Title: Kissing Greg Sanders|
Disclaimer: Don't own them, and in need of a new computer, so don't bother suing. You'll get nothing more than a purring kitty.
Warnings: Sap. Sex. Bad writing. Just kidding.
Author's Notes: I apologize in advance for the massive sappiness of this. I got done reading a romance novel today.
For: sparkleblsm, just because; puppytraining, because it's her fault I just got done reading a romance novel; and slightly_frayed because all my ideas amuse her.
Nick Stokes feels that kissing Greg Sanders is a lot like being a man in a desert dying of thirst and suddenly finding water. He knows, deep down, that the knowledge of that makes him sound like a tawdry romance novel, but he can't help himself.
Kissing Greg Sanders is one of Nick's favorite things to do. When he'd first realized that, with that first awkward kiss they'd shared after the first time they'd gone out for breakfast together, Nick had been convinced that he was losing his mind. He'd kissed guys in the past, and there were a number of girls too, but kissing had never been a major turn-on to Nick. Until Greg.
And it's not just Greg's mouth Nick loves kissing, but he definitely loves that. Greg tastes like the candy he constantly sucks on, or the mint lipbalm he "borrows" from Sara's purse "without her permission, of course), or the cigarettes Greg smokes whenever his delusions are the worst or he's nervous or something's wrong, "even though he keeps telling Nick he's trying to quit) or whatever he'd been eating shortly before Nick snags him in for a deep, or chaste, kiss. The overlying taste is always different, always wild, but there's something that's so distinctly Greg that makes Nick come back for more, that makes Nick dive deep into the moist, welcoming mouth.
Nick not only enjoys kissing Greg's mouth, he enjoys worshipping Greg's body just the same. Each moment spent worshipping Greg, each moment reverently touching, stroking, kissing sweaty, salty skin, makes it all worthwhile. Like Greg's mouth, there's something about kissing Greg's skin that tastes so distinctly like him. Greg's skin, whether it's cool from Greg coming in from a cold day outside or from the morgue, or warm from the hot weather that prevails in Las Vegas, or sweaty from sex, tastes like the ocean Greg hasn't been in for months. His skin tastes like the kiwi-strawberry body wash he'll never admit he uses.
Every moment spent worshipping the temple of Greg's body makes broken whispers of promises fall from Greg's kiss-roughened lips like new fallen snow, and it pushes Nick to the ultimate goal he had in mind when he began his worship, whether it's back up to ravish the younger man's lips once more, as if trying to confirm that this beautiful man is his, or lower, ever lower, to lap and suckle at Greg's manhood until the broken whispers become broken, barely coherent moans. And Nick has to grin, knowing that he's the only one now that will ever bring Greg to the edge, the only one Greg wants, even as he feels Greg's fingers twist in his hair; even as he feels Greg buck his hips, desperate, begging for release. And once Greg finds the release he was looking for, as he comes down off the waves of pleasure, the moans and screams that had been mere moments before fall back to soft whispers, whispers of promises, whispers of love.
And then Greg reaches down to shakily pull Nick up, desperate to kiss him, aching to taste himself in Nick's mouth. Before Greg, Nick had never bothered to swallow, even as much of a gentleman as he was. But Greg seemed to find it a turn-on to taste himself in Nick's kisses, and Nick had never wanted to disappoint his lover. If the roles were reversed and it was Greg going down on him, Nick loved to taste himself in Greg's mouth. Before Greg, Nick had never really cared whether or not the person blowing him had swallowed, but with Greg, he did care.
And Nick's back to kissing Greg, which is one of the many things he loves doing with Greg.
Sometimes, they don't go all the way; they just lay in bed, kissing, moving against each other, enjoying the friction of their bodies. But sometimes, the delicious friction isn't enough and even as he's kissing Greg, Nick's preparing Greg, muffling the moans that fall from Greg's lips at the feeling of Nick's fingers inside him; stifling the whimpers of loss when Nick's fingers leave him until they're replaced with Nick's aching manhood. The friction's just as delicious, but it's different like this, more raw, almost animalistic. And just like kissing Greg, Nick can't get enough.
There are times when the coupling's rough, fast; and there are times when the coupling's slow, gentle. Nick doesn't know which he enjoys more, just as long as it's with Greg. And before, during and after, he and Greg are kissing, mimicking with their tongues when their bodies are doing.
But even though Nick enjoys making love to Greg, and worshipping his body, what he really loves most of all is kissing Greg Sanders.