Coat Hanger Halo

Dru stopped in the doorway and let Angel cross the room to where Spike sat. The fire snapped and the golden light bathed the chiseled lines in the tall brunette's face. With that derisive, self- satisfied smirk tugging his lips, Angel was infuriatingly beautiful.

Spike bit the insides of his cheeks so hard he tasted blood. Looking Angel up and down, he noted the fuzzy white sweater under his leather jacket. "What's this?" he chided, reaching up with confident fingers and touching Angel right in the center of his tight belly. "Soft as a bunny's ass. Bet the slayer will get her little pink fingers all over you in that."

Angel's smirk melted away to an icy stare. "Look, let's get something straight, rolling boy. Don't talk about her. Not at all. I don't want to hear your obnoxious cracks or your insipid jokes. Just don't mention her. If you do, I'm outta here—and you never get outta there." He nodded to the wheelchair.

"We both know I'll heal myself in time," Spike said. "You're only here because my girl is getting tired of drivin' in the sack." He winked at Drusilla in the doorway and she tittered like a school girl.

Angel looked back at her with a covetous glimmer in his eye. "That's funny, Dru. You always liked being on top with me. You used to ride me like a pony, baby."

With the same hand he'd used to pet Angel's fuzzy jumper, Spike hooked the waistband of the older vampire's jeans. When Angel looked down at him, Spike pulled him forward until his knees knocked the chair's armrest. They stared at each other.

Spike gave a sudden tug on Angel's waistband and the brunette lost his balance. His hands landed on the chair's armrests for support and his hips dropped right down into Spike's lap. Angel had to flinch back to keep their noses from colliding.

Spike watched his face for the signs he knew he would see there. The proximity worked on Angel immediately and his cocky expression went slack. His tongue tracked slowly over his lips and his lashes fluttered slightly. Spike knew Angel's mouth had suddenly flooded with saliva and his blood was beginning to race. It was always the way. All it took was closing the distance.

It was Spike's turn to grin and be sarcastic and he wasted no time. "Feeling all right, mate? You look a bit wobbly." He kept his grip on Angel's jeans and drew him even closer, at the same time rolling backward just enough to take Angel's legs out from under him. His knees touched the cold floor, his feet lost their grip and then Drusilla's proud sire was kneeling.

The scent was getting to him, too, but Spike had more control over it— mostly because he loved the way it felt. He adored the takeover of his senses and the keen awareness of Angel's desire. Spike liked the freefall of this totally unique experience, but more than that he relished the surrender of it.

Licking his own lips, he shivered when he tasted Angel there. Their pheromones were already coursing through the air between them, sticking primal flavors and smells to every available surface. Angel was trying to fight it, that was clear. But he would never win that battle.

Drusilla crossed in front of the fire and spoke to them softly. "Now, boys," she said. "Let's concentrate. Angel has come to help you, Spike. Don't be a ninny."

He heard her speaking, even felt the vibration of her voice on his spine, like always. But he was completely unable to look at her. With Angel that close to him, Spike was barely able to think. Angel was so savory, so rich and the familiarity of his scent was torture. Memories of a thousand nights of roiling lust flooded his mind. Every moan, every bite, every orgasm. Spike's mouth watered so much he swallowed twice.

They were so close together, they couldn't help but move forward. Their wet lips parted and they both inhaled to breathe each other in . . . and then they connected. Soft and lingering at first, their lips reacquainted themselves, then their tongues touched and caressed each other, completing the kiss. Angel's body all but collapsed against him and Spike's fingers slipped up under that fuzzy sweater to find the silky naked skin there.

Behind his eyelids, Spike saw little flashes of memory like still photos flitting by. Angel on his back in that big bed in York; Angel with his cheek against the wall in that black stairwell; Angel with his head thrown back against the settee, thighs tense and corded with muscles as his orgasm ripped through him; Angel naked and covered in cold mud writhing under the crumbling windows of Fountains Abbey. Angel . . . Angel . . . Angel . . .

