Rating: NC-17
Author: Trekker
Pairing: Giles/Jenny
Fandom: Buffy
Of all the lousy excuses--
“A *gas leak*?”
Rupert blinked at her, standing in his doorway, backlit by the light from the apartment.
“Oh, uh. Jenny. Hello.”
She pushed past him and inside, still annoyed.
“Um. Yes, why don’t you... come in?”
He could have at least called her or something. Should have known she’d hear news about weirdness at the school and know he was involved and be worried.
“Please, Rupert. I know a cover-up when I hear one. What the hell is going on?”
“Um. I’m not sure, really. Xander said he’d, uh, fill me in in the morning.”
For the first time, she really looked him over. Clothes dusty, hair mussed, looking a bit more spaced-out than was even usual for him.
“God, you look awful.”
“Yes. Well. I was planning on showering. And then, possibly, er, getting some sleep.”
For an unsettling moment, she actually felt like she was intruding, which wasn’t a feeling she had very often, in general.
“Is this you kicking me out?”
“What? Oh. No. No, not at all. It’s merely that, um... Well, I’m a bit... out of it at the moment, as they say.”
And the ocean was a bit wet.
“Yeah, I’d noticed. Ok, here’s the deal. You go shower. I’ll cook something for us--ok, that’s a lie. I’ll order something for us. We’ll eat. Then... I can help you relax. Sound good?”
“Um.”
“Rupert. Just nod, smile, and shower.”
“Uh. Right... Right. I’ll be out in-- in a few minutes.”
“Take your time. Chinese’ll probably take half an hour.”
He looked around for a moment, seeming lost, and then meandered off in the direction of the bathroom. She waited until she heard the door close, then snatched up the phone, ordered dinner as quickly as possible and then... she had the place all to herself. She grinned.
Rupert’s apartment. She’d been here a few times, though she didn’t remember much of the first time she’d been here, when the demon had been in her. The next time she’d been here had been the night she’d shot Rupert with his own crossbow. She’d only stayed long enough to get him settled in bed in a haze of pain-medication and then she’d gone home. The next couple of times she’d been here they’d spent necking like a couple of teenagers, because, damn it, she’d shot him with his own crossbow, and he’d still been in pain. Anyway, she didn’t know about him, but frankly, she was about to die from sexual frustration.
However, the point was... this was her first time she’d actually been alone in his apartment.
Naturally, that meant one thing:
It was time for a little... detective work.
She started with a quick circuit of the apartment. First, his desk. Cluttered, with papers and pens and books. All of it, at a glance, seemed to be Watcher stuff. Nothing jumped out as interesting, so... on to the kitchen counter.
There were scotch bottles and glasses in easy reach, but also, inside the kitchen, she could see pots and pans, and a spice cabinet. This intrigued her. Rupert must actually cook. She silently congratulated herself once again on a finding a good catch.
Then she headed into the living room. More books, and piles of magazines and scholarly journals... but also a fairly extensive record collection of albums that she really might have considered cool if she’d been born about a decade earlier than she had been.
Once she was back out of the living room, her eyes fell on the heavy chest backed up against the couch. Rupert’s magic stuff. Probably not too exciting, but... one never knew. She knelt down and pushed the trunk open, noting that it wasn’t even locked. Not very good security given that she suspected some of the things in here could probably... end the world or something.
With that in mind, she was a little extra cautious as she poked around in the stuff. It was like a treasure trove of odd knickknacks with runes on them and strange smelling herbs and brightly colored crystals.
And candles and matches. And, ooo, a nice black raven’s feather.
She liberated those last three things from the trunk and closed the lid again. Paused a moment to listen for the water still running in the shower, and then, satisfied, headed up the stairs.
His bedroom was dark and quiet. Kind of still without him in it. It smelled like him, just faintly, a light undertone that made her feel... happy.
She set the stuff down on the bedside table and then opened the drawer. And raised her eyebrows in approval.
Aside from the usual assortment of bedside stuff--glasses case, cough drops, tissues--there was some more interesting fare. Condoms, of course, what guy didn’t have those somewhere? But also: a bottle of Astroglide (unopened, but ever more confirmation that her suspicions about Ethan Rayne were probably on target) and a pair of padded handcuffs. And massage oil. That could be useful.
Also an odd thing to have just lying around.
Ah, well, her dear Rupert was nothing if not odd.
She gently pushed the drawer shut and strolled back down the stairs. The shower was still running, so she settled in on the couch in the living room, and paged through one of the books on the coffee table. Hmm. Demons, death, doom. Such cheerful stuff. She really had to try harder to talk him into trying out the concept of light reading.
