After four hours of highway driving, it was more than a relief to get out of the car.  Not that the Lancia hadn't been built for comfort, because it had, right down to every molecule.  It had also been built to accommodate tall people in exemplary comfort, or so it said in three languages in the owner's manual.

Still, it was bliss all the same to get out of it.  After parking in front of the Plaza Le Sirocco, Wesley luxuriated in simply *standing*.  One spot.  Not moving.  He wasn't stiff…..in his back, but he stood and stretched from shoulder blades to ankles, until the parking valet and bellhop became impatient.

Willow was impressed by the way both car and luggage were dispatched into invisibility.  She glanced at the spot where her suitcase had been a second ago, but if Wesley wasn't concerned about their belongings, neither would she be.

"I've never had my stuff go in ahead of me before," she whispered as she hung onto his arm and tried to appear as though wandering through fancy hotel lobbies wasn't a big deal.

Wesley smiled at her.  Her eyes were green prisms, so wide that they reflected every sparkle off the chandeliers overhead.  "I've reserved two rooms, dearest," he said, and she looked at him.

"Why?"

And so it went down to one.  While the change was made, Willow tried not to turn too pink when he sighed the register "Mr. and Mrs. Wyndham-Price".

When they were shown to their room, Willow's first thought was, 'wow, what a big room.'  Her second was, 'where's the bed?'  She didn't see one.  They were in someone's living room - lampshades with fringes, gold curtain tassels, and a uncompromising couch that would never allow loose change or popcorn to travel to its interior.

The bellboy opened the curtains to display large windows.  No, they were *doors*, Willow discovered.  Balcony doors which opened onto an actual balcony, complete with patio chairs and a table.

Another door was exposed, this one behind a screen, and here, finally, was the bed.  Willow, caught by the massive span of the bedstead, almost stepped into a jacuzzi.  Another tub resided in the bathroom, and a shower that was reached by going down some steps.

Local sights were mentioned and there was an offer of a chambermaid to do the unpacking, (politely declined).  The tip was given, and they were alone.

Wesley noted her awkward glance around the suite.  "If you are uncomfortable, I will sleep on the sofa."

"That would make me more uncomfortable," Willow admitted.  "This is so big.  It's only the two of us, right?  Or are we sharing with someone?"

He turned so she wouldn't see the amusement on his face.  "It is only we two."

Though he didn't have specific experience with this particular situation, that is, running off with a woman for a weekend, the throng of women in and around his family circle would not have balked at this suite.  They would have balked at sharing it, however.

He lifted her suitcases onto the bed, then went into the main room so she could unpack in privacy.  On a desk were several maps, better ones than the fold-out he'd purchased in Sunnydale.  The hotel was in Beverly Hills and a good portion of the shops within walking distance.  The movie studio was another matter, hence the map.  The hotel edition noted two alternate routes due to current construction activity.  Wesley was usually able to commit directions to memory, but the rustling sounds from the next room were distracting him, mentally and in a definite portion of his anatomy.  At length, he gave up on the map and strolled onto the balcony.

Beverly Hills Boulevard was a busy street by Sunnydale's standards, but not by L.A. ones.  It was possible to idle a limo in the middle of the road without honks from behind, and permissible for one's chauffeur to wait with the car in a clearly-marked no stopping zone.  After all, the no stopping rule applied only to those poor folk who lacked chauffeurs and other necessities of life.

Wesley had grown up in privilege, though he'd never realized it so acutely until he'd come to the United States.  He knew about social circles and the gamut of people inhabiting them, the snobbery when it came to old money as opposed to new, and the empty drifting of titles through family lines.  And he well knew about the meanness the social circles engendered, the perfectly-capped smiles that covered back-biting and an eye to getting ahead.  But he'd always thought the coldness a human condition, one that lived in every class.  If people with rank and power were so inhumane, surely those without two cents of their own must be doubly or triply so.  When he'd first come to Sunnydale, he'd been afraid to walk along the streets.  Not because of vampires (though them as well).  He'd been terrified of being mugged at every corner.  Truly terrified.

He hadn't been mugged.  Actually, no one really noticed him outside.  As for the people, well, Giles, Miss Summers, and Faith hadn't wanted him around, but they hadn't pretended to like him while secretly planning his downfall.  The others, Xander, Oz, Cordelia, and Willow, had approached him with varying curiosity, but none with hostility.  And, none with envy.  Outside of Cordelia, his privilege and status meant nothing to them when it came to the bottom of it.  They weren't in it for the game and, incredibly, they liked one another.

