“What’re you up to then?” Spike stared at Xander, his lips curling in a puzzled smile.
“Kind of thought it was obvious," Xander said, debating moving his hand – which would expose a two strokes away from popping cock - or keeping it in place which might prove... embarrassing.
“Well, yeah, and can I say thanks for getting it out of the way before I’m tied to a chair and a captive audience, but that wasn’t what I meant.”
So he hadn’t been asleep the night before. Fuck. Should’ve known vampires didn’t snore.
Spike strolled over and stirred a bowl of melting ice cubes with his finger. “No beer in sight... and your hand’s dripping.” His hand snaked across and a finger scooped up some of the droplets rolling down Xander’s wrist and brought them to his lips. “Tap water.” An eyebrow rose heavenward. “Now why do you want to jack off with an icy-cold hand wrapped around your bits and pieces, hmm?”
Silence wasn’t just golden; it was the only answer he had that didn’t need to be followed by some form of ritual suicide to escape the shame.
Then Spike unpeeled Xander's fingers, one at a time and replaced them with his own. “See? Room temperature, you ninny.”
Spike’s hand was hot against chilled flesh. And he managed to hold out for five strokes.
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