Sparks

We got the afternoon
You got this room for two
One thing I’ve left to do
Discover me
Discovering you

Your body is a wonderland

Your body is a wonderland…
            --John Mayer, “Your Body is a Wonderland”

            “I don’t understand.” Gwen stared at Angel, not quite able to comprehend what she was hearing. But he just pushed the Axis of Pythia toward her again.
“What’s not to understand? Take it. Sell it.”
            “It’s thirty-three million dollars,” she sputtered. “Don’t you want any of it?”
            “Okay, if it’ll make you feel better, toss a hundred grand or so my way. I won’t say no.”
            She blinked, completely unable to tell if he was joking. Then one corner of his mouth tilted up a little more than usual, and she was certain there was just a bit of a twinkle in his dark eyes.
            “I just don’t get it,” she insisted.
            “Yes, you do. Take it.”
            Finally, she closed her hands around the base. Her gloved fingers brushed against his and she flinched automatically before remembering it didn’t matter. “I can’t just . . . take this. I owe you something now, right?”
            “Yeah.”
            This surprised her, too. But that little hint of a smile still clung to his mouth. “Every once in a while I might need some help. Here and there. With electrocutable demons, that kind of thing.”
            “That’s it?”
            “That’s it.”
            She considered. This just didn’t seem right. “Could I take you to dinner, at least?” It seemed ridiculous even to her, but she felt she had to offer.
            Of course, she had forgotten the most obvious snag in that plan.
            “I don’t . . . I don’t really eat.” He looked bemused, apologetic, a little embarrassed.
            “But you can, right?”
            “I can, but--”
            “Then you will.” She was going to be stubborn about this. There was simply no other way to handle it.
            She expected a protest, but he just looked at her with that odd little twinkle, and suddenly he smiled. A full, wide smile full of white teeth. It occurred to her that she’d never seen him smile before. It surprised her, and she smiled back. It was hard not to. As grim as he was most of the time, he had one of the sweetest smiles she’d ever seen.
            “Okay, then,” he said. “I guess I will.”

            So she bought him dinner. Which hardly seemed appropriate recompense for a thirty-three-million-dollar mystical artifact, but he didn’t play by any normal rules. She’d figured out that much about him even in their limited acquaintance.
            He ate very little, and didn’t seem to enjoy it, but he drank his wine and seemed to appreciate that. Watching him sip his third or fourth--possibly fifth, come to think of it--glass of Merlot, she blurted, “Can you get drunk?”
            “Do you want me that way?”
            She blinked. That answered that question. He was starting to get pretty loose.
            “Are you safe when you’re drunk?” Horrible thoughts were starting to occur to her. She leaned toward him, lowered her voice. “Are you more likely to bite?”
            “Gwen, I’m hurt. You know I don’t bite.”
            “Are you drunk?” Maybe vampires were extra sensitive to alcohol.
            “No. Not even close. Just heading for the beginning of a little buzz.” He leaned back in his chair. “This is the first time I’ve relaxed in . . . I don’t know. Ages. It feels good.” Then he pressed his lips together and looked away, as if he’d said more than he’d intended.
            Gwen smiled a little, tendrils of warmth moving through her. She’d never reacted this way to a man before--had never allowed herself to. But she could touch Angel, and it opened up an arena of possibilities she’d never even been able to consider before.
            “Most people aren’t that relaxed around me,” she said, and was rewarded with another quirky smile.
            “You know, I have that problem, too. What is it about me? Am I intimidating?”
            “You’re tall,” she conceded. “And a little glowery. And you can be pretty intense.”
            “Huh.” He took another drink of wine. “And even without the fangs, I guess.”
            “Fangs?” Gwen spoke without thinking--she was good at that around him, it seemed. Then it occurred to her--he was a vampire. Of course he had fangs. So where were they?
            “That’s right. You haven’t seen the ‘grr’ face.” He grinned a little. “Not here. It would scare people.”
            “Not anywhere,” she said, a little too vehemently. “I think it might scare me.”
            “I don’t see much of anything scaring you.”
            There was an odd warmth in his eyes and she looked away from it. It was a little too much to handle. She’d let herself get too attached to him too quickly, and she didn’t want him to know that. But from the look in his eyes, it seemed the feeling just might be mutual.
            The silence hung just a bit too long. He picked up his wine glass and drained it.
            “Umm . . .” she ventured after a moment. “Do you want to get dessert?”
            “Actually--and don’t be offended--I’d really like to go back to the hotel and get something to eat. I’m starving.”
            “Then you should have eaten your steak.”
            “But that’s the thing. I could eat every piece of steak in this place and still be hungry. I need . . . well, you know.”
            “Oh.” So she’d blown a hundred bucks on high-quality steak that didn’t even fill him up. Inconsequential, though, really, or it would be once she cashed the Axis in. “I guess we should call it a night, then.”
            Angel looked surprised. “I didn’t mean it that way. I mean, we could go together. Do you want to?”
            “What would your friends think?”
            He leaned a little closer. The twinkle in his eyes seemed incongruous against the deadpan expression that dominated the rest of his face. Then his mouth twitched. “We can sneak in. It’ll be fun.”
            She laughed. “You want to sneak me into your hotel? And then what? Have your way with me?”
            Oh, God. What the hell was that? She was just flapping uselessly at the mouth again. Maybe she’d had a little too much to drink.
            “I--” she started, intending to apologize, but his eyes had locked to hers and he said quietly, “Is that what you want?”
            Gwen’s fork melted in her hand. Even through the glove. She dropped it hastily and Angel looked away, suddenly uncomfortable. But he said nothing, and after a moment his gaze slid back up to hers. She understood it all too well. He wanted her.
