__Out of the Office__
By Exfilia



This was not happening.  It could not be.
Cordelia had been looking forward to having a
life outside Angel investigations.  She hadn't
told anyone where she went on Thursday nights
or what she did.  This was totally apart from
her working life.

Until she looked toward the barre and the eyes
that met hers in the mirror were his.

"Uh-huh," said the blond teenager beside her.
"He's checking you out."

"Nah," replied a gum-chewing redhead.  "All
these guys is faggots.  What else would
they be doing in dance class?"

What, indeed?  But this was dance class, and
that was Wesley, wearing steel-gray tights and
a white top and stretching, and stretching,
and God, who knew he was so... limber?

"Come on, sweetie," said the redhead.  "You
didn't come here to hit on guys.  At least I
hope you didn't."

Cordelia set her mind firmly on her workout,
resolving to ignore Wesley, who had now moved
on to floor work and was... never mind.  She
was not going to think about it.

And she didn't, until he caught her coming
out of the dressing room.  He was wearing
leather trousers now, and a dress shirt with
the sleeves rolled up, and he was leaning
against the wall across from the door.

"Cordelia, what are you doing here?"

"What am I doing here?  What are you doing
here?  I mean, my one night when I don't
have to think about... things and be around
there, and then you show up here?"

"Hey, Cordy," cried the blond on her way out
the door, "you'd better quit while you're
ahead!"

"Yeah, come on," said the redhead, "or you'll
miss the bus."

"I'm coming!" she called over her shoulder.
Wesley was smiling at her.

"This is your escape," he said.  "Your spot
of normalcy."

"You do understand."

"Did you consider that you might not be the
only one to feel that way?"

Truthfully, she hadn't.  Wesley had, after
all, asked for the job.  She had been drafted,
or more truthfully, afflicted with dreams she
couldn't escape.  Wes squeezed her shoulder and
pushed past her.  She followed him out the
front door just in time to see her bus vanishing
into the distance.

"Cordelia, don't wail like that!  It's an
affront to the ears!"

"If you had to walk as far as I do, you'd wail
too, and it's going to rain and everything!"

"Walk?  Oh, I see.  Well, let me give you a
lift, then."

"You brought your car?"

He shook his head.  "It's a little hard to
park around here."  He pointed, and Cordelia
noticed the motorcycle.  "I checked the radar
on television before I left, and I think it'll
be a while before the storm hits.  Come along."

Riding a bike was one of Cordelia's favorite
things, although she would never let anyone
know.  In high school motorcycle types had had
tattoos and smoked icky cigarettes, and had not
been assets to a girl's social standing.  She
loved the sensation, though, the speed and the
vibration and the warm male body against which
she had plastered her own.  She was almost
sorry when Wesley stopped the bike in front of
her apartment building.

"Come on," he said, taking in the nightime
environs.  "I'll walk you up."

"Are you sure?"  The first fat raindrops were
already pattering against the pavement.

"Just let me chain the bike."

By the time Cordelia unlocked her door, rain
was coming down in sheets.

"You can't ride home in this," she told him.
"Come in for a while.  Dennis, behave!"

"It'll be more than a while," Wesley said.
"That's a tropical storm out there."

"It's the trailing edge of a tropical storm
that didn't have a lot of oomph to start with.
It'll die down in a couple of hours.  Wesley,
be sensible.  Sit down and tell me how you got
to be a dancer."

"When I was very small, my older sisters had
to take ballet, and I pitched an utter fit until
I was allowed to go as well.  It turned out,
well...."

"You're good at it."

"Thank you.  My father was afraid I'd make a
career of it.  I think that's really why I kept
it up all those years, just to spite him."

"You're good at that, too."

"At what?"

"At doing things because other people don't
want you to.  You know, a lot of people wouldn't
have stuck it out in Sunnydale as long as you
did."

"If I'd stayed any longer, maybe I could have
got you all permanently hospitalized."

"I don't think anyone still blames you."

"Isn't that comforting?"  He stood up again,
and tried to pace, but there wasn't room for
his long legs to take more than three strides
before he hit a wall.

"Sit down, Wesley."

"What, sit down and listen to a litany of my
sins?  I got quite enough of that in childhood,
thank you!"

"Yeah?  You had a rotten childhood?  Is that
your excuse for trying to take Giles's place
and sucking up to Angel and kissing me and...
and crashing my dance class?"

"I kissed you?  When?"