Or, heaven forbid, *fun* reading.
The shower went off with a clanking of pipes. She contemplated sneaking in and getting a glimpse... and maybe a grope... but decided that giving the poor man a heart attack was not the best strategy for helping him relax.
So, instead, she waited, on her best behavior, for him to emerge on his own, and clothed.
The food came in the meantime, and she paid and was setting it out on the counter when he finally did creep out from his den, dressed in a T-shirt and sweats and all damp and pink and curly-haired and instantly both the most innocently adorable and the most carnally sexy thing she’d ever seen.
Her breath actually caught in her throat, and all this time she’d believed that was total romance-novel trash (not that she didn’t appreciate a little of said trash now and then), and her body flushed hot and then cold, one quick rush, hormones checking in.
He slipped his glasses on and looked up as he stepped out of the hall, and looked at the food kind of like he was wondering where on earth it could have come from.
Poor dear. He really was out of it tonight.
“Look. It’s food. I think you’ll find it has a positive impact on higher mental functions. Which you apparently could use right now.”
He smiled at her, a small, quiet smile, not nervous like he usually was. More distracted, really. But he got the message, and sat down on one of the stools, reaching for the General Tso’s chicken.
“I am, um, distantly familiar with the concept. Believe I may have read about it once.”
After that they ate mostly in silence, sitting on their stools, turned towards each other, knees almost touching. She couldn’t take her eyes off him. Had never seen him like this, out of the tweed, out of the whole librarian/Watcher mode. Had never realized how much of a persona it was until now.
Because right now, he was just a man. No, not “just” anything. He was gorgeous. Tired, though the shower and the food did seem to be doing him some good, and even slouching a little, and his white T-shirt was clinging a bit to his damp skin, draping over his torso... compared to what he normally wore it was as though he were suddenly naked. And he was...
Sexy, and in far more than just a sort of bookishly charming sort of way. When he lifted his chopsticks, she could see muscles she’d never imagined lurked beneath those shapeless jackets.
He was watching her, too, and still smiling that soft smile that wasn’t helping the whole melting-inside feeling.
And, when they were both nearly done, he reached out and slipped his hand into her hair, and leaned in and kissed her. Tasted like hot peppers. Felt like fire.
When it ended, she was a little more off-balanced than she preferred to be, herself. She reached up, took his hand in hers, and stood. Tugged a little, and he followed willingly, up off the stool, and all the way up into the loft.
They kissed again at the top of the stairs, and he pressed against her, pulled them together, and she trembled inside. Wanted him. Felt it, in the hammering of her heart, the tenseness of her stomach, the swelling heat between her legs. His tongue against hers, hot and wet, his hand at the base of her spine, fingertips slowly drifting up and down.
She pulled away, still feeling skittering sensations over her skin.
“You, bed, naked, now,” she said.
He was different right now. Quiet. Intense. As he stepped back, he didn’t speak, just tossed his glasses on the dresser behind him and grabbed the hem of his T-shirt and swung it off over his head.
Seeing him shirtless, even, hit her hard, a jolt to her system. Could do nothing but watch as he pushed his sweats down and stepped out of them. Then sat on the end of the bed, and looked up at her, like he was awaiting instructions.
Or something else, perhaps.
She went to him, slipped her arms around his shoulders and had to shut her eyes for a moment at the intensity of soft warm skin. Of touching him. And opening her eyes and seeing his own looking up at her, smoky green and aroused...
It moved her. Far more than she’d expect it would. Moved her deeply. Made her breathe hard, made the whole world seem a little different, a little brighter, a little sharper.
Not just touching a man. Touching *him*.
He’d reached up, with one hand, and was running it along her side, and he was looking at her with the same kind of wonder she could feel in herself.
It was powerful. New. Even a little frightening.
“My Jenny,” he said.
And that was enough to press her eyes shut again, enough to startle her. She leaned forward and kissed his lips, quickly. Then said, “Lie down.”
Then pulled away, feeling shaky. He did as she asked, moving back onto the bed and lying down on his back, head on the pillows. His eyes never left her. Her eyes never left him. That body, sleek and strong, marked with scars and aged around the edges but moving with the grace of a predator. A warrior.
She nearly dropped the match as she lit the candle. Fumbled with her buttons and snaps and clasps as she undressed. His eyes on her all the while, his hand down at his waist, near to, but not touching his cock. His erection.
Tried to swallow and found her throat dry as she slipped off her underwear and was naked before him.
His hand slid over the last inch and rested over his shaft, pressed a little, just a tiny stroke.
“My god,” he breathed, and it shook her from her reverie.