Incredibly, they loved one another.

He'd encountered *that* so rarely, it took him a long while to clue in.  He hadn't been near the feeling since his early teens when he'd still lived at home with his sisters.  His seldom-seen father inhabited the world of constant business, and his mother was a walking example of one of those eighteenth-century-type women who perpetually suffered from consumption, but he and his two sisters adored one other.  It was that simple.

Simple too, when it came to the reason why he was still in Sunnydale.  He had no rational excuse to remain, but he had some rather strong reasons, the strongest being the woman currently unpacking in the bedroom behind him.  He was still feeling the shock as to how it could have happened, but it was a pleasant shock.  And a warm one.

He heard her go into the bathroom.  He ordered lunch, then went for his luggage.  He'd just unzipped his suit bag when Willow returned.

"The shower has two nozzles," she said, "and there's a knob on the wall."

"To adjust the spray," he commented.

"But there are *two*," she repeated.  At that he couldn't help but smile in front of her.  Such a trivial thing, yet she was so intrigued by it.

"Perhaps it's meant for two people at once," Wesley teased.

She took him seriously.  "Or three.  You could fit three in there."  Suddenly, she flushed.  "Not that I would…..um….."

Dear heavens, she was beautiful when she did that.  No, stunning.  He forgot about the suit bag in his hand and just stared.

"If you wish to take a, ah, shower, before we go out, I can certainly wait," he said.  He'd never before said this to a woman.  I'll wait while you take a shower.  Showers, and other things you did in the bathroom, were never referred to in polite society.  If his old governess had been about, she'd have rapped his knuckles on that one.  Probably several times.

"Ok," she said, then asked softly, "Together?"

A certain part of him hardened in one sweeping majestic jolt.  Then *he* blushed.  What was the etiquette for tandem showering with a flagpole in between?  He wasn't all that comfortable yet in so openly displaying it.  She'd already seen him, but there was a definite difference between the close intimacy in a bed, and the open waving about in a stall.

"Wesley?" she asked.  She came around the bed, a long trip, and looked up at him.

'Plunge in,' he thought, and kissed her.  She fit to him quite well, well enough to find his dilemma.

"Oh!" she exclaimed, and grinned, but even her widest grins seemed innocent.

Willow started undoing his tie and some far off part of his brain tried to tell him there was a reason they shouldn't do this right at this minute.  Then her hands crept up the bare skin under his shirt, and he ignored the distant misgiving.

When he'd been a young boy, a valet had been assigned to instruct him in the proper way a gentleman disrobed.  The procedure was not to be rushed, and it involved a series of hangers, starting with one for the tie and concluding with a last one for the socks.  To disregard the agendum led to ruin.  One did not simply drop a thousand dollar suit on the rug.

He'd diligently followed the procedure for year upon year, which explained why now, as his layers were being peeled from him in large wads, he stopped kissing Willow in order to look down in dismay.

She followed his glance, then picked up his jacket and trousers.  There was something she'd seen in the closet, something intricate with padded wires and clips.  She'd given it a wide berth.

"Do you want to hang these up before our shower?" she asked.  "There's a thing in the closet."

It was extracted, and amazingly turned into some kind of hanger tree.  He felt silly beyond measure, standing there in his underwear while seeing to his suit.  Willow sat on the bed, watching him, still basically dressed.  With an elfin smile, she asked, "Aren't you going to hang up that last bit?"  She shot a pointed look at his shorts.

"They, ah, they go somewhere else," Wesley said.  "And you?  Are you going to shower with your clothing on?"

The moment he said it, he couldn't believe he had.  He'd actually made a crude remark to this sweet girl.  He looked tentatively at her, but she didn't look offended.

She lowered her eyes as she undid the last buttons on her shirt.  She slid it off, then lay back on the bed.  Her hands covered her zipper, but he could hear it come slowly down.  Her hips came up and the trousers were wiggled down her legs and off.

Taking her hands in his, he pulled her to her feet and put his mouth to hers.  As she moved into the embrace, her panties slid over the front of his briefs.  The answering throb went through them both.

She led him into the bathroom.  As he turned on the shower, she caressed him through his underwear.  He was large, well-endowed she supposed it was called.  She'd seen Oz's, and Xander's inadvertently once, and she'd giggled over a couple of Playgirls with Buffy.  Wesley topped them all.

He'd taken her at his apartment a few days ago, and his first thrust had hurt.  As Willow touched him, she wondered if it would hurt again.  But when he turned to look at her, removing his glasses because of the steam and revealing those dark gentle eyes, she decided she could take a little pain.  He was the loveliest man she'd ever seen.

