Spike City Chapter 8
After much grrrrring and arghhhhing, I finally have the next chapter of Spike City ready to post. The writing has been going so smoothly on this one, it was bound to hit a snag sooner or later. But I think I've worked my way through it and things should be off and running again.
Sorry for the chapter ending. I'll try to make it up to you on the next one.
This gorgeous, sexy manip and my icon are a gift from the amazing artist angelstoy Thank you love!!!
Chapter 8
“What do you mean you lost him! How fucking dumb can you be? All you had to do was keep an eye on the goddamn hospital where you put him.”
Jax strode back across the penthouse towards the terrace doors, his short, wide figure swathed in a black monogrammed robe and slippers, eyes glinting dangerously in building irritation. As he glanced over his shoulder at Finn, the early sun shone through his thin brown hair making it appear even thinner.
“Maybe you remember in that stupid Mick brain of yours, I said give him a warning. Not land him in intensive care. I don’t give a shit about your personal vendettas, Finn. I thought you were clear on that. More professional. Could be I put my money on the wrong horse.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Jax. How was I suppose to know he’d sign himself out early? He shouldn’t have been able to move, let alone leave. The bastard’s got nine fucking lives.”
“Yeah. Lucky for you, since I have an interest in the boy. He’s good. Maybe even the best.” Jax flung open the glass doors that lead to the balcony and strode outside, looking over the waist-high parapet to the city below. His chunky fingers tapped thoughtfully on the brick barrier. “Wouldn’t be a bad idea to make him an offer. Get him away from that floundering old turkey, Porferro.”
Riley bit his lips, trying to hide his anger at the idea of Spike muscling in on his territory. He followed Jax into the fresh air, grimacing as the white light flared in his eyes. His hands rounded into fists. “You wouldn’t like him, Sir. He’s a wild card, not a team player.”
“A team player like you, you mean?” Jax’s smile was broad and mean. “I like initiative in my people, kid.”
He waved a dismissive hand at the thug disturbing his morning routine. Pansy hadn’t even brought out his coffee yet. Jax didn’t like talking business before he had his coffee. He breakfasted every day on the terrace, weather permitting, and the small wrought-iron table placed near one end of the balcony was as yet bare of linen or the vase that held his morning flower. No coffee in sight.
“Forget it,” he grumbled, in that instant making up his mind to get rid of Finn as soon as this fucked up mess was concluded. “There’s nothing we can do about your spilt milk. He’s too smart to go back to his place, and he’ll never let you find him now. Just keep a closer eye on the reporter. Make sure he stays alive. I don’t want any slip ups, Finn. If our friend Spike gets to O’Halloran, you’re going to be very, very sorry.”
Finn nodded and spun way, a simmering blackness writhing inside him. He’d show that fat asshole initiative if he ever got his hands on Spike again.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“Sit down. You look a little shaky.”
Spike’s face had gone a chalky shade of gray. He put Angel’s plant carefully on the windowsill beside the radio, and swayed, looking as though he were going to take a header onto the black and white linoleum. Droplets of sweat suddenly oozed from his forehead and temples, and lined the curve of his upper lip. Angel hastily pulled a chair out from the small kitchen table and guided his tottering guest into it.
“M’fine. Just need to catch my breath.”
Spike’s head drooped between his wide, bare shoulders, exposing the curve of his neck and the thicket of blonde hair outlining the shape of his skull. Angel pictured his fingers buried in the slightly moist-looking strands. He took a step back, talking himself out of it with a quick internal dialogue consisting of Jerk, pervert, molester of the helpless, god! Nononono! He’s hurt. You can’t..
Spike’s face tipped up to him, almost as though he could hear the whisper of the words echoing inside Angel’s head. The slits of blue visible behind rainbow bruises held the hint of a smile that was repeated in the upward twitch of his split lip.
“Don’t look so worried, mate. Cuppa might help a fellow out. S’probably been a day or two since I had anything would qualify as food. Told ‘em straight out what they could do with that hospital shite.”
“Yeah. I bet you did.” The tension in the muscles along Angel’s back eased. He couldn’t hide the beginnings of his own smile at the belligerent tip of Spike’s chin. “You don’t much like people helping you, do you?”
Spike seemed to huff up to twice his size, a strange phenomena, like the puffer fish Angel had seen at the aquarium, indignation in the arch of his eyebrows, his lips narrowing. A blue-dagger gaze shot angry sparks Angel’s way.