Drusilla's fingers were cold as she pressed them into his neck and drew his head back, separating their kiss with a moist, reluctant smack. She had also grabbed Angel's neck but she was holding his a might harder. He coughed and reached for her wrist, dark eyes flashing angrily.

She looked at her sire closely, cocking her head this way and that as though she'd never seen anything like him before. And then she simply released him.

"Daddy," she said as he glowered and rubbed his throat. "Only those who live here get to taste the sweeties in the cookie jar." She wagged her finger at him, then touched the pad of it to the tip of his nose. "Don't be a bad puppy."

He cleared his throat and got to his feet, using the arms of the wheelchair for support. Straightening his clothes, Angel huffed an impatient sigh. "Listen, doll. Here's the deal. If you want me to give your darling boy my precious blood, you need to leave us alone to do it. Your jealous tantrums are exhausting and I have a date tonight." Having said his piece, he waited, watching her with harsh assuredness.

Drusilla stared at him blankly for a long moment, then her beautiful face softened into a chilling smile. Looking down at Spike, she leaned forward and slid her hand between his legs in the chair. He took in a breath and held it when she tightened her grip.

Her long elegant fingers cupped his balls through his trousers and then she nibbled his earlobe. Already madly aroused from kissing Angel, he purred from the intimate touch and turned to taste her lips.

Spike squinted suspiciously then shrugged, looking at his beautiful Drusilla again. "I'm gonna do it, ducks. You know you don't wanna watch, anyway. It always upsets you seeing us do this."

She frowned prettily and then she giggled. "It's not that," she said. "I know how much it pleases you. You go mad from it, sweet. I love to watch you enjoying yourself. It's just that it will be so bad this time. It always is when one of you is hurt. The hurt works like a spell on you . . . keeps driving you together until the healing is done." She looked at Angel with cold mistrust. "But tonight, his heart is in the wrong place all together."

Spike reached for her hand and kissed it gently. "Don't worry, baby. Just listen at the door. If you hear me start dyin', bring in the Hoover. I'll expect to be resurrected post haste." He rolled forward around the big table, heading for the bedroom. Stopping before the door, he turned back to their guest. "Are you coming?"

Her perfectly painted lips pursed into a tight line and her eyes blazed for an instant. Then she gave Spike a reticent smile as he preceded Angel into the room. He thought it best not to look back again, just in case she changed her mind.

The door closed with a soft snick and Spike wheeled himself to the edge of the bed. Shifting forward, he used his arms to climb up on the mattress, then he sprawled out on his side. Angel approached the bed and slowly removed his jacket, draping it over the back of Spike's abandoned wheelchair.

"That's never gonna happen." Spike gathered the pillows at the top of the bed and stacked them so he could lean against them. The two places in his back that were splintered screamed with pain every time he moved, but he ignored them. He didn't want to give Angel too much of a visual advantage.

Leaning one knee on the bed, Angel tugged his fuzzy white sweater over his head, revealing his smooth, nicely sculpted torso. He folded the sweater in half and put it on top of his jacket, then he crawled slowly up the bed to lie beside Spike.

"Where are you broken?" Angel said, his voice soft, almost sympathetic. Almost. He moved forward on the bed until their bodies touched, legs flush, hipbones connecting, half-swollen cocks awakening to each other. His fingers curved cautiously around Spike's side and down to his spine, feeling for discrepancies in the long line of bone. When his fingers found the first fracture—the one just below the ribs—Spike winced.

"Big baby." Angel raised up on his knees and carefully straddled Spike on the bed. Leaning over, the muscles in his bare arms hardened and tensed deliciously with his shifting weight. Spike had always enjoyed this view. Angel's nicely defined chest and belly were in perfect relief in this position. Tracing a finger up over those rippled abs, Spike grinned when Angel's nipples hardened.

Angel moved in for another kiss and Spike reached for his waistband again, but that time his fingers went to work on Angel's belt. The metal buckle clinked softly as he undid it, then he slid the worn leather out of the belt loops very slowly. The kiss was so tantalizing and distracting, he almost forgot what he was doing—but not quite. Spike brought the soft leather belt up to where Angel's hands were supporting his weight on the bed. Forcing himself to break the kiss for a moment, he looked right into those dark and golden eyes.