            She had to admit the feeling was mutual. But, as many times as she’d toyed with the idea in the short time since she’d met him, she didn’t know if it was because she actually felt something for him, or just because he was the only person she’d ever met who might be able to have sex with her without dying.
            “But . . . you told me you wouldn’t.”
            “There is a very specific reason why I shouldn’t, but--” He stopped, and his eyes slid to one side, as if only then remembering they were in public. “Let’s go back to the hotel. We can discuss it there.”
            Gwen swallowed. She’d been jonesing for cheesecake, but suddenly she was thinking maybe something in an Angel-food might be more appropriate. And definitely less fattening.

            Angel’s idea of sneaking into his own hotel was to shimmy straight up the outside wall with Gwen on his back. Which, Gwen had to admit, was about the most fun she’d had in, well, ever. By the time he half-fell through the window, unceremoniously depositing her on the floor, she was giggling like an idiot.
            Giggling. She never giggled.
            Angel, still half on top of her, laughed a little, himself. “I’m sorry. Are you okay?”
            “I’m fine.” And then she realized his face was only inches from hers, the smell of his leather coat rising headily all around her, mixed with another odor that had to be just him. She’d rarely been close enough to a man to catch his smell, aside from the occasional waft of cologne or severe body odor. This was neither--it was skin and flesh and just Angel-smell.
            She looked up into his eyes, suddenly wondering what he looked like under his black leather coat and expensive silk-blend pine-green shirt.
            “Angel--” she started, but couldn’t come up with anything else.
            He smiled at her. “You know,” he said, “I might be a little drunker than I thought.”
            And then he kissed her.
            He’d kissed her before, but not like this. He’d never been this deep into her mouth, and as his tongue pressed into hers, his body shifted so that he lay fully on top of her.
            She had completely lost control by now, electricity running rampant all over her. He just pressed harder into her, tasting her current along with her flesh, and it was so unbelievable, so intense, she thought she would weep with it.
            As abruptly as the kiss had begun, it suddenly gentled, and instead of devouring her now he tested, tasted, explored. His mouth was cool and gentle, and his tongue tasted of Merlot.
            Just when she had begun to get used to the contact, he eased back again, brushing kisses over her face, down her throat. Then, strangely, he licked her neck, collarbone to ear.
            “Mmmm,” he murmured. “B positive. My favorite.”
            She froze, then pushed at him, suddenly not quite frightened, but definitely uneasy. “Angel?”
            He hummed again, lips against her throat. “I’m not going to hurt you. Just let me feel this a minute.”
            “Don’t bite.”
            “I won’t.”
            He held his lips there against her throat, and she realized he was feeling her pulse. When he spoke, his lips moved soft against her skin. “The artery is right there. The carotid. The vein’s easier to get to but arterial blood is so much sweeter. Because of the oxygen. Because it’s red, not blue.”
            She pushed at him, but he barely budged. “Angel, you’re creeping me out.”
            His tongue touched her skin again, tracing the line, she supposed, of her beating artery. “No, I’m not. I’m turning you on. I can smell it.”
            He wasn’t wrong. She felt thick and wet between her legs, but it was an unsettling kind of arousal because she didn’t quite understand it. Or maybe she did. Because somehow she knew that, if he said he wouldn’t bite, he meant it. Even pinned to the floor under two hundred-plus pounds of horny, hungry, drunken vampire, she was safe.
            And suddenly she wanted him to bite her. Wanted to feel fangs in her throat, penetrating, feel the pulsing of her blood into his mouth. Why would she want that? Was this how vampires did it? They made you want it?
            His tongue had traveled to the back of her ear by now, and she could hear the soft crackle and pop of electricity as he scraped his teeth over her earlobe. She pushed at him again, with much less conviction.
            “You’re squashing me,” she tried.
            He lifted his head to look into her face. “I know. And there’s a really interesting current going right through my nuts.” He rolled away from her, until he lay flat on his back on the floor. “God. I’m so hungry I could drink a--” He looked at her, eyes glinting. “--a shockingly pretty girl with green eyes.”
            “Shockingly.” She sat up, pushed a hand through her hair, feeling his tongue-tracks evaporating on her neck. “Funny.”
            He pushed up from the floor until he sat next to her. “I’m sorry. I’m acting like--”
            “Like a vampire?”
            “Yeah, pretty much. I should run downstairs and get something to eat.” He stood, and she looked up at him. “Do you want to leave? Because I wouldn’t blame you if you did.”
            Gwen had the distinct feeling she had no idea what she was getting into. But she didn’t want to leave. She wanted him to lay on top of her again, this time with his clothes off.
            “I won’t leave,” she said, “on one condition.”
            “What’s that?”
            “I want to see the ‘grr’ face. I want to know what I’m getting into here.”
            He sobered. “You could know me for years and never see that.”
            But Gwen’s natural stubborn streak had kicked in. “If you’re going to be laying on me and licking my neck, I need to know what you are. For real. All the way. Particularly if you have any intention of coming back to this room and--” Her courage faltered briefly. “--doing anything else.”
            He mulled this a moment, then nodded slowly, and then his face changed.
            She jumped a little--she couldn’t help it. She hadn’t expected such a drastic change. Fangs, yes, maybe some neat pointy ones, but not the jagged row of upper teeth. Those would leave a hell of a mark. And she certainly hadn’t thought any of the rest of his face would change. But it had. A strange, ridged growth deformed his forehead, and the deep, chocolate brown eyes had turned yellow.
            “Good enough?” he said, an apologetic tone in his voice. He had to work his mouth differently when he talked, to accommodate the teeth.
