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Love Me Do



Someone to love, Somebody new.
Someone to love, Someone like you.
- The Beatles


It wasn't his fault; not really. See, the door just happened to be a little bit open and he was only going in there so he could relieve his bladder. He never meant to; never thought he *would*.. walk in on that. Never even concieved of that happening. Never realized what must have been right under his nose for.. well, days, at least.

What *was* his fault was that he stayed and he watched. Every moan, every thrust, the way Faith's fingers locked themselves in Gwen's hair. The way her hips pumped wildly off the floor. The way they were so saturated with each other that they never noticed him in the doorway, the blood rushing south from his brain as fast as possible.

He'd just had to go to the bathroom, that was all. And now..

"Fuck!" and he couldn't tell which foul-mouthed sweaty brunette had said it. They mirrored each other as Gwen turned around over her, eyes closed and tongue moving so fast it blurred between her thighs as she rode the other girl's face.

His hand itched to move from his belt, lower, to relieve a different problem, but he couldn't. Not when he could be seen at any moment. That was for later, that was for lying in bed alone tonight and wishing someone was there to keep him warm--Fred or Gwen or.. god. Faith. Gwen moved along her thighs and he stared between them, memorizing every detail for later recollection.

The musky smell of girls of sweat of just pure sex permeated the room and his nostrils and he felt dizzy, like he might fall down or wake up or something.

His mind snapped and he backed away slowly, ducking out of sight just as Faith's eyes shot open and darted to the door. She knew, he knew that she had to know, had to sense him or smell him. He didn't care. If you were going to get fucked in the only working restroom on this floor, you had to suspect someone might walk in on you.

His bladder long forgotten, he lay in bed, trying to breathe. Trying not to touch.. there.. he wasn't some fourteen year old. He could get laid if he wanted to, any night of the week. He was just..

What, Charles? Waiting for Fred? For Gwen again? Even for Faith, maybe? Pathetic. Pathetic, sad, little boy. Following his heart instead of his dick. Looking for love in all the wrong faces. Haven't you learned by now?

The door creaks and all his fantasies come true as Faith steps through, her leathers slung over her shoulder and wearing just a tanktop and thong underwear.

He pinches himself, but she's still there.

"You got an eyeful." Flatly. Annoyed. He doesn't answer. "Did you like what you saw?" she asks unneccessarily. Of course he liked it, everyone likes it. Everyone wants it. Even straight-laced Buffy fucking Summers wants a piece of her, she thinks. She's built for two things, for slaying and fucking and everything else is irrelevent and a waste of precious time.

Through with the small talk, she pulls his pants off with no pretense and slides her mouth against him and he bites on a pillow and screams her name because she's good. She's so good, so practiced. So much expertise. He doesn't want to wonder how many other dicks have been in this mouth, how many other men and women she's had. She's his for now, for this moment, and he refuses to think about the morning after, the way he'll feel when he doesn't wake with her because she's long gone, baby, thanks for the ride. He knows what it is, but it's okay to pretend for now.

She toys with him minute after minute, never letting him go, never giving him the release he needs so badly because then the fun would be over. She stops and he groans and she lays on her back and spreads her legs, waiting.

He crawls between her thighs and goes at her for.. he has no idea. Time has no meaning, but she screams his name at least four times. And then he loses track, because it's been hours with only catnaps between, but still, he wakes again and again with her in his arms and every minute is like a week and poor, stupid, pathetic Charles will treasure this forever and not care that he's just another notch in the headboard. He's not one of a kind, just one in dozens and dozens of a kind.

She's like a firecracker, he thinks as he finally comes, buried inside her as she cries his name loud enough for the entire hotel to hear. A firecracker that's bright and new and wonderful at first.. but after it explodes..

There's nothing left but the ashes.



 

 



 

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