Slightly dazed from the chemical onslaught in his blood, Angel blinked at first, then looked at his own belt in Spike's hand. "Do you really think I'm gonna kill you?"

"Got that right," Angel said. "But doing it now would be totally empty. Look at you—you can't even defend yourself. Killing you now would make me a—"

Leaning down again, Angel nuzzled Spike's neck just below his left ear. The sensation made Spike shudder with pleasure and he closed his eyes to increase the intensity.

"You're too fucked up to play hard right now," Angel purred. "So unless you want me to spank your ass `til it bleeds, I'd just put that belt aside." He nipped Spike's tender ear lobe roughly.

Sighing, he let the belt slip out of his hand and onto the mattress beside them. His hands returned to Angel's fly where he carefully unhooked the buttons. The older vampire's skin was so satiny right below his navel . . . and warm from recently consumed blood. Spike smiled to himself, knowing that Angel had warmed his skin and worn that kitteny jumper just to make himself more desirable for the slayer. With that thought in mind, he drew Angel's plump bottom lip into his mouth and sucked it—just the way Angel liked.

"I bet your pretty demon killer doesn't kiss you like this," he said, lapping at the brunette's probing tongue. "I bet she won't even let you feel her perky little tits."

A low, feral growl vibrated the bed and Spike had to restrain himself from laughing out loud. He never could resist pushing Angel's buttons—especially when he had so obviously revealed their location.

Chuckling, Spike bit that delicious lip again, making Angel tremble with rage and craving—a lovely combination. He moaned deeply and then Spike was reminded that he couldn't move to grip Angel's hips with his legs. He couldn't instigate much bodily contact at all and the frustration made him want to scream. In an attempt to compensate, he grabbed Angel's waist with his hands and pulled his body down with fierce demanding.

Angel's fingers slid into his hair at the back of his neck as their kissing grew more heated. Spike managed to push Angel's jeans down enough to expose his smooth buttocks and free his stiff cock. Reaching between the brunette's legs, Spike curled his fingers around those low, full balls, weighing them with a firm squeeze. Angel's pubic hair tickled his fingers as he teased and stroked the skin around his straining erection.

He could taste arousal inside the kiss—a warm, sugary flavor like fresh cake that gave way to the taste of butter. Spike sucked Angel's tongue and gnawed his lips, while his fingers explored the sensitive skin of his erection. The velvety head was slick with moisture and twitched when Spike ran his thumb over it. Again, Angel moaned and the sound of it was ragged with need.

Angel sighed and kept on kissing. His body was revealing him, as it always did. Hips writhing, he pressed his cock into Spike's hand, begging for friction. Soon he would be desperate with longing.

"Why the hell do you taste so good . . ." Angel murmured angrily, as though he were thinking out loud. He'd never accepted this—never let himself. For almost 100 years every time this chemical lust threw them together, Angel was always looking for a way to defuse it.

"You know why," Spike growled against his ear. "Your blood is my blood . . . you need to heal me just as much as I need you to do it. And don't say you don't love it, either, Angelus. I know you do. Gives you the upper hand."

Angel's teeth bit at the flesh below Spike's collarbone, but he did not break the skin. He just tasted the softness of it in his mouth and licked the sweat from the surface.

"Do it," Spike panted and again, he closed his eyes. In the darkness he could almost see Angel's fangs lengthen. He felt their hot pressure against his skin and then . . . blessedly . . . he felt the puncture. Such sweet release to finally be bitten.

Mouth watering, Spike's skin begin to tingle. He groaned and tugged Angel's thick silky hair, shaking softly as he felt his blood being drawn up and up. "Yes . . . oh, God yes . . . drink . . ." he heard himself say. "Take me down . . ."

His craving grew exponentially as they moved together on the bed, Angel's hands working busily to divest Spike of his pants. In another moment, they were naked—both of them hard and panting. Angel lifted his head and his swollen lips dripped with Spike's blood. He hovered, chest heaving, and purposefully rubbed his cock—showing it off like a glistening prize.