            Gwen swallowed. “It’s, um, a little weird.” She made herself look into the strange, yellow eyes. “Can I . . . can I touch you?”
            He looked surprised. “I . . . if you like.”
            She stepped toward him and hesitantly lifted her hand. He flinched a little as her fingers brushed the ridged protrusion where his left eyebrow had been. It was still him. Still just as much Angel as he’d been before. The same smell wafting off his body, the same look in his eyes--cautious, concerned.
            She drew her hand back. It was enough. A small blue spark arced from her fingers to his face and he smiled a little, fangs glinting. Then his face shifted back, the smile still curving his wide, angular mouth.
            “Come back,” she said. “Bring your dinner up. It won’t bother me.”
            He nodded. She watched him go, swallowed nervously as the door clicked shut behind him.
            He was coming back, and she wasn’t going anywhere. She wasn’t completely sure where things would go from there, but she knew what she wanted. Absolutely as much as he was willing to give her. As much of his body as he would let her touch, whatever he might be willing to let her taste, or slide inside her. She wanted it so badly she shivered with the need. Because all her life she’d been told she could never, ever have it.
            With him gone, she could pay some attention to her surroundings. Funny how having a man on top of you could short-circuit your powers of observation so thoroughly.
            As it turned out, they’d come in through a window off a balcony leading right into his bedroom. She hadn’t even noticed the balcony when he’d carried her through it. Beyond the bedroom door was a sitting area. Looking back at his neatly-made bed, she decided the sitting room would be a better place to wait.
            She settled into a chair, realizing as she sat that it smelled like him. He must sit here often, then, for it to have absorbed his odors.
            Since he was no longer there, since there was no one to see her, she settled back into the soft upholstery and just absorbed the tenuous evidence of his presence. She was really letting this get out of control, and she knew it. But as long as she knew it, it was safe, or so she told herself.
            So he would sit here, in this chair, with the table next to it, and what would he do? She looked at the table. There were books there, a few antique tomes in a pile, and next to them an open sketchbook. He drew? That was interesting. She picked up the sketchbook and paged through it.
            Portraits. The same woman, over and over. Pretty, with a round face and a quirky mouth. This then, presumably, was the one he’d been looking for with the Axis. But after a few pages, she found a new face. Her own.
            Startled, she stared at the penciled lines. He’d captured her quite accurately, particularly since she knew he’d drawn her from memory. She certainly had never posed for him. For a few minutes she could only sit and stare at her own face, wondering what this meant. Did it mean he felt something for her, or did he draw everyone he met?
            Suddenly desperate for some sort of answer, she scanned the room. On a bookshelf across from where she was sitting was an entire shelf full of sketchbooks. She laid down the one she held and went to page through the others.
            There were easily twenty books. Glancing through the first eight, many of which were a bit singed around the edges, she found drawing after drawing of yet another woman. A girl, really--probably barely twenty. Blonde and delicate, with downturned eyes and an odd bump on the end of her nose. She was smiling in some of the pictures, but the majority of them made her look sad. Gwen wondered if this was more indicative of the woman’s personality, or of Angel’s mood when he’d drawn the pictures. She suspected the latter. This girl had broken his heart. She wasn’t sure how she knew that, but she had no doubt of it.
            So he drew people he loved. That was a certainty. Then she pulled out another book. In those pages were drawings of various strange creatures, monsters, things with tentacles and horns. Many of these were labeled with names and apparently the most efficient means of killing them. She looked back at the front of the book. This one, unlike the others, had a title on the front, written neatly in block capitals. “Compendium,” it said. “Demons Encountered, Effective Disposal. Volume One.”
            This was all work-related, then. There was a volume two and a volume three, then the next book in the row was unlabeled. This one was again full of portraits, but here she found more of a miscellany. Plus, unlike the books with the sad, blonde girl, each portrait here bore a name.
There were three or four of a pretty, wide-eyed girl named Willow, an austere but handsome older man labeled Giles. Twelve pages in a row bore another girl with downtilted eyes, this one with dark hair and a haunted look. The first two were labeled Faith, then he’d stopped naming them after that. Some of these were unfinished.
            There had to be some significance to who he decided to draw, who he labeled and who he didn’t, but Gwen had no idea what it might be. The next few pictures, of various individuals, were labeled Oz, Xander, Joyce, Dawn, Cordelia. Suddenly she realized Cordelia was the same woman from the book on the desk, but younger and with longer hair. Then an unfinished drawing labeled Jenny. A spot on the bottom corner of that page looked like he might have broken a pencil lead against it, pushing too hard.
            “Snooping?”
            Gwen nearly jumped out of her skin as she whirled around to find Angel standing behind her, looking mildly amused.
            “Um . . .” she started, but trailed off.
            “Don’t deny it. I’ve been standing here watching you for five minutes.”
            “It’s not nice to sneak up on people.”
            He shrugged. “I don’t do it on purpose. Just kind of a vampire thing.” He paused. “It’s not nice to go through people’s personal things.”
            “Things on a bookshelf are generally not personal.” Feeling more than a little chagrined, she slid the sketchbook back onto the shelf. “You make it sound like I was going through your underwear or something.”
            “Did you?”
            She blushed. She didn’t think she’d ever blushed before in her life. “No.”
            “Good.”
             He went to the chair, the one she’d been sitting in before, and settled into it. He had a glass in his hand, she noticed then, full of viscous red liquid. In spite of herself, she winced.
            “You said it wouldn’t bother you.”
            Damn. She’d hoped he hadn’t seen that. She took a seat in the other chair, on the other side of the table. “Go ahead. Don’t mind me.”