"You don't have to sound so incredulous."

"Oh, that."

"Yeah, that.  You make it sound like you
accidentally inhaled a bug."

"What a romantic image.  Cordelia, I assure
you that if I wanted to kiss you...."

"What?  Am I not kissable?"

"You're magnificent."

"It's this, isn't it?"  She laid her hand over
her abdomen, over the scar.

"No!  Cordelia... do you really want to have
this conversation?"

She looked at the window where nothing was
visible except the impact of the rain.

"We don't seem to have much else to do."

"Wind's veering.  It'll be over soon."

"Yeah."

She felt his hands on her shoulders, turning
her around, pulling her closer until her bitter
tears soaked into his shirt.  Hands touched her
hair, smoothed it, traced the arc of her ears.
She looked up at him, and he kissed her
forehead.

"That was a kiss?"

He only smiled, and pressed his lips to each of
her eyes in turn, and then along her hairline
to an ear, where he nibbled around the edge and
sucked at the lobe and finally, delicately
dipped his warm tongue inside.  She felt her
face flush, all the way down her neck and her
chest, and clutched herself against Wesley, more
to hide the telltale blush than to prolong the
sensation.  He was having none of it, though.
He tilted her head back and kissed along the
line of her jaw, and then up to her mouth.  His
lips caught at hers, sucked at the lower one,
pulling it back against his teeth, and then
releasing her so that his tongue could probe
her mouth, at first gently, and then with all
the insistence of... well, of Wesley.

"Better?" he whispered.

"Magnificent."  She pulled him down to her
again, and felt his hands on her breasts,
teasing the nipples into tight little points
that made electric contact with his chest if
they moved or even breathed.  Well, two could
play at that game.  She let her fingers trace
the outline of him through the warm leather,
pulled it tight across the hard swelling, and
squeezed it.  His gasp lengthened and rose into
a moan of absolute lust, and then he took her
face in his hands.

"If you're going to stop," he said, "do it now."

She sank down on her knees, shucking off his
trousers as she went, and sucked him into her
mouth, and he tasted of almonds.  His eyes were
rivetted on her face, on her lips sweeping back
and forth over the sweet pink bulb at the end
of him, working her lips across the rim and
laving at him with her tongue, and then his
hands were on her face, his thumbs stroking her
temples and he was spewing gobs of sweet liquid
that she swallowed like precious wine.

He stayed perfectly still for a moment, still
holding her face against him, her mouth on him,
and then his knees buckled and he slid down to
the floor with her and pulled her against him.
She felt his lips... no, his tongue on her face,
laving away the leakage.

"Love me," Cordelia whispered.

"I do," he answered, and she, impatient, pushed
his hand against her breast.  He swept the tee
over her head, got the bra off and then nestled
against her, mouth on one breast and hand on
the other, until she was sobbing with need.  He
sat up, then, got rid of his own shirt and
tugged at the band of her trousers.

"Wesley...!"

"Shh.  Raise up."  He slid trousers and panties
both down around her knees and kissed her,
worked his way down from her naval to the scar
and beyond, and laid his cheek against her
mound.

"Tired?" she asked.

"I was just enjoying the scent of you."  He
pressed her knees against the floor and parted
her with one finger, catching a bit of her juice
and lifting it to his mouth, and then his face
was buried between her legs and Cordelia lost
track of time and space and identity and all and
knew only the flick of his tongue over the very
tenderest bits of her until she screamed and
screamed.

"Good?" he asked.  She couldn't speak, only nod
and pull his body up over hers and wrap her legs
around him and press her oozing self against the
hard length of him.

"You're going to kill me," he said, and pressed
it against her, and she felt it slide, and probe,
and then, oh Gods, he was inside her, stretching
her until her spasms broke against his chest and
all around that wonderful hardness inside her,
and then Wesley was screaming himself, his back
arched over her and inside her he was twitching,
pumping, filling her with warm sweetness, and
the joy of it was written in his face.

He didn't collapse on top of her, not quite.  He
caught his weight on his arms, but his head
sagged against the floor and Cordelia found
herself completely enfolded.  When his breathing
slowed she rolled him to his back and snuggled
against him.

"Don't stop, Wesley."

"You are going to kill me."

"No, I mean what you're doing what you're
trying to do.  Don't ever stop, okay?"

"I do love you, you know."

"I know."  She kissed the most convenient part
of his chest.  "Don't ever stop."

"I won't.  I promise."

* * *