“Do just fine on my own, mate. Don’t need no bloody charity. People...” and who Spike meant came across loud and clear to Angel, “...need to stay out of my business.”
“What business would that be?”
“Mindin’ my own, if you get my drift.” The swollen mouth became a stubborn line.
“Jesus. I didn’t mean to insult you. Besides, who said anything about charity. People help each other out. It’s a thing.”
“Can shove your thing where the sun don’t shine.”
The double entendre hit them both at the same instant. Spike looked mildly amused at himself. Angel, after a slow blink, turned back to the stove, where enticing smells were beginning to scent the air. He flipped on the radio to an oldies station, humming nonchalantly, concentrating desperately on not thinking about shoving his ‘thing’ anywhere warm and tight and Spike-shaped. Angel could feel Spike’s eyes sliding over his bare shoulders and back. The pair of pants he was wearing, and Spike’s sheeted sarong seemed, all of a sudden, a very thin barrier between them.
“I heard it through the grapevine...” Angel warbled along softly, hoping to lighten the mood, and get Spike laughing. He knew he had a truly terrible voice. But there was no response to his tune mangling.
Angel’s atrocious baritone failed to make much of an impression on Spike. His unintentional gaffe hung in the air before him like a neon sign, blinking his desire. He sat quietly, deep in thought, too aware of his nakedness under the sheet, and wishing he felt well enough to take some advantage of the half-dressed cook. His eyes roamed over the smooth skin covering Angel’s spine and the sliding wings of his shoulder blades as he worked.
The tattoo flexed, came alive. Spike stared at it. He had seen it before, seen its secrets revealed from his hiding place in a closet. Studying it so close, with no obstruction, made Angel belong to him somehow, as though Spike had put the dark lines there himself. Inked them with his fingers and tongue, the wet, sensitive tip of his cock.
He shivered, sitting in the sunlight on a kitchen chair. A mantle of gravity settled over him. He looked at Angel and felt the responsibility for his life. It had a weight to it. Spike frowned, eyes pinned to the small of Angel’s back, where the dip of warm flesh disappeared into a pair of ragged jeans. The man was real to him suddenly, alive in a way no other target had ever been. The contract loomed abruptly, a gathering storm about to break over his head.
“Look.”Angel glanced around dutifully, his eyes asking for the rest of the question. “Need to borrow your phone. Big mojo goin’ on. Forgot all about it, what with gettin’ my head bashed in. Got people I was suppose to meet. S’private.”
When Angel didn’t respond, Spike pursed his lips and lifted his brows. “You know? Private?” That got a brisk nod.
“Sure. Of course. I’ll help you back to the bedroom, and you can call from there. There’s a phone on the nightstand.”
Not waiting for the offered help, because Spike could do just fucking fine on his own, couldn’t he, he rose, his frame locking itself upright, and began a slow shuffle for the kitchen door. Angel’s growl of exasperation tickled his ear. Then there was an arm around his waist and a strong body to lean against as he continued on, head held high, ignoring his human crutch.
Spike was plunked down on the edge of the bed, the phone thrust in his face, and Angel’s retreating figure stomping grumpily through the door in the direction of the kitchen before he had a chance to consider saying an ungrateful thank you.
“Bloody hell.” Spike grimaced as his fractured ribs scraped at his vitals after the unceremonious descent. “Don’t have to fling me about like dirty laundry.” But he didn’t say it loud enough for Angel to hear, and secretly approved the big prat’s fit of pique at his own cussedness.
Punching Porferro’s number in, Spike ran through possible excuses for not having whacked his mark yet. Honesty was the best policy, he concluded, just as Porferro picked up the phone himself on the third ring. His greeting was anything but cordial.
“You’ve disappointed me, Spike, and I don’t like being disappointed. I’ve come to expect better of you.”
“Hey. Have I ever let you down? No. And I’m not gonna do it now. But we’ve got a problem. Gotta work my way ‘round it all careful like. You do want this done nice and tidy, don’t you, mate? Nothin’ leading back to you?”
The silence at the other end of the line spooled out, leaving Spike with a squirming stitch in his belly. Finally Porferro spoke.
“A problem?” He bit the words out sharply.
“Jax has stuck his nose in. Target’s got himself a couple of brand-new, shiny bodyguards. Seems like your...friend wants that bloody story to hit the papers almost as much as you don’t.”