They were both blind with hunger now, reeling from the blitz of hormones and electricity thundering through their veins. They were both prisoners of a strange magic they never intended and could never deny.

Spike's eyes were glassy with lust as he watched Angel's ministrations. Torture, it was, seeing that hot swollen member right there . . . just out of reach . . . the most delectable thing Spike had ever tasted just hanging there, waiting for him to take it. He wanted to feel that cock in his mouth so bad he was trembling. He remembered the taste . . . the savory nectar that dripped from the head of Angel's cock was totally addictive. Reaching up, he grasped Angel's wrist and stopped his hand from moving.

Never taking his eyes off Spike, Angel ran the pad of his middle finger over the wet slit of his cockhead, gathering a big drop of moisture. Next thing, that finger smeared the salty liquid over Spike's bottom lip and into his mouth, forcing its way to the back of his tongue. Closing his lips, Spike sucked in his cheeks and licked every drop of savory pre-come off that insistent finger. That tiny bit of sexual fluid was like a shot straight into his blood. He saw sparks and his skin shimmered with sweat.

Voraciously, he grabbed Angel's hips and pulled him hard forward. Again, the tall brunette was toppled off balance and his hands came down on the mattress on either side of Spike's head. Lifting his hips to move his erect cock closer, Angel spoke in a hoarse whisper.

Spike barely heard him, the chemical assault was so strong by then. If he had heard, he might have come back with some rude retort, but as it was, he was in no mood to snark. All he wanted in life at that moment was to feel Angel's cockhead press the back of his throat. That sweet elixir dripping from the hot slit was the ambrosia he needed. Well, at least it was the appetizer he needed.

On some instinctive level, he made certain his fangs were retracted and his tingling lips covered his human teeth as he guided that beautiful cock into his mouth. He ran his tongue along the engorged head, teasing the silky ridge and lapping the ultra-sensitive point where the foreskin connected and rolled back. Angel loved being licked there. It made him shiver with lust. Spike concentrated on that spot exclusively for a few seconds, waiting for Angel to moan with desperate pleasure.

Grinning, Spike relaxed his throat and let Angel push his cock down deep. The feeling was amazing—quenching and painfully stimulating all at once. Tasting that cock again made Spike itch in a bottomless place—a place only Angel could scratch. He hummed and licked, tickling Angel's naked hips with his fingers to increase the sensation. Eyes closed, Spike was in his own personal heaven . . . lost in a totally primal act, reeling with carnal pleasure.

Suddenly, Angel pulled back, shifting on the bed until they were facing each other. Spike frowned at having his mouth emptied, but then Angel filled it again with his tongue. Hard kisses led to deep growls and then Angel dropped down to the wound he'd made before, covering it with his mouth again and sucking . . . sucking for all he was worth.

The rush was so sudden and intense. It hurt a little, but not really. Spike heard someone shouting and vaguely realized it was him. He squeezed Angel's powerful arms, holding on with trembling fingers as his blood was taken. He knew what would happen next—it was necessary for the ritual. Angel had to drain him almost completely and then they would trade. Waiting, fighting his instinct to throw off this albeit welcome attacker, Spike sighed as the colors drew away. Sounds, sensations, light . . . all pulling back and fading. Darkness lay beyond and silence. He could see it ahead, like dropping into a well. He tried to speak, to protest, to say enough blood had been taken, but he had no voice. He could do nothing but trust that Angel would know when to stop.

Suddenly, he felt suspended in a gray haze. His skin felt cold but it tickled deliciously . . . soft kisses on his ears . . . soft licks on his neck . . . licking, licking the wound to close it. Then, he felt his cold body being moved slightly down on the bed. Pillows put behind his head to hold it up, Angel's eyes glittering through the fog. Did he say something? Spike couldn't hear. He could only hear a quiet sound like dripping water. He felt his mouth being opened, bottom lip drawn down by strong fingers . . . and then—the first drop of Angel's hot, magic blood.