            Looking straight at her, he picked up the glass and drank. She made herself watch him. It really wasn’t that big a deal, she thought. Just blood in a glass. “Um . . . if you don’t mind my asking, what kind is it?”
            “Pig’s blood,” he said.
            She nodded, not sure why she’d even asked the question. “I’m sorry about . . . the snooping.”
            “You’re a thief. Of course you were snooping. I just didn’t expect you to go through the sketchbooks.”
            “I saw this one.” She paused. “You drew me.”
            He took another drink from his glass. “I did.”
            “Why?”
            He shrugged. “I draw a lot of people. People I meet and want to remember. People I see a lot. When I moved to LA I drew a lot of the people I’d known in Sunnydale, so I could remember what they looked like.”
            “I see.”
            An uncomfortable silence settled as he finished off his glass of blood. She watched him sidelong. Finally he set the empty glass down and picked up a tin of mints from the table. He took out four or five and ate them.
            He had taken off his coat. She wasn’t sure why she hadn’t noticed that before. He must have left it downstairs. “Angel--” she stopped. She had no idea what she should say to him now. Maybe it didn’t matter. Slowly, she stood, then walked to him, stood in front of him. Her stomach shivered with anticipation, though she honestly didn’t know if anything else was going to happen here tonight.
            “Gwen?” he ventured. He was looking up at her, waiting. Finally she just turned a little and climbed into his lap.
            This seemed to surprise him, and it was a moment before he recovered enough to respond, putting his arms around her. “Gwen?” he said again.
            She settled her head against him, her lips against his throat. His skin was cool, and it suddenly struck her that there was no pulse there. It didn’t matter. “I want you,” she whispered. “I want you so badly.”
            He went suddenly, strangely still. She pressed her lips against his jaw, just under his ear. Her skin sparked a little against his. “You said you wouldn’t,” she whispered. “Why?”
            He swallowed hard, and when he spoke his voice was strained. “There’s a risk involved. It’s one I can’t take. But I-- We could get pretty far along before it became an issue.”
            She leaned back so she could see his face. “What is it?”
            He just shook his head. “I’ll worry about that. Just--”
            She didn’t need any more encouragement. She cut off his words with her mouth, tasting the mints, the faintest hint of blood, the metallic tang of her current.
            He responded to her assault, one big hand sliding up her back, under her shirt. Her skin tingled against his fingers. His mouth--God, his mouth. She was trying too hard, she realized, trying to take everything all at once. She was already skirting along the edges of sensory overload--if she kept pushing it would be more than she could handle. And she didn’t want to stop. She pulled back a little and he slowed down in response but didn’t stop.
            He kissed her for a few more seconds, savoring it. It occurred to her that this was a rare indulgence for him, as well. He kissed her as if he drew life from her mouth, as if it were the most important thing he’d ever done.
            Finally he shifted, walking his mouth across her face, onto her throat. He touched his tongue to the skin under her ear, then whispered, “What do you want?”
            “Whatever I can get,” she answered honestly. “Anything you’re willing to give me.”
            He was silent a moment, and she wished she could see his face. He was going to back out, she was sure, afraid this might lead to awkward emotional entanglements. Which it probably would, but Gwen didn’t care.
            So she tensed when she felt him draw a breath to speak, expecting to hear a gentle brush-off, but all he said was, “You smell so good.”
            He lifted his head from her shoulder to look at her, then looked down at his own hand as he cupped her breast. Her breath became fast and shallow, startled by the contact. She lived day in and day out without human contact of any kind--and now this. It was almost too much to bear, but she was determined to move through it. An opportunity like this might never come her way again.
            Looking right into her eyes, he stroked his thumb over the peak of her breast. A blue spark crackled as her nipple rose under his touch. “Are you all right?” he asked.
            “Yes,” she said hastily, then added, with more honesty, “It’s intense.”
            “For me, too,” he conceded. “The electricity--”
            “I can hold it back. I’m not trying very hard.”
            “Don’t worry about it. The absolute worst thing you can do to me is knock me unconscious. You can’t kill me. Not that way.”
            She just looked at him. It was all too real, too much. His hand shifted a little on her breast and she had to close her eyes to absorb the sensation. For someone who had rarely been touched, and then only in extremely controlled, clinical conditions, the prospect of flesh on flesh was overwhelming.
            Slowly, she opened her eyes and met his. He was just there, waiting, one arm around her, his big hand curled almost protectively over the curve of her breast.
            “If it gets to be too much,” she managed, “if I hurt you, tell me.”
            He nodded. “I expect the same from you.”
            Still he sat still, and she realized he was waiting again for her. She pushed toward him, pushing her breast against his palm, then she kissed his face, the rise of his cheekbone, dipped her head to press her lips against his throat. No pulse there, just the soft hollow where it should have been. Daring, willing suddenly to take what she wanted, she licked him there, savored the taste of his skin.
            He shifted then, too, letting go of her to find the bottom edge of her shirt. He peeled it off her and tossed it aside, then closed his hands around her waist, lifted her against him, took a breast into his mouth.
            The sensation made her cry out, it was so intense, and she grabbed his head with both hands, holding him still. Obediently, he stilled, waiting, but when she let him go he drew hard on her, his mouth working as if he fed from her. Gwen blinked back tears. It was almost more than she could contain.
            Suddenly he let her go, his mouth going back to her throat, kissing roughly up the side of her neck, and his teeth scraped her, bit into her, almost too hard, but it was only blunt human teeth, not the sharp, wicked fangs. Some instinct in him just seemed to seek that place, to need it. It didn’t matter. The harsh pressure of his teeth against her skin was just another brilliant sensation to her, just another thing to feel.
