Buffy took the stake that Giles handed her and looked around the cemetery. Nothing up. Nothing to do but wait for this stupid fledgling to wake up and dig. Giles looked bored too. He was leaning a shoulder against the nearest crypt with his hands tucked into the back pocket of his jeans. Buffy took a second look. Yes, jeans.
“New jeans, Giles?”
“Hmm? Oh, these. No. I’ve had them for quite a while. Twenty years, maybe.”
Giles was wearing jeans that were as old as Buffy was. They didn’t look like they were decrepit and ragged in any way, though. They looked like, well, Levi’s, red tab and all. The size tag in the back was too faded and crinkled to read any more. Buffy knew Giles’s pants size anyway. Though these looked smaller than his usual. In fact–
“I can see why you kept them. They fit kind of, um, perfectly.” That was an understatement. They hugged Giles’s ass in a way she’d never seen that ass hugged by anything before. Which was a pity, really, because it was a very huggable ass.
“Shrink to fit. I’m certain you have them here, yes? One buys them and sits in a bath wearing them so they shrink properly. Done right they mold themselves to your skin.”
“Oh! Those. I thought people stopped doing that when they started coming pre-sandblasted.”
Giles rolled his eyes. “Perhaps you did.”
Buffy didn’t respond to that, even though it was obviously intended as an insult, because she was too busy trying to imagine Giles sitting in a bathtub wearing Levi’s and nothing else. Giles, victim of fashion? More likely than you’d think. He liked to pretend he wasn’t the sort of man who owned a blowdryer and had a mirror on the inside of his closet door, but he was.
Giles cleared his throat. “They, er, start off a bit stiff. Heavy-weight fabric. They soften as you wear them. These are quite my favorite jeans. You ought to get a pair.”
Buffy ran her hand over the denim on his ass, testing this claim about softness. Yes, buttery soft, like her better real cotton jeans, and then hard underneath from muscle. Maybe there was something hard in front too. Certainly there was something hard developing underneath the fly, something Buffy found herself most interested in.
Buffy rubbed her palm up and down over the fly, just to check. Definitely interesting.
She slipped a finger into that fly. “Mmmm, buttons.” Buttons that the interesting something was starting to strain against. She popped the middle button open to give it some relief.
“Buffy–” he said.
“I like buttons.” She popped another one, slipped two fingers into the gap in his fly, and explored. “Mmm, slippery. Satin?”
Did Giles sound a little hoarse? He did. Buffy undid a third button, with all due caution and respect for these twenty-year-old jeans that had to treated with care. They were Giles’s favorites after all.
“Remember the color?”
Another button. “Your underwear. What color is it?”
“Black? I think?”
Thinking was not something Giles was doing at that moment. At least Buffy hoped not. She was cupping him through his jeans hard and he was pressing himself into her hand. She knew what he liked.
Another button. How many buttons did it take to get to the tootsie roll center of the tootsie pop? Answer: six. And now she got to lick it.
Buffy went down onto her knees, pulling Giles’s jeans and jockeys partway down with her. There it was, just what she’d been wanting, Giles’s cock. She’d been thinking they’d finish the evening the usual way, patrol, shower, leisurely sex in bed, Buffy on top, but this was good too.
She heard a thud that was Giles’s head tipping back against the wall, and then a muttered oath, one of those words that probably meant something really filthy if only she spoke the same language Giles did. Which she didn’t except she totally did. She spoke the language of tongue on penis, which practically every single male alive could understand. Especially when it was spoken by someone as fluent as Buffy.
Licking the shaft meant “let’s get you revved up all the way, tiger.”
Tongue fluttered against the underside of the head meant “I want to drive you nuts.”
Licking all the way around the head meant “I know you like it wet.”
Wetting her own lips meant “Watch me and think about what it’s going to feel like next.”
Letting the cock push between those wet lips meant “Now you get what you’ve been hoping for.”
Yeah, she liked doing this. Liked the way it tasted, like the sounds her guy was making up there, liked how hot it made her to hear him beg for more. Cock sliding into her mouth, a spit-wet hand holding onto the base and giving him all the extra friction he could want. Buffy curled her free hand around the back of his thigh. Sweet hamstrings, just as surprisingly hard as the rest of the man. He dug his fingers into her hair, which he usually didn’t do because he was oh so polite even when getting blown, but wow, she had him going this time. He was thrusting into her mouth now.
“Fuck, oh fuck, I’m gonna–”
And when Giles broke out the F-bomb, it meant he really was gonna. Buffy let him thrust all the way in, as deep as he could get, and held him there while she squeezed his ass hard. There he went, coming hard in her mouth, saying things that probably weren’t coherent in any language. Buffy knew what he meant anyway. She eased off as he finished and let him sag back against the crypt wall.
When he’d recovered, Giles lifted her up to her feet again, all the way up until she was in kissing range. Buffy would be licking her lips in satisfaction but he was licking them for her, which was weird now that she thought about it that way. He liked kissing her after getting blown, which put him one up on her previous boyfriend. It was good to be appreciated. It was good to be kissed. Giles’s tongue in her mouth promised payback later in the evening and he was a fluent speaker of Latin, Greek, German, and Buffy.
Something at the back of her neck itched. The fledgling was waking up at last. He’d be out in ten minutes, maybe five if he was a fast one. Buffy helped Giles pull his jeans up and over that ass. They were most amazingly soft. Shrink to fit, okay, she’d sit in a bathtub and let her own pair mold her own muscled ass some time soon.
She tucked Giles back into the satiny slide-y underwear gently, mindful of the post-orgasm sensitivity. She was a model girlfriend, really. She paused to appreciate the satin jockeys a little more.
“Mmm, date underwear. Was somebody hoping to get lucky?”
Giles extricated her hands from his pants and buttoned himself back up. “Well, yes, though I didn’t dream of getting lucky while we were still on patrol.”
Buffy said, “So why did you wear the jeans?”
“You told me that the next time I wore a jacket and tie on patrol you’d stake me.”
“I should have threatened you sooner.”