Hot Buttered Yum
It probably wasn't any big secret anymore, but Willow liked Giles.
She liked him pretty much any way she could have him – geeky Giles and happy Giles and grumpy Giles and sleepy Giles were all personal favorites. Passionate, aroused Giles was a winner too, oh yeah. She liked Giles in a frumpy sweater, in tight jeans, in his leather jacket ( yum ). She liked him in pajamas, shuffling around their house and muttering to himself while trying to find their perpetually lost remote control and refusing to let her cast a simple locator spell out of sheer stubbornness. She liked him in nothing.
She liked him a lot in nothing.
Tonight, though, Willow had her favorite of all Gileses: goofy, tipsy Giles, waltzing her around the living room of their rented cabin to cheesy Christmas carols. He had one hand on the small of her back and one hand holding onto his glass of hot buttered rum. He was barefoot and he kept stepping on her toes, but Willow didn't care because he'd started humming, and she knew that if she played her cards right, soon she'd get him to sing and then she'd get him naked.
Come to think of it, maybe she'd just skip the singing, because she'd more than earned naked Giles today. She'd run the whole gamut of Gileses since that morning, including some of the not-so-pleasant ones. Which wasn't fair, because she'd had a plan. Her plan had been to let Giles work until noon and then kidnap him on his lunch break to drive up here, to the cabin they'd rented in Snowdonia for the holidays, three days earlier than he'd expected.
Things were looking up now, but there'd been some moments that afternoon when Willow had been seriously cursing mice and men.
Her plan hadn't involved Giles waking up this morning with a head cold, the kind that turned all his m's and n's to b's and gave him a faintly glazed, stoned look. Willow would have blamed this on the cough medication, except, oh right, he'd refused to take any – “Bloody stuff doesn't do a damn thing except make me groggy.” He'd also refused to call in sick, of course. At least that had left Willow's plan mostly intact, except then he'd somehow cottoned on.
She liked Giles's brain just as much as she liked every other part of him, but sometimes she wished he was just a little less scarily brilliant. Like today with the whole figuring out her diabolical scheme thing. And while she had a perverse fondness for stubborn, grumpy, sick Giles, that didn't mean she hadn't been ready to kill him by the time he'd finally given in. Even then she'd had to let him bring his Encyclopedia Daemonica, all fifteen pounds of it. It made the car smell of leather, dust, and parchment (not so bad, except for the dust). He'd insisted he had crucial research to do, but forty-five minutes into the drive he'd fallen asleep with the book open on his lap, face pressed against the car window, glasses adorably askew. She'd smiled to herself as she reached over, keeping her eyes on the road, and carefully plucked them off, laying them aside. Then she'd managed to sneak his phone out of his pocket, turn it off, and toss it over her shoulder into the backseat.
And now, Willow had Giles and here was another way she liked him: all to herself. And yeah, Xander and Buffy and Dawn would be arriving on Christmas Eve, but it was only the 21st and for the next three days Willow planned to have him as much and as many times as possible.
“Mmm,” Giles said as the song ended. Willow found herself pulled close to his chest, right up against him. His lips pressed against her hair and she closed her eyes in pure bliss for a second. The fire in fireplace made the space behind her eyelids turn red instead of black.
She opened them as the next song came on and tilted her head back, grinning at him. “So I'm forgiven?”
“Forgiven for pulling me away from a hundred people demanding impossible things when my head feels like it's stuffed full of cotton to come up here and drink hot buttered rum and have my wicked way with – er. That last one was part of the plan, yes?”
Willow stood on tiptoe to kiss his nose. “Yes.”
“Oh, good. Then yes, I think I can forgive all that. Somehow.”
“I promise never to do it again,” she said, holding up two fingers in a “scout's honor” gesture.”
“Promise no such thing,” he replied, waving a stern finger in her face. “I'm only telling you this because of the rum, which is bloody marvelous, by the way, but it was exactly what I needed. Thank you, Willow.”
She grinned. “Anytime. Speaking of the rum, how's yours doing? Need some more?”
Giles peered into his glass. “I do seem to be running a bit low. Not sure I should have more though – I'm already rather, er –”
“Squiffy?” Willow suggested. Really, her favorite part of living in England was all the funny words they had for being drunk.
