Letters from Ireland
Part 12

I had long, drawn-out dreams of kissing you and pulling your clothing away, dreams that moved languidly; everything had a kind of mist over it. Gradually the dream became clearer, the lines of your body under my hands came into focus, vividly silky and gold-colored; the warm, clean scent of you was so real. We were moving in slow motion deliberately, torturing each other with kisses and soft hands.

We'd been tantalizing each other beautifully for so long that you were trembling and ready; I was glad, because it would take very little to bring you to pleasure. It wouldn't make you too tired, so I could have you again. I lingered over your nipples, licking them lazily, deliberately building frustration in you. Your scent was filling my head. I moved down, between your legs, and slid my arms under your hips. I kissed a line from your belly button down and nuzzled the shiny curls below. Your hips moved like the ocean, a graceful wave. I kissed the incredibly tender flesh on the insides of your thighs and next to your sex, slowly, wetly, thoroughly. You whimpered and a surge of excitment went through me, the craving to taste you was overwhelming, but I continued to keep both of us in check. The honey was seeping from you and I gave in finally, sipping it up and delving directly into your sex with my tongue.

You gave a breathy cry. I teased you gently, taking the pistil of that flower, that little bud, pressing it slightly between my lips, releasing it, sliding my tongue into you, and returning to nibble lightly again. You were so close by this time that your entire body shook with tension. I prolonged it, caressing all of you, refusing to give you completion. The moisture was flowing from you. Your thighs and my chin were wet. You started to beg.


I took the plumpness of it into my mouth and worked it with my lips and tongue and you convulsed powerfully. I could feel the movement of pleasure from deep inside you, like the sea herself crashing on land. Men are always confused by the way a woman connects physical intimacy with emotion; they haven't thought this through. When pleasure comes from such a profound place inside her body, how could she feel otherwise? If women didn't make this "mistake", the world would be empty. That's where love itself begins, in the depths of a woman's body.

I held your hips locked in my arms like a drunk holds on to his beer. I rubbed my face on your belly. You sighed and reached for me; I shook my head and laid my cheek on your hip. Your breathing gradually became deeper and slower. I waited for you to escape into sleep for a time, for an hour or maybe two, then I kissed your belly button, very lightly, a whisper of a kiss, and gradually gave you more, little soft kisses creeping over you. You stirred and I paused; you sighed and I continued. You made a sweet little sound and said my name. I began kissing you again, taking more of your satiny skin in mouthfuls, licking inside the kisses, more hungrily.

"Angel," you almost whined, "Not again, I can't do it again,"

"Just one more," I said, and I slid downward, pushing the curls aside with my mouth, slipping my tongue along the petals between your legs. You cooed, my favorite sound. I knew you would be tender by this time, so I was careful, taking the little bud into my mouth very softly. I rippled my tongue along it delicately and it swelled in my mouth, growing plump again. I pressed my lips against the base of it and drew from there with loving care. You arched and whined. I moved the tip of my tongue in tiny strokes on the tip of the bud, and you shouted my name. I moved my tongue more rapidly, but just as lightly, and you exploded, driving your hips onto my mouth and shouting in desperation. You were lushly wet and I was thirsty; I indulged myself, dipping my tongue deep into you, soaking up the slippery dew.

"Angel," you panted, "That's enough. That's enough for now, that's enough,"

I kept my grip on you. I can't explain it. It's the same complaint you have about chocolate. I wanted just one more, but I wouldn't rush you, I would wait, I told you.

"No," you said, "I want you beside me, up here,"

"One more, Buffy, hunh?" I begged. It's my favorite thing, besides being inside you, it's an addiction. I can feel it when you have enough energy left to go again. Usually you fall asleep, and I love to languish there, listening to you breathing and dreaming as you gather your strength. I would wait hours. It's miraculous, to have my mouth on you. I never get over it. Of course, it's dangerous, pushing my wishes like that. My old heart that never moves, my nerves that feed on borrowed blood, my undead body never forgets that you are the Slayer. There is always an element of fear. We both knew you could crush my head like a walnut if you wanted to.

"I'm going to lose my mind, Angel. It's making me nuts."

I smiled.

"Angel," you began, and I sipped the little bud into my mouth again, twirling my tongue around it, slurping on it. You cried out. I slipped a finger into your heat and your sex contracted like a hungry sea creature; I slipped another into you and began stroking you, hunting for that little swollen bump inside, caressing it.

"Angel, goddamn it!" you shouted, and then you screamed, writhing, your sex opening and then pulling on my fingers as the climax shattered through you; then the engorged bud in my mouth suddenly softened and withdrew.

"OK, OK now stop, stop Angel, stop," "Stop" is our safe word. I released you reluctantly. You glared at me and slapped me on the shoulder. It stung.

"Brat," you said.

"If you just relaxed and slept when you wanted to-"

"Angel, I can NOT do that all night, I'm never going to be able to do that for an entire night," I climbed over you, slid my arms under you and entered you in one long, smooth thrust. Your mouth open in a silent cry. You were bright pink, lightly glazed in sweat, and your body rose to meet mine. Your sex was slick and tight, still reacting to my mouth. I wasn't going to make it long, but I had to have one more from you.

"One more, one more," I moaned, "One more, Buffy...slow?"

"Yes!" you screeched, and we moved together in a smooth rhythm, trembling in unison, watching each other. Your voice was escalating, desperate croons building with an agonizingly slow pace, spiraling up, and I bit into my lip to keep it going. I said your name through my teeth. Suddenly your eyes focused on me sharply and you paused, and then flew into it, your hands digging into my back, your face buried in my neck, your body slamming against mine.

