Angel knows that he's close to drooling, but he doesn't care too much.
Buffy is perched on his lap, skirt and sweater both pushed up, her breasts pulled out of her bra. She somehow managed to lose her panties without a whole lot of wiggling and he's supremely grateful for the gymnastic flexibility that comes along with the title "slayer." Now that the initial euphoria of admittedly great sex is over, he's content to bask in her nearness.
His hands almost wrap around her waist and she's using his hold on her to lean back so that her hair falls away from her face and down her back. Her smooth flesh entrances him as he pulls her forward so that he can suckle right where her neck flows into her shoulder. The fact that he still has a neck fetish after almost fifteen years with a beating heart is one of the few things he doesn't feel guilty about.
Shifting her has caused his ass to hit a wet spot and for half a second he thinks about the stain the chair will now be sporting. If Buffy could read his mind, he knows she'd be calling him "Angel Unger," convinced he's being anal about spots on the cushion. She would be wrong. He likes the fact that almost all of their furniture has been baptized like this. He's stopped feasting on her for the moment, instead he's watching her. Buffy's eyes are half-closed and she has a sated look that reminds him of a cat after gorging on cream.
"That's one fantasy finally fulfilled."
He doesn't bother to hide his confusion, over the years she's learned to decipher him even if he reins in his expressions.
"Forgotten already?" she says with a teasing grin. She bends backwards, trusting that Angel won't let her fall while she scoops his glasses from off the floor. Pulling herself upright again, she carefully places the glasses back on his face. "I told you, there's something about an older guy with glasses that does something to a girl."
It takes a moment for Angel's brain to kick back into gear; having Buffy stretch like that while semi-clothed is a delectable vision. "Finally?"
"Huh?" Now it's Buffy's turn to be confused.
"You said your fantasy was finally satisfied. But I just got my glasses today."
"There have been other older guys with glasses I've crushed on," Buffy smirks.
Angel bends forward and nibbles on a earlobe, eliciting a moan. "So who's my competition?" he whispers. Johnny Depp wore glasses, right? He mentally scrolls through some other possibilities.
"Giles!" Buffy gasps.
"Giles?" Angel stops his attentions, as he finds it suddenly takes all his concentration to be able to speak. "Giles as in Rupert? But, but---"
"He's old enough to be my father?" Buffy said wryly. "I don't think you want to bring up that argument, Mr. I was alive before computers were invented. And television. And books!"
"Exactly what century do you think I was born!"
Enjoying Angel's obvious indignation, Buffy grins and presses on. "Did you know that Giles can sing? And he can play guitar."
Buffy winds up giggling at Angel's forlorn pout. "Luckily for you," she says as she gives him a quick kiss, "a black silk shirt and a tin ear beats a come-hither singing voice and a tweed jacket any day." She gives him a mischievous grin. "Still, you should take me upstairs and prove I made the right choice."
Angel doesn't waste any time in turning her around so that he could scoop her in his arms as he stood up. "I'm going to make sure there's only one older guy you dream about."