Reason number one was he would be sixty-five years old before the child could even vote.
Of course, it wasn’t unheard of for grandparents to raise their grandchildren. He glanced up, saw a break in the stream of deplaning passengers, and started to stand. But he misjudged his altered weight and center of gravity and just ended up dropping back into his chair. He cursed, mostly silently, as the two children who had been kicking his seat on and off ever since they’d boarded the plane in Los Angeles jumped up and stood in the middle of the aisle, directly beside his seat, completely blocking his planned escape route as their mother struggled to get her luggage out of the overhead compartment.
Reason number two was he didn’t have the time. He ran the shop, he helped Buffy train, he researched long into the night. Whatever free time he did have left over in all that he treasured far too much.
“Hi!” said one of the children, leaning on the arm of his seat. Lovely. The boy had big brown eyes, a gap-toothed smile, and straight dark hair in need of a trim.
“Hello,” he said, reluctantly.
“I’m five!” the kid informed him, holding up five fingers, widely spread.
“Are you now?” Giles said.
“Mooooom,” said the taller child, “Jake’s talking to strangers.”
There was a heavy sigh from above him, and the woman, who had finally wrestled her bag out, grabbed the little boy by the arm.
“Jake, what did I tell you?” She glanced at Giles for a moment, forced a strained smiled, and said, “I’m sorry.”
“No bother,” he said, because it was expected, and then the woman and her two boys made their way down the aisle.
Reason number three, he didn’t even particularly care for children. At least, not the younger ones.
Teenagers were, in spite of their reputation, not so bad.
Close on the heels of that came reason number four: He would, quite possibly, be a single parent. Granted, things were going well with Willow now, but... it seemed unwise to make such assumptions.
Although it wasn’t as though he didn’t have the resources. He had family money, and income from the shop, and savings left over from his career as Watcher. And as for the time issue, well, Willow had been correct in pointing out that a child could most likely stay with him in the shop. Magic shops were more or less expected to be family businesses anyway. An infant wouldn’t be out of place.
The crowd that had been unleashed when the woman and her children had left finally passed by, and this time he successfully made it out of his seat, grabbed his bag from the overhead compartment, and fled towards the front of the plane.
His stomach rolled in protest at the movement, a recurrence of the airsickness, and that, of course, reminded him of reason number five. He was a *man*, he couldn’t carry a baby to term. It was *ludicrous*. Well, given the nature of Ethan’s spell, he *could* carry a baby to term. Physically speaking. But. He couldn’t. Could not. Would not. It was out of the question.
He stepped off the plane and into the passageway to the airport proper. His footsteps reverberated dully in the enclosed space.
Reason number six was this child would be half Ethan. God knew that was a set of genes that was never meant to be passed on.
Reason number seven was lost to the ages, however, because the moment he was about to define it was the same moment he stepped out into the gate, and the same moment he saw Willow, waiting by the check-in desk with a big grin on her face.
Fifteen hours on a plane or no, just seeing her put a smile on his face and a spring in his step. Not to mention certain effects on other aspects of his physiology.
He dropped his bag and caught her as she flung herself into his arms, and for a moment, he let himself get lost in the simple pleasure of holding her close again. Then he loosened his arms a bit and smiled down at her smiling up at him.
“Hi,” she said. “How was your flight?”
“Um. Long. Fortunately, I was able to sleep for much of it.”
She cuddled close to his chest again, tucking her head under his chin, and wrapping her arms around him a little tighter.
“That’s good,” she said, her voice muffled by his shirt.
He shut his eyes and dipped his head forward, breathing the scent of her hair. Feeling her magics. He ran his hand up her back to her shoulder, and his body thrilled at the feminine curve of her, the familiarity of her warm, slim body. He’d missed her. He loved her.
And she loved him, apparently.
Her hand was moving on his side, rubbing up and down just a little. He could feel her body moving as she breathed, and how she relaxed into him a little more with each breath.
She felt so good.
He kissed the top of her head, and pulled, reluctantly, away from her. Wouldn’t do to get himself all worked up in the middle of Sunnydale Regional Airport.
