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Figured on his day off he couldn’t sleep.
Sure it was the middle of the day, but Nick had promised himself a nap when he found himself awake at 6:15 despite firm orders from Renard not to come in today. Three back-to-back high profile cases had left both him and Hank ragged; one day off seemed like the least they could do.
But routine was a silent killer and all that, so Nick had started the morning bright and early, unable to sleep in. He had puttered about the house, straightening the accumulated mess from a work month too busy to do anything other than fall asleep the moment he entered his house.
And now he lay wide awake on once cool sheets that had already soaked up his body heat. He tossed the blanket off of himself in irritation, one hand coming up to scratch idly at his belly. There was an itch under his skin that he couldn’t explain, leaving him restless and jittery. He stopped scratching and simply pressed his palm low on his stomach.
His cock stirred.
Well, if he couldn’t sleep… He slipped his hand underneath the waist of his sweat pants, cupping himself for one long moment before wrapping his fingers around his half-hard cock. He licked his lips as he stroked himself lightly, hand hampered by the fabric as he flipped through his preferred fantasies.
A man, yeah, a big guy laying down next to him, smelling like woods and musk and rain. He shut his eyes and sucked in a breath, imagining the scent filling the room. Suddenly, slow wasn’t an option and he shoved his sweats down to tangle around his knees and ankles. That was as far as he got before he wrapped both hands around his cock, hips jerking up into the tight grasp.
Big hands on him, big cello playing hands, yeah, that was it, those big hands wrapped around his cock, stroking him rough and firm. Voice rumbling in his ear, growling low, beard brushing against his throat…
The fantasy abruptly shifted, Nick on his hands and knees, Monroe mounted over him, so fucking huge. God, Monroe would be so heavy above him, Nick would have to brace himself with both hands, wouldn’t be able to touch himself, would have to leave that to Monroe. Who would. Who would touch him, just like he needed to be touched, hint of claws with every press of his hands.
With a bit off curse, Nick jerked one hand off himself long enough to spit into his palm.
Monroe would be rough with him, make him take it, make him want it. He’d be inside him, big and thick, slamming into Nick in animal rutting even as Nick begged for it harder and faster. Groaning, Nick twisted his wrist, fucking into his fist almost frantically even as the Monroe in his head pounded into him. He’d be growling, snarling as Nick writhed beneath him, too far gone for words. Fuck, he’d be too far gone to touch Nick and Nick would have to come on his cock alone, would have to come from Monroe deep and rough inside him, from him fucking him like an animal.
Like they were both animals.
Nick would drop his head to the side, bare his throat and Monroe would be there in an instant, hips unfaltering even as he set his teeth (fangs, he’d have fangs and Nick moaned helplessly) on the vulnerable skin of Nick’s neck.
And Monroe would, Monroe would…
Monroe would put his teeth to Nick’s throat and bite, hard enough to draw blood.
Nick came with a shout, hips arching off the bed, semen splashing on his belly, blood hot. He lay there, quaking in the aftermath of his orgasm, the sound of his breathing harsh in the empty room.
Slowly the fantasy melted away, leaving Nick lying in a bed that had stopped smelling like Juliette months ago, semen cooling on his stomach, the itch under his skin quiescent at least for now.
With one hand he grabbed an edge of sheet and wiped himself clean, hitching his sweats back up his hips. The low afternoon light filtered through the blinds and he glanced at the clock on his bedside.
It was still early. Maybe he’d go visit Monroe. Bring a couple of beers, maybe watch a game, sit on his couch. Flash a little throat.
Maybe.