“Quite.” That was something else Willow liked about Giles – he'd say “quite” even when he was pretty damn squiffy indeed. “It's not exactly indicated for people with head colds.”
“Sure it is,” Willow said brightly, taking his glass and padding into the kitchen. “What about those whatchamacallits – hot toddies?
Giles leaned in the doorway, hands in his pockets. “Old wives' tale.”
“But a fun one.” Willow scooped a bit of the butter-sugar-cinnamon mix she'd made earlier into each glass, followed by rum and hot water from the kettle. “Anyway, you do sound better.” She turned and handed his over.
“Think the rum cleared my sinuses.” He sipped. “Ah, lovely.”
“You'd think the alcohol would kill off all the germies,” Willow said, just as the last song on the CD faded into silence. She slipped sideways past him in the doorway, hit the switch to turn the kitchen light off on her way by, and went to kneel by the CD player. No more Christmas music, she couldn't take it anymore – and it was Solstice after all. Something else. Classical. Bach.
“That's not actually how it works,” Giles said.
Willow had already forgotten what they'd been talking about. Possibly she too was kinda lit. Lit . ‘Nother good British word for drunk . “Huh?” she said, peering up at him. He was poking at their little fire, glass in one, big, capable hand. He looked lit too, but from the inside out somehow. Beautiful.
“The alcohol. It doesn't kill the germs.”
Willow considered this as she knelt back and then stood. She wasn't too squiffy – lit – whatever – to be mindful of her drink as she flopped on the couch. “That doesn't make sense,” she finally declared.
Giles grinned and joined her on the couch. “It doesn't have to. Trust me on this.”
“Okie dokie,” she said, deciding the conversation wasn't really worth continuing because Giles's front was all fire-warmed and he'd pulled the blanket they'd been snuggling under earlier, before she'd gone to make dinner and the stuff for the rum, off the floor and over them both. Their legs tangled together; Willow's cold feet pressed against the warmth of Giles's calf, making him wince. She laid her head on his chest and closed her eyes. His heartbeat echoed in her ear, calm and steady. Come to think of it, maybe this was how she liked him best. She sipped her drink and snuggled down under his arm. Comfy Giles. Comfy couch. Nice music. Dark except for the fire, and even snowing outside. Every California girl's fantasy of winter in Wales.
Willow drained the last of her rum and sneaked a look up at Giles. His eyelids were at half-mast and his empty glass looked like it was in danger of being dropped. She smiled to herself and took it from him, setting it next to her own on the end table and nudging them both back from the edge. She didn't think either of them was feeling particularly athletic after the car ride, dinner, and three glasses of rum each, but just in case.
Giles had opened his eyes. He was almost smiling – his mouth wasn't, but the corners of his eyes were all crinkled. They got even more crinkled when Willow crawled up onto his lap and settled herself, straddling him. “Hey.”
“Hello.” His hands rested on the curve of her waist.
“How you feeling? You look kinda glowy.”
He did smile then. “Yes, glowy. Glowy is good.”
She laughed. “Glowy is very good. Haven't seen you glowy in awhile. Missed it.” She wriggled. “Warm enough?”
“A bit too warm, actually. I have two jumpers on here.”
“Well, that's silly.”
“You made me.”
“True,” Willow was forced to concede. The house had been freezing when they'd first gotten there and she'd insisted he put an extra sweater on and work on getting the heater and the fireplace going while she unloaded the car. Now she slid her hands underneath the top sweater. “Let's do something about that then.”
Giles leaned back with a smile. “Be my guest.”
“Oh, so we're gonna be lazy, are we?”
“No, I am going to be lazy. I don't think we'll get very far if you are, too.” He quirked an eyebrow at her. He looked flushed in the firelight, satisfied and smug and totally happy. She hadn't seen him like that often enough lately, she decided, and kissed him as a reward, just lightly while she worked the sweater up. One arm and then the other, lips still pressed together in a subtle push and pull, but they had to break it off so she could pull it over his head. It knocked his glasses half off his nose and she giggled and set them aside, next to the rum glasses. She let the sweater drop by the sofa.