He unhooked her bra and slid it off her shoulders.  His hands were wet from the shower, and they skimmed over her skin delicately.  He stroked her nipples with less pressure than a butterfly's landing would have had, but it felt so wonderful.  She smiled up at him.

His expression wavered between awe and concentration as he returned the smile.  His fingers went under the elastic of her underwear, rolling them off of her.  Then he removed his last item of clothing and led her into the shower.

Both jets were set to pulse.  Willow closed her eyes under them and let the water soak through her hair.  She felt Wesley cup her cheek, then kiss her, his mouth feeling cooler than the water initially, then becoming hot.  She wanted to put her arms around him, but his manhood was in the way.

He found the soap.  It was that liquid kind that made acres of bubbles, and this brand smelled of hazelnut and spice.

"It's masculine," he murmured.  "There's another bottle over here with a flower on the front."

"No, I like this one," Willow said.

He turned her so that she was facing a spray of water, then started on her hair.  His hands stroking through her tresses was unimaginably stimulating.  She gulped as his fingertips travelled from the top of her scalp down the back of her head to her nape.  His touch moved behind her ears, and his lips followed.  He sucked at an earlobe and she tilted her head so that his lips could rub over her cheek and down her neck.  His tongue flickered along her collarbone, then his hands came over it a moment later, slick with soap.  He stroked from each side of her neck down between her breasts.  He cupped them, then swept back up into her hair.

She whimpered as her hand unconsciously dropped to her sex, and she started rubbing herself before she realized what she was doing.  He caught her movement, and his right hand came down to cover her mound.  Horrified, she pulled her hand away, but, oh God, she was aching.  His other hand took her fingers into his mouth, his tongue licking between each one.  She half-turned.  He gave a last lick, then smiled and said, "My love.  So beautiful."

His mouth came to the side of hers, all he could reach for he was still behind her.  The point of his tongue darted in the crease of her mouth.  She sucked his tongue in, but had to let go to cry out when his hand opened the lips of her sex and entered her passage.  He massaged up to her distended clitoris and brushed his fingers along the sides of it, being careful not to touch the very tip.  His touch was nervous.  She pushed against him, to let him know that it was good.

Willow reached behind her to Wesley's penis and aimed it between the cheeks of her buttocks.  Because of the soap, it slid forward between her thighs until the heavy flared head appeared below the opening of her vagina.  She pressed her sex against it.

By standing on tiptoe and arching her back against his chest, she was able to slide the tip of his penis into her vagina.  Moaning, she rubbed herself all over it, her lips catching the ridge and sliding over the small slit at the top.

He caressed himself along with her as he nipped at the skin on her neck.  Her clitoris pulsed once, twice, then exploded into a thousand gorgeous throbs.

He held her in amazement as the spasms of her orgasm drummed through his fingers and penis.  The wonderment of it.  Wesley didn't think he could ever tire of seeing this, of feeling it from her, this pleasure seemingly forged out of nowhere.

In his past, he'd given himself sexual gratification, and had experienced relationships with other males.  Some had been coarse, some caring.  All had been concerned with getting off, as the phrase went.  Two had lasted more than a few months.  Such had been his life.

But Willow he loved.  Her gender was a mysterious mire to him.  He really had no idea what to do, but, fortunately, she was patient, for nothing in his past could help him.  It wasn't as though he'd gone through his life waiting for a woman, for he hadn't.  He'd been waiting for someone.  *The* someone, he supposed, if he wanted to view it romantically.  The gender had been an irrelevant issue, though he'd always felt the most comfortable with other men, and thought he'd find who he'd been waiting for among them.

Willow surprised him.  When he'd met her, he couldn't have conceived of this moment.  He'd been struck by her beauty, but hadn't taken it beyond there.  She was young and she'd had a boyfriend who worshipped her.  Point A had been the library, and point B here, and Wesley had no idea how they had connected.

Point B was pure Valhalla, holding her as she trembled.  He wished he could see her eyes at this moment.  The lights that soared through them during their intimacy sent thrills through his stomach.   The lights were given to him alone.

Her crisis eased though sporadic quivers continued for a few moments, aided by the dance out of the showerhead.  At last she relaxed, squeezing her thighs one last time around his erection before lifting off and turning around to face him.

Willow pulled him down to kiss him, and he got a face full of shower spray.  "Sorry," she tried, as he spluttered, but he was laughing even as water ran torturously down the back of his nose.

