It was her kiss that did me in. It turned me into some kind of bloody ponce and I hate her for it.

And I want her for it. I want to feel it all again. Her mouth--

Sinfully erotic. Warm against cold, soft against hard, sweet against sour. It was the kiss that did it. Of course, the kiss happened because of Willow and her spell, but the kiss is where it started. The look on her face before she would brush her mouth across mine drove me insane. The feel of her tongue dancing with mine, tangling, dueling, tasting desire. She was shockingly chaste at times, then, when the Watcher was blinded, so much more daring and her whole body melded to mine. She was divinely wicked-- a contrast of innocence and impurity.

It was that kiss, that unspoken promise of what would come on our supposed wedding night that sealed my fate. From them on, it was sleepless nights, and when I did find peace, she would visit me in my dreams. My hands would tangle in her soft, sweet smelling hair, and my mouth would find hers. Forbidden fruit. Lust and desire. Moth to a flame. Slayer to vampire. It was so wrong, but it was so right.

Listen to me, I sound like I should be picking a guitar and crooning in some bar in Texas. I’d wail about lost love, wanting someone so bad it caused you to ache deep inside a heart that doesn’t even beat, and being so fucking pathetic that you almost wish a bolt of lightning would fry your ass. I’d sing of being empty. I’d sing of being me.

Good thing I don’t sing.

However, I am as pathetic as I sound.

She’s haunting me. I see her everywhere, even though I’ve been avoiding her. I go to the Bronze, there she is, dancing, gyrating, then I focus on her face, trying to gaze into her eyes, and it’s not her. It’s just some girl who doesn’t have her fire, doesn’t have her pouty mouth, and doesn’t have my attention. I see her on street corners, I see her on the telly, and I see her in magazines. I hear her voice when the wind blows, smell her perfume when I’m in a crowd, and feel her fingertips dancing over my flesh when I close my eyes.

It’s making me crazy. Driving me past insanity. And I can’t take it anymore.

I need to make her mine.

So, that’s why I’m here, standing at her front door. I keep raising my hand to knock, but I back out and pace across her porch instead. I lost count at ten failed attempts, and now I’m sitting on the railing, smoking a fag, and trying to decide if I have the balls to watch the sun rise and let it take me out of this … this taste of Buffy that is consuming me.

I’m staring at the moon when the door opens suddenly. It startles me so badly that I fall over the edge of the railing and land on my back in her front yard. I close my eyes for several seconds, hoping that she didn’t realize I was even there, then she nudges me with her foot. I peer at her with one eye.

"Spike, are you drunk?" she asks me, her hands on her hips and her feet spread out at shoulder width.

She stares down at me, looking bored and ready to kick me across the lawn, and I decide that I am drunk. I haven’t had a drop of alcohol in days, but she’s intoxicated me. "Yes." I mumble, forcing a lopsided grin to turn up the corners of my mouth. I have to lie. I can’t very well tell her the truth. I’ve suddenly lost my nerve.

"Did you have to come into my yard to sleep it off?" she glances out toward the road and for the first time, I notice that her eyes are red and swollen.

"Whassa matter with you?" I ask, slurring my words with exaggeration.

"Doesn’t matter," Buffy mumbles, motioning for me to get up. "I didn’t take you to raise, you know. You’re not my responsibility and you can’t just come here when you get like this."

I sit up slowly, massaging the back of my head. She exhales loudly and puts her arms under mine, helping me to my feet. I let her, still pretending to be drunk. She leads me to the front steps of her house and we sit next to one another. For a few minutes, she doesn’t say anything at all, and then, like she’s just heard the most awful news in the world, she buries her face in her hands and begins to sob.

I try to make a joke. "Well, it’s not that great to see you again either, Slayer."

She doesn’t laugh, she just cries a little harder. "Spike, I can’t take it anymore."

Well, bloody hell! What the fuck am I supposed to do now? She’s sitting there, looking for all the world like she just lost her puppy, and I’m sitting here with an erection so powerfully hard that it’s killing me. And she’s the one crying? God damn you, fate! She wants me to hug her; her big green eyes are imploring me. I do it, just because I can work this situation to MY benefit. Yes, that’s right. Hug me back. That’s good. Oh, that’s very good.

"Take what?" I finally ask her. Her breasts are pressing against me and her hair still smells the same, causing my limbs to tingle at the memory of that one day we had.

"Anything. Everything," she cries, burying her face in my neck.

I pull her into my lap, cradling her against me and hoping she doesn’t feel the raging hard on I’ve had for months now. I don’t say a word, so afraid that she’ll realize who I am and punch me in the gut for consoling her. I rock lightly, rubbing lazy circles on her back and trying not to react to the wetness on the front of my shirt. I don’t want to feel bad for her. I don’t want to feel a damn thing for her.