There was a spot on Giles's neck right below his ear, soft and smooth with a little dip in it that Willow liked to lick. She kissed it now, letting the tip of her tongue rest against it for just a moment. He always made the same noise when she did this, a shuddery half-sigh, and shivered. Willow thought it was the sexiest sound in the world, and when he made it now she smiled to herself and spread her legs a little wider so she was flush up against him. He was hard already underneath her and she felt her own arousal deepen. She rocked slightly and was rewarded with a gasp. She slid the second sweater up just as he went for the buttons on her blouse.
“Thought you were being lazy,” she said breathlessly, giving a more emphatic wriggle for emphasis.
“Let's just say I'm feeling motivated,” he replied, almost a growl, and she kissed him again, deeper this time, a wet slide of tongues. He tasted of rum and sugar and his hands – big hands, and that, incidentally, was one old wives' tale that was true, at least in Willow's experience – were a bit rough as they pushed her blouse off her shoulders. She shrugged out of it and tossed it aide, pulling the comforter up onto them both as Giles yanked his second sweater over his head in one fast move that mussed his hair up even more. Willow just had to run her hands through it when she kissed him again, and then she slipped her hands down his back to the hem of his henley, which she was way too impatient to deal with. He gasped when she sneaked her hands beneath and tweaked his nipples, then gasped again when she slithered down his body with a little shimmy. She settled on the floor – thank all goddesses for throw rugs – and pushed his knees apart, caressing him through his pants before drawing down the zipper with her teeth. He laughed at her then but that was okay. Willow liked laughing in bed – or in the car or in Giles's office or on the couch in the house they'd be sharing with the whole Scooby gang in just a couple of days.
And boy, Willow hoped they never found out about this. “Eww, Willow,” she could just hear Buffy saying with a disgusted scrunch of her nose. “The rest of us have to sit on that couch!”
What the others didn't know wouldn't hurt them. Willow decided she could always flip the cushions over.
Back to the matter at hand – literally. Willow stroked Giles twice slowly, smirking up at him. His eyes had gone completely dark, sweat beaded on his forehead, and he was practically panting. “You better keep covered up,” she said. “Wouldn't want you to catch a chill.”
“Not much bloody chance of that. Were you going to do something down there?”
She pouted. “Maybe if you ask nicely.”
“I'll return the favor.”
She grinned. “That'll do.” She flipped the comforter up over her head and drew Giles's pants and boxers down. She coaxed first one foot out and then the other, caressing each arch. His toes curled.
It was dark under the blanket. Dark and warm – Willow would have called it cozy, but the fire was at her back and it was actually a little too warm. That was okay though – this wouldn't take that long. She had other plans for him, once she'd gotten him warmed up a bit.
Not that he wasn't pretty warmed up already, she thought with satisfaction as she licked a wide swathe up his length and took just the first couple inches into her mouth. Giles's moan was a bit muffled through the blanket, but the CD had gone silent between tracks and she could still hear him loud and clear. She did that trick with her tongue she'd actually learned from four years of doing this to women – and yeah, the equipment was different, but the fundamentals weren't – and backed off when his hips thrust just like she knew they would. He whined in frustration; she smiled to herself and popped the fly on her jeans, reaching a hand in.
This was another way Willow liked Giles. She'd been shy about it with Oz – she'd been eighteen and it'd just seemed kinda gross – but then she'd gone to bat for the other team for a while and been cured of that aversion real quick. Oral sex was good, she'd decided after extensive experimentation. She liked it long and drawn out, the kind where he was begging for it by the end. She liked it quick and dirty, messy even. She liked it when Giles made the noises he was making now, all breathy and hoarse, louder than usual because he was still somewhat squiffy from the rum. She liked the thrust of his hips under her hands and the way he was so careful when he curled his fingers into her hair.
Well, most of the time he was careful. His fingers were tightening now, and that was how she knew it was time to pull away, even though it made him growl at her and curse under his breath, which was just about the hottest thing ever because Giles never cursed. She didn't give him the chance to get really frustrated though – she just shoved him back so he lay sprawled across the couch, disheveled, flushed, aroused – oh yes – naked from the waist down and still wearing his henley. His eyes were all dilated black pupils reflecting firelight and they got even darker when she stood up, hips swaying to draw his attention to her jeans so he'd know exactly what she'd been doing down there – besides the obvious, of course. She was too impatient for a real striptease, but she gave a little shimmy as she wriggled out of her jeans and panties, and a bit of a twirl as she pulled her sweater over her head. The red satin bra she left where it was.
