"So, where do you wanna start?" Xander asked, stretching under Wesley's fingers which were absently stroking back and forth over the close-cropped stubble on the side of Xander's head.

"Do you give all of your interviews this way?" Wesley asked wryly, balancing his notepad out of the way on the arm of the couch, juggling it with his pen.

"You better hope not," Xander answered, turning his head to mouth Wesley through the fabric of a borrowed pair of sweatpants, and chuckling at Wesley's intake of breath. "And I know what you're thinking." He smirked into the fabric.

Wesley groaned, a nearly pained expression coming over his face. "It might be more productive if you ignored utterly what I'm thinking when I'm trying to be professional."

"Except you really don't want me to stop this."

"I am male, Xander. And you've got your mouth around my cock, I'm hardly likely to want anything else while that's the case. Oh, fuck." Notepad and pen clattered to the floor as Xander tugged down the sweats and drew Wesley into the heat of his mouth in one smooth move.

Xander danced his tongue sinuously down the vein, groaning when the thickness of Wesley's tip breached his throat all achy good and stole his air till all there was was Wesley's thoughts, and Wesley's cock, and Wesley's voice begging him for more. But passing out on a guy's dick is never conducive to more, so Xander slid back with the kind of suction that pulls a man's brains along with it. "Right. Interview time?" The words came out hoarse, the kind of hoarse that means sex-happens-here, and Xander's smile curled up, lazy and satisfied.

Wesley's eyes widened with incredulity behind his glasses as Xander passed him the tape recorder, folding his arms over his chest and settling down again on his back, head in Wesley's lap. "You expect me to concentrate now?"

"Well, no. Come on. Turn your tape recorder on, and ask me what you really want to know, not what's on that clipboard."

"Xander, there's procedure to follow for every interview, and dear god, do not stop what you're doing with your fingers."

I'm stalling?

Damn fucking right, I'm stalling.

I'm stalling him good with his cock down my throat and his fingers ripping out the hair I've got left, and it's great.

Hell of a lot better than letting him finish the interview quickly and then realize he's got no official reason left to stay in the States.

See? I can be manipulative too.

Not that he's gonna leave. I'm not going all scary stalker on him, but I know he's not gonna leave. Because he doesn't want to.

Well, okay, I also know he's not gonna leave because I don't see him going back to London again, or wherever it is in England he comes from.

It's just gonna take him longer to accept that than it took him to accept that I wanted him, which is pretty fucked up, if you ask me. The longer he stays, the easier it's gonna be to convince him that it won't kill him staying here, and that it's about time he stands up to his dad.

I can't wait to hit him with the proposal that I fund his agency here in California. Why not? Got all the flakes down in LA to work with, got the sun, got the sea, got a horny fucking boyfriend who can't get enough English cock in him.

What's not to stay for?

It's all about making myself the best deal going. Or coming.

And speaking of...

"Xander."

Christ, I love the way he says my name after he comes. Never before, never during, but always after. Reverent, like he's talking to God. I could get used to it.

"Interview?" I remind him, slurring on the slick and salt and taste of man. Never gave an interview with a mouthful of come before.

"I think..." you don't care about the interview any more now, baby. Wes is licking his lips, like he can find the words he's looking for there. "I need..." me. You need me.

And he does, catching me up with hands a hell of a lot stronger than I expected to be, and then oh, fucking god, his tongue's in my mouth all hard and hot and alive like he's trying to take back everything he gave me, fight me for it, and I'm thrusting up into the air because it's just. that. good.

No! Don't stop! Bastard.

Wes is chuckling, and I guess I said that last out loud.

"Bastard." Because it's worth repeating.

"Interview?" He says, and how the fuck does he sound so goddamn proper with a mouthful of my spit and his come? Jesus, he is not going to interview me with his hand on my cock like that.

The tape recorder flicks on.

Huh. I guess he is.

"I love a man with balls," I say, official, just so it's on the record, and damned if he doesn't look at the tape recorder in panic.

Doesn't move his hand though, so it's all fine with me. Fine with my cock too. It's just happy to be in on the action, and it's kinda nice, him fondling me like a desk toy while he gets that faraway thinking look. I'm thinking too. Thinking I'm gonna have to get him a big desk for his office. Really big desk, so we can do this at work, maybe one hand taking notes, and the other under the desk doing dirty bad bad things to my dick.