            But he forced himself back abruptly, and she realized with surprise that he was breathing, fast and ragged. She was, too, of course, but she actually needed the oxygen. His breathing now was purely a reflection of his desire, of his need for her, and the rapid intensity of it flattered her.
            He closed his eyes, and she could almost feel him drawing inward, gathering control. She realized why then; her neck ached where he had bitten her. He had gone too far. Not for her, not really, because she just wanted to feel, but for him. She wondered briefly how close he’d come to actually penetrating her with his teeth, and decided it didn’t matter.
            “Angel. . .” she ventured, and he just shook his head once and finally looked at her again. Need burned in his eyes with a ferocity like starvation.
            Then, abruptly, he gathered her to him and carried her to the bedroom.
            God, he was really getting serious now, if he was taking her to his bed. She wasn’t sure what difference it really made, if they necked--literally--in his chair or spread out on the bed. Until he laid her down on his quilt and came in after her. Somehow he seemed bigger on the bed, spread out to his full height, the full width of his shoulders looming over her. He was not a small man. And when he dove in, devouring her mouth, clutching almost desperately at her breasts, her body, she had to wonder which one of them was really suffering the most from sensory deprivation.
            Somehow, she managed to wedge her hands between them, get hold of his shirt, and rip it open. The jolt of his bare skin against hers made her gasp. She felt blindingly hot against the cool expanse of his chest, but she didn’t feel like thinking about it, didn’t want to take the time to wonder what it meant. She’d never had contact this extensive with another human being, but it seemed he should be warmer.
            But she kept forgetting, in spite of everything he’d shown and told her--he wasn’t a human being. In fact, he was sort of a dead person.
            His mouth didn’t feel dead, working down her neck again, across her collarbone. He shrugged the rest of the way out of his shirt and a few buttons fell onto her bare chest. Oblivious, and well on his way back to her breast by now with his eager mouth, Angel sucked one of the buttons up like a Hoover.
            It brought him up short. With an oddly perplexed expression, he lifted his head. The mindless lust faded from his eyes, replaced by amusement. He extracted the button and held it where she could see it.
            “You ruined my shirt.”
            She just smiled. She had thirty-three million dollars coming--she could buy him a new shirt. “Sorry.”
            He sat up, laid the button on her stomach and flicked it across the room like a Tiddlywink. She laughed.
            “Good thing you don’t breathe,” she said.
            “Yeah, that would be pretty embarrassing--choking to death on my own shirt buttons.” He fell back against the bed, lying beside her now. “I was attacking you again. I’m sorry.”
            She rolled to her side to look at him. It felt strange, lying here half-naked and just talking. “It’s been a long time for you, hasn’t it?”
            “Couple of years. And then it wasn’t the smartest thing I’ve ever done.”
            “Did you love her?” She wasn’t sure why she asked.
            He grimaced. “It’s a long story.”
            “How long?”
            “About 250 years.”
            That opened up a barrel-full of questions. Gwen considered, then decided she didn’t want to know.
            “You know, I’ve never seen a naked man up close before,” she said after a moment, when it became apparent he was, once again, waiting for her.
            He smiled a little. “That’s way too much pressure for me. I mean, what if you find me repulsive? I could scar you for life.”
            “Well, we’re halfway there and I’m not repulsed yet.”
            His smile warmed, his gaze lowering to caress her breasts. “Neither am I.”
            When his eyes came back to hers, the lust had returned. She swallowed, wondering what would happen next.
            He reached to her, slid his hand down her back until he cupped her hip. His fingers dug into the slick fabric of her pants. “These need to come off.”
            “Yours, too,” she said. It was only fair.
            “Help yourself.”
            So he was like a buffet table now. That worked. She found his waistband and unzipped him. Current caught the metal zipper and he winced a little.
            “Sorry.”
            “It’s okay.”
            He shifted, facilitating, so she could get his pants off him, and he peeled hers down at the same time. A few seconds later she was naked next to him, not quite able to register that fact because she was still dealing with the idea that he was naked, too.
            Hesitant, she reached out to touch his pale, smooth skin. Her hand slid down his stomach, but stopped before she got too far. She wasn’t quite that brave yet. She looked, though, just a quick peek, just to see what he had. He had quite a bit, all of it erect.
            He pulled her gently to him, smoothing his palms down her back until they rested against the flare of her hips. “How do you want this to go?”
            “Slowly,” she answered, and he smiled.
            “Maybe you should be in charge. Slow and careful doesn’t seem to be my forte tonight.”
            “I just--” She stopped. Normally she didn’t have any trouble speaking her mind, but normally she wasn’t naked in bed with a man. “Can I touch you?”
            “Anywhere you like.” He leaned forward and kissed her gently on the forehead. “Take your time.”
            He settled back into the bed, stretching out on top of the quilt, seeming not at all disturbed by her scrutiny. She spread her hands over his chest, felt his nipples rise under her palms.
            “I’m leaning toward not repulsive,” she said after a moment, during which she still hadn’t quite worked up the nerve to let her hands go where they wanted to, down to cup and caress all that hard, tumescent flesh.
            “That’s a good thing.” His gaze raked her, still hungry, but he didn’t move. She felt like he’d licked her instead of just looking.
            “Roll over,” she said suddenly.
            “Why?”
            “Just--please?”
            He did, languidly. She’d hoped he might be less intimidating on his stomach, more vulnerable, but it didn’t quite work that way. He turned his head to watch her as she leaned into him.
            He had surprises on his back. “Ooo,” she said. “You’re illustrated.”
            He laughed a little. “You like it? I’ve never actually seen it.”
