You're at the Bronx, waiting for Willow and Xander, who were still dancing to the music, when you see him walk in.
He turns and catches you, his blue eyes deep, knowing, and amused (at your expense, you figure), as he saunters over deliberately with this obnoxious feline grace that just seemed so wrong (in a guy), and you squirm in your seat, knowing each step that brings him closer makes your heart beat that much faster.
"Slayer..." he drawls slowly, letting each syllable roll over his tongue, like molasses, his eyes leaving yours for a moment to look you up and down, his gaze lingering at the sight of her lips on the way back, and you wonders if his super vampire senses can hear the pounding against your ribs that seemed to drown out everything else.
"...you look good enough to eat."
Your breath hitches and his eyes are back on yours, enjoying the feeling of guilt, shame and desire you are unable to mask. He places his palm against your inner thigh, moving it slowly, slowly up your dress, and you know you should be shocked and disgusted, but instead the pounding in your chest and your head is close to unbearable, you throat, dry and your skin is too warm, too sensitive, and it is a miracle you are capable of enough restraint to not respond to every inch of your being screaming for satisfaction.
And he knows. His quest reaches its objective as he brushes his lips against your earlobe, eager to hear you moan...and you do.
In the dark, should anyone look, it seemed nothing more than him, whispering something, and what small shred of rational thought that still exists somewhere in your mind is thankful for it.
He moves back, and meets your gaze, his task still in progress, watching as you clamp your jaw tightly shut, your fingers scoring the furnishing as your body shudders, wave after wave of satisfaction flooding through you.
The music ends, and you watch him lick his fingers, watching you watch him. Knowing that what he was doing was just whetting your appetite for more.
And GOD, how you despise him (or more truthfully, yourself) for wanting it.
"I'll be waiting." He mentions, as Xander and Willow finally arrive.
"What? Hitting on Buffy again, Pal? You know you're never gonna get it, right? NE-VER." You hear Xander stress.
You could only wish you had that much conviction.
He ignores Xander and turns and leaves, and why would he bother? He already got what he wanted.
And as you make your excuses, some minutes after he leaves, you know.
You know.
That the worst part of it is...
...he was probably going to get it again.
And again.
And again.