Title: I Like the Way You Move
By: saras-girl
Pairing: Nick/Greg
Rating: NC-17
Summary: So this is shameless porn really, but it does involve Greg figuring out some stuff. I know the nightclub has been done to death, but I also think we are all entitled to write a nightclub story, and this is mine.
A/N: This is my first attempt at Greg-first-person, so who knows how it turned out. Lyrics from 'I Like the Way You Move' by Bodyrockers. Reviews are better than…than…chocolate covered cherries. Which is saying something, so yes please.

There's so many things I like about you
I just don't know where to begin,

I like the way you, look at me with those beautiful eyes,
I like the way you, act all surprised,
I like the way you, sing along,
I like the way you, always get it wrong,
I like the way you, clap your hands,
I like the way you, love to dance,
I like the way you, put your hands up in the air,
I like the way you, shake your hair,
I like the way you, like to touch,
I like the way you, stare so much,
but most of all...
Yeah..
most of all

I like the way you move

XXXXX

It's the last time I let a co-worker set me up. Seriously. I know I said that last time too, but this time I really mean it. Because I am sitting here looking at this person and wondering if Catherine actually knows me at all. She's very pretty and all, I'm not denying that. All that long blonde hair and tanned skin that she seems to want to expose as much of as possible. And it's nice, it really is. I snuck a look when she was leaning down to pick up her purse after dinner, and it all looked good. Not that I needed to be sneaky about it at all, she wanted me to look, I could tell by the way she smiled at me when she straightened up. And that hair is pretty spectacular, it's like a sort of shiny curtain, and it smells fantastic. I'm wondering how she would react if I asked her what kind of shampoo she uses. Better not.

She's looking at me now, head tilted on one side, glossy lips pursed as if she's in deep thought. Which I highly doubt. I can't say there was no conversation over dinner, but it was not conversation as I have come to know it. She talked, and I got to say something every time she took a sip of her cocktail or elected to take a breath. It's strange really, because there's a certain amount of oxygen we need in our blood to survive, and I have no idea how she's keeping her levels up, because she never-stops-talking.

Of course, if I say that to Catherine, she will laugh and say something like 'that's good coming from you, Greg.' And she would have a good point, normally. I do talk a lot, I'll admit that, it's not exactly something people don't notice about me. But I like to think I allow other people to speak too, and I certainly don't use up all my words on some actor who may, or may not, be splitting up with his wife. Oh god. And now, see, now we are in this club, and it was her idea. Or, at least, partially her idea. I suspect that Catherine has said something to her like;

"Oh, well, Greg's a bit of an exhibitionist, and he likes to dance...why not get him to go to that new club after dinner?"

And if she did, she isn't going to hear the end of it from me, because now I'm sitting here with this very pretty, very boring, very obvious woman who has just informed me with audible delight in her voice, that this place is open until 5am. Fuck.

Catherine has some lovely friends, I know she does. And yet she insists on trying to pair me up with people like Serena. I sometimes wonder what I have possibly done to offend her. I also wonder why it seems to bother her so much that I'm single. After all, so is she, and she's much older than me. I smirk to myself and try to remember not to use that particular line of argument when I confront her at work tomorrow. She almost took a swing for me that time I called her 'Cat', so it's safe to assume that calling her old would result in the removal of my balls at the very least. But, unless she counts her incessant flirtation with Warrick, the woman is a hypocrite. And Nick's single. At least I think he is...and I have never seen her try to set him up with one of her friends. Not once.

And you know...Nick's hot. I'm not attracted to him, or anything, but there's no denying the fact. The man is fucking gorgeous. He probably has them lining up – whatever it is he's into – I've never been too sure with Nick. Not that it's something I think about, but when it's a slow shift, it's natural that thoughts drift, people wonder. I've always been a curious person, that much is obvious.

