My favorite thing in the world is to watch him on the mornings I wake up first. It
seems sort of silly, I know, but it's true. And I should have expected it, too,
after we started...this.

Because my favorite thing in the world used to be to come up into the doorway
of his office and watch him take his first sip of tea in the morning. That was
always the earliest I could seek him out and get that itsy-bitsy boost that would
somehow got me through the days.

I love the way his hair curls up in soft tufts while he sleeps, and his lips go slack
so they part just the littlest bit, so when he blinks for the first time and gets
reacquainted with the fact that I'm there in the mornings, I don't have to do a
thing but slip my tongue into his mouth and then he's sucking, so soft and sleepy
it comes close to only being a lick, but then there's that oh so subtle tug that
tells me I don't dare try to pull away.

Not now. Not ever.

Because that's just the thing with us. It's there, with a life of it's own, binding us
together so fast and immediate and so brutally tight I wouldn't be able to
breathe if he weren't there, pressing air into my mouth with his tongue. I get so
dizzy when I'm away from him, like there's a fire building up behind my eyes and
spreading, going lower and lower and burning every bit of oxygen within me. So I
choke my way through the time until I can find him, and then it's his mouth every
time, with sweet words and sweet oxygen and the taste of tea and the cloves he
smokes in secret sometimes.

I never knew that about him, that he smoked. There's so much I never knew
about him. Like that he keeps a picture of Jenny Calender in the drawer of his
bedside table. Not out in the open, where he would see it all the time and always
remember - he doesn't need any reminders for that. I get the feeling that her
face is so permanently etched within his mind that it would take a metaphorical
sandblaster to remove it. This picture serves a different purpose; he says that
he pulls it out sometimes and looks at it, just for a few minutes, and that way he
never forgets one of the most important things you could ever learn.

He says it doesn't really matter if it turns out that people aren't what they first
claim to be. What matters, what really matters, is if you ever took the time to
truly look at them. 'Cause you see, it's not what they are that says anything
about them. It's who they are, and you can usually know who someone is just by
paying attention and going with your instincts.

I believe him. I have to, because otherwise all I see is a dork just out of high
school who has a hell of a lot of sex with an English librarian. And that's not what
this is. This is me, Xander, being in love with the kindest and gentlest man I've
ever known. This is me thinking maybe it's okay that I can't go to college, or find
a decent job, or do anything in my life right. This is me thinking that nothing has
ever felt so good as loving him, and having him love me.

So if my favorite thing is to watch him sleep, my second favorite thing is it's
polar opposite. To open my eyes and find him doing the watching. To propel
myself forward and find myself involved in a kiss like I never experienced before
him. This is the time of the day when our kisses aren't so rushed, so bruisingly
full of heat and desperation. These are the sleepy kisses, the ones that come
before my brain wakes up and reminds me just how good it would feel to have
him in me. This is when I get to marvel at how soft his lips are, how liquidy
smooth his cheeks feel under my thumbs. This is nothing but tongue, and those
soft little mewls and gasps that seem to always come just as my mind kicks into
gear and all the need comes flooding back.

But that's only my second favorite, and this is why. When I wake up first, I'm
ready and alert, but still it's the kisses. And I get to be proud of myself for
holding back even though I've been wanting him like crazy, for letting him have
those drowsy moments that I know are so spectacular. And then his eyes open
and I'm lost in them, ready for whatever the morning holds for us.

So that's how it's happening this morning. I've been gazing at him for the
eternity I managed to experience in ten minutes, and when he stirs, his arm
reaches out automatically, expecting to find me, and only when his hand splays
across my chest does he blink and curve up to find my mouth. It's like we forget
everything while we sleep, so every morning we get to discover heaven all over
again. Except there are these things, things I know to feel for. There's this
almost imperceptible tightness that happens, this way his lips get just a bit
rougher and hungrier, his tongue flicking just an increment deeper, that lets me
know he's awake.

This morning it goes as always, so predictably new and exciting that I'm still
groping my way out of the haze he puts me in when he gets a *look*, and I'm
done for. With predatory stealth, he arches closer, blending our bodies into one
mass that abruptly has the Giles-half  pinning its counterpart down. I hear this
tiny whimper, and suddenly realize it must have come from me because he's just
laughing, his voice a rumble in my ear as he suckles the lobe.

"Xander," he growls, and I gasp because his knee is forcing between mine and the
word *mauled* is suddenly bouncing around in my mind, what with the way he's
humping my thigh like a dog in heat, but slower and so much more deliberately,
using my leg like he's scratching an itch on the underside of his cock.

Yes, that was definitely me whimpering, and I'm still doing it. "Uh-huh?"

"Did you sleep well?"

"Uh-huh."

He freezes suddenly, stopping in the middle of one particularly excruciating
caress against my leg. He lifts his head, his eyes boring into mine so hard I
wonder briefly if he can maybe see the deepest of my secrets. "Really?" he
whispers.

All I can do is nod vigorously and dig my fingers into his back. If there were some
way to become part of him, to be wholly and truly one with his body, I'd do it in a
second. There's always this need, to get closer and closer until the only option
left is to simply melt together for real.

He smiles, a cute little quirky grin that becomes downright sadistic as he shifts
to get himself entirely between my legs. "Good." And then the rest of the room
fades away as he begins teasing my lips with these playful swipes of his tongue.
Giles really is a child at heart sometimes, always eager to play and please. But
even as he taunts me, amusing himself, he's fumbling on the table for the little
bottle of lube, then leaving me in a breathless lump against the pillows while he
gets to his knees and makes me watch him oil himself up.

All I need is the signaling flick of his eyes to pull up, to raise my legs and grip the
backs of my knees to hold them there so he can slide his fingers around and slip
them inside me. He leans forward, blowing lightly on my throbbing balls and
thrusting two fingers. I'm just starting to wonder if he's going to tease me all
day when he's there, catching my legs in his arms and tearing at my mouth and
slamming into me so fast and hard I would have cried out if there were anywhere
for the cry to go. As it was, every grunt was disappearing into his mouth,
wrapping his tongue in my wordless instructions, urging him when he pounds
faster and harder and conveying disappointment the few times he eases up,
probably wondering if he's hurting me.

I should get around to telling him how much I love it when he's rough.

When he falls this completely out of the refined librarian mode, it's just *him*,
the man I fell in love with. The man who's so fiercely protective of people he
loves that I feel safe just knowing I'm in that category. The man with a
dangerous glint in his eyes when he's angry, and an even more dangerous glint in
his eyes when he's like this, when he's utterly focused on me and the rhythmic
sound of his pelvis slapping against my ass. When he's curling his fingers around
my cock and jerking me off with so much expertise he can draw it out even
though all I want to do is come and get rid of this tight pressure.

He pulls his mouth away and presses his forehead to mine when he comes, his
eyes closed tightly. Now the only movement is his hand on me, stroking and
building up to one fast hard tug that sends me teetering over the edge. At my
last wrenching shudder, he pulls out of me and my legs fall, and we're clinging to
each other in this sticky tangle of limbs and sweat and more hungry kissing.

I don't think I'll ever love anything more than waking up next to this man.