They couldn't have slept for long - it was still dark - when she woke to his hand tracing patterns on her belly. In the dim light, she could make out the sight of his pale hand against her body.
"Mmmmmm," she sighed as she moved closer to him. "You do that in my dreams, too."
He smiled at her, "I'm in your dreams, luv?"
It was the night, of course, that made her tell him. In the light of day, she could never have told him that he came to her in her dreams, came inside her in her dreams, making love to her through the night, banishing the dreams of her coffin and that other underground place she had woken. He'd told her once that in his mind he'd saved her every night of her death - now it was every night of her life.
He smiled as she told him. "And what do you do then, luv? When you wake up, all hot and bothered and alone? What happens then?"
She paled, looked uncertain. He cupped her face with his hand, breath whispering into her mouth.
"Show me, Buffy. Show me what you like. Show me what you do when you're pretending I'm there."
One hand crept to her mouth, and her tongue darted out to moisten her middle finger before it slid tentatively down to her breast. She stroked it gently at first, in concentric circles, focusing mostly on the nipple but also on the delicate pink areola that surrounded it. She pinched finger and thumb together, rolling the nipple between them, stretching it as she worked. Her other hand covered the other breast, mirroring the motions as she pressed her thighs together, squirming at the sensation. He was hard now, aroused by her arousal and also from the show she was putting on. She moistened her lips, saw him watching, and ran her tongue over them, giving him a show he'd never dared to dream of. He'd known there was a sensual woman inside her almost prim exterior, and he savoured the proof of it as she plucked out her erotic solo.
Her nipples were hard now, firm and deep red, and she was stroking and kneading the surrounding breast tissue as well as the peaks themselves. One hand slipped lower, stroking her belly, then moving to squeeze one of her thighs.
She bent her knees, raising her body to lean against a convenient pile of rubble. Facing him, she spread her feet apart, parting her thighs to reveal the dark moist curls he had already tasted so thoroughly. His hand drifted to his own arousal, gently caressing, content to maintain his arousal as he watched her fan her own.
While one hand continued to work its magic with her breasts, the other slid down to her wet centre, spreading her lips and sliding inside with ease. She brought her hand to her lips, licked it, tasting their combined essences and smearing them onto her nipples, before returning it to its task.
She watched him watching her and turned up the heat, unable to resist her chance to perform for him. She moaned slightly, pushing her breasts out, making sure that his view was uninterrupted. One hand slid inside her then out again, caressing her buttocks before returning to its task. She saw his hand clench, saw the small clear bead that adorned the end gleaming even in the dim basement. His eyes feasted on her, his lips slightly parted, the tongue that had so recently tasted her most private places peeping through.
Circling, tickling, stroking, their attention was focused on her fingers. From time to time, her other hand would descend and she would wet it before returning it to her breasts. She was breathing deeply now, eyes half closed, head thrown back as she approached satisfaction. Unable to bear it any longer, he reached across, picked her up, and slid her onto him. Her hand continued to work its magic as he moved within her, his hands replacing hers on her breasts. Her other hand reached down to caress his balls, stroking gently with a light, insistent movement.
She froze, completely still except for the hand that still played against their joined bodies, circling faster and faster, driving them ever closer to completion. He moved more deeply, praying (if he could pray at all) that he would be able to hold on and wait for her, then she shuddered, breathed deeply, then shuddered once more, keening as she did. Her head dropped to his shoulder; her hand at her breast stilled, then moved to his tight erect male nipples, stroking and pinching, as her hand squeezed gently on his balls, increasing the pressure. Her lips moved against his neck, kissing and sucking in an erotic echo of the night he had died. She had told him once - uncharacteristically - that she could make him "Pop like warm champagne". Apparently, she'd had the right of it all along. Not that he was complaining, of course, especially right now, locked tightly within her as he exploded into her depths.
"That's what you do to me," she whispered. "It's like that every night. You invade my dreams, my thoughts, my house. I burn for your touch, long to feel it, but dread it too." She broke off, looked at him shyly. "It's never - No-one - " she rested her head in the crook of his shoulder. "I never knew it could be like this though."