She looked at him with drowsy, bedroom eyes, a small crease of confusion in her brow.
“We should. Um.” He gestured towards the exit with his head.
“Oh,” she said, and seemed to snap awake. “Right.”
So, he picked up his bag and they walked out to the parking lot, with her chattering away beside him about the events in Sunnydale over the past few days.
Then, just as they reached his car in the bright morning sunlight, she said, “I, uh, told everyone your flight was coming in tonight. And that I would be out and around campus all day.”
It actually took him a moment to grasp the significance of this statement. And then he did. Well, he thought, at least he wasn’t actually in the airport anymore. All the blood in his body took a quick detour to his groin, and suddenly he wanted her. Badly. Far more than the low-level desire he’d been feeling for hours now, in anticipation of seeing her.
***
She saw the moment he caught the implications of what she’d said. Saw his body go still and his eyes go dark and intense. Something tightened low in her stomach, and suddenly his hand, that had been resting loosely on her shoulder, gripped her, pushed her back, her butt bumping back against the side of the convertible. And then his other hand was around the back of the neck, tilting her head back so he could... kiss her.
Oh yeah.
He was straddling her now, his pelvis pressed close to her stomach, his tongue in her mouth, his hand moved down from her shoulder to her *ass*, or at least what he could reach of it, what with her being pressed against the car, and all this right there in the middle of the *parking lot*. For a moment, she was shocked, then she remembered that this was the same guy who she’d had sex with in the basement of the Magic Box.
So instead of being shocked, she just ran her hands down his back to his own ass, and pulled him closer to her, opened her mouth wider and leaned her head back, letting him devour her, trembling at the sensations. Goddess, it was powerful. A whole four days without him and she was suddenly *dying* to have him, never mind that before all this, she’d somehow managed to go for years without him.
She pushed her hips against his and she could feel his erection through his jeans and her skirt.
She wasn’t wearing underwear. Figured it would make things easier. Plus, she wanted to see the look on his face when he realized.
He was kissing her deep and hard, tasting so good and Giles-y, one hand cradling her skull, holding her in place, while his other traced small circles and lines on the side of her hip, her thigh, her sensitive spots, making her body draw tight with want. She could feel herself getting wet and hot. Ready for him.
Wanted *something*, *anything* to just *touch* her, her vague attempts to rub herself against him coming to no good at all. She had to settle for squeezing her thighs together, squirming a little against the cool metal of the car.
Then he pulled away *again*, and he wouldn’t let her follow him. She opened her eyes and saw his were darker, but fiery. He was looking down at her. Only touching her with one restraining hand on her shoulder. She squirmed again, not even intentionally for his benefit, but he smiled, a slow, dark smile, and his eyes lifted up to meet hers.
“Shall we go somewhere a little more private?”
She loved the way his voice got rough and deep when he was turned on. Loved that now she *knew* that his voice got rough and deep when he was turned on.
She grinned suddenly, ran one playful finger quickly over the bulge in his jeans and said, “Think you can drive?”
He grabbed her hand, even though she was no longer touching him, pulled it up and kissed her fingers, and then smiled behind them.
“I’ll manage.”
***
He tossed his bag in the back seat. Would have just vaulted into the car himself, but he seriously doubted he was still that maneuverable. Instead, he got in the normal way. He hit the gas the moment they hit the freeway, his dick hard agony, crammed against the seam of his jeans. He rather wanted to just unzip his fly, but he was already speeding, and he hardly wanted to be pulled over with his pants half-off. In a convertible with the top down. With his barely-legal lover beside him.
Out of the corner of his eye, he could see her, leaning against the door. She was shifting on the seat every few moments, and it made him smile. There was no better cure for jetlag in the world than Willow, beautiful and aroused and *his* all day, no interruptions, no one expecting them anywhere.
Which lead his mind to the question: “You spoke to Tara?”
“Uh.... What?” she said, over the roar of the wind.
“Tara,” he said, raising his voice. “Did you speak to her?”
