"And I don't want to want to feed from you, because I love you," Spike said, his voice soft and apologetic. His eyes grew distant as he tried to explain, the orgasm having torn away some of his defenses. "But I think about your blood too much. Dream about it. What it smelled like. How much there was. How it made my hands so slippery I had trouble holding onto you." He looked back at Wesley, sad at his own weakness. "I want your blood to mean you're living, not dying."