Strangers

Rating: NC-17

Disclaimer: : The usual.

Distribution: The Mystic Muse http://mysticmuse.net

Ask first.

Spoilers: Season six, but nothing you didn't already know about. Unless you've been in a coma. Or dead. Or something.

Feedback: Yeah!

Pairing: Buffy/Wesley

The little bar was called Caritas. She didn't know anything about it except that it was a demon bar and she didn't feel like being around people. So of course, the first being she saw when she entered the building would have to be not only a person, but a familiar one. She sighed heavily and turned toward the bar to order a drink.

A few minutes later, he was by her side. She had more or less expected it. They never saw one another any more, and he would want to speak to her. But she gave him a look which forestalled whatever he might have been about to say. To his credit, however, he only stuttered for a moment before speaking. "Ah—I—er—I was wondering, do I know you?"

She shook her head. "Doubt it. Not from around here."

"Really? Because you very closely resemble a young woman of my acquaintance about three years ago."

"Three years can change a person. I'm not her."

"Pity. Might I ask your name?"

She paused briefly, and then gave him one she'd used before, in this city even. It would serve. "Anne."

"Lovely to meet you, Anne. I'm... ah... Jack."

She gave him the eyeball. Her face said what her voice wouldn't. That was the best you could do? He shrugged slightly and offered to buy her a drink. He knew who she was. She knew who he was. And each of them knew that the other knew. But tonight was not a night for those two people who knew each other. Tonight was a night for Jack and Anne, who had never met. And they were both okay with that.

He led her to a small table and engaged her in witty and distracting conversation for a couple of hours before she finally stated that she'd had quite enough to drink, thank you, and it was time for her to head back to her hotel. He offered to walk her there, mean streets and all that rot, and she smiled slightly and let him.

At the front door of her hotel, they paused only briefly, studying each other's eyes. He was just about to bid her good night when she suddenly blurted out an invitation to come upstairs. "I've got a coffee maker and some fairly decent domestic coffee. And a mini bar, if you want something else to drink."

He cocked his head, studying her face. There were lines there he did not remember seeing on the face of the girl from years ago—lines of anger, anguish, grief, and loss. Lines of fear and pain. And a kind of haunted quality about the eyes that told him it had been a long time since she'd found real comfort in anything. Maybe too long. He accepted her invitation.

They sat together on the sofa, drinking fairly decent domestic coffee laced with Kahlua from the mini bar and looking out over the bright lights of the big city. "I haven't been down here in a long time," she remarked quietly. "Bad memories, I guess."

He nodded. "I've a number of those myself," he said softly. "Mistakes I made, things I regret... things I said or did that sometimes come back to haunt me in the night."

She made eye contact with him and he told her with his eyes the things he couldn't say with his voice. She nodded briefly, accepting those things. Then his hand was warm on her knee, and she was looking at him still, but her eyes were different now. Her eyes were sparking now, full of something hot that he couldn't quite define. And then she set her coffee down on the windowsill and laid her own hand over his.

They moved to the bed, not speaking, but each knowing what the other wanted somehow, as though they had been lifelong lovers. He lay her down, unbuttoning her shirt while she unbuttoned his. He traced the lines of her very faint scars with his finger, causing her to shiver and her flesh to pebble beneath his touch. Then he lay with her, kissing her as though he would never kiss another woman again. He moved from her lips to her neck and she arched into him, her voice soft, encouraging. His hand slid underneath her to unfasten her bra and then it was gone and his mouth was on her breast and her hand was winding in his hair. He slid his hand farther down her abdomen to the fastening of her trousers and he worked the button and then the zipper, sliding his hand inside the fabric to cup her sex through her panties. He could feel her scorching heat and her wetness even through the silk barricade.

She worked the button-fly on his jeans as he moved back and forth on her chest, suckling at first this nipple, then the other, and then back again. She wasn't entirely sure how she kept her head under the ministrations of his mouth, but she finally got his pants undone and pushed them and his boxers down off his hips, raising one leg to push them off with her foot. She trailed gentle fingers down his chest to the thick dusting of coarse hairs and wrapped one deceptively strong hand around his cock, stroking it gently even as he was stroking her nether lips, his hand now inside her panties and his fingers slick with her wetness.

He groaned at the sensation as she wrapped her small hand around him and began gently stroking him, and he pulled her pants and panties off her, so that she was as naked as he, and open and willing beneath him. He stroked her gently with his fingers, wetting them thoroughly before suddenly, surprisingly, plunging two of them into her slick channel. She arched and hissed at the sensation, her free hand finding its way up to the middle of his back and gently digging into his flesh. Oh, he would have claw marks tomorrow, but he did not care.

He teased her with his fingers until she was panting beneath him, begging him with voice and body to penetrate her with his substantial penis. Finally he did so, sliding into her in one smooth movement, rocking himself home with a gentle thrust. She gasped, both of her hands now scratching the flesh of his back, and then she did something that completely surprised him.

She somehow rolled them both over so that he was lying on his back and she straddled his hips. She sat there, his cock buried deep inside her, and she locked eyes with him, holding them both in stasis for probably half a minute. He had never seen a more beautiful sight in his life than this young woman, blonde hair falling all down around her face, green eyes locked and burning into his own. And then she started to shift, to move, to ride him like a thoroughbred, bringing him slowly but steadily up to a full gallop when she suddenly tossed her head back and keened. And when her inner muscles began to clamp down on him, he suddenly bucked beneath her, thrusting up into her, and filling her with the essence of him.

She held herself up over him for a long moment, and then she slowly lay down next to him, never disengaging their joined bodies. She didn't say anything, just lay there, her head on his shoulder and her hand lying in the hollow of his chest. He said nothing as well, and before long, they were both asleep.

When he awoke the next morning, he was alone. He wasn't particularly surprised. There was a note for him on the bathroom cabinet.

Wesley,
Thank you for last night. I needed it more than you know. You are a wonderful, wonderful man. I think... I think I can live, now.
Buffy.

The End

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