            “It’s pretty.” Hesitant, she laid her hand over the big, black tattoo. It covered his right shoulder blade, the “A” in the griffin’s claws reaching partway down his back. For some reason it seemed to her that she should be able to feel the lines, but all that met her touch was smooth skin. If she looked more closely, she could see how the ink lay imbedded just under the surface of his skin.
            Intrigued, and again forgetting to some extent the intimacy of the situation, she traced the lines with her finger, first the bold “A,” then up to the more delicate lines of the griffin. He made a small noise in his throat, contented, as she drew lines of pale blue sparks over his shoulder blade.
            “What?” she said, not sure she wanted to know the answer.
            “Buffy used to do that.” His voice had gone dreamy, and she had the distinct feeling the wine had come back to haunt them again. “Just lie next to me and draw that damn bird, over and over.”
            She started to ask who Buffy was, then it hit her--the eight-sketchbook girl. The one with the funny nose.
            “You miss her.”
            “Not as much as I did, but yes.”
            “Did she…did she die?”
            He chuckled. “Yeah, but not for long. She never dies for very long.” He rolled over suddenly and grabbed her, pulled her to him. It startled her; electricity skittered all over her, sparked across his chest. “I want to be in charge again.”
            “Can you slow down?”
            “Do you want me to?”
            “A little.” She hesitated. “Or no.”
            He smiled and there was something feral in it. He was oddly changeable--was it the wine, or was he always like this? She didn’t know him well enough to know.
            Then you don’t know him well enough to be naked in his bed, she thought, but those were the rules that counted for normal girls. Girls who could make out in the back seats of cars without killing anyone.
            “Make up your mind,” he said, then pulled her down and kissed her, hard.
            This, at least, was familiar. He’d had his tongue in her mouth so many times tonight she had thoroughly learned all its textures and tensions, the rhythm of its dance. She shifted her mouth, sucking on him, and he made an amused sound low in his throat, before abruptly rolling over and taking her with him.
            Sparks flew. Mortified at her complete loss of control, Gwen tried to pull away, but Angel had her pinned, and the more she sparked the deeper he pressed into her. If he’d been human he would have died eight or nine times by now. And finally it soaked in. Even though she’d known, up until now she hadn’t understood.
            She couldn’t kill him. She honestly, truly, could not kill him. She could touch him, kiss him, hold him, put bits of him in her mouth, hell, maybe even fuck him if she was really lucky, but she could not kill him.
            She melted under him. Gave in. Clutched his back, clenched her thighs hard against his hips. They needed a mirror, she thought, wanting to see what she looked like under him. Then she remembered--no reflection. She would look like just herself, writhing on the bed, her thighs clenching empty air the width of his hips.
            And that thought aroused her that much more. She didn’t know why--didn’t care. All that mattered was the wide expanse of his bare skin against hers. It was the most intense, the most incredible thing she’d ever felt.
            His hips moved between her thighs, pulsing forward. Instinctively, she thought, because he jerked back almost immediately. The hard jut of his erection slid back along her stomach and she reached between them and caught hold of it.
            He filled her fist quite nicely, but flinched at the sparks. Then, relaxing into her grip, he let his forehead fall against her shoulder and thrust gently through her fingers. She made herself pay attention, made herself pull back on the current.
            “That’s better,” he mumbled. “God, God, I can’t do this, this is not going to end well--” He caught her wrist, pulled her hand away.
            “Did I hurt you?”
            “No. I mean, not much. It’s a long story. I’ll tell you later.” His voice was soft and breathy. “Fucking gypsies. Ruin my whole Goddamned life…”
            This perplexed her, and she was fairly sure he said more, but she couldn’t make out any of it because he was saying it against her throat, then her breast, then her stomach, then her inner thigh, and suddenly his lips moved randomly at the very top of her left thigh. She remembered suddenly there was a pulse there, and sure enough, he scraped his teeth over her skin, licked, sucked a little, lost for the moment, she supposed, in the music of her heartbeat.
            It didn’t scare her anymore. Nothing about him did, she realized, and she probably should have been at least a little afraid. But she wasn’t. And then she couldn’t think at all, because he licked her again, this time about two inches to her right--
            “God!” It came out of her in an explosion of breathy startlement. And he smiled--she could feel the movement of his mouth against her eager, hungry sex--and then thrust into her with his tongue.
            Gwen arched into him, her body taking over because her mind had gone numb. The heat of her body, the coolness of his mouth, the buzz of electricity curling all along her skin--it was so much she thought she might just go right ahead and die from it. She had become a mass of sensation, everything in her body rushing down and rotating around the place where he stabbed into her with his tongue, then withdrew and made soft, wet circles that made her gasp and keen, and finally shudder and pulse and fly.
            His cool fingers clasped her buttocks, holding her still against his mouth so he could work her just a little longer, just a little higher. She had never come this hard before, or for so long. It just wasn’t the same, doing it to herself, forced to use fingers and latex toys. A man’s tongue--it was an entirely different thing.
            He didn’t let her go until he had drawn every last shudder out of her, his mouth moving as if he drank her. Finally, when she didn’t think she could take anymore, he kissed his way softly back up her body and shifted to lie beside her, holding her against him.
            “I thought you were a virgin,” he mumbled against her ear. “How could you not be?”
            She had to breathe for a few seconds before she could speak. Her eyes were wet, she realized. God, he’d made her cry. “I lost my virginity to a cleverly shaped piece of latex when I was sixteen.”
            He laughed a little, that small sound that she knew barely registered on his face. His arms shifted, pulling her closer.
            “Tell me about the gypsies,” she ventured.
