Title: Socks, Sex, and Conrad Ecklie (A Love/Hate Relationship With It All)
Author: amazonqueenkate
Pairing: Nick Stokes/Bobby Dawson
Fandom: CSI: Vegas
Theme: #9: "dash"
Warnings: NC-17; socks; shower; Ecklie; 2nd person POV
Disclaimer: Ha. You're funny, aren't you?
Author's Notes: I've been experimenting with different writing styles. Here's one. Oh, and don't let the title scare you; really, Ecklie is barely relevant. I just liked the title. ;)

It's a madcap dash to culmination.

When you don't have a lot of time, that's what happens. Everything becomes about the release. He's been on days for three weeks now - three excruciating weeks, and you may not be a cursing man, but shit that is a long time - and you find yourself stealing every moment you can get in the hour that you're home together. Of course, usually, you're asleep and he's exhausted, and you wake up and hop in the shower and are out the door before he can open a beer, but sometimes - just some blissful times - you can find those fifteen minutes of bliss that make it all worthwhile.

God, you hate Conrad Ecklie, sometimes.

But Ecklie's not important, not right now, because right now, the only goal is sex. Hot, fast, hornier-than-hell shower sex because apparently, you can't take a shower alone. Water conservation, or so he muttered before he stepped in with you, and that naked body? Instant erection. Convenient, given that he's hard as a rock and God, how'd he get a boner like that at work, anyway? So you don't really care that you're wasting more water by staying in here longer. Because he's got you against the wall and he's got your cock in hand and you've got his, too, and there is nothing sweeter than a rough-palmed ride into oblivion with Bobby steering the wagon.

Spraying water against the jerk-twist-pull of your hands, and he's staring at you like he hasn't seen you in weeks - which, actually, is pretty apt. His lips are parted, and he's just watching your face, and you suddenly wonder - what do you look like, being fucked? Are you red-faced and gape-lipped, too? Are your eyes half-hooded in pleasure? You know your hips are rocking like his, but what, exactly, does he see in your naked body - chest, arms, legs, ass, groin - that you can't see? Is this why he came home like he did?

He stripped in the hallway again, didn't he? Oh, if he doesn't pick up those socks -

Socks. Who the fuck cares about socks, because there's a hand on and under your balls and - oh. Oh, Jesus Christ. Yeah. That's… Yeah.

You blink and clear the haze and shower-spray from the eyes and suddenly, you're aware that he's leaning on you, head on shoulder and bodies pressed together. The water's washed away the evidence, but you know it's been there, and the breaths rasping in your ear are more proof than some sticky white gunk ever will be. The tile is warm against your back as you reach up and run your hands over familiar skin, ridges and muscles and, yes, less formed portions, but every inch of him is yours and you could care less about that.

And the socks. And Ecklie, while you're on the subject.

When he pulls his face away from your shoulder, he meets your eyes and then kisses you, and damn, his tongue is as tricky and as wonderful as his hand. If you were ten years younger, it'd be round two right now. Ring the bell and put on the gloves.

But then again, pushing forty and making out in the shower? Not bad, either.

He pulls away and lands a kiss on your jaw - just one - before smiling like the cat who caught the canary. "Guess what," he murmurs, all thick, post-coital Southern drawl that a Yankee wouldn't be able to understand.

You idly run a hand down his back and to his ass, then up again. "Hmm?"

"I'm back on nights starting next week."

He kisses you again, and God, you love Conrad Ecklie, sometimes.