I can understand how someone might fall under the spell of those eyes. There is just an intensity and depth there that makes you shiver and not want to look away. I imagine. The smile, too, that's something else. When Nick smiles, the world could stop. It's not one of those overly bright, fake Hollywood smiles either, it's warm. When Nick smiles at you, you get some of that warmth for yourself. It sort of radiates out, and heats everything it touches.

You have to admire his body too, I suppose. Clearly he works out, looks after himself, and when you do all that work it would be a crime not to show it off. He chooses clothes well, I always think, dark t-shirts that cling to every outline, the broad shoulders and trim waist, and I'm sure people don't mind that sometimes his jeans are a little bit too tight. In fact, he has this one particular pair that just cling to his ass like a second skin, and no one could be blamed for looking. They just draw the eye. Wanting to touch is a natural consequence, I'm sure. Especially when he gets close.

I've often considered it, this issue I have with personal space, and that on that score, Nick is my polar opposite. He likes to get close, too close. Likes to look over my shoulder while I'm processing, close enough so I can smell him. He smells pretty good, too, something warm and spicy and maybe...maybe I should ask him what kind of cologne he wears. Maybe.

He used to do it in the lab too, now I think about it, and he should be careful, because that combination of the tight jeans and the warmth and the smell and the accent, that could drive you crazy. People, I mean. People in the lab, with Nick standing behind them, they could be driven crazy. I feel bad for those people, and shake my head, ignoring the shiver I'm suppressing.

Because the thing about Nick is, despite all that, I cannot help thinking he's just a little too strait-laced. Maybe that's why he's single. He never seems to just let go, just do something spontaneous for the hell of it. The thought of Nick doing something spontaneous makes me smile in spite of myself, and feel a little warm. It is warm in here though, and dark. I can barely see Serena, just every half second or so as the lights flash in a regular rhythm.

I realize I have been staring at her, or rather through her, without really seeing, and I notice her mouth is moving. I have to lean across the table to hear her.

"So," she is saying, eyes sparkling. "I bet you make a lot of money doing what you do, huh?"

I frown and look at her once more; the nails, the hair, the clothes. She's smiling like a shark and I don't know how I didn't notice it before. Irritation flares, and before I can stop myself I'm answering her, calling her bluff.

"Actually, no. I barely scrape by. Let's just say the LVPD isn't the most generous employer." I lean closer to her and put on my best fake-sincere face. "In fact, I can hardly afford to eat most of the time."

Her face is a picture and for half a second I feel immensely gratified, but quickly I remember that this whole night is Catherine's fault. I don't really care if Serena likes me or not at this point, but I am definitely going to kill Catherine when I see her.

Willows, you are on my hitlist.

Poisoning, maybe, I muse as I finish the last of my warm beer in one gulp. Something slow. I cannot help but marvel at where she finds these people.

...'Hey, Greg, why not go out with my friend Serena?'...

Neglecting to mention that her friend Serena is interested in only one thing. Well, maybe two things, considering the way she was looking at me earlier, like she hadn't eaten in a week. I set my empty bottle down and take another look at her.

It's amazing how rapidly someone can go from full-on flirting to total disinterest. Serena has made the transition so effortlessly that I almost want to smile, but I don't. She has actually stopped talking now, and is just sitting there, looking at me with cool blue eyes and fiddling with her straw. Her nails are shiny and fake and look razor sharp, like they could do some damage; I bet she's a back scratcher too. I shudder a little bit at the thought and try to think of something to say, because one of us should.

It's fortunate that he turns up, at that point, because all I can think of to say is 'what the hell am I doing here?' and I really, really do not want to say that. I think Serena could have me, on balance, if she was angry. I've never been much of a fighter, and she's got weapons. Those nails, those stiletto heels, sharp little teeth. She looks like she might bite, and not in the good way.

My attention is diverted from how my date might choose to injure me, because this man is standing next to our table. I wonder how long he has been standing there, and also how long Serena has been staring up at him with the big puppy eyes she turned on me not so long ago.

