In his hungry state, after all that exertion, and faced with the exotic taste of her, and the erotic sight of her, all bound and helpless and disfigured, he couldn't help himself.  He licked the blood on her neck more urgently, more hungrily, and then, without further warning, he plunged his fangs into her throat, puncturing the vein.  Had he wanted to sate himself immediately, he'd have gone for the artery and drank in the spray, but he felt like taking his time, so the vein's languid pulse filling his mouth was sufficient.<br/><br/>His lips and teeth were locked against her throat, his body pressing against hers, as he drank deeply of her.  She tasted of ancient magic, the dreams of a majestic culture, long dead.  She tasted of forests and meadows, lakes and brooks, cottages and castles.  She tasted of fairy beauty and subterranean threat, of stories and legends.  More immediately, she tasted of pain and pleasure, endorphins and poisons.  It was a rich and heady mixture, and it made Allan feel light-headed, giddy.  He had to force himself to stop, to lick the wounds closed, before he took enough to kill her, and he barely, barely succeeded...