carlyinrome

“The doctor said I needed to rest,” Angel said. He looked up at her, brow creased with concern.

“You are resting,” Buffy said. “You’re just lying there. I’ll be doing all the work.”

Buffy readjusted her weight on her knees, ghosting her pelvis over Angel’s supine body without actually touching him. She guessed his resolve was wavering; he let out one long, slow breath like he was deflating, the soft line of his mouth quivering.

“That’s . . . semantics,” Angel said carefully.

Buffy braced her hands on the headboard, arching her body up over Angel’s. Her breasts, hung heavy in the sling of the more decorative than supportive Victoria’s Secret demi, bobbed before Angel’s breathless face. Her breasts: Angel’s Achilles heel. Perhaps it wasn’t exactly sporting to go straight for the big guns, but all’s fair in love and war, and Buffy was an able general in both arenas.

“If we tear any stitches,” Angel said, then ended with a heavy period as though it was a complete thought. It was, certainly, all of a thought his frazzled mind was able to process, given current distractions.

Buffy gently lowered her weight to the familiar shore of Angel’s body, and reached her arms behind her back, unclasped the tiny teeth securing her bra. She slid the straps from her shoulders, let the fabric fall away from her body. She was aware of Angel’s eyes on her every minute movement, aware without even looking.

Buffy tossed her bra away, and leaned down, pressed a gentle kiss to Angel’s lips.

“Yes,” he said, and Buffy’s mouth bloomed into a smile.