"Marlon!" She's getting to her feet then, and turning herself away from me.

Marlon? Jeez. And they are talking, animatedly, or rather she is, and he is watching her and nodding his big blond head and smiling this toothpaste ad smile like she is the most captivating thing he's ever seen. Something about being in town on business, something about can't believe you're here, something about making partner.

...Oh yeah. I see you, Serena. I wonder if Marlon can see the dollar signs in your eyes, or if he's just too distracted by that admittedly great rack...

She seems to have forgotten I'm even here, and I'm relieved. I will admit, my pride is the tiniest bit wounded at being abandoned so quickly for some lawyer/catalogue model type with a stupid name, but not enough to do anything about it.

She remembers, eventually, and pulls away from Marlon's embrace reluctantly. Regards me carefully, a somewhat sheepish expression distorting her perfect features. Leans forward to shout over the thumping bassline as a new song starts up.

"Greg," she enunciates, flicking blonde hair over her bare shoulders. "This is Marlon, he...um...Marlon, this is Greg.. He works for the Crime Lab."

Marlon is staring at me with mild irritation and a hint of a challenge in his eyes. Ok. I know an opportunity when I see one, and I also know when I'm not wanted. I stand, slowly, holding my hands out smiling nicely, hoping to convey surrender in a strong, manly way, of course.

All yours, alpha. Please.

When I make some excuse about having to work early in the morning, she makes no comment, just agrees and thanks me for dinner, says she'll call me. I told her I work nights, which just goes to show how much she was listening to me. By the time I'm twenty feet away from them, Marlon has taken my place at the table and she is leaning close, smiling, wanting him to look.

I turn away, and try to work out this feeling. It's not new, but it's confusing, and to not understand my own feelings is unnerving to say the least. I'm usually pretty self aware; I know a lot of people find me weird but I'm ok with that. The feeling is always hanging around me but sitting there tonight with Serena, even before she revealed herself to be Satan's gold-digging cousin, it was intensified. I don't know why I let Catherine set me up on dates because I can't seem to summon up a lot of enthusiasm for them. I try, but I always seem to be thinking of something else. I just can't seem to pay attention. Maybe I'm looking for something a little deeper after all, something I can actually feel. Maybe I sound like a girl inside my own head.

Ok. Pull it together, Greg, for pity's sake. I push fingers through my hair, even though I know I'm making it messier. This is not the place for introspection.

I'm about to leave, when something stops me. I recognize the song currently pulsing through the speakers, can feel it through the floor, vibrating all the way up to my thighs, and it makes me want to move. I used to dance alone all the time, I never used to care. Maybe I've become more self-conscious recently, and I don't know why. Maybe I'm getting old. I push that thought away as soon as it enters my head, because I am not old. I'm not. I'm not even thirty, not for a couple more weeks, anyway.

I'm standing at the edge of the dance floor now, leaning on the metal railing and looking out. It's packed out there, seems like everyone wants to be seen in what Serena tells me is 'the hottest new place in town'. It's called 'Escape', and though I'm firmly convinced that name is cheesy as hell, it makes sense too. I've always found my release in places like this, and I don't necessarily mean in a sexual way. There's just something about the darkness, and the heat, the anonymity. The way you can lose yourself in a crowd, a sea of people, moving like a tide, separately but together. You can be whoever you want in a place like this, just let go.

I haven't seen the inside of a club like this in months, though. Since I became a CSI, it's different. Maybe part of me thinks I should be acting more sensible now, but then again there's no law against having a good time. Actually, strike that, because I bet Grissom could show me some ancient statute that outlaws fun in the state of Nevada. I won't ask him.

As I stand there, I am starting to feel tempted to merge myself into that crowd, just me, because it's been too long, and the rhythm is coursing through me now, it's in my fingertips, tingling down the backs of my legs and humming in my chest. And I know this song, vaguely, and I like it. I hadn't even noticed it fading in, because this DJ is good, and it's seamless.