Wonder if the tape recorder picked up that moan. Hope so, because holy fuck did I mean it.

"If you ask me about my childhood with your hand on my balls like that, you're gonna give me a complex." And if it isn't worth it to watch that pale pale skin turn all pink, I don't know what is. But that doesn't mean he gets to stop. Nuh uh. I've got my hand down on his wrist before he can pull it together, and bump up my hips. Come on, Wes. Take the hint. I'll even help it along. "Ask me something else."

"Tell me about where you were before," Wesley says instead, and smiles like I can feel it in my chest, and all he's thinking is how he's gonna make me smile again and holy fuck, I could love this man. Sweetheart, for you, I'll smile all you want.

"I was working construction," I tell him, and kinda let myself go on auto pilot. He wants me to smile again? I want him to blush again. Cause, see? I figured out the secret to Wes. He's got all the kinky ideas, right? All the big plans, and bigger wants. But the catch?

He's never had the balls to put it in words before. Wonder how long it's gonna take that big brain to figure out he doesn't have to with me.

"Did you always work construction?"

"Oh, yeah, since I was still on the bottle--ow!" I'm already laughing that he had the guts to give me a twist like that, but any follow up's killed dead as soon as I get a whiff of all that fear coming off him. Aww, no, baby. You didn't do anything wrong. "Hey, it's okay, sweetheart."

"No. I'm sorry. I didn't think. I should have-"

And I'm stopping his hand for the second time this interview. Man, is the Institute gonna get a kick out of this tape. "Yeah. You should have given me a damn good squeeze. My bad. Promised to be good." Want to taste him, want to kiss him. I'm pulling his hand back up out of my pants and kissing his fingers, holding them against my throat nice and heavy. "I'll be good. Ask me everything you want to know."

He doesn't have to look all surprised like that. I can be good when I want to.

"No; it can wait," and he does another of those quickflash turns of thought so fast I'm on my back with him on top of me before I know what's going on, and then oh fucking hell, goddamned yes has he got a mouth on him.

Fuck the institute. I'm keeping this tape.

"I am good ideas man." Xander said, and wrapped an arm around Wesley's waist, gesturing to the park with the last of his ice cream cone.

"I'm still not entirely certain why the park is a good idea," Wesley admitted, but with an underlying current of trust that made Xander want to do naughty things with him.

Which was why he'd suggested the park.

Sunshine.

Fresh air.

Little kids.

Oh, yeah, definite libido killers. Xander popped the last of his cone into his mouth, chewed, swallowed, and thought about Sunshine, fresh air, and little kids, and not what Wesley's ice cream-cold mouth would feel like around his dick. He did that with Spike. Once. The memory alone's enough to make him lean over, lick up that drip of ice cream easing into the cracks and creases of Wesley's fingers, swirl his tongue around quick, innocent except for that little flick, the little scrape of teeth that has Wesley drawing in his breath all sharp.

"Chocolate covered Englishman," Xander said. "My favorite."

Wesley's eyes were dilated, his thoughts headed along the paths through their sunshine day in the park that Xander's brain has already zipped down. "You could have had chocolate covered Englishman at home. I saw the hot sauce in your cabinet."

Xander dipped down, slurping up the last of Wesley's ice cream in one huge bite, leaving him holding the tiniest stub of cone. "Yeah, my point exactly," he said around cone and cream, then swallowed. "Not much interviewing happening if I could be licking chocolate sauce off of you instead."

Wesley shivered, the image flashing vividly enough through his mind to make Xander wish he'd worn the loose jeans instead, but there was something else in Wesley's eyes. "I'm just not certain that a public park was the best choice for a private interview." He glanced down at the remains of cone, and dropped it in a trash can, looking away. Which was so not in the script.

"You got a problem with parks?" Xander tossed the comment flippantly, then stopped mid-step, looking at Wesley more seriously, the discomfort in his eyes, the hand that drifted up to touch his throat. "You've got a problem with parks. Shit, I'm sorry. We can go some place else, really-"

Wesley shook his head, putting a hand on Xander's arm and tugging in the direction of the waterfront. "No. Not this park. Let's sit by the water, and we'll begin."

"Got a fresh tape? We kinda filled the old one."

The tips of Wesley's ears colored, but the smile that appeared with the blush was about the most beautiful thing Xander'd seen on a man.

He'd have to tell Spike that part too. Just for the ego-y fun.