“Uh... Well...”
He threw a glance in her direction, and saw her eyes were wide.
“No...” she said.
No?
“No?” he said.
“But I will! I really will, Giles, I swear!”
His heart tightened a little. He kept his expression neutral. Do not react. Do not. Push her and you lose her.
“It’s just... I want to wait, you know, for the right moment. And, and figure out what to say, exactly. You know?”
“Of course,” he said, and slipping into the mode of soft-spoken librarian was easy and comfortable. “I understand.”
***
He was silent and hard-edged for the rest of the drive. She half-expected him to drop her off at her dorm, so even simply pulling up in front of his place was a huge relief. He was still wordless, though, as he put the car in park and got out, stopping only to pick up his bag before heading for his door. She wasn’t even sure if he wanted her to follow him. But... well, it couldn’t hurt. So, she got out and walked slowly through the courtyard to his front door, feeling a bit like a little kid expecting to be scolded, and really not liking the feeling.
What was his deal, anyway? She said she’d talk to her. And she *would*. Really. These things take time. And *tact*. She’d have thought he’d understand that.
By the time she reached his door, she’d worked herself into a pretty good state of righteous indignation. She slammed through it and banged it shut behind her, and just as she was drawing a breath to speak, something slammed her into the wall behind her.
It was Giles, which was mostly not a surprise, but given that this was the Hellmouth--
He pinned her there, one arm across her upper chest, pressing almost painfully against her collar bone, and he laid one hand over her lips, leaning in close enough that she could feel his breath as he whispered, “Don’t say anything.”
She drew in a hard breath, her heart hammering in her chest. She wanted to ask what he was doing, but somehow, she didn’t want to disobey. So she was silent and still as his hand dropped off her lips and trailed down her side, found the hem of her shirt and then slid up under it, over the silky fabric of her bra, cupped around her breast. His other arm still holding her firm against the wall, his eyes on hers, as inescapable as his restraining arm.
Her breathing was still hard. She could feel the pressure of his arm with every breath. Feel his hand, moving just slightly on her breast. Feel her nipples growing hard. Feel the fear change to something else.
Relaxed against the wall, completely, and the moment he felt that, he smiled, mostly with his eyes, only a small twitch at the corner of his mouth.
“Good girl,” he said, low and purring. She shuddered all over, shut her eyes, dropped her head back against the wall with a soft thunk.
His hand shifted on her breast, and he caught her nipple between his thumb and forefinger. He tugged on it a little, rolled it, gently, and little sparks of pleasure flitted through her. His lips touched her neck. Tongue traced her jugular. Then he pinched her. Hard.
She gasped, her whole body jolting, her sex clenching tight.
Her eyes snapped open, and he stared straight into them, his finger and thumb still painfully tight on her. Goddess, she was shivering. Hurt. But felt good.
He let go, abruptly, and the cessation of pain was almost as intense as the pain itself.
He stepped away, not suddenly, just easily, gently. She felt the loss of his nearness acutely, though, wanted him back against her. Holding her down. She didn’t move away from the wall.
She could see approval in his eyes as he looked at her. She laid her palms flat on the wall behind her. Let him look. Loved him looking at her, with his eyes dark, trailing his hand lightly over himself through his jeans.
“Beautiful,” he said, then suddenly pulled his shirts off, cast them behind himself on the floor. Left his jeans on and stepped up to her again. Unbuttoned her soft pink sweater, pushed it off. Then pulled her shirt over her head. She let him, moving only when necessary, letting him strip her, one article of clothing at a time. Her bra next, adeptly unclasped. She shivered a little as the cool air of the apartment hit her bare skin, and her nipples peaked sharper. He touched them, lightly, with the pads of his thumbs. She looked down, watched him touch her. His hands: male, strong hands. Callused from swords and other medieval weaponry. The index finger on his right hand that was bowed a bit, badly healed after Angelus. The ring on his left pinky that was cool against the side of her breast.
Then he unfastened her skirt and let it fall to the floor. For a moment, she saw him lose his momentum, startled, then he smiled slowly.