The harsh guitar riff kicks in hard and I feel myself smile, start to walk toward the short flight of stairs leading down to the dance floor, trailing one hand along the cool metal rail and muttering the words along with the song, I know most of them, which surprises me.

"There's so many things I like about you, I just don't know where to begin..." I've got one foot on the bottom step and one on the impractically shiny tiles when I see it. And freeze. Because that sight is so unexpected, my brain needs a couple of extra seconds to makes sense of it.

The one person I never, ever, expected to see in a place like this. Nick Stokes. I find myself swallowing hard, and my throat is dry. I wonder how long it has been since I finished that last beer. Nick. And not only that, but Nick dancing. He has the hand of a small red-haired woman and is laughing and holding their joined hands up, allowing her to twirl gracefully away from him and back again. She is laughing, too, and they look cute together. Maybe I was wrong about Nick being single after all.

I'm only standing here, gripping the railings and watching the girl glance over at me and then stretch up on tiptoes to whisper in Nick's ear. I'm only standing here, and I have no idea why I can't move my feet. Why I have this rolling sensation in my stomach and this tight feeling inside my ribcage. Why I'm wondering if he likes that she has to stretch up like that to whisper to him. Or kiss him. Why I'm holding onto these rails like I want to crush them.

Back off.

And I really don't know where that thought comes from but it echoes in my head so loud that it throws me off balance and I'm glad I have something to hold on to. What the fuck? And there's a hand on my back, insistent, and an 'excuse me' and of course, I'm blocking the stairs completely. I think that I mutter an apology as I let go the railing and move to one side to let people pass, but I can't be sure. I manage to tear my eyes from Nick and the redhead just for a moment to watch them thread past me and disappear into the crowd, and when I look back, I'm instantly confused.

She's gone. I'm looking around, but I can't see her, and yet. Nick. Nick is still there, only now he has this space around him. He's angled slightly away from me and anyway, it wouldn't matter because his eyes are closed. And he's moving. Fuck. Oh, fuck. And it's different now. That easy, casual playfulness when he was dancing with the redhead, that's gone, and there's something about the way he's moving now that turns my tongue a shade dryer and renders me unable to close my mouth.

I did not know Nick could dance. And yet, it seems as though he was born to do it, the movement is natural, fluid, and I suppose it's not dancing, really, not in the sense I understand it. He's barely moving his feet at all, just this slow, rhythmic sway, flow, roll, hips and shoulders and everything in between. It's as though someone has asked him to just close his eyes and feel the music. I said he couldn't let go. I was wrong. There is not a single line on his normally tense face, just the tiniest hint of a smile. He's abandoned, and it's different. It's like Nick-extra, and I can't look away.

He looks good. Nick always looks good, though. He looks hot. And in the middle of all this, I'm still amused by the fact that he's wearing exactly the same clothes here as he wears for work. At least I made an effort for Serena, though I should not have bothered. These jeans are new, and I'm confident they hang on my ass in a rather flattering way. I've done something with my hair, and I'm not wearing this shirt because Catherine told me to, I'm wearing it because I might actually look halfway decent in it. In the right light. But Nick, well, I feel almost bad for the red-haired chick, wherever she is, because he hasn't even made an effort on his night off.

And yet...I'm still looking. The t-shirt is black, and fits to his body a little more than usual, probably because it's so hot. He's probably sweating under the lights, it's warm and I think I'm breathing a little harder than I was a minute ago. It's tucked in – which is just so Nick – and I want to slide my fingers inside his belt and yank it out for him. What? Those are the jeans I was thinking about earlier, the ones that are just a little bit too tight. As he moves they tighten and stretch across his ass and I watch, fascinated, because...because I can't seem to swallow all of this saliva in my mouth.