Porferro chewed on that for a couple of seconds. Spike could hear his angry breath hissing over the line. “All right,” the man finally spat. “I trust you to do the right thing, Spike. Take your time if you have to. Just be sure I don’t pick up tomorrow’s Times and see my name splashed all over the headlines.”
“You got it, mate. Taking care of Jax and his crew will be a bloody pleasure.”
“And Spike...” Warmth spread through Spike’s veins. He knew what the smarmy bastard was going to say even before he said it. “If you rid me of that fat nuisance, there’ll be a big bonus in it for you.”
“Ta, mate. Just what yours truly was hopin’ to hear. I’ll call you in another day or two. And don’t worry about any headlines. Your name won’t feature.”
Spike put down the receiver gently with a wide flash of teeth. Things were looking up. He’d bought himself some time to ease the pinch he was in. Now if he could just placate Clark Kent, and take a few days to heal up, he’d run down the rat bastards who’d knocked him about, and put them in the ground.
Making his way stiffly back to the kitchen, Spike cleared his throat, trying to unfreeze what he could sense was a very chilly atmosphere. “What are you cookin’ for me, pet?”
Angel turned, brandishing his spatula like a baton or possibly a cudgel. Spike wasn’t sure whether he was about to conduct an orchestra or smack him on the head.
“Anything you’ll let me, Mister I’ll-Do-It-All-Myself.”
Spike lifted an eyebrow cautiously, thinking he wasn’t agile enough at present to escape if Angel came after him with mayhem in mind.
“What you got, pet?”
Turned out what he had suited Spike fine. There was hot coffee and toast, eggs over easy and fried tomatoes, the edges crispy and the centers soft and juicy. No bacon or sausage. Angel insisted they were unhealthy and never bought them.
“Carcinogens.”
“‘K.”
Spike sighed his regret at such unnatural views, but tucked in with an otherwise determined enthusiasm, trying to win back some points with the cook. There was also the fact that he wasn’t letting a little spat rob him of a chance at a proper brekkie, when his usual fare was black coffee and a cigarette.
The poofter had some interesting hidden talents. Spike promised himself to explore all of those in the future. He forked a tomato slice into his mouth, chewing energetically. Looking up, he paused mid-bite, realizing Angel hadn’t joined him at the table.
He stood across from Spike, leaning on the kitchen counter, watching him eat with an expression of approval. Angel took a sip of his coffee. “Well? What do you think?”
“Good,” Spike managed around a mouthful of egg yolk and toast. “Bloody,” gulp of coffee, “Brill.”
And truth was, he was feeling much better. The touch of queasiness that had overcome him on first rising was fading as he shoveled the hot food in with the concentration of a starving man. Feeling better also helped him to put his disconcerting foray into having a conscience down to the concussion rather than some bleeding thunderbolt from heaven turning his head around. Imagining he was responsible for Angel’s life was just daft.
Spike’s gaze slid up from his plate to the man lounging opposite him against the counter, wearing only a pair of jeans and a half-cocked smile. Fucking hell. He looked shaggably hot, bare-chested with his naked feet crossed at the ankles, and his hips canted Spike’s way.
“Make some bloke a bloody good wife, you will.” Spike let the tease out, chuckling, waiting for a reaction. “Keep a clean house. Cook a fine meal. You good in the sack, pet? Like taking it up the back passage?” Oops. Maybe that wasn’t called for.
“I don’t think that’s any of your damn business.” The response was mild, but there was a hint of anger churning in Angel’s eyes. “That what your wife does? Cook and fuck?”
“Ha bloody ha. Told you I ain’t got nobody. No next of kin. No wife. Not a soul who cares for poor Spike. ‘Less Dru counts?”
“Dru? Who’s Dru?” Angel’s face threw an unvoiced accusation of lying at him.
“Dru’s my...” Spike faltered, wanting to bite his tongue for bringing her up, then glanced across to meet the challenging gaze. “Sister, maybe. Mother for certain. My whore, my cunt, my.....”
“Okay, okay. I get the message. You’re....sick or crazy. Or both. I can’t make you out.”