She grabbed the feather off the nightstand and climbed onto the bed, then stretched out beside him, propped up on one elbow on her side, looking down at him. Felt like she should smirk, should say something, but couldn’t find any of those things inside her. All she wanted was to touch him. See what he looked like when he fell apart.
He laughed at the sight of the feather, but it was a gentle, happy laugh, the kind that made his eyes sparkle.
It was the kind that made her laugh back, and the feeling was wonderful, both for the sudden lightening of the mood and for the way it moved their bodies against each other.
She let herself fall over him for a moment, felt his arms go around her, warm and safe and loving. Hadn’t felt so uncomplicatedly happy... in so long.
He kissed her head, and then she squirmed until he let her go. Grinned down at him and then dropped a light kiss on his lips.
Then she touched the feather to the underside of his jaw. Watched as his eyes closed and he leaned his head back, bared his throat to her. Drew in a breath deep enough to move his chest against her, then let it out and seemed to relax completely. Surrender and pleasure were written in his pose.
She trailed the feather down the ridge of his throat, over his Adam’s apple, down into the hollow at the base. He breathed out, then, and his hand shifted on the covers. She paused there for a moment, trailing the black tendrils back and forth over the shallow depression. She saw goosebumps rise on his skin and smiled.
Then his hand moved, and he reached for himself.
She pulled the feather away.
“Hey, none of that.”
He groaned, but his hand dropped back down. Clenched. But stayed.
She smiled and touched him again, fascinated by the darkness splayed over pale skin. Down to his chest, circle his nipple, watch it draw tight. Watched him lift into the touch a little, and gasp.
Perfect. Beautiful. So sensitive and so surprisingly uninhibited.
He was trembling by the time she reached his waist, clutching the covers with the effort of restraint. White knuckles, soft sweat shining on his sides, his throat. Head thrown back, chest moving with his breath.
She was trembling too, and so ready for him. So ready to just give in, climb over him, sink down on him. Even the thought made her sex twitch, made her intensely aware of the heat and the wet and the deep internal emptiness.
His cock was so hard. A bit bigger than she’d expected. Flushed purple at the head and slick with precome. Even dragging the feather up the shaft was enough to pull a hungry sound from him, a shifting of his hips, a new drop, welling at the tip.
And she *had* wanted to wait, wanted to work them both up into a state of irresistible arousal... except maybe they were already there, because waiting another moment suddenly seemed cruel and unnecessary.
She ditched the feather, crawled back up level with him, and he was rolling up on his side even as she did this, reaching for her, pulling her down beside him and then kissing her, rolling them over so she was under him, and god, his body was a miracle, was like coming. Heavy and hot and rolling against hers, his cock hard against her thigh.
Holding her down, his tongue in her mouth, suddenly dominant. She found her hands on his ribs, solid muscle and flesh, so alive and so real. Chest hair tickling her breasts.
He ducked his head down to kiss her shoulder, even as his hand was going to the dresser. His cheek, freshly-shaved and smooth against her throat, and she shuddered, and pushed her hips up, just to feel him.
A moment later and he was pulling away, just far enough to get the condom on, but too far all the same.
But then that didn’t matter, that was forgotten, because he was back, over her, and then he was *inside her*, so hard and so big and. So. Damn. Good.
She threw her head back, arched her body up, and he bit her shoulder as he thrust in deep and she couldn’t stop the cry. Couldn’t help but wrap her hand around his arm. Feeling his muscles move as he moved. Inside her. So good.
He was whispering or breathing or both. Lips close to her ear now, tickling, arousing.
His rhythm was deep and regular. Not fast but persistent. No space for breath, no space for thoughts. She was possibly whimpering, but she wasn’t sure and didn’t care. All that mattered was this thing between them, this tempo they shared, finally and completely on the same wavelength at the same time, and it was just...
Too much.
And she couldn’t breathe for the pleasure, couldn’t move for it. Could only let it come, and take her, and wring her out and knock her down. Darkness and light and pressure and pleasure.
She kissed him desperately.
And then went limp on the covers, feeling his thrusts time her aftershocks, trembling and buzzing and alive with the feeling. His breath was short now, but his eyes were open, and looking down at her. So soft, even as the pleasure took him.
And then he dropped to the bed beside her, panting, and she rolled up against him, and cuddled up to his chest.
After awhile, before they could both fall asleep, she spoke:
”So. Relaxed now?”
He chuckled.
“Enough that we should probably get up and get underneath the covers.”
So they did, and the last thought she had before drifting off to sleep was:
“Oh, god. I think I’m in love with him.”
The End
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