            And he did. She just listened, absorbing the story as he spun it out softly against her hair. Only a few minutes into the narrative she realized what he was entrusting her with. He had no way of knowing, after all, how she would react to this, to the long, bloody stretch of history that was his past. But as he narrated the blunt facts of what he had been, she felt no revulsion. Only a deep, pervasive sadness as he made it clear that he had nothing to offer her, or any woman he cared about. Not even Buffy, who had given him a reason to become more than a parasite. Not even Cordelia, who had humanized him in ways no other woman could have.
            “But…” she said when he offered a moment of silence, “would you really have to avoid all sex? I mean--” She paused, then forced the words out. “You don’t love me. Why would there be any risk of triggering the curse when you’re with me?”
            “It has nothing to do with love. Sex makes me happy. I’m just that shallow.”
            “I find that hard to believe.”
            He was silent for a moment, then kissed her shoulder. “Even knowing what I am, you’re here. It’s a gift. Kinda hits me where I live.” His voice came soft, sincere this time instead of flippant.
            “So even though it’s only me--”
            “Only you, Gwen?”
            “You don’t--”
            “No, I don’t. But there’s something about you--” He broke off, lipping the back of her neck. “Something. Something really nice.”
            She closed her eyes, letting herself feel. His whole body embraced her, and he seemed warmer than he had. Perhaps because of his arousal, maybe just because he’d absorbed her heat.
            “So you couldn’t--”
            Lazily, he pulled her a little closer, drew a hand across her chest, cupped her breast. She watched the blue sparks as they outlined his fingers. “Couldn’t?”
            “I’ve always wondered what it would feel like. You know. For a man to--be inside me.” It was easier to say like this, with her back to him. And she knew he would say no, and knew it wouldn’t be anything personal, so it wouldn’t hurt. It would just make her a little sad to know that even here, where she could have so much, she couldn’t have that one thing.
            “Probably a lot like that cleverly shaped piece of latex,” he said.
            “No. It would have to be better. There’s no way it couldn’t.”
            He settled his chin against her shoulder, nestling her just a little closer. “Actually,” he said, slowly, “if it were anybody else I would get out of this bed right now and put my pants back on before I did something stupid. But you--” He stopped, making her wonder exactly where he was going with this. “Considering I’m only just now regaining full feeling in my tongue, it just might be a possibility.”
            “You’re kidding.”
            “No. My whole face was numb there for a while.”
            “Why didn’t you stop?”
            “Darla taught me to never, ever interrupt a female orgasm.”
            “She taught you well. You played through the pain.”
            “Was it good?”
            “It was incredible.” She nestled back into him. “So much better than the self-inflicted version.”
            “Yeah, that can get really old after a century or so.”
            “God, I thought it sucked to be me until I met you.”
            “Glad to put things into perspective for you.” His hands hadn’t stopped moving, languidly tracing her body. His words stirred her hair. “I’d love to feel that. Just for a minute. I mean, until you short out my nervous system.”
            She couldn’t tell if he was joking or not, so she rolled over. His face didn’t tell her very much, until she looked into his eyes. There was need there, raw and open, as hungry for her as she was for him.
            He kissed her, let her feel that hunger building in the movement of his mouth, as his hand slipped down. His fingers opened her, penetrated, as he rolled her onto her back again. His mouth tasted salty now--tasted of her. But the kiss softened, gentled. Finally he drew back a little and said against her lips, “Are you sure?”
            “Are you?”
            “I’ll think sad thoughts.”
            Something made her think that wouldn’t be hard for him. Sadness seemed to run like a current under his skin. He would exhale it, she thought, if he breathed.
            She didn’t want him to be sad. She wanted him to be able to feel what she was feeling--the sheer, simple joy of contact, her body and some part of her heart opening to him. But he had his demon to bear. She understood that.
            His mouth explored her face and her throat, and she moved a little under him, finding a good place where his body slid neatly into alignment with hers. Like fitting puzzle pieces together, his chest against her breasts, his shoulders wide over hers, and he looped his arms under hers, lifting her a little as, slowly, easily, he slid inside her.
            She dug her fingers hard into his shoulders, startled at the way he filled her, and he made a thick, odd noise in the back of his throat that she was at a loss to interpret. Pleasure or pain?--but at this juncture they could be a little difficult to tell apart.
            She’d been right about one thing, though--his solid length inside her felt so much different, so much better, than even the most expensive synthetic substitute she owned. More yielding, more--dare she say more human? And, best of all, this one came attached to a big, gorgeous man who smelled of lust and vampire, and who looked straight down into her face with dark eyes that went on for centuries.
            He held very still, just watching her, taking her in. It was like a caress, his gaze somehow as deep inside her as his sex. He just held onto the moment, held onto her, then finally dropped his head down next to hers, exhaling a wordless sound of contentment into her ear.
            She shivered a little, shifted her hips to take him in just that fraction of an inch more. He responded with his mouth, caressing the side of her neck in a supple movement of lips and tongue.
            Brave again, she let her hands slide up his back, to cradle his head. Smiling a little, she whispered, “You’re not going to kill me now, are you?”
            The sound he made might have been a chuckle. “I think we’re safe. I’ve got to be honest with you, Gwen--this hurts like hell.”
            Startled by this revelation, she withdrew a little, scooting backwards under him. But he pulled her back into place. “Don’t,” he said. “Just let me feel this.”
            “But you said--”
            “Doesn’t matter. Gotta play through the pain.” She wondered exactly how bad it could be, based on his continuous nuzzling. “Is it good for you?”
            “It’s, um…” She didn’t really know what to say, and suddenly felt far too open, too vulnerable. “Yes. It’s good.”