The conversation seemed to have veered somewhat off course. Away from shaggin’. Spike wasn’t used to having his careless words thrown back at him. He supposed it wasn’t politic to call Dru his sister or his mother in somebody’s kitchen with the scent of eggs and toast in the air, then talk about humping her. Still, he wasn’t used to curbing his mouth. She was all those things to him and more. But he bit down on the rest, cocking his head at his inquisitioner, waiting, the need to pant in the close atmosphere overwhelming him.
He startled, when Angel pushed off abruptly from the counter and moved across the kitchen with surprising grace for so large a man. His feet padded out the careful, solid thump of a an approaching predator. The hair on Spike’s neck and arms rose as Angel stepped up close, bumping the table.
“What?” His chin jutted out pugnaciously.
There was no artifice in Angel’s eyes. “I think you know what.”
Ah. Now they were gettin’ to it. Warm, Angel-scented air stirred across Spike’s cheeks. Easy as that, he was thinking about his dilemma again, what positions would work with his bruises and breaks. He wanted to reach out and coil his hands around the bones of Angel’s hips. The smell of him mixed in Spike’s nostrils with the muggy kitchen air, all sex and tantalizing challenge, making him harden.
Spike was gonna fuck the man’s hole so deep, have him astride, riding the heft of his cock, the way a tyke would bounce on a pony. No necessity to move any of his body but his hips then. Flat on his back. He could see it clearly. Just shove his burning thickness up into that half-resistant heaven. The feel, long and tight around his prick, the nip and suck of Angel’s rectum on his hard flesh. The man would squat, balancing on his heels, taking the fucking....
“Do I know?” Spike hadn’t realized he was going to speak. “Bloody sure of yourself, aren’t you, pet? Just sodding met and you’ve got it all figured out. Shouldn’t be surprised. Did try to pick me up, didn’t you? At that club.”
Spike gazed up at him, a shark gleam in his eyes. He could see it all, what Angel would look like. How he would taste. His balls swelled and shifted at the thought Angel would object to being taken like a woman, opening his body to Spike’s rude invasion. Shivers cascaded delicately down the knobs of Spike’s spine, a swirl of dirty sensation. He flicked his hot gaze up to catch the reciprocal shimmer in Angel’s eyes.
“What are you waiting for?” he growled.
It was rougher than Spike expected, and because his mouth had been hammered to raw meat, the taste of old pennies spilled between them, lush on the mating curl of their tongues. His lip bled profusely. Spike wiped it away with the heel of his hand and went back for more.
Sorry for the chapter ending. I'll try to make it up to you on the next one.
This gorgeous, sexy manip and my icon are a gift from the amazing artist angelstoy Thank you love!!!
Chapter 8
“What do you mean you lost him! How fucking dumb can you be? All you had to do was keep an eye on the goddamn hospital where you put him.”
Jax strode back across the penthouse towards the terrace doors, his short, wide figure swathed in a black monogrammed robe and slippers, eyes glinting dangerously in building irritation. As he glanced over his shoulder at Finn, the early sun shone through his thin brown hair making it appear even thinner.
“Maybe you remember in that stupid Mick brain of yours, I said give him a warning. Not land him in intensive care. I don’t give a shit about your personal vendettas, Finn. I thought you were clear on that. More professional. Could be I put my money on the wrong horse.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Jax. How was I suppose to know he’d sign himself out early? He shouldn’t have been able to move, let alone leave. The bastard’s got nine fucking lives.”
“Yeah. Lucky for you, since I have an interest in the boy. He’s good. Maybe even the best.” Jax flung open the glass doors that lead to the balcony and strode outside, looking over the waist-high parapet to the city below. His chunky fingers tapped thoughtfully on the brick barrier. “Wouldn’t be a bad idea to make him an offer. Get him away from that floundering old turkey, Porferro.”
Riley bit his lips, trying to hide his anger at the idea of Spike muscling in on his territory. He followed Jax into the fresh air, grimacing as the white light flared in his eyes. His hands rounded into fists. “You wouldn’t like him, Sir. He’s a wild card, not a team player.”
“A team player like you, you mean?” Jax’s smile was broad and mean. “I like initiative in my people, kid.”
He waved a dismissive hand at the thug disturbing his morning routine. Pansy hadn’t even brought out his coffee yet. Jax didn’t like talking business before he had his coffee. He breakfasted every day on the terrace, weather permitting, and the small wrought-iron table placed near one end of the balcony was as yet bare of linen or the vase that held his morning flower. No coffee in sight.