It hit his tongue and slid down his throat like a splatter of molted wax, but when he swallowed, he felt it all over. Heat, incredible heat and radiant fingers of electric shocks all through his body. Angel's wrist was above his mouth, a large gash torn into it to open the veins. The blood poured out and onto Spike's waiting tongue and then that salty, satiny skin connected with his lips. Closing his mouth over the wound, Spike began to suck as hard as he could.

Each time he swallowed, his head cleared more and more and then his vision and hearing and perception went beyond clear . . . everything seemed to crystallize and bend around him. There was so much color and so many sensations, he was almost terrified by the intensity—yet, he still drank. He heard his own throat clicking with every gulp and he felt Angel shaking on top of him. Shaking and groaning like he was being pulled apart, but Spike knew better. He was racked with pleasure . . . the most acute pleasure either of them had ever known.

Already, Spike could feel his bones healing—slowly knitting and mending. He knew he had to stop soon, Angel was crying out so loud . . . the sound indicated he was almost drained . . . almost empty. The sound also indicated he wished Spike would never stop.

The hot splashes of fluid across his belly were a sensory surprise, but it was a Pavlovian trigger for his own orgasm. In a way, he didn't even care that he was coming. The pleasure of Angel's blood in his veins far outweighed any sexual response. Angel's body, his being was Spike's addiction. His nemesis and his addiction. The enormity of his love for Dru stood entirely separate from this experience. This was truly what defined him.

At the top of his orgasm, he realized Angel was shouting for Drusilla. Suddenly letting go of the older vampire's cut wrist, Spike collapsed on the bed, staring up at Angel in a haze of confusion. They were both drenched in sweat and semen and Angel's eyes were so very black. He dropped down onto Spike's body, gasping and then his hands gripped Spike's wrists, pinning them to the bed. Fangs extended, growling deep in his throat, Angel attacked again—his teeth sinking into Spike's neck in a new place. He sucked so hard, Spike screamed.

For a moment, she just watched them, her lovely face registering almost no emotion. Intense curiosity seemed to be the only thing she was really feeling, as she stood there with her arms folded across her flat belly.

Feral and snarling, Angel did not stop. He sucked at the new wound brutally and Spike felt his body tingling again as fresh pleasure raced through him. He moaned and wriggled for more contact under his captor's body, skin sliding on skin slick with blood-creamy ejaculate. He wanted to die there, swallowed into Angel's hot mouth. He wanted to spend eternity in that unbearable swoon.

"Look. At. Me." Her voice was soft again, a delicate, seductive purr that made Spike's heart explode with desire to kiss her. "Aaaaangeeeellll . . ." she sang. "Look at me."

Very slowly, Angel lifted his head and turned to her. Spike could see his eyes—black and fierce, no one home in there but the animal who was his mentor. Blood dripped from those full lips, running down his chin in dark rivulets. But he looked at her, as he was told. And he kept looking at her.

"Be in my eyes, Angel . . . and come to me. Come to the edge of the bed and walk out of this room with me." She curled her fingers, luring him with repetitive, hypnotic motions. "Come to me, my angel." Stepping back once, Drusilla moved toward the door of the bedroom, then she stopped and waited.

Angel stared at her, his chest rising and falling frantically. Spike was unable to move as his wrists were still pinned down hard against the mattress. His own senses were flooded with Angel's scent, his taste, the perfect pressure of his hard body against his own. He wished Angel would start sucking again. The sucking was the bliss. Just as Spike tried to lean forward and bite Angel's neck again, Drusilla's voice cut through his trance.

"NO!" Spike shouted. "No . . . come back!" He tried to grab Angel's arm, but his spine wouldn't move the way he wanted. Pain shattered his reverie and he groaned in agony, dropping back on the bed. Shouting curses, he reached for the broken spots on his back and held them with his hands. Yes, they had improved, but they were far from mended.

Angel had crawled to the foot of the bed and Drusilla continued to take little steps back toward the door. She beckoned him with her long, elegant fingers, never letting go of his gaze. Cooing quietly, she sang spellbinding little songs to him until he made it to the door. Once he was there, she took his arm and led him out to the main room.