“Stay,” she ordered when he started to sit up. The couch was wide enough that she was able to swing a leg over and sit comfortably astride him, just a bit south of where they both wanted.
“Er. Perhaps the bed?” he suggested.
“Your back going to give out?” she asked with an evil grin.
He glared at her. “My back is fine. I just thought –” He broke off, his poor, slandered back arching as she shifted forward and lowered herself down onto his deliciously hard length. Sweet goddesses, maybe this was how she liked him best after all – inside of her. She took a moment to savor the taut, filled feeling. Then she squeezed every muscle she had and watched his face. Eyes closed, mouth open, absolute ecstasy. She tightened a little more, involuntarily, and took a deep breath while she waited for him to come down a bit.
When he finally opened his eyes, she smiled and said, “You were saying?”
He whimpered. He kinda glared too, but he whimpered , and that meant they both got a reward. She lifted herself and slid slowly back down. Giles threw his head back. “God, enough teasing,” he groaned in frustration.
She smirked. “Make me.” Another slow slide up and down. Her thigh muscles burned but it felt good too. The second time up, Giles was ready for her. He reached down and stroked her where they were joined and then pressed a thumb right there while reaching up with his other hand to find her breast in the smooth, soft cup of her bra. Willow let out a strangled moan and decided Giles was right – enough with the teasing. She leaned forward, braced herself against the arm of the couch, hands on either side of his head and began to move for real, with smooth, fast rolls of her hips. Giles kept one thumb pressed against her, moving it in a circle and lifted his head to nip at her breast. She cried out and clenched around him. His head fell back again, eyes closed, breath ragged.
She could feel it building in her, a tight knot of pleasure at her core. She ground herself against Giles's hand and felt it sweep over her, moving from her fingers and toes, the balls of her feet, up her arms and legs, until all the sensation shrank down to a hot little ball of fire and finally burst out. She sank down and he thrust up and they both came, hands grasping carelessly at hot skin, clutching at each other in desperation. She collapsed across him, gulping air.
“Guh,” she said, pushing herself up just to fall to the side, trapping herself happily between Giles and the back of the couch.
“Mmm,” Giles replied, and she peered up at him smugly. He was flushed and glassy-eyed, totally debauched. Another awesome Giles, it had to be said. Definitely in Willow's top five.
The CD player had long gone silent, but the fire was still crackling away. Willow snuggled down, ignoring for the time being that her right arm was trapped underneath her and would be asleep in about thirty seconds.
“How –” she yawned “– feeling?”
She felt more than heard Giles's chuckle as a rumble in his chest. “Wonderful. Could do with some tea though. ‘M a bit parched from the rum. S'not good for my cold.”
“Mm, was that a hint?”
“Maybe.”
“But I'm so comfy here.” Except for her arm, but he didn't need to know that. “If I get up for your tea, English guy, you'll owe me.”
Giles dipped his head down next to her ear. “I already owe you,” he pointed out, the hot puff of his breath on her neck making her squirm.
“You'll owe me twice,” she said swiftly.
“I can live with that.”
So could she. She grumbled just for show because it was damn cold once she got up and Giles looked awfully cozy there, snuggled under their poor, abused comforter. She tossed the CD case at him and ordered him to choose the music he'd be paying off his debt to – twice – then decided it was too cold to walk around naked and pulled on her jeans before heading into the kitchen.
She was waiting for the kettle to boil when Bing Crosby started singing, and washing out a mug – because who knew how long those things had been sitting in that cupboard? – when Giles joined him. And then, right then, Willow decided there wasn't any point in trying to declare a favorite Giles. She liked pissy Giles and goofy Giles and debauched Giles and singing Giles because they were all Giles. Some of them were easier to get along with than others, but she couldn't play favorites. That was love, after all. You didn't get to pick and choose. It was all or nothing.
Fin.