He'd never had much practice with this sort of thing before. One of the many real-life situations that weren't explained in the dusty old volumes his father had shoved into his hands with a brisk "Read this." Cordelia had been his first...what? Not love, although he'd wished with every fiber of his being that it could have been love. Lust, maybe. He'd committed every clumsy touch and the one fumbling kiss to memory, experiences to help him 'next time'. Which seems to be now. Three hours outside of Sunnydale, in a cheap motel room, Wesley licks his lips as 'next time' rushes towards him with all the certainty of an oncoming train. This is not how he'd thought his first time would happen.
He'd only imagined that it could be this tender, this achingly sweet. His glasses are carefully removed, laid on the bedside table so as not to be accidentally trod upon. His shirt is slowly unbuttoned and discarded by large hands without a trace of awkwardness. Those same hands then caress his chest, gliding over his skin like a gentle breeze. He is drowning in the sensations rippling through him; he gasps and pulls Angel to him, two men running as fast as they can from Sunnydale and ghosts of memories, with only a thin thread of hope that they each have a purpose in life, a future away from the Hellmouth and the Scooby Gang. His ties are cut, his bridges burned. He didn't tell any of them that the Council had fired him, although he's sure that Mr. Giles will be informed of it eventually. He had no reason to return to Sunnydale. And everyone knows why Angel is leaving.
There's no possibility of 'Perfect Happiness' here, Wesley isn't that naive. He knows that Buffy is branded deeper into Angel than he could ever hope to reach, and truth be told it's better that way. They aren't soulmates, they aren't even really friends, but they can give and receive comfort, and that's enough for now.
He lets Angel take the lead, lets him press him into the mattress, lets him cover him in saliva and sweat and spunk. He doesn't squick when Angel resorts, for lack of any other option, to using his own blood for lubrication. Just moans and writhes, and pretends that Angel isn't thinking about anyone else.
In the morning he wakes to sunlight shining into the empty room and spilling across the cold bed. Other than the used bedsheets, there's no evidence that the vampire had even been there. Wesley sighs and starts to clean up; perhaps it's better that way. No more fuel for the sparks brewing in the corner of his heart, no chance that anything will every really happen between them. As Wesley packs, he contemplates his future. Sunnydale is out of the question, and from the mumblings that had accidentally slipped last night, Los Angeles can also be crossed off the list of possibilities. Maybe he could just travel around, hunting down rogue demons where he found them, fighting evil and proving his worth. Yeah, that'd be interesting.