I don't know what I'm doing, other than watching my co-worker dance, and with superhuman effort I'm pulling my eyes away and looking out onto the rest of the floor, trying to control my breathing. I swallow finally, awkwardly, and try to focus on something else but I feel as though my neck might snap with the effort of not looking at Nick, so finally I allow myself to look once more, and as I let my eyes sweep his swaying form the feeling almost knocks me over.

Heat, everywhere, and a twitch somewhere I was not expecting to feel one. And the knockout blow is the fully formed words that slam into my head.

I think I want him. I think I want Nick Stokes.

And I'm moving, then, across the floor before I can stop myself, pushing past people, moving like I'm in a dream, because all I see is him, and I'm feeling logic slip away. Eyes fixed on his hips, twisting slowly one way, then the other, eyes still closed - he doesn't see me. All I can think is hot. Fuck. Hot. Want. God. He has my attention, every last bit of it.

My mouth is arid now, just inches behind him and suddenly I have no words, none at all. I can feel the familiar heat pouring off him and the urge to touch is mind-blowing, intense. I can't stop myself now, fingers moving to graze black cotton and it's damp, warm, I'm trailing fingers down his back and he shivers. He doesn't know it's me, of course, and the part of me still making some sense wonders if he will freak out when he turns around. I don't know if I want him to turn around or not.

But I'm not thinking really, my breath is short and everything is racing, pounding, feeling the music through the floor even more strongly here, shaking me. My fingers slipping down and I've never been happier to see him wearing these jeans. I want to grip that ass...make it mine.

Fuck. Did I just think that? Surely I didn't. But I'm touching anyway, and it feels even better than it looks under my fingers, stiff denim, firm flesh and the heat. And it's tightening and pushing back into my touch, and my god. I'm hard. I wonder if he is. And he's going to turn around...

He turns slowly, not losing the rhythm for a second, and his eyes are open now. And I can't breathe, because he's smiling like he knows it was me all along. And my god...his eyes are almost black and I can't look away. I'm not touching him any more but he must not have minded because he reaches for my hand, thumb brushing my palm lightly, sending a shiver to my already hard cock, which I cannot explain, because it's just my hand, and his hand, that's all. He hasn't looked away yet and when he rests his other hand on my hip I vaguely notice two things...that his hands are huge, the one gripping my hip and urging me to move feels thrillingly powerful and it encloses, compels me. I'm not wondering about those hands anywhere else. I'm not. The second thing I realize is that he is about to kiss me, and that I want him to. I want him to kiss me like I have never wanted anything before, it's primal, it's need.

"You were watching," he murmurs against my ear, and that breath is so hot, I'm melting from the inside out. He saw me.

"Sorry," is all I can manage, because a tongue shoots out to flick my earlobe, just for a second, and that's it. I'm gone. Liquefied. Who is this man and what has he done with the Nick Stokes I thought was boring?

"Don't be," he replies in a harsh whisper that sends a shudder through my whole body.

He steadies me with one strong hand still on my hip and then kisses me. I kiss him back, almost without hesitation. I don't have a choice. I've never been like this with anyone, but I feel out of control. I think I actually whimper into his mouth because it feels so good, and he slides his tongue against mine. And I know, from the way he's holding onto me and the way he is stroking the inside of my mouth whilst keeping our lips fused together, sliding, hard, that he has done this before, even if I haven't.

I didn't know I wanted it, and it should be weird, but it's not, because it's Nick. And Nick's hot. Nick's hot and he wants to kiss me; he is kissing me. He's also rock hard and I can feel him pushed against me, denim crushed against denim, and I want to touch. The idea of holding Nick's cock makes mine flood and jerk and push against the rough seam inside jeans that are too new. Friction. Good. But not the kind of friction my short-circuited brain is now demanding.

More Nick. More. All over. Now.