The longing crashed down on him so violent and swift, Spike actually cried from it. The pain of need made him weak and angry. "Angel!" he shouted, hearing his own voice break. Under his desperate breath, he said "come back . . . Angelus, please . . . come back . . . I need more . . ."

Always the King of Wands, my angel. Strong and defiant, terrible in his beauty. His most deadly weapon is himself. He sits on the edge of table where I've placed him and he waits for me to bring the basin of warm water and the rag. Covered in blood and spunk, he is. Sweating my William's scent from every pore. I put the basin on the table beside his naked body and wring the rag in the water.

Can't resist having a taste, though. Right up his left cheek . . . nice, long lick. Mmmmmm, so sweet. He leaks his blood, my Spike's blood, good whiskey and sweat. I tell him he's delicious and his eyes begin to see me. Back to brown from that wicked black. Back to me, he comes. I wipe his face first, cleaning away the blood from around his beautiful mouth.

"All right, my precious?" I say, but he can't talk yet. I clean his face and kiss his lips, gently, as his daughter. The way they smell together is bright and sharp—makes me crave my lover so badly. I watched them before I had to separate them. Watched them writhing like mad, wild beasts. Trying to suck each other dry. Trying to die together. It's what they want, after all. What they've always wanted since the first time.

Daddy's trying to speak, clearing his throat. He looks at me and his eyes are almost all cloudless. It's because he's away from my darling's smell. If he can't smell Spike, he thinks all right. Get them near, though . . . no thinking allowed. Only biting and drinking. And soaking each other with spilled seed.

"Can I . . . have some water?" he says, voice raw and lovely. He's been screaming so much from the nightmares. Don't know why they make him scream. Same dreams make my Spike go all creamy in his sleep. They call to each other, reach out. Letting them touch might not have been so good. No telling how bad it will be later tonight for my sweet boy.

I bring him a bottle of water and he drinks all of it but the last bit, which he splashes on his face. I wipe it away with the rag, cleaning off the last of the blood there.

Looking down at his naked, soiled body, he runs his trembling hands through his hair. Primps, he does. He did say he had a date. That mewling girl with her pointy bits of wood. Makes me want to sever his head knowing he loves the slayer. He should be with us, silly boy.

Angel looks at the door and his eyes get full of clouds again. I touch his cheek and make him look at me. He does, focuses. He knows he has to. But Spike screams again and the starved aching in his voice makes me and Daddy want to die. Love him, we both do. Can't stand to see him hurt.

"I gotta get . . ." Angel tries to go for the door, but I stop him, push him back so he's sitting on the table again. He looks at me and his eyes are clear. He tells me he needs his clothes.

"You stay," I tell him, putting my finger on his nose. "Stay right here." I keep my eyes on him as I go to the bedroom door. When I open it, Spike is scrambling into his wheelchair. He's going to try to get out. I go inside right quick-like and shut the door behind me, rushing over to help my darling back onto the bed.

"Dru," he pleads and it's horrible. "I have to . . . please bring him back in . . . I need him." He's shaking so bad he can't move right. He loses his grip on the chair and almost falls, but I catch him. Put him back up on the mattress real carefully. Broken still. I can see the wrong place under his skin along his naked back.

I try to calm him, but it's no use. Mad, he is. Mad with hunger for Daddy's blood . . . for all Daddy's fluids. "I want you to be quiet now, my darling," I say. He's looking at me, desperate and sad, trying to be good. He shakes his head and reaches for my hand, squeezes. He's trembling like a leaf in the wind.

He'll be all right for now, so I gather Angel's nice clothes—almost forget that soft leather belt because it wasn't with the rest of the things. It was on the bed, near the pillows. Wicked children wanted to play rough, did they? Not likely with my boy broken like he is. I bet that made Spike so angry. Angel is such a dirty kitty with leather.

I take the clothes out of the room and close the door again. Good Daddy is still where I left him, sitting so lovely and naked on the table. He's cleaned himself off with the rag and his skin is pristine now. No more drying fluids to mess up the canvas. Seeing him there makes me want to give him tattoos. I want to draw pictures on his body with stiff little paintbrushes for hours.

