“Little bird told me it was your birthday, Wes.”

Wesley glanced up from the stack of papers in front of him and blinked in surprise as he withdrew his concentration from a Babylonian text on demon raising and brought it to bear on his lover, who stood in the doorway, arms folded and smiling at him.

“It is, but really, I don’t have time to celebrate it right now. Perhaps we could go for a drink later in the week? I really do have to -”

“I don’t bloody well think so,” Spike said firmly. “You’re working too hard. But I know you won’t hear it from me, so I brought along some muscle.”

A large hand clipped Spike around the ear and Angel strode past him and over to Wesley, levering him out of his chair and urging him over to the door.

“You leave my place as you found it, Spike, and I want him sitting back at his desk in an hour. He really is busy, you know.”

Spike pushed out his lips and grinned. ‘’Sitting’? Want to reconsider that?”

Angel glared at him. “Working,” he said with some emphasis. “Wes - you know how I feel about you doing too much. Not one for birthdays myself, but you deserve some -”

“Fun,” Spike said positively, his eyes gleaming. “Yeah...Come on, pet, clock’s ticking.”

Attaching himself to Wesley, whose protests got more vociferous as his suspicions grew, Spike moved quickly towards the elevator that took them to Angel’s apartment. As the doors closed, he silenced Wesley simply by kissing him, until Wesley’s lips stopped shaping questions and murmured wordless encouragement instead. Only then did Spike reach out and press the button that took them flying upward.

The silence of Angel’s apartment was soothing and complete. The bustle and hum of the hive beneath them, the sounds of the city spread out in all its vastness, all seemed remote. Wesley moved willingly as Spike led him to Angel’s bedroom, stopping only when Spike’s hand ran down his back to cup his backside.

“Spike - what did you mean about not sitting? Why won’t I want to - oh God, you can’t be serious!”

Spike sat down on the bed and bent over to remove his boots and socks, before skinning his shirt over his head. The delineated muscles on his arms and chest drew Wesley’s gaze. He’d touched them with hand and mouth, felt their strength as they shifted under his caresses, knew them so well.

“How old are you then, Wes? Want to make sure I do this right.”

“Thirty,” Wesley said, in a voice husky with a mixture of emotions so complex he was left spinning and dizzy with need and apprehension. “Spike -”

Spike grinned at him unexpectedly. “One time I wish you were older,” he confided. “Right. Strip. Want me to help you?”

Wesley stepped back involuntarily. “Spike, I -I’m not sure about this.”

Spike’s head tilted in his familiar gesture and Wesley swallowed. It never failed to move him, that puzzled, inquisitive, sometimes yearning look. “About what? Going to give you a birthday spanking, that’s all. Not going to hurt you.” Wesley didn’t move and Spike sighed. “Wes? Vampire, remember. Can smell you. You’re quivering with need. Coming off you in waves. You’re also hard and those trousers don’t hide it. If you don’t want me to spank you, I won’t. We can just spend what’s left of the hour fucking and that’s fine. But you need to strip for that too, so don’t just stand there.”

Wesley smiled, telling himself that he was relieved Spike seemed to have given up on the idea - the ridiculous idea - of spanking him. Making love though - that would be wonderful, even though the thought of meeting Angel after they’d used his bed to - no, Wesley realised, as his cock hardened uncomfortably, that didn’t seem to be a problem.

His hands worked quickly and he was so absorbed in sliding buttons free that he didn’t notice Spike had done no more than stand then unbutton and unzip his jeans, pushing them down only slightly.

He walked over to him, slipping his arms around Spike and trying to stay calm, when his arousal was a sharp ache begging to be soothed away. Spike let himself be kissed, his hands roaming and his nails lightly digging into Wesley’s back - then he began to fall back onto the waiting bed and Wesley chuckled, allowing himself to go with him, knowing he couldn’t hurt Spike, even if he landed on him.

He did...but not quite as he’d expected to. In a smooth, economical flurry, Spike twisted, sat and dragged Wesley across his knee, trapping his flailing legs between his own until Wesley stopped struggling and placing his left arm across the small of Wesley’s back.

“You’re too trusting, pet,” Spike said. “And you’re too tired to think straight, or you’d have known I wouldn’t have given in that easily,” he added, his voice tinged with disapproval.

Wesley gave up struggling and tried not to mind that he felt exposed, foolish and aroused in equal measure. “Spike, if you do this, I want to know why. And don’t tell me it’s traditional. That’s the last thing that would appeal to you.”

Spike stroked Wesley’s arse gently and then patted it, watching Wesley’s involuntary shudder with a faint smile on his face. “Doing it to make you snap, make you break free, Wes. You’re so wound up these days, I can’t reach you. I feel like a kid with his nose squashed against the window of the sweet shop, glass all misty as he breathes on it, all that sweetness and sugar there to see but not to taste.” His voice had dropped to a dreamy murmur as his free hand swept over the curved skin beneath it and he watched Wesley relax and settle, the undignified posture forgotten. “So I’m going to smash that glass, Wesley, and help myself.”

As Wesley stiffened in sudden alarm, Spike’s hand came up and cracked down firmly. “One.”

The sound Wesley made as the second slap fell might have been Spike’s name; it was hard to tell. By ten, he was moaning, a low continuous whimper, interrupted only by hitching, panting gasps as he tried to catch his breath. Spike knew the pain was minimal - well, bearable anyway, and he knew reducing Wesley to this state so quickly just proved what he’d been thinking for weeks now; the man was poised to fall, so the lightest brush of a finger in the shape of one more hour of overtime, one more piece of work marked ‘urgent’, one more, ‘Mr Wyndam-Pryce? Sir, I’m sorry to bother you, but -’ would have sent him tumbling down.

Forcing the issue like this, giving Wesley nothing to think about but the sensations Spike’s hand was eliciting, creating, inspiring, sensations that went beyond a few square inches of burning flesh, giving his mind a break, well, it might be enough to let Wesley cope. If it wasn’t, Spike was ignoring Angel for possibly the thousandth time and taking Wesley away for a week. An hour. Spike’s anger at Angel’s selfish decree made the fifteenth smack harder than he’d intended and Wesley’s gasped cry of pain pierced him as though the blow had fallen on his own flesh. Then he felt Wesley move and squirm, frantically trying to give his cock something to rub against, because, positioned as he was, with Spike’s legs spread wide, only the head was getting any stimulus at all, fleeting, teasing brushes against soft denim, and realised just how aroused Wesley was.

“Well, all right then,” he whispered, drawing his legs together to give Wesley’s cock some relief. “Going to make these last ones count, Wesley. Brace yourself.” As Wesley’s punished, burnished flesh pushed upwards, as though he craved the blow more than the chance to push his aching cock against something solid, Spike began to spank him in earnest, his voice level and dispassionate as he tallied each blow, his own erection craving a touch, needing to do more than simply be.

“Thirty,” Spike finished, resting his hand against skin that was tight and hot, patterned in red and dappled with darkness that would remain when the flush had died away.

He rolled Wesley over, slipping his arm beneath his shoulders, cradling him while his other hand moved to Wesley’s cock, twitching and straining. Wesley’s eyes were open and glazed, his lips parted in an agonised grimace of need, of something more to let him surrender wholly.

Spike leaned over and kissed the mouth that had been begging him, not for mercy but for more and sighed almost regretfully as his hand, palm stinging and sore, eased Wesley’s legs apart. “And one to grow on ...”



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