It's a good possibility I have never kissed anyone with this sort of desperation, I don't remember doing it but I now have hands on either side of his face, pulling him impossibly deeper into the kiss. I can't get enough. He tastes like beer and lemons and something warm. One hand sliding up into my hair, short nails dragging on my scalp and that feels weirdly good. Finally I remember the t-shirt and reach down to pull it out of his waistband, not stopping there, no control over my fingers as they release damp black cotton and touch his skin, hot sticky skin and the hard muscles of his back that I have seen before but never touched, and I press palms hard against them, wanting a reaction, which I get when he moans low in his throat and kisses me harder.

Thoughts are fractured now, but the fact that I'm kissing and groping Nick Stokes in the middle of a club has not escaped me. And I don't care. I really don't. From some recess floats Serena, maybe because our table was near the dance floor, and I wonder if she sees us. If she's enjoying the show. If Marlon feels smug.

...'Oh look, honey, he's gay.'...

Am I? I shut the little voice up, because if nothing else I am smart enough to know that this is good, it's very good, and the words can be sorted out at a later date, because right now I have Nick's hands gripping my ass and Nick's tongue stroking mine and this movement, this rhythm I didn't know he possessed. We are swaying, almost imperceptibly, to the beat and the friction between his groin and mine is unbearable. I don't know how much longer I can last, and I have not felt like that for years, so desperate for someone.

I don't realize how much I need to breathe until he pulls away, gasping, staring into my eyes, lust edged with amusement, and my earlier thoughts about oxygen levels echo in my head. I feel unsteady, but I think that's probably more to do with the way I'm being touched and the way I'm being looked at than o2 deprivation.

"Your friend is watching," he comments at last, and it's only because he's so close that I can hear a word of it.

"What about yours?" I haven't forgotten about the redhead, even if most of my mental functions are shutting down rapidly.

He smiles then, a real Nick smile, and I feel even more unsteady.

"Debra?" He's laughing softly and kissing my neck. The words are sighed against my ear and are suddenly louder than the music. "She's around here somewhere. She wanted to make sure you were watching me. I said you weren't, but I guess I was wrong, huh?"

I'm speechless, for once, and I just let him trail open kisses against my neck, leaning over so he can reach any bit of my skin he wants to. The song is fading now, and I only realize it is still playing because Nick is whispering along with it, hot against my ear.

"I like the way you like to touch. I like the way you stare so much..." Oh god.

We are only just moving now, everything crushed, sliding, grinding together, but it's perfect and I almost think that when the song ends, so will this. Not much time.

Because 'most of all,' I'm thinking as I push his t-shirt away, exposing his back, 'most of all...'

I'm interrupted now both by the abrupt end of the song and the fact that Nick is pulling away from me. No. The look in his eyes is different and I can't identify it, but he's not moving now and he's barely touching me. I want to close my eyes as my stomach drops through the floor. All I can think is that I don't know what I did wrong. I'm breathing hard and my chest and eyes hurt, suddenly.

His eyes flick down briefly, between us, and when they meet mine again they are changed again.

"Not here."

"Oh."

And I'm being pulled across the floor by the hand, banging into people and stumbling but I don't care.

When I'm dragged into the men's bathroom, I want to laugh because it's cliched and it's tacky and nightclub bathrooms are invariably disgusting, but I don't. Maybe because when the door shuts, I am pushed up against the far wall with a force that shocks me, and I'm reminded not only how strong Nick is, but that he wants me so much he can't wait. He could overpower me, physically, in a second, and while I'm starting to like that idea more than I expected, perhaps I have some power over him too. He's breathless, pushed against me and pinning my wrists to the cold tiles. His hair is messy and falling into his eyes at one side, skin flushed and eyes glazed.

Anyone could come in here. It's dangerous, and yet I don't want to move, and anyway I don't think I could. He has a pretty good hold on me. I move my fingers experimentally, testing it out, and his eyes flash. He shifts his hips against me, making me moan and lose all semblance of propriety. Because that's his cock, pushing against mine, and...fuck.

"Want you."