“Forget it,” he grumbled, in that instant making up his mind to get rid of Finn as soon as this fucked up mess was concluded. “There’s nothing we can do about your spilt milk. He’s too smart to go back to his place, and he’ll never let you find him now. Just keep a closer eye on the reporter. Make sure he stays alive. I don’t want any slip ups, Finn. If our friend Spike gets to O’Halloran, you’re going to be very, very sorry.”
Finn nodded and spun way, a simmering blackness writhing inside him. He’d show that fat asshole initiative if he ever got his hands on Spike again.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“Sit down. You look a little shaky.”
Spike’s face had gone a chalky shade of gray. He put Angel’s plant carefully on the windowsill beside the radio, and swayed, looking as though he were going to take a header onto the black and white linoleum. Droplets of sweat suddenly oozed from his forehead and temples, and lined the curve of his upper lip. Angel hastily pulled a chair out from the small kitchen table and guided his tottering guest into it.
“M’fine. Just need to catch my breath.”
Spike’s head drooped between his wide, bare shoulders, exposing the curve of his neck and the thicket of blonde hair outlining the shape of his skull. Angel pictured his fingers buried in the slightly moist-looking strands. He took a step back, talking himself out of it with a quick internal dialogue consisting of Jerk, pervert, molester of the helpless, god! Nononono! He’s hurt. You can’t..
Spike’s face tipped up to him, almost as though he could hear the whisper of the words echoing inside Angel’s head. The slits of blue visible behind rainbow bruises held the hint of a smile that was repeated in the upward twitch of his split lip.
“Don’t look so worried, mate. Cuppa might help a fellow out. S’probably been a day or two since I had anything would qualify as food. Told ‘em straight out what they could do with that hospital shite.”
“Yeah. I bet you did.” The tension in the muscles along Angel’s back eased. He couldn’t hide the beginnings of his own smile at the belligerent tip of Spike’s chin. “You don’t much like people helping you, do you?”
Spike seemed to huff up to twice his size, a strange phenomena, like the puffer fish Angel had seen at the aquarium, indignation in the arch of his eyebrows, his lips narrowing. A blue-dagger gaze shot angry sparks Angel’s way.
“Do just fine on my own, mate. Don’t need no bloody charity. People...” and who Spike meant came across loud and clear to Angel, “...need to stay out of my business.”
“What business would that be?”
“Mindin’ my own, if you get my drift.” The swollen mouth became a stubborn line.
“Jesus. I didn’t mean to insult you. Besides, who said anything about charity. People help each other out. It’s a thing.”
“Can shove your thing where the sun don’t shine.”
The double entendre hit them both at the same instant. Spike looked mildly amused at himself. Angel, after a slow blink, turned back to the stove, where enticing smells were beginning to scent the air. He flipped on the radio to an oldies station, humming nonchalantly, concentrating desperately on not thinking about shoving his ‘thing’ anywhere warm and tight and Spike-shaped. Angel could feel Spike’s eyes sliding over his bare shoulders and back. The pair of pants he was wearing, and Spike’s sheeted sarong seemed, all of a sudden, a very thin barrier between them.
“I heard it through the grapevine...” Angel warbled along softly, hoping to lighten the mood, and get Spike laughing. He knew he had a truly terrible voice. But there was no response to his tune mangling.
Angel’s atrocious baritone failed to make much of an impression on Spike. His unintentional gaffe hung in the air before him like a neon sign, blinking his desire. He sat quietly, deep in thought, too aware of his nakedness under the sheet, and wishing he felt well enough to take some advantage of the half-dressed cook. His eyes roamed over the smooth skin covering Angel’s spine and the sliding wings of his shoulder blades as he worked.
The tattoo flexed, came alive. Spike stared at it. He had seen it before, seen its secrets revealed from his hiding place in a closet. Studying it so close, with no obstruction, made Angel belong to him somehow, as though Spike had put the dark lines there himself. Inked them with his fingers and tongue, the wet, sensitive tip of his cock.
He shivered, sitting in the sunlight on a kitchen chair. A mantle of gravity settled over him. He looked at Angel and felt the responsibility for his life. It had a weight to it. Spike frowned, eyes pinned to the small of Angel’s back, where the dip of warm flesh disappeared into a pair of ragged jeans. The man was real to him suddenly, alive in a way no other target had ever been. The contract loomed abruptly, a gathering storm about to break over his head.
