now he's on top, but she allows this. Their thoughts
are one as their gaze remains unbroken.
Angel. Cordelia. Gunn. Connor. The Texan cutie. Fuck. Them. All.
"Yesss," she hisses. Into his mouth as he covers hers with it. She cries out. He
gasps. And they shudder simultaneously.
* * *
It's morning when Lilah unwraps herself from him. Rolling away to the edge of
the bed and sliding off until her feet hit the floor. Morning. And she woke up in
his bed and she can't believe it. She woke up and she wasn't half-dead and he
wasn't gone or trying to kick her out. He watches her dress, but remains silent.
The once-again-necessary is replaced, with only slight wrinkles. Panties. Skirt.
Dignity. She's smiling, he's thinking. Fully clothed now, she crosses her arms
smugly and arches a brow.
"Goodbye Wes," she says. After a brief moment of studying his pensive
expression, she turns. His face is soft as she exits the room.
Closing the door behind her, she chuckles to herself. Wesley Wyndham-Pryce.
You world spinning bastard. She'll be back later tonight. And maybe she'll even
bring the knife.
END
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