She had kissed him back. Her hands had grabbed onto his coat until the seams threatened to break under the pressure; her body had maneuvered his until they flipped around and he was the one pressed against the car.

When they had come apart, she'd looked him in the eye. "You like me better like this."

Angel didn't deny it; he even caressed her forehead and left temple in mute approval. "I like you best when you're killing something," he confided, drawing her chin to one side and then to the other. "Of all your faces, that's the truest one."