“Someone’s being naughty,” he said, very softly. Slipped his hands around her waist, his thumbs resting in the hollows of her hip bones, his fingers warm on the sides of her ass.
It was strange, being naked with him still half-dressed. Being naked right here, downstairs, by the door. But good. Made her warm in all the right places. Made her skin break out in goosebumps, and not from a chill.
He tugged her a step away from the wall, and then pulled away from her, keeping just one hand on her side.
“Upstairs,” he said.
This, too, was weird: walking up the stairs, naked, feeling his fingers touching the small of her back, and knowing he was watching her. But still good. Trembly and interesting. And it made her wonder what it would be like to be on the other side of this. Her dressed, him naked. On his knees maybe. Doing whatever she told him to. She wondered if he would. She thought maybe.
Then they reached his bed and he was telling her to lie on her back, so she did, and he crawled on the bed over her, straddled her waist and took her wrists in his hands and pulled them over her head. Told her to keep them there, and got off the bed, pulled something out from under it.
She heard a clink, and when he stood up and then sat down on the side of the bed again, with a pair of padded handcuffs in his hand, she wasn’t exactly surprised. But the reaction of her body shocked her, simultaneously relaxing and tensing. And wanting. She was wet, enough to feel herself: heat and liquid, a drop running down her perineum and into the crack of her ass.
He leaned over her again, his bare chest close to her face, and she could smell a trace of his sweat, his skin. Her seemed to be searching for something over her head. As she twisted her head back to look, he found it: a loop of rope, attached to the bed somewhere under the mattress. He looped the cuffs through the rope, and then reached for her wrist.
She almost pulled her hand away. For a split second, terrified. Not of him. Never him. Herself. Her reactions to this. This, that she’d never let herself think about. Ok, she had, but not in relation to her actually *doing* anything like this.
But she didn’t pull away. She heard the cuff click as it locked. Unyielding loop, not tight, but enough that she couldn’t slide her hand out. Enough that she could *feel* it there. Couldn’t avoid the knowledge that she was naked in Giles’s bed--a moment later, and the second cuff clicked around her other wrist--in handcuffs.
And then, at that moment, it was as though a string had been severed inside of her. As if some tension she’d never even known was there was suddenly *gone*, and she could truly relax. She actually sighed from it, the relief of it.
He moved back along the bed, sat down, his hip resting against hers, and he gently stroked her cheek.
“Feels good, doesn’t it? Freeing.”
Her throat was too dry for words, all she could do was nod.
He reached up again, took her hand in his own and guided it to the cuff.
“There’s a clasp here, if you need to get out of them.”
Mildly disappointing, that, knowing she could get out of them herself. But also comforting.
“Would you like to be gagged as well?”
She blinked at him.
“Uh.”
“I think you might appreciate it. Not feeling the pressure to speak. Not that I don’t love the sound of your voice.”
“O-Ok?” she said, thinking that she could barely speak now, anyway.
He reached off the side of the bed again, came back up holding a rather disturbing-looking gadget.
“Uh. Does it hurt?”
He smiled.
“No. It is a little uncomfortable. But it doesn’t hurt.”
She was still eyeing it suspiciously, but she nodded. His hands were tender as he lifted her head, and gently fastened the gag in place. She worked her tongue around it for a moment, realized she had to breathe through her nose. He was looking down at her.
“Ok?”
Her attempt to answer in the affirmative resulted in nothing but a muffled grunt. He smiled again: soft, nonjudgmental amusement. She waited a moment, rolling her eyes at herself, then nodded.
“If you ever want me to stop, for any reason, just cross your fingers. I’ll be watching. All right?”
She nodded again.
He leaned forward, and placed a tiny, soft kiss in the center of her forehead, and then he backed down her body and knelt next to her hips again. Looked at her, and his lips parted, his breath moved faster.
“My God, Willow. Do you know how amazing you look right now?”
And he was right. It was a relief. Not to have to say anything. Not to have to move. Just to give herself over to him, let him lead.