            He withdrew a little, pressed back in. She longed to be ridden, to take one hard thrust after another, but all he gave her was a single deep, slow glide. He stopped again, long enough for her body to take over, clenching down hard on him, and then suddenly flying apart. She hadn’t felt that coming. But there was nothing to do now but just ride it, let it carry her into bliss and back on deep, thick waves.
            Angel pulled her closer, and this time the sound wrenched from his throat was definitely born of pain. But he hung onto her, clutched her tight and let her current skip and pop over his skin until she slid down from the peak of her climax. Only then did he withdraw, this time all the way.
            “Ow,” he said.
            “I’m sorry.”
            “It’s okay.” In spite of whatever pain she’d caused him, he didn’t seem to want to let her go. “I’ve been impaled on spears and shot and set on fire and hanged. That was nothing.” He nestled her closer. “God, I love the way you smell.”
            Tears sprang to her eyes and she blinked them back. “I should go.”
            “No, you shouldn’t.”
            “Okay.”
            He rolled to lie beside her, spooning her into him. Without the rhythm of breathing, she couldn’t tell if he fell asleep, but after a time he became quite still, even his wandering hands falling to rest.
            For a long time she lay awake in his arms, then she, too, drifted into sleep.

            She woke alone. Disoriented at first, she opened her eyes, then remembered where she was. The bed, the blankets, the pillow--everything smelled of Angel.
            Slowly, she sat up, wondering where he had gone. But she heard him then, moving in another part of the suite.
            She looked for her clothes, but all she could find right away was Angel’s shirt, lying in a careless pile on the floor next to the bed. She pulled it on. It covered her well enough, and there were still two buttons left, so she followed the sounds through the sitting area, to a nook with a table and chairs, which she’d seen last night but hadn’t bothered to explore.
            Angel was there. Shirtless and barefoot, his back to her, he wore only a pair of black cotton pants, and was unloading an assortment of take-out trays onto a table. The black griffin danced on his back as he moved. He must have heard her approach, because he turned and smiled. “Hey.”
            “Hey, yourself.”
            “Breakfast? I had it delivered from the deli up the street.”
            “Sure.” She pulled out a chair and sat while he put eggs, sausage and pancakes in front of her.
            “I got a little of everything.” The next tray held cubed melon and strawberries. “Do you want coffee?”
            “Coffee’s great.” She noticed his own breakfast then, in a glass half-hidden behind the take-out bags. “Go ahead and eat,” she said. “I don’t mind.”
            “You sure? You made some faces last night.”
            “I just wasn’t prepared. Besides, after a couple episodes of Fear Factor, watching a guy drink blood is no big deal.”
            He laughed a little. “Good point.” Food distributed, he sat across the table from her. “But what about blood and coffee?”
            “Now that’s disgusting.”
            He settled on just the coffee, and she realized after a moment that he was watching her eat and apparently enjoying it.
            “Did you want some of this?” she asked, suddenly uncomfortable with his scrutiny.
            “No, I’m good,” he said, and sipped his coffee, and looked at her like he might just snack on her at any second.
            And all she could think about was what it had been like to have him on top of her, inside her. The way her body had wept and sang for him. Could she really walk out of this room, remembering what they’d done, knowing it might never happen again?
            She could. She had to. She just had to remember that, only a few months ago, she’d never imagined being able to experience anything even close to this. For all of her twenty-six years she’d known she could never be with a man. And now she had.
            And God, but she could fall in love with him so fast if she let herself. Forget the fangs, the curse, the eight books full of sketches of the girl with the funny name and the funny nose. He had given her something of himself, and that little piece would never belong to anyone else but her.
            “This is nice,” he said suddenly. “It was nice waking up with you. Maybe we could do it again sometime.”
            She smiled. Maybe, or maybe not. Either way, she was glad he was open to the possibility.

            Cashing in the Axis proved to be a little more complicated than she’d thought it would be, but she got it done. The magnitude of the money staggered her--it was just so much.
            She wrote Angel a check for five thousand dollars and mailed it to him with a note promising the same once a week for a year, unless he wanted to make other arrangements. She wasn’t sure why she did it that way, except that she really hoped he’d call to make those other arrangements.
            He didn’t call, but a few days after she sent the check, she found a large envelope in her mailbox, return address Angel Investigations. Her hands shook a little as she opened it and she chided herself for her own sappiness.
            But when she opened it she found some vindication. Inside, carefully packaged to keep it from bending in the mail, was a page from one of Angel’s sketchbooks.
            He had drawn her sleeping, and she wondered if he’d done it that morning, waiting for breakfast to arrive. She lay with her hair scattered on the pillows, a sheet barely covering her, but only from the waist down. Her breasts were bare, along with one leg.
            She knew for a fact she wasn’t this pretty. But it was still unmistakably her. He’d sketched her in pencil, and she knew it was his habit to draw in black and white, but he’d used a few colored pencils to add the maroon streaks she put in her hair. And he’d colored her lips and her nipples, ever so softly, in a muted coral.
            She blinked, looking at the drawing, watching her own face blur in front of her eyes. Then she noticed, half-hidden in the pattern of the quilt, his name. Somehow this touched her more than the rest of it.
            Carefully, she slid the drawing back into the envelope. She would see him again, she was certain. She was less certain that she would ever touch him again, or lie next to him in bed and trace the black lines of the tattoo on his back, over and over, watching the blue sparks from her fingers echo the lines of ink. But she would always have this. This and the memory.
            It was enough.

“Enjoy his every smile…—How did it go so fast?—you’ll say as we are looking back and then we’ll understand we held gold dust in our hands.”—Tori Amos, “Gold Dust”

END.