“Look.”Angel glanced around dutifully, his eyes asking for the rest of the question. “Need to borrow your phone. Big mojo goin’ on. Forgot all about it, what with gettin’ my head bashed in. Got people I was suppose to meet. S’private.”
When Angel didn’t respond, Spike pursed his lips and lifted his brows. “You know? Private?” That got a brisk nod.
“Sure. Of course. I’ll help you back to the bedroom, and you can call from there. There’s a phone on the nightstand.”
Not waiting for the offered help, because Spike could do just fucking fine on his own, couldn’t he, he rose, his frame locking itself upright, and began a slow shuffle for the kitchen door. Angel’s growl of exasperation tickled his ear. Then there was an arm around his waist and a strong body to lean against as he continued on, head held high, ignoring his human crutch.
Spike was plunked down on the edge of the bed, the phone thrust in his face, and Angel’s retreating figure stomping grumpily through the door in the direction of the kitchen before he had a chance to consider saying an ungrateful thank you.
“Bloody hell.” Spike grimaced as his fractured ribs scraped at his vitals after the unceremonious descent. “Don’t have to fling me about like dirty laundry.” But he didn’t say it loud enough for Angel to hear, and secretly approved the big prat’s fit of pique at his own cussedness.
Punching Porferro’s number in, Spike ran through possible excuses for not having whacked his mark yet. Honesty was the best policy, he concluded, just as Porferro picked up the phone himself on the third ring. His greeting was anything but cordial.
“You’ve disappointed me, Spike, and I don’t like being disappointed. I’ve come to expect better of you.”
“Hey. Have I ever let you down? No. And I’m not gonna do it now. But we’ve got a problem. Gotta work my way ‘round it all careful like. You do want this done nice and tidy, don’t you, mate? Nothin’ leading back to you?”
The silence at the other end of the line spooled out, leaving Spike with a squirming stitch in his belly. Finally Porferro spoke.
“A problem?” He bit the words out sharply.
“Jax has stuck his nose in. Target’s got himself a couple of brand-new, shiny bodyguards. Seems like your...friend wants that bloody story to hit the papers almost as much as you don’t.”
Porferro chewed on that for a couple of seconds. Spike could hear his angry breath hissing over the line. “All right,” the man finally spat. “I trust you to do the right thing, Spike. Take your time if you have to. Just be sure I don’t pick up tomorrow’s Times and see my name splashed all over the headlines.”
“You got it, mate. Taking care of Jax and his crew will be a bloody pleasure.”
“And Spike...” Warmth spread through Spike’s veins. He knew what the smarmy bastard was going to say even before he said it. “If you rid me of that fat nuisance, there’ll be a big bonus in it for you.”
“Ta, mate. Just what yours truly was hopin’ to hear. I’ll call you in another day or two. And don’t worry about any headlines. Your name won’t feature.”
Spike put down the receiver gently with a wide flash of teeth. Things were looking up. He’d bought himself some time to ease the pinch he was in. Now if he could just placate Clark Kent, and take a few days to heal up, he’d run down the rat bastards who’d knocked him about, and put them in the ground.
Making his way stiffly back to the kitchen, Spike cleared his throat, trying to unfreeze what he could sense was a very chilly atmosphere. “What are you cookin’ for me, pet?”
Angel turned, brandishing his spatula like a baton or possibly a cudgel. Spike wasn’t sure whether he was about to conduct an orchestra or smack him on the head.
“Anything you’ll let me, Mister I’ll-Do-It-All-Myself.”
Spike lifted an eyebrow cautiously, thinking he wasn’t agile enough at present to escape if Angel came after him with mayhem in mind.
“What you got, pet?”
Turned out what he had suited Spike fine. There was hot coffee and toast, eggs over easy and fried tomatoes, the edges crispy and the centers soft and juicy. No bacon or sausage. Angel insisted they were unhealthy and never bought them.
“Carcinogens.”
“‘K.”
Spike sighed his regret at such unnatural views, but tucked in with an otherwise determined enthusiasm, trying to win back some points with the cook. There was also the fact that he wasn’t letting a little spat rob him of a chance at a proper brekkie, when his usual fare was black coffee and a cigarette.
The poofter had some interesting hidden talents. Spike promised himself to explore all of those in the future. He forked a tomato slice into his mouth, chewing energetically. Looking up, he paused mid-bite, realizing Angel hadn’t joined him at the table.
