The
One was playing with him again. Little
puppet Spike, doing its will.
Letting
the girl drop, heavy crack-thud on the ground, Spike felt her life thundering
through him. Blood, sweet young
blood, was better than an orgasm, got him higher, lasted longer.
He'd
forgotten, it had been so long. Even
his demon memory faded.
He
needed to taste Buffy now, needed her to erase the flavor.
See if her lips, that used to taste of cherry cola, or raspberry
lipgloss, but underneath were soft wine, could fill him with something safe.
But
her taste was as forbidden as blood.