He’d thought loving a Slayer was aiming high for a vampire, but being buried to the balls inside a goddess was beyond even Spike’s wildest dreams. He’d bet good money that Angel had never done that.  

Illyria lies stretched out beneath him. A strange blue doll, unmoving apart from the occasional blink of her eyes and the hitch in her chest as he thrusts.

“You okay, Smurfette?”

She looks at him, curious, he’s under the microscope of her icy glare. “Your movements are pleasurable to me. I desire you to continue.”

She’s no romantic, but she’s cold comfort at least.