Hand In Glove

"Bored... bored...bored... Aw shit, I'm so bloody bored." Spike lay spread-eagled on the bed.

Daytime was rough. There was only so much reading and television watching and translating that one vampire could do during the daylight hours. And sleep? Difficult for him to do alone now that he was so used to having a warm body to wrap himself around.

He rolled his naked body over and tried wrapping himself around Wes' pillow. It did smell like him - that delicious mix of old books and tea and gunpowder that he had come to associate with the man - but it wasn't warm... and it wasn't Wes, dammit.

And it had a big lump, just where Spike was trying to rest his head.

He frowned and moved the pillow. Underneath were Wes' leather riding gloves. He'd obviously forgotten them when he left that morning. Couldn't blame him for that, really; Spike had been doing his best to distract him.

The gloves were leather, lambskin, soft and supple, double stitched and reinforced with extra thicknesses in the palms.

"Sound like a bleedin' commercial." But there was no way that Spike couldn't have known all about the gloves. He'd been with Wes when he'd bought them and had heard the man almost rhapsodize over them.

Wes was right though, they were soft, incredibly so. Spike ran them slowly down one of his cheeks. Like butter. And like the pillow, they smelled like Wes...and leather, of course...and motorcycle oil.

Spike relaxed back into his former position, leaving one of the gloves draped over his face so he could breath in the intoxicating mixture. He had a sudden image of Wes, wearing nothing but the gloves, touching him...caressing him. A jolt of desire suddenly shot straight down his spine and settled in his groin, causing an immediate reaction.

He slid his hand into the remaining glove, trailing it slowly down his chest and over his nipple. The soft/rough feeling was amazing and elicited an instant groan of pleasure from his lips.

"God, Wes..." He allowed his own hand to follow the images in his brain. Wes, his teasing half-smile locked firmly in place, tweaking each nipple in turn until they stood up, sharp and pebbled under his touch.

Spike took three long deep breaths, filling his nostrils with the heady leather scent, his cock twitching with reaction, on each exhale. Wes would go so slow...torturing him, making him feel every single stitch on the glove that was oh, God moving over him so tantalizingly.

The hand, his/Wes', would slowly bump over each one of his ribs, sooth over each of his abdominal muscles as it raised gooseflesh on his skin.

"No Wes, don't stop..." His mind continued with the fantasy, his body arching up into the touch, wanting something more, but wanting this to last.

The questing glove slowly dipped lower, circling his navel, then dipping inside, his cock jumping with each thrust as if there were a trip wire between the two. Spike groan deeply at the sensation, knowing that by now Wes would have been wearing a smug smirk knowing that he'd reduced Spike to one big aching want with so very little effort.

'Please, Wes..." "Touch me...want me...love me..." Words seldom spoken out loud but always felt - by both of them.

And when the hand finally reached it's destination and covered his aching cock, it was so good. He thrust into it, his pre-cum quickly coating the glove enough that it slid easily, teasing him with the silky texture. His foreskin rode up and down with the movements of the glove, sending it's own little messages of pleasure down to tease around his balls. He ran his thumb around the crown and then up over the head.

Mistake. That was almost too much. God.

He lay there for several long moments, panting and breathing in the scent from the glove that was still draped over his face. He wanted this to last, but knew it wouldn't...it was just too damn good, his skin too sensitized.

He began to move again, this time his hips thrusting up into the circle of his gloved fingers - rough and hard.

"Fuck yes, Wes...please... now...now..." He came with a shout, his body straining, and thrusting until the last shock of it passed and he was able to collapse, bonelessly onto the mattress, the glove slowly sliding off his face.

"Spike?" A soft question. Wes.

"Yeah." A breathy relaxed reply.

"Are - are those my riding gloves?" Wes' voice sounded a bit taken aback.

"Yeah."

"And you just..."

"Yeah."

Several different expressions flitted over Wesley's face, one after the other - annoyance, amusement, confusion... and over all heat at having watched the climax of Spike's experiment in autoeroticism.

Spike rolled off the bed, moving in close to Wes. He could scent the warm musk of arousal in the air, no matter what questions were on Wes' face.

"Smell like you, don't they..." He brought his gloved hand up between them, making a great show of deeply breathing in the scent.

His eyes locked on Wesley's, "And now they smell like you and me."

The glove was offered to Wesley, brought within three inches of his nose. The smell of sex and leather was almost overpowering.

"Yeah..." Wes echoed Spike's earlier monosyllable, his eyes shutting with thoughts of the pleasures associated with the smells that he was being bombarded with.

And somehow, during his inattention, his shirt had been unbuttoned and now was barely hanging from his shoulders.

"And besides that... It feels bloody brilliant..." Then that rough/soft/buttery/silky leather was being drawn over his chest, and any protest he might have voiced was swallowed up in a groan of delight.

Spike was unfastening Wes' trousers with his free hand, by the time Wes managed to find his voice, "You're still buying me new gloves, you know?"

He'd have to...because this pair would probably never find their way out of the bedroom again.