I came back to consciousness gradually, vaguely registering pain in the flesh of my back and a supernatural fatigue. Your little hand found mine.

"Revenge," you said sleepily, "Will be mine,"

Buffy shuffled through the crowd on Fisherman's Wharf, finally stuffing the unfinished letter back into it's envelope, and then her purse. Her heart was pounding. She really should have saved it for home, but after the first line she was hopelessly hooked. She had to read the first part. Well, he had warned her about the beginnings. From now on she should just lock the door and take the phone off the hook before she even opened the damned things.

She looked absently at her nails. Nice work, not too long, but a pretty almond shape, and the right color pink. She remembered the way Angel would smile when he looked at her hands or her feet sometimes, the way he'd hold her fingers, almost wonderingly, especially after a kill. He thought it was cute, her pink nails. She needed to get back in the habit of keeping a manicure. The last year had been so busy she'd started to let her nails go, she never seemed to have time, but she always regretted it, and now she had a good reason to get back into better grooming habits. She liked having nice hands.

The vendors were busy, and she waited in line for chowder for several minutes by the steaming table. She was going to have crab legs, but not with the polish barely dry. She had finally picked up her order when she heard a woman's voice, very clearly, to her right.

"My grandmother's cousin was a Slayer,"

Buffy took a packet of crackers and carefully looked over. A very pretty Asian woman in an expensive suit was smiling at her.

"I'm sorry," said Buffy, "A what?"

"I didn't even know what she had been all about," the woman continued, "She was like an oddball in the family. Only child. Took off on her own when she was about fourteen. Except, that was in Korea, and I guess you could say that they're a little more superstitious there. I always looked down on that stuff, the old stories, you know?"

"You know what?" said Buffy, "I'm sort of meeting somebody-"

"Don't go to the Presidio tonight," the woman blurted.

Buffy stared at her for a moment.

"Wanna sit down?" she said.


They managed to find seats at a dirty table, which Buffy gingerly brushed off.

The woman extended her hand. "I'm Vicky Cho,"

"Buffy Summers,"

"I didn't mean to be rude, here," said Vicky, "I know what secrecy means to you. But I promise you, nobody who knows about you is going to out you. Believe that,"

Buffy opened her crackers. "So, who outed me to you?"

"Nobody. Remember the boat from Korea, about six months ago? We got word something went wrong. Guys from the neighborhood went down to the wharf that night. They had guns. We didn't know what we were getting into, we just knew it was our problem, you know? My uncle was on that boat. I knew him when I was little. My favorite man in the world," Vicky paused, her features tightening, "So here we are, ready to take on who knows what, and out of nowhere comes this white chick with a crossbow,"

Buffy chewed on a clam.

"We just watched you. I've never seen anything like it. Let me tell you, it's my mission never to piss you off,"


"I mean, nobody human fights like that. So, we went and talked to some of the old people the next day, and they knew all about it. 'Oh,' they said, 'that's got to be the Slayer'. We were like, 'huh'?"


"I never had a chance to thank you," Vicky continued, "I saw him. He stepped onto the dock and I knew it wasn't Uncle Bo. It was his face, but there was-" she faltered and pressed her lips together tightly for a moment before continuing, "There was a demon behind it," she looked directly at Buffy. A tear slid over her cheek.

"I'm sorry," said Buffy softly, "But-"

"Then you shot him, and his body fell into dust, and then I knew, I just knew his soul had been freed, and that he could be at peace. So, I wanted to say thank you," Vicky was dabbing her eyes with a napkin. Her hand was trembling.

"OK," said Buffy, "So how do you know about the Presidio?"

"Idiot Bill," said Vicky; she looked up and sniffed, then laughed lightly, "I've known him my whole life. Loser. Always falling in with the worst people. This time he really did it,"

"He works for a window-covering company,"

"This week," said Vicky, "And he was all freaked out yesterday about something, so I grilled him. He's being really stupid, he's staying in town, not taking your advice,"

"You seem to know everybody,"

"Oh," Vicky laughed again, "No, Bill was there the night you took on the boat, too. But he's an idiot. He hooked up with the one guy who got away,"

Buffy choked on a piece of potato.

"What do you mean, 'got away'? I got them all,"

Vicky looked at her, astonished, and a little afraid.

"You didn't know? Oh, well, you got all the rest of them,"

Buffy frowned. She was miffed. One got away? That wasn't like her. She must be slipping. That's the price she paid for having two day jobs. Time to step up her training again. This was unacceptable.

"Well, it figures that Bill would hook up with the one surviving demon. He's such a putz,"

"Tell me more about tonight,"

"Well, there's supposed to be a LOT of them. Like, fifty or so. Waiting for you,"

"Good," Buffy smiled.

"No. Not good. You can't put yourself on the line like that,"

"Vicky, that's what I do,"

"But that would be stupid. I mean, who's going to do what you do if you're gone?"

"I have no plans to die tonight," Buffy arched an eyebrow, grinning.

"Well, can't you just not show up?"

Buffy laughed.

"They're waiting for you," she continued, "You can't just walk into their trap,"

Buffy fixed her eyes on Vicky.

"You are not welcome to help. Under any circumstances. Do you understand what I'm saying?"

Vicky tried to speak, but Buffy interrupted her.

"If you jump into a fight and you don't know what you're doing, then I have to worry about you. It slows me down, it distracts me, and it could get me killed. If you don't want that, then don't come around with good intentions,"

"What makes you think that I-"

"Losing somebody, that way," said Buffy, "It does something to you. I understand that. It makes you hate them, and that's how you should feel. But the more innocents there are on a scene, the tougher it is for me. If you really are rooting for me, you'll stay home,"

Vicky sighed. "Well," she said, "At least let me tell you what I know,"