He stepped back and she was able to give him the kiss.  Droplets fell off his brow and landed on her.  She sucked them from his skin and tasted masculine salt under the clean warm water.

His hands came on her shoulder blades, trying to draw her to him, but she hopped back.  "Where's the soap?" she demanded, shamming severity.

Delightedly, he handed it over.  She slurped some of the water out of his chest hair before soaping her hands and running them through it.

He prayed for her hands to go farther down, to where his penis stretched and waited for her.  Instead she wandered behind him in her exploration.  Her ticklish contact went over his back, feeling the muscles and travelling over the curves of his spine.  Her palms slid under his arse, sneaking once in between the cheeks.  Meanwhile, her lips were on his skin, kissing in circles through the soap.

She was luxuriating in this discovery of him.  He'd told her that he was hers, and the sense of property was making her bold.  She wanted to see every place that she could now deem hers, every place hidden by his clothing and out of sight from others.  She wanted to expand into the physical the secrets they spoke to each other.

"Wesley," she said as she stroked under his arms and along his sides.

In a hushed voice, he asked, "Yes?"

"Nothing," she said, sounding thoughtful or, perhaps, glum.  He couldn't tell without seeing her face.

So he turned, putting his back into the shower spray, which had been so exquisitely playing on his sex.  He made her look at him.  "What is it, dearest?"

But she was apparently still having second thoughts.  It was almost beyond endurance to wait for her to speak.  He tried to focus on her face, but at the bottom of his sight were the red curls covering her sex, still crisp despite being sodden with water.  He knew the feel of her there, the taste, the way into the opening which was, at this moment, not even half an inch from the end of his distressingly stiff organ.  His thighs clenched.  He wanted so badly to go into her, just for a moment, just to put the head of his penis against the folds protecting her vagina.  If he could press to her for a mere *second*, he'd be able to spill blessedly into release and relief.

"I-I wanted to tell you that I…..need you," she said.

"I need you," he puffed, trying to draw a breath.  He crushed her to him, sucking at her lips, her tongue, and groaning loudly in the sweet agony that precedes sexual crisis.

He shut off the shower blindly, picked her up, and carried her to the bed.  They burrowed into the sheets which felt chilly against their soapy, wet skin.

"Please," he said, "let me come into you."

"Yes," she answered.

He leaned over her and practically ripped off the catch of a suitcase.  She heard fumbling and something fall to the rug, then a crinkle.  He tore open the condom package with shaking hands.

She helped him put it on, quaking herself with cold and anticipation.  She let her legs fall open as he positioned himself overtop of her, and took his penis, feeling the heat off it through the latex.  He pushed the engorged head to her opening.

It went in so slowly, amazing her for she knew he was close.  "Does it hurt?" he asked.

Smiling, she answered truthfully, "No," for his cautious impetus wasn't causing any pain whatsoever.  He was huge though, and she startled at the tight packed feeling in her vagina.  After a minute, she reached down to judge how much remained, and there seemed to be a frightful expanse left.  She raised her knees higher and it all went in, his scrotum landing on her buttocks.  She was spread so widely that the hair covering his balls brushed over her anus.

"Willow!" he cried hoarsely as he began the heady pull and push of intercourse.

He lasted longer than she thought he would, but he was moving slowly.  She almost wanted to cry herself when she realized he wasn't prepared to go for his own release if it would cause her pain.  So she pushed up to meet his thrusts, letting him know she was ok.  When she came up, he suddenly huffed loudly and plunged all the way in.

His penis lurched in orgasm.  Every stream of seed made him moan.  Dimly, she thought she heard a click.  Had the rubber broken?

'Too late now,' she thought.  He was shooting in hard spurts, then slower ones, finally dwindling until there was no movement except for his sharp spiked breathing.

"I love you," he panted.  Her eyes flew open in delirious surprise and looked right into the startled face of a female hotel employee through the bedroom doorway.  Over Wesley's back, Willow could see her uniform and the end of a food cart.

The attendant recovered first.  She backed to the front door, but paused to take a second look as Wesley raised up on his knees.  The startled expression turned to one of sheer awe.  After giving Willow a grinning thumbs-up, she left.

"Wesley," Willow said.  He turned his face to look at her.

"I love you too," she told him, then asked, "Did you order room service?"

It took him a bit to get through his voluptuous afterglow and to the part of his brain that held memory.  "Goodness!" he blurted out.  "Yes, I did."

She smiled sheepishly.  "It's here."

(end)