Her whole body was loose, relaxed, trembling. When he touched her, running both of his hands up her sides and then down again, it was like her skin was one live, raw nerve, the sensations burning her like a brand.
She moaned, a high, silken sound behind the gag, and she loved the pressure of it on her tongue, loved the hard metal around her wrists, loved his hands, massaging her breasts now. Then, he reached down, between her legs, and she spread them quickly for him, and his fingertips brushed over her, barely enough for her to even feel.
She lifted her hips, tried to press herself against him, and he pulled his hand away, ignoring her groan of frustration. He laid his palm flat over her stomach, sticky warm skin.
“Shh. Let me, precious.”
The gentle motion of his hand on her stomach was anything but soothing. It aroused her, inflamed her, made her body break out in cold sweat. She found herself gripping the chain of the cuffs tight enough to feel the links digging into her palms.
This time, when he moved his hand between her legs, he didn’t tease. All he did was slide that ever-so-slightly crooked index finger inside of her.
And to her intense shock, she came.
***
He smiled at the look of surprised pleasure on her face. Continued gently moving his finger within her as she drifted down a bit, panting. So beautiful. Flushed all over, writhing on the bed, clinging to the chain binding her to the bed.
His cock throbbed painfully in his jeans, again, wanting to be where his finger was, inside her, where she was slick and hot and still quivering from her orgasm. But this, this was about taking his time. About exploring every inch of her body, finding the spots that made her sigh and giggle and sob with pleasure. He didn’t know when, or, god, even if, he would have a chance like this again, and he wasn’t about to waste it.
He leaned down, brushing his nose up under her hair, breathing the damp scent of her there: her shampoo, her sweat, her arousal and her magic. He started there, then moved on, slowly, methodically, as she had with him before. Only he wouldn’t let himself be sidetracked.
Touching her, with hands and lips and tongue. Starting from her neck and working his way down, noting every gasp, every sigh, every twitch. Like learning a new text, finding every nuance, committing it to memory. One never knows what might be needed someday, must remember it all.
Looked up now and then, checked her eyes, her hands. Her body was moving constantly now, as he reached her waist. Over-stimulated, every nerve burning, pleasure all she could feel. He knew the feeling. Had, in his younger years, all but *lived* for that feeling. Letting go of everything, and just *being*, not doing, just letting yourself be done to, and riding the sensation.
He was harder than he’d been in years, aching and desperate, and as he lay down on the bed between her legs and ducked his head down to her sex and she came, almost immediately, under his tongue, he began to move his hips against the bed, just a little, just enough to satisfy the desire, just a little.
His jeans were more torturous than any bondage device he could remember using, but taking them off would necessitate pulling away from her and that... was simply unacceptable.
Her scent here was like a physical presence, like a liquid he could drown in, and her taste was thick on his tongue. Licking, sucking, biting gently, then not so gently, until her orgasms were blending into each other, until her legs had gone limp and slipped from his shoulders to the sheets.
And god, it was pure hell to pull away from her long enough to take off his jeans, to find a condom, but then he was above her, looking down into her eyes, so dark and so *drugged*. He pushed inside of her, finally, *finally*, and her body still rolled up to meet his, still wanted him, still shuddered through another small climax just from his entry. Bloody well nearly dragged him over the edge with her, and he had to hold perfectly still, not moving, not breathing, until the incipient orgasm backed away just a little, just enough for him to begin to move inside of her.
And then he reached behind her head gently, unfastened the gag and pulled it away. Knowing she was probably mostly beyond speech now, anyway. Just wanting to see her.
He lost all track of time, moving inside her languidly, looking into her eyes. When his climax came, it wrapped around him gently, rising through him like a slow tide, deep and strong and inevitable. Long, long pulses, dragging out of him, like he was leaving a piece of his soul inside her. Except, he knew, he’d already done that, long ago.
And when it was over, he let her out of the cuffs, and she curled against him immediately, a small creature, seeking warmth, and he pulled the comforter up and wrapped it around them both, and they slept.
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