"I know." There's that smile again and for some reason I want him to understand.

"No, but..."

"I know, Greg." He moves again, a slow, aching, clockwise rotation that makes me gasp.

"I didn't...I didn't...god...know until...oh...just now."

Nick nods slowly and drops his eyes, just for a second, to my mouth. I don't know why, but that simple action makes me throat tighten and I shift and grind back against him; seeing that the eyes that are raised back to mine are lust-glazed, unfocused. For me. This cannot be real.

"I was hoping you'd figure it out eventually," he adds, that accent richer than usual, like...coffee. Like really, really good coffee. I need to speak before I lose my grip completely here, before there is no blood left in my head; at the moment it is all draining somewhere else, somewhere I need to be touched. I don't trust myself to form a coherent sentence. Just the important words.

"Nick. Now. Touch me. Right now."

"What?"

And he's playing with me, I know he is, looking at me with eyebrows raised, head slightly on one side. Eyes intense, burning, dark. I'm exposed and he's looking at my mouth again, long glances before looking back at me. I know my mouth is open, I'm struggling to breathe.

"What do you want, Greg?"

And I never knew he'd be such a fucking tease either. My god. "Touch me." That was clear enough.

"Where? Here?" He pinches a nipple through my shirt and though it feels unexpectedly good, it's not what I need. I shake my head.

"Here?" A fraction lower.

"No." I know he can hear the frustration in my voice and he is loving it.

"Here?" Oh, so close. He's stroking my belly now and his thumb is about an inch from the tip of my cock and I need it so much. I squirm and think about grabbing his hand with the one of mine that is now free but he's playing a game and I fucking love it. I hate it. And love it.

"Here?" He licks his lips and it's the last thing I see before my eyes close because his palm is covering and pressing my aching cock; the wave that rushes through me drags a hiss from the back of my throat that I feel, and it's all I can do not to come right there and then. I don't want to be so obvious but it feels too good, and I'm pushing away from the wall and arching into him, into his touch.

"Yes. God. Yes."

When his lips drop to mine again I kiss him hungrily, trying to distract myself from the strong, sure hand moving slowly up and down my length because I cannot come from being rubbed through my clothes, that would be humiliating and I want more than that before this is over.

I don't know what I'm saying any more but abruptly the kiss is ended and I cannot help my eyes flying open.

Nick is on his knees and he is not teasing me any more. He unzips my jeans efficiently and frees me from what are now slightly damp boxer briefs. When that hand wraps around my cock I think I might explode. The pressure is what I have needed for too long, the friction of slightly rough palm against the sensitive, heated skin as he moves it, not releasing his grip. I'm staring uselessly at him, not even trying to close my mouth now, not care how open I look, because he is looking me right in the eyes and leaning closer, taking me in his mouth.

And I can't help it, I can't control the sounds coming out of my mouth that any other time would make me cringe. I can't stop myself jerking and flinching off the wall, pushing into his hot mouth. Knowing I'm not going to last long and wanting, needing, this moist hot pressure around as much of me as possible.

If he minds he doesn't show it, because he's sighing with contentment and closing the circle of his lips around me, following my movements with his hand and letting me push into his mouth. The slightest scrape of teeth against the sensitive spot just below the head and his tongue rotating, stroking somewhere, I've lost what he's doing because I can only concentrate on how fucking fantastic it feels, and that Nick is very, very good at this.

My hands are sweat slick and sliding against the tiles behind me, just wanting to be closer, more, because I'm so close, I have been on the edge of it since we got in here. I know it is just a few more seconds, a few more thrusts and that mouth sucking my cock is melting my entire body. I tangle a hand in his hair, letting go of the wall because it doesn't matter any more, I'm losing it and he senses it, speeding up and tightening his grip, taking me further into his mouth and not moving as the heat rips through me, uncurling from the base of my spine and making me cry out, something that sounds like his name echoing out around the room as I spill into his mouth.