He stood across from Spike, leaning on the kitchen counter, watching him eat with an expression of approval. Angel took a sip of his coffee. “Well? What do you think?”
“Good,” Spike managed around a mouthful of egg yolk and toast. “Bloody,” gulp of coffee, “Brill.”
And truth was, he was feeling much better. The touch of queasiness that had overcome him on first rising was fading as he shoveled the hot food in with the concentration of a starving man. Feeling better also helped him to put his disconcerting foray into having a conscience down to the concussion rather than some bleeding thunderbolt from heaven turning his head around. Imagining he was responsible for Angel’s life was just daft.
Spike’s gaze slid up from his plate to the man lounging opposite him against the counter, wearing only a pair of jeans and a half-cocked smile. Fucking hell. He looked shaggably hot, bare-chested with his naked feet crossed at the ankles, and his hips canted Spike’s way.
“Make some bloke a bloody good wife, you will.” Spike let the tease out, chuckling, waiting for a reaction. “Keep a clean house. Cook a fine meal. You good in the sack, pet? Like taking it up the back passage?” Oops. Maybe that wasn’t called for.
“I don’t think that’s any of your damn business.” The response was mild, but there was a hint of anger churning in Angel’s eyes. “That what your wife does? Cook and fuck?”
“Ha bloody ha. Told you I ain’t got nobody. No next of kin. No wife. Not a soul who cares for poor Spike. ‘Less Dru counts?”
“Dru? Who’s Dru?” Angel’s face threw an unvoiced accusation of lying at him.
“Dru’s my...” Spike faltered, wanting to bite his tongue for bringing her up, then glanced across to meet the challenging gaze. “Sister, maybe. Mother for certain. My whore, my cunt, my.....”
“Okay, okay. I get the message. You’re....sick or crazy. Or both. I can’t make you out.”
The conversation seemed to have veered somewhat off course. Away from shaggin’. Spike wasn’t used to having his careless words thrown back at him. He supposed it wasn’t politic to call Dru his sister or his mother in somebody’s kitchen with the scent of eggs and toast in the air, then talk about humping her. Still, he wasn’t used to curbing his mouth. She was all those things to him and more. But he bit down on the rest, cocking his head at his inquisitioner, waiting, the need to pant in the close atmosphere overwhelming him.
He startled, when Angel pushed off abruptly from the counter and moved across the kitchen with surprising grace for so large a man. His feet padded out the careful, solid thump of a an approaching predator. The hair on Spike’s neck and arms rose as Angel stepped up close, bumping the table.
“What?” His chin jutted out pugnaciously.
There was no artifice in Angel’s eyes. “I think you know what.”
Ah. Now they were gettin’ to it. Warm, Angel-scented air stirred across Spike’s cheeks. Easy as that, he was thinking about his dilemma again, what positions would work with his bruises and breaks. He wanted to reach out and coil his hands around the bones of Angel’s hips. The smell of him mixed in Spike’s nostrils with the muggy kitchen air, all sex and tantalizing challenge, making him harden.
Spike was gonna fuck the man’s hole so deep, have him astride, riding the heft of his cock, the way a tyke would bounce on a pony. No necessity to move any of his body but his hips then. Flat on his back. He could see it clearly. Just shove his burning thickness up into that half-resistant heaven. The feel, long and tight around his prick, the nip and suck of Angel’s rectum on his hard flesh. The man would squat, balancing on his heels, taking the fucking....
“Do I know?” Spike hadn’t realized he was going to speak. “Bloody sure of yourself, aren’t you, pet? Just sodding met and you’ve got it all figured out. Shouldn’t be surprised. Did try to pick me up, didn’t you? At that club.”
Spike gazed up at him, a shark gleam in his eyes. He could see it all, what Angel would look like. How he would taste. His balls swelled and shifted at the thought Angel would object to being taken like a woman, opening his body to Spike’s rude invasion. Shivers cascaded delicately down the knobs of Spike’s spine, a swirl of dirty sensation. He flicked his hot gaze up to catch the reciprocal shimmer in Angel’s eyes.
“What are you waiting for?” he growled.
It was rougher than Spike expected, and because his mouth had been hammered to raw meat, the taste of old pennies spilled between them, lush on the mating curl of their tongues. His lip bled profusely. Spike wiped it away with the heel of his hand and went back for more.