But so help me, I do.

We sit that way for a while and then she quiets. I glance down at her and she meets my eyes. We stare at one another for several seconds and confusion is evident on her features. I want to say something. I want to say something that will make her smile. Instead, I lower my mouth to hers.

At first, she’s slack in my arms, and then I feel her fingertips on the back of my head, sliding through my hair. Her mouth opens and there it is, the mind numbing taste of Buffy that I can’t get enough of. So sweet, so warm and tangy. I can feel her pulse quicken, feel her intake of breath, and then she sighs, moaning slightly in the back of her throat. I deepen the kiss, reaching into her, trying to pour myself into the feel of her, the taste, the sound, the smell of her.

Her tongue pushes against mine, struggling for dominance, and then she’s pulling away, looking shocked and breathless and thoroughly kissed. Her lips are swollen, more red than usual, and her face is flushed. I don’t think she has ever been prettier. Her eyes widen, like she’s just realizing what she’s done. She attempts to stand, and I court death by holding her in place, not letting her slip away. "I want you, Slayer," I finally tell her, my fingertips skimming down her arms.

"Y-you what?" Her eyes are as big as saucers.

"You heard me," I say with a half growl. I can’t bring myself to admit it again.

"You’re drunk," She tells me, struggling to stand again.

I grab her arms and shake her roughly. My head lances with pain and I howl, grabbing it. She seizes the moment to leap away from me. By the time the torment in my head dulls, she’s standing a few feet away from me, on the sidewalk, and she’s watching me intently.

"What?" I snap, massaging circles on my temples.

She shakes her head, but keeps looking at me. Finally, she whispers, "You don’t taste like alcohol."

"Oh?" I ask her. "What do I taste like?"

"Danger," she replies softly, touching her lips with her pink tipped fingernail.

I nod at her. "Do you want to know what you taste like?"

She blinks several times, staring at my mouth, then nods dumbly. "What?"

I stand up and walk toward her. My hand snakes out, dancing lightly up her bare arm. She’s wearing a tanktop with small straps. I let my hand slide upward, then trace alongside her jawline. "You taste like danger too; the sweetest forbidden fruit. Salty, sweet, hot, wet and ripe. And at the same time, so soft and innocent." I move behind her, pressing against her backside. "So damn inviting."

She swallows hard, I hear it. I can feel her heart pounding and lean down low to her ear. "Ask me in, Slayer."

"I- I can’t. I –" she tells me, but she’s walking toward her front door. And I’m following like a hungry puppy, intent on getting a treat.

We get to her front door and she turns, tilting her face upward so she can stare at me. She leans her back against the door, one hand resting on the doorknob. I put my hands on either side of her head, dipping lightly to capture her mouth again. I break the kiss almost as soon as it starts. "Ask me in."

"Your invitation was never revoked," she admits, licking her lips.

"I want to hear you say it anyway." I grind my teeth, literally forcing myself not to shove her through the door and take her in the foyer.

"Spike, we can’t ever—" She trails off, looking for the right words.

I put my hand on hers, on the doorknob, and turn it, opening it behind her. We linger in the doorway, me bracing myself on the doorjamb and her blocking the way. She keeps on looking at me, almost as if she’s waiting for me to say something more, but I remain quiet, waiting intently. She knows that if she asks me in that it won’t be for tea.

"Come in," she says after a while, and moves aside.

I step over the threshold and I think we both feel it then. The feeling of not turning back, of not wanting to. I close the door behind me and the clicking of the latch seems to echo through the silence, loud, so loud. She watches me as I let go of the doorknob, and move toward her. I take three strides, and she sidesteps me, moving fast around the coffee table, putting it between us.

"Slayer—" I warn, shaking my head.

"Spike, you’re crazy. You can’t possibly think that I’ll let you—"

I step over the table easily, and grip her upper arms. "I know you will."

The next kiss is rougher, flesh against flesh, teeth against teeth, and her ragged breathing is the only sound in the room. My hands are in her hair, tilting her, forcing her to surrender to me, to give in. At first, she pushes against me, then the hands on my chest slide upward and lock around my neck. I bend my knees slightly, grab her under her thighs, and lift her, urging her legs around my waist. She complies, almost as if she’s under whatever mind-altering drug I’ve been under for months.