He does not move away. Just looks back up at me and swallows, licks me clean and lets go, resting his head against my hip for a moment. I do not let go of his hair, just stand there, head spinning and the usual soft warm glow settling in around me, seeming inappropriate here in this bathroom. I'm also breathing hard and concentrating on trying to look a little bit cool and not sliding down the tiles into a heap on the floor. Not just because the floor is disgusting.

When he stands up, slowly, and adjusts my clothing, zipping me up again, I do not expect him to kiss me, but he does. I have tasted my own come before, out of curiosity, but here, mixed with Nick and licked from the inside of his mouth, it is different, and it thrills me. I am conscious, as my heart rate returns to normal, that I have not even touched him, and I start to say so, but he silences me with his lips. Tells me, between kisses, that he's fine, and anyway, there isn't time. We have been in here for long enough without interruption, it's too much of a risk to start anything else. I'm surprised by how disappointed I actually am, and how that disappointment intensifies when he finally stops kissing me and pulls back a few inches.

"Leaving?"

"Yeah. I need to go home, crash out."

Rubs the back of his neck and glances at the floor. Suddenly looks like the Nick I know a little more. Warm, sensitive, less predatory. This is the Nick that smiles at me in the break room and stands too close to me in the lab. The one that brings me coffee and lets me play my CDs in his car.

"I thought you were boring," I say softly before I can stop myself. It's not my fault, what he just did with his mouth seems to have loosened my tongue.

He looks a little hurt but then he laughs. "And now?"

"Now...I..." I shrug and smile and touch his hair tentatively. Suddenly unsure of myself again, because, sure, this is Nick, but after what just happened I'm not even sure which way is up any more. "You're...hot."

And that may be the most inarticulate thing I have ever said, but he doesn't seem to mind. He smiles again and traces his fingers so carefully over my lips. No one has ever touched me like that before and I cannot move, in case he stops.

Of course, he does stop after a few seconds, drops the hand to his side and turns away. He opens the bathroom door, flooding the echoey space with sound again. It sounds harsh to my ears now and I think I may need to lie down. With Nick. But I didn't think that, either, and I am certainly not going to ask him to stay with me.

"I'm going home," he repeats, and I nod dumbly, wondering what happens now. And suddenly I hate that he can make me feel so vulnerable. I'm not fragile, needy, I'm not. But I feel it, as I lean back against the cold tiles and fiddle with the hand dryer on the wall next to me, for something to do. Now what?

And I don't realize I'm scowling at the floor until he's next to me again, the door flapping on its hinges as he comes back into the bathroom and tells me to stop it. I'm looking into those deep eyes then and trying to figure him out.

"You're cute when you're puzzled," he smiles, bringing hands up to my face. Kissing me once, softly, making me shiver. "I meant for you to come with me."

"To sleep?" Oh, yeah. Very smooth, Greggo. I hear myself ask it, and I know I'm going red.

"If you like."

He is pulling me away from the wall by the hand now. "We can talk in the morning."

Out of the bathroom, threading through the club, and I'm watching him, the way he strides ahead, strong legs, so upright. He's not dancing now, but every step falls in time to the rhythm of the music. I let my eyes be dragged up and down his body, shameless, fingers curling around his and not letting go.

Somewhere in the crowd I catch sight of a familiar flash of pink satin and blonde hair, and I turn my head slightly to give Serena the warmest, most genuine smile I have given her since I laid eyes on her. The expression on her face as I turn away again is worth every second I had to spend with her, and silently I cross Catherine off my list again.

I don't recognize the song playing now, and though I think once again that maybe it's because I'm getting too old for this, it doesn't seem to matter any more. Nick doesn't look back at me but his thumb rubs the inside of my wrist as we near the exit. He trails and twists and weaves through people, never faltering, never hesitating. I smile. Follow.

FIN

Most of all...yeah...most of all...I like the way you move.