They shouldn't. They really shouldn't. And yet, as so often happens, his body completely overrides his mind. He's trembling, now, his skin so very hungry for another's touch. His lips, so full and heated, eagerly meet hers, parting and letting her slip her tongue past them if she so chose. His hands move up her sides. He takes a long breath through his nose....

A heart-wrenchingly familiar scent greets it--faint but there, still in the dress she's wearing, only made more so by the scent of the soap she'd used. Tears prick at his eyes. This was all a mistake. A dreadful, horrible mistake, he should never have bought her, he never should have even left the house. A tear rolls down his cheek. He pulls away slowly, gently, but his hands have moved to either side of her face.

"You're not her," he whispers. "You're not my Anya. I know this in my mind and yet...." One hand slips into her silken hair. "I can't resist.... I need you. I need you and I don't even know why...."

He kisses her fiercely, now, lips hot and insistent.