Spike's hand working at the front of his slacks was almost enough to make Wesley groan, but he held it back, trying to focus on what his own fingers were doing. His bandaged forearm rubbing against Spike's jeans helped, but the way Spike's teeth were gently nipping at the skin of his throat -- his unblemished, unscarred throat -- just pushed him the other direction toward distraction.
![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
timeasmymeasure
no subject
Date: 2004-01-16 06:52 pm (UTC)"God," he said again, hoarsely. "Spike..."