I ask if he can dress himself and he says he can. He's hungry. Says he's weak. I send one of our house staff to get him a bag from our supply—O-neg. His favorite. When it comes, I put the bag in the warm water while Angel gets himself dressed. Pity, really. I love him naked. Be happy if he stayed about like that all day.

Angel nods and pulls that fuzzy jumper over his head. Again, he primps his hair with his fingers. Daddy's so vain. Checks the jumper for stains, touches it with his hands. He likes it. Soft and furry. That little bitch will like it, too.

"Same goes for you, doll. Don't talk about her. At all." He puts on his fine leather jacket and I get a good noseful of the smell. Angel's body in soft black leather. One of the best smells in the history of sex.

He reaches for the bag warming in the water and tears it open. I watch him drink the blood down quickly. He licks his lips when he's done, then gives me a little kiss on the mouth. Warm, he is. And he reeks deliciously of Spike, even after I bathed him.

Angel says nothing. He walks toward the stairs to go up and out, but he stops when he sees the two boxes on the table. I don't want him to look at them. It's not time for him to see those yet. I want it to be a surprise for him and the slayer. Oh, yes . . .

Daddy nods, but it's the sort of nod that says he knows I'm up to no good. Always am, after all. He loves it, too. I see it on his face. He loves the way we play.

Angel is trying to leave without answering, but I'm having none of that. I go to the foot of the stairs and start up behind him. He knows I won't let him leave. He knows I'll destroy him first.

He'll be mad with craving in a few hours, anyway. Starving for my boy. It's always the way. Until Spike's well again, the craving to trade fluid will torment them.

I'll just sit here and flip channels and wait for him because I know he's coming. He wouldn't stand me up—not this close to my birthday. In fact, Angel wouldn't stand me up anyway. He's coming. He's only a little late. 45 minutes isn't THAT late.

Finally—I hear him outside and I try not to run to the door, but fail miserably. I open the door and he's standing there, all beautiful, tall, dark and hot. That sweater he's wearing makes me want to climb him like a tree. I don't, of course. I'm supposed to be all mad cause he's late.

He smiles and says he's sorry, he got tied up on an errand, and then he comes in and puts his arms around me. When he kisses me, all my worries just evaporate like fog in the desert. God, I'm so pathetic. I can't resist him and he knows it. He is such an amazing kisser. I guess he would be after 240 years of practice.

He tastes clean and a little bit like alcohol. I don't ask him about that, I just kiss him. I swear, I could kiss him forever and never come up for air. He doesn't need air, so that works out.

Since it's late, we just go inside and sit on the couch. We talk, we kiss, we talk some more. I love talking to him, even if it's hard to get him to talk about himself. It's like he's trying to protect me or something. We talk about my birthday and he asks me what I want, but I can't think of anything. I mean, we both know what I want. He wants it, too. At least I hope he does.

He leaves around 1:00 in the morning and we stand on the porch kissing for another half hour. I'm all shaky when he goes and I feel like I could pass out. I know it's all from being aroused, but it feels like something else . . . like something spiritual. His kisses remind me of that God-feeling I used to get when I went to Sunday school. That feeling that someone was watching over me.

I go to bed, but can't sleep for hours. All I can do is wonder what he's doing. Where he is. What he looks like in whatever light is around him. God. He is so beautiful, it's just wrong.

By 2:30 he was sitting on the end of his bed, arms clutching himself, rocking slowly to keep from screaming. He shivered with hot flashes and chills and his body ached to be touched in all the most secret places. Places Buffy had yet to even dream of. Being with her those few hours had only made it worse. She was so tender and young, so warm. Her tentative, virginal kisses were excruciating. Being with her made Angel ache inside and out because she had no idea.

The worst of the withdrawal was upon him, and it had never been this bad before. But then, none of them had ever been hurt as badly as Spike was before. He knew he had to go back. He needed to. Until Spike's body was healed, there would be no peace. No matter how much he wished he could just ignore the burning instinct—Angel was their sire. Angel had no choice.