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"The contract specifies that you'll perform a minimum of three times a week," Wesley pointed out. "Yeah, I know." Spike fidgeted again. The whole thing made him uncomfortable -- not the performing part, but the fact that it was all drawn up in black and white. "But that's the minimum, right? I mean, not like I can't do it more." "That's true." Wes rifled through the contract, obviously looking for a certain page. "Here," he said, holding it out, his thumb pointing to one paragraph. "It specifies your full commitment to the client." Spike glanced at the paper -- he didn't need to read it again. "Never said I wasn't fully committed. Just... don't like it being so cut and dried." "Then you shouldn't have signed it," Wes said dismissively. "It's not as though I was holding a gun to your head. You signed it of your own free will -- I sat here and watched you examine it. Are you trying to say that you didn't read it through carefully? That you were... duped in some way?" Spike kicked the edge of the desk in frustration. Felt better when he saw his boot had left a dent in the wood. "I'm just saying I don't like being *held* to something like that. Kills all the spontaneity." Wes got up and came 'round the side of the desk. "So it's spontaneity you're looking for." Spike froze, then closed his eyes when Wes' hand brushed against the front of his jeans. "Spontaneous is good, yeah?" he managed. "Oh, I agree completely." Wes' lips traced the edge of Spike's ear. "So we'll just... tear up the contract then?"
With a small groan, Spike crushed the other man to him and kissed him, then swept everything off the desk and sat Wesley on the edge of it. "Burn it," he said hoarsely.
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