My mouth is all over her: her ears, her jaw, her neck, the cleavage that is peeking out of the top of her shirt, and she urges me, moaning softly, then with more intensity. I lay her on her mother’s sofa and slide my hand down her side, cupping her ass and she lays her leg over my back. It gives me the perfect chance to move between her legs and press against her core. It’s hot, so flaming hot and musky with her arousal.

It’s my turn to moan and I say her name.

It causes her to surge upward, against me and I say it again, catching her lips with mine. I feel her fingers fumbling with the buttons of my shirt and sit up, stripping it off for her. She eyes my chest, then looks up at me and trails her nails over my nipples. I catch her fingers and draw them into my mouth, licking each one and while I do, I slide the straps of her top down, exposing her breasts. When she’s nude from the waist up, I slide her moistened fingers over her own nipples and she closes her eyes, softly mumbling under breath.

I can’t take it. I have to feel her in my mouth. I take one nipple, then the other, taking as much of it as I can and suckling roughly, but not enough to hurt her. She hisses, grinding her hips again, and I move lower, catching the button of her pants in my teeth. I pull it open and kiss under her belly button and along her pelvic bone and I slide them over her hips.

No panties.

Somehow, I knew that.

She’s already barefoot, so they clear her feet and she pushes them behind the cushion of the couch without even realizing that she’s arching upward, inviting me to devour her. I don’t need a second invitation. I push her legs upward, toward her chest, and lower my head to her core. She’s slick with need, shaved clean and swollen with heat. I slide my tongue into her, then trail upward, capturing her clit between my teeth. I hold it, rubbing it back and forth with the tip of my tongue until she screams and bucks against my face. Her orgasm wets my chin and I lower my mouth again, eagerly drinking in every drop of her completion.

While she moans and grips the sofa cushions in tight fists, I get rid of my pants. I wait for a few seconds, standing nude, watching her regain control of her senses. Her eyes finally flutter and land on me and that wickedly naughty look crosses her features. The same look I have dreamed of for months. I move toward her and she sits up, grabbing my hand. I intended to lie down on top of her, but she pushes me into a sitting position, stands up on the sofa, and puts her feet on either side of me. My face is even with her pussy and she rubs it over my nose. I dare another taste of her, but she pulls back, teasing me mercilessly.

Finally, after I think I’ll explode on my own, she straddles my hips and I slide, effortlessly, into her soaking wet quim. She lowers herself so slowly, so torturously slowly, that I finally can’t take it at all and grip her hips, driving myself upward until I’m buried to the hilt. Only then do I relax, for the first time in days, months. For the first time in forever.

The Slayer gasps, I feel her walls tighten around me and I smile to myself. I’ve still got it. One stroke of me and she’s coming. Then I realize that these are the muscles she told me about. Muscles I didn’t know she had. She lifts herself slightly and slams back down on me. Bloody hell, it’s not supposed to feel so good. I can’t last if she’s going to feel this good. She’s not even riding me at a gallop and already, my knees have buckled and popping is imminent.

I try to think of sunrises. I try to think of Holy Water and Crucifixes. I try to think that this is Buffy, the same little twit who almost killed me a million times, but nothing works. She slams into me again and again and I reach between us, giving her clit a good twist, and she screams. I scream. And then those muscles are milking me, accepting every throbbing jet I send into her. I feel her go limp in my arms and I hold her firmly against my groin, rotating my hips slightly until I feel myself begin to soften.

She puts her head on my shoulder and I brush her hair away, kissing along her neck. It seems to scare her and she sits up, surprised to see that I haven’t morphed into my demon. "What?" I ask her.

"Spike—"

"Shh." I shake my head, unwilling to accept what she’s probably going to say.

She leans forward and kisses me, softly, almost chaste again, then pulls back. I smile and shake my head, pulling her to me again. I rub my tongue over her lips, waiting patiently for her to part them. She finally does and I kiss her deeply, letting her taste herself. I think she almost pulls back, but then she seems almost as hungry as I was. She sucks my tongue into her mouth, raking her teeth over it, then pulls back, staring at me in shock.

"You still don’t taste like alcohol," she whispers. "You were never drunk."

I trail the pad of my thumb over her cheek. "I taste like you." She blushes and tries to stand. I catch her around the waist and kiss the base of her throat. "And the taste of Buffy is more addictive than the finest ale."

She looks shocked, but she relaxes a little, putting her palms on my shoulder. I think, for the first time in her life, that she’s speechless. That’s okay. I don’t need to hear her tell me all the reasons why we can’t, or shouldn’t. I know all the reasons. I've laid awake at night counting them instead of sheep.

But there’s a reason why we should.

And as I flip us on the sofa and stare down at her, letting her feel me harden inside of her, I think she understands that.

After all, she had a taste of it too.