She kissed him hungrily, urgently, as if she were drowning and he was her life preserver. He burned for her just as she apparently did for him. Her hair was smooth as silk beneath his fingers. He ran them through those golden tresses clinging to her for dear life.

He should be enraged at his inability to pull away. He needed to kill her here and now. The bitch actually shot him. Okay, it was not really her, but she shot him. He should be disgusted that even though whoever possessed his body was gone he did not want his time with her to end.

The phonograph was still going, playing a song he remembered very well. He had killed a girl on her eighteenth birthday while it played in her car many years ago. She had thought he was her dreamboat, the answer to her prayers. He proved to her that night that not all answers to prayers were of the nice variety.

Buffy's kisses were divine, her lips delicious and warm. She kissed him as though she really loved him, as though she would rather be here than anywhere else. Never had he felt such sincere emotion from anyone. And this was after everything he had done to her the past few months. What was more, it seemed that he felt the same in return.

Whoever had possessed their bodies had long ago left. It seemed they had not opened up the school for his slayer's watcher and friends yet. They would be out there waiting to find out if she was all right. He was sure they were in a state of panic ever since hearing the lone gunshot. Perhaps the spirits thought they had a little reconciling to do themselves. As far as Angelus was concerned his time with Buffy was in the past. He was not up to reconciling, but he was up to feeling some warmth again.

Her hands were skimming underneath his leather jacket, her fingertips grazing his chest. She was driving him crazy, the feeling apparently double sided judging by the sounds of pleasure coming from her.

Fate, it seemed, had thrown them together. Would it be such a bad thing to take advantage of it? She had not broken their kiss and acknowledged she was herself again. Neither had declared war on the other once again. Would it be so bad to take her like fate seemed to want him to do and go back to tormenting her tomorrow?

She seemed to answer his question for him, or maybe it was those pesky spirits at work. Her fingers began working the buttons on his shirt. He began to growl, his hands caressing her body wanting her clothes off. Now.

She seemed to share his feelings because she made quick riddance of his coat and shirt, dropping them in a pile at their feet. Her mouth was wet and hot against his chest as she tongued first one nipple and then the other. His growl became louder as she made it harder for him to stay in control. Maybe she did not want him to be.

He returned the favor and removed her coat. Her shirt was a little more difficult than his being that it had no buttons but he really was not interested in undressing her completely anyway. That would signify that this meant more to him than it did. He wanted her, he could not deny that but this was all he wanted from her. He did not want her as his girlfriend, he did not want to be her boyfriend but he had no problem being her lover for one more night.

He forgot about what he did and did not want and worked on getting her out of her pants. They seemed to be on the same wavelength, she began to work the fasteners on his pants at the same time he began to remove hers.

He made a makeshift blanket out of their coats before laying her on the music room's floor. He hoped she never looked at this room the same again. He thoroughly enjoyed the idea that he could taint everything in her life so that she could not go anywhere without thinking of him, remembering him, wanting him. As much as he hated admitting it, he wanted her to want him.

"Buff," he grunted as he nuzzled her breast.

"Angel," she murmured. He growled as she arched into him, encouraging his mouth to her breast. Her arms were at his shoulders, drawing him into her, ever closer. She was a trusting one, she was.

He entered her, needing to be inside her more than he could remember needing anything. The sex was not slow and romantic like their first time together had been, but he did not hear any complaints from her.

Hands roamed everywhere, each taking the time to touch one another. Perhaps both knew this would be the last time they would get the chance to do this. It was time to step up his plan to get rid of her. Tomorrow he would dwell on it, but tonight he had a warm, willing woman beneath him he wanted to enjoy.

He moved inside of her, hard and fast, pushing deeper into her than he had ever been. He was a masochist, that had to be it. He came to that conclusion because he enjoyed her far too much to want her dead.

"Angel," she moaned overlapping his "Buff" as he ground into her, bringing himself to a climax that he sustained before letting himself fall from the point. Buffy was not too far behind him. He collapsed on top of her. The record was no longer playing. The only sound in the room was the scratching the needle made when it got to the end of a record.

"They're going to come looking for you," he muttered in a guttural voice.

"Not yet," she whispered, placing a kiss on his shoulder.

"Buff," he whispered a warning.

He heard her sniffle, felt her small body begin to shake beneath his and he sighed heavily, moving from on top of her. "What?"

"Didn't this mean anything to you?"

"Buff, Buff, Buff, it meant no more to me than what it was. You're a good fuck, Lover. Thanks for the good time."

"But they chose you. They chose me."

"They chose me because you could shoot me and I wouldn't die, Buff, that's all there was to it."

"But I love you."

"Yeah, I got that." He stood, pulling up his pants and drawing his shirt and coat on quickly after that. "Thanks for the good time."

"Angel," she called out as he left the music room. She sounded frantic, panicked, as if she could not truly believe he would leave her again. In a way, he could not believe he had either.

~The End~

Story ©Susan Falk/APCKRFAN/PhantomRoses.com