Spike And Mr Happy Conspire Against Xander
He knows I'm watching him, and Jesus, it is so unfair that
he knows what I'm thinking as easy as I know what he's thinking, only he didn't
need to lose an eye to do it.
Cause little Mr. Happy, my personal Judas is sitting up, paying attention, and spilling all my damn secrets.
But Little Xander and Spike can conspire against me all they want.
I Do. Not. Dance.
Okay, so I don't dance anymore because lemme tell ya, a year as a stripper will so ruin you for any kind of decent dancing. The second I get into the music, people are gonna be wondering if they should stuff dollar bills down my pants.
Not that I'm gonna tell Spike that.
Cause if I tell Spike that, I'm gonna have to tell Spike the stripper story, and then you know what Spike's gonna do?
He's gonna demand a private show.
And I ain't nobody's Private Dancer.
Okay, that came out so much girlier than I thought it would.
Popping open another beer now. Crisp cold beer, you are always my friend.
Until Spike's gotta grind up against Lindsey's backside like that on the dance floor, making a twin sandwich out of the lucky bastard and the beer goes straight up my nose.
Jesus Christ. He did that on purpose.
And fuck, that burns. At least nobody but Spike was watching me during that smooth maneuver. I'm gonna make him pay for another round, and then I'm gonna sit here and drink the whole thing by myself.
"See something you liked out there, mate?"
Ah, Spike. Spike with the sexy lips and the perfect timing, guaranteed to cause a man the most abject humiliation. Can't he see I'm trying to covertly wipe a little beer drool off my chin? Bastard. "I did, but now an annoying blond's blocking my way."
Spike snorts, shoving the empties away on the table and plants himself on my lap, making damn sure to grind up against my personal Benedict Arnold in a way that makes it real happy. "C'mon, luv! If I wanted to grind against Lindsey all night, I'd not have brought him a pressie."
"You mean pimped your brother to him."
"Pimp's an ugly word, pet and they've got on like a house on fire. Bit like us, then." And I really do wanna continue the argument, but it's hard to talk with Spike's tongue in my mouth, all hot, wet, slick, and tasting like beer and salt, and a little bit like copper where he bit his tongue.
Unless I'm the one that bit his tongue.
Dear god in heaven, this man can kiss.
What was I saying?
So fuckin' hard to think when Spike's finding that slip-slide rhythm, tongue against tongue and god, bastard, it's all to the beat. Something rough. Something hard. Something with bass in it that was always good for a grind against the pole.
"I'll make it worth your while, luv." Spike's twisting, till he's got his back to my chest, and god, I'd be an idiot not to let him do whatever the hell he wants with my arms, cause a palm-full of English cock? Not a bad thing, and when he tips his head back on my shoulder, it puts his mouth right next to my ear to whisper dirty dirty bad things.
Sexy things. Wrong things. Things that require accessories and would get us arrested in something like thirty states, and who the fuck needs a pole to grind against to the music when I've got Spike in my lap grinding back until his eyes close to slits and his voice goes all growly fuck-me.
And I can make out words again, harsh, breathy, coasting in under the beat. "This, pet. This's dancing."
"This is two layers of denim from fucking, Spike."
Now his tongue's curling behind his teeth, and I know that was so the wrong wrong wrong thing to say, cause I catch a flash of what he's gonna do like quicksilver across his mind, and then he's got his jeans shoved down and mine wide open and he's spearing himself on my dick like a bitch in heat, not even trying to hide what the fuck we're doing from anybody who looks our way.
'Cause he wants it. Wants people to see it. Us. And if I get any harder, I'm gonna burst something because it's so goddamn good.
And oh Jesus. Oh god, oh fuck he's already slicked up, and stretched, and wet and hot, and I can swear I feel the bass vibrating through his bones and into my dick with every clench and groan.
"Wanted, wanted to surprise you on the dance floor." I can just barely hear him over the music, hear him over the thump-thump-thump of blood in my ears and chorus of hallelujah from my dick, "but yeah, luv. Yeah, this'll do. Happy birthday, pet."