] Title: Raining in Las Vegas
By: angstytimelord
Pairing: Greg Sanders/Mike Keppler
Fandom: CSI: Vegas
Rating: NC-17
Table: 55, 5_prompts
Prompt: 3, The forecast calls for rain
Disclaimer: This is entirely a product of my imagination, and I make no profit from it. I do not own the lovely Greg Sanders or Mike Keppler, just borrowing them for a while. Please do not sue.

***

Greg sighed as he closed the front door of his apartment, pulling off his coat and heading for the bedroom. He hadn't expected it to rain today, even though the forecast had called for wet weather. Maybe he should start paying more attention to what those meteorologists said.

He ran a hand through his wet hair, cursing whoever had decided to make it suddenly pour down rain just as he was getting out of his car. He usually parked closer to his apartment, but the parking lot had been full, which was unusual for this time of morning.

This had been the wrong day to turn down going out to breakfast with his co-workers, Greg thought sourly, pulling off his soaked shirt and fumbling with the button on his jeans. Within moments, he was naked, a slight shiver going through his thin body at the feel of the air conditioning on his bare skin.

He had a night off tonight, but he didn't plan to do much with it. Stay home, rent a couple of movies, order Chinese -- that was the extent of what he'd be doing. He was still too exhausted, both physically and emotionally, from the strain of the inquest.

He didn't bother to put on a shirt; why should he, if he was going to be at home alone? Opening one of the bureau drawers, he pulled out a pair of baggy sweat pants, deciding that he would have to keep at least a few clothes on if he didn't want to catch a cold.

It definitely hadn't been a good day to skip having breakfast with the crowd -- he was hungry. His stomach was rumbling; it might be a good idea to eat something before he fell into bed and slept most of the day away.

Greg had just gotten out the pancake batter when there was knock on the door; he silently cursed any person who would be coming over here at this hour of the morning. Didn't people know by now that he worked nights, and that he was tired when he got home?

The knock came again, more urgent this time. Greg glanced towards his bedroom, debating whether to put on a shirt or not, then decided against it. Whoever it was, he would get rid of them in a few minutes and go back to making breakfast.

The person who was standing there when he pulled the door open was the last one he'd expected to see at his apartment. Greg's eyes widened; his jaw dropped, and he stepped back, unable to think of anything to say for a few moments.

Mike Keppler was standing there, brows raised as though he expected Greg to say hello. "H-how did you know where I live?" Greg blurted out, wondering why Mike was here. They had hardly exchanged two words since he'd been working with the CSI team.

"I followed you," Mike answered, his voice soft. "Aren't you going to invite me in? The forecast called for rain, and I didn't bring an umbrella." Greg didn't bother to point out that he was under the awning over the front door; he wasn't getting wet where he was standing.

"Sure, come on in," he said, stepping back and letting Mike enter his apartment. It felt strange to have a man who he worked with here; most of his co-workers had never seen his place, even though he'd known them for years and was comfortable with them.

Somehow, it always seemed easier to bring guys home to his place who would be one-night stands, men who he knew he wouldn't see again after they'd taken him to bed and thoroughly fucked him over and over again during the night. He was used to strangers being here.

So it shouldn't be a problem to have Mike here. The guys who fucked him and then left wouldn't remember hwo he was five minutes after they were out of here; Mike wouldn't remember him five minutes after he left the CSI team and went on to the next place he was assigned to.

Closing the door on the rainy morning, he turned to find Mike watching him, a look in his eyes that Greg couldn't quite put a name to. For just a moment, he wished that he'd put on a shirt; he almost felt as though he was completely naked in front of this man.

The feeling was gone after just a few moments; why should he have to worry about putting on clothes? He was in his own home, and Mike had simply stopped by unexpectedly. If he didn't want to get dressed, then eh didn't have to, Greg told himself, aware that his inner voice sounded like a petulant child.

"I was just making breakfast. Want some pancakes?" he offered as he headed back towards the kitchen. The best thing to do was to keep himself busy; that would keep him from having to say too much, and Mike would hopefully leave after a few minutes, anyway.

"I was hoping that I could take you out for breakfast," Mike told him, following Greg into the kitchen, watching the young man with appreciative eyes as he reached up into one of the cabinets for a a glass. "Or that I might be able to have you for breakfast in bed."

"Wh-what?" Greg stammered, unsure that he'd heard Mike correctly. That had sounded suspiciously like a come-on -- and something that Mike would never do, especially not to a low-level CSI who was so far beneath him in any kind of authority.

Mike was standing directly behind him -- too hot, too close. He could feel the other man's breath on the back of his neck -- and he was having a very physical reaction to that warmth on his bare skin. A reaction that he was sure Mike couldn't help but notice.

"I didn't think I'd get to see it raining in Las Vegas when I came here to join your team for a while," Mike whispered, one arm sliding around Greg's slender waist. "But the more I think about it, the more I like the idea of rain. It's romantic, don't you think?"

Romantic? This wasn't exactly Greg's idea of romance, being half-naked in his kitchen with a man he barely knew, trapped in an embrace that his body was reacting to much too strongly for his comfort. But he found himself nodding, unable to make any words come out of his mouth.

His head fell back against Mike's shoulder when he felt the warmth of the other man's lips on his throat; in that moment, Greg slammed a door on all the warning sirens that were going off in his head, pushed away all the cautionary voices that told him he was making a mistake.

He gasped as Mike's free hand slid under the waistband of his sweatpants, remembering too late that he hadn't put on any underpants when he'd changed clothes. Mike's hand slid down, over the curve of his ass, one finger trailing down the sensitive cleft.

Another gasp was torn from his throat as not one, but two fingers slid inside him, slowly, gently, as though Mike was trying to be cautious. It burned a little, but he was used to being entered, even though he'd have preferred those fingers to be lubed.

Within seconds, those fingers were stroking across his prostate, his hips bucking forward against the kitchen counter, seeking any kind of friction against his aching cock. With a soft noise that sounded almost like a muffled curse, Mike pushed Greg's pants down, letting them pool around his ankles.

It only took him a moment to turn Greg around in his arms and lift the young man onto the counter; when their eyes met, the desire in Mike's gaze took Greg's breath away, rendering him speechless. He never would have thought that Mike was capable of looking like this.

Greg moaned softly, leaning back and spreading his legs wider. Without Mike's fingers inside him, he felt empty, aching to be filled again. He needed more than just that look, those hands moving down his body, fingers curling around his cock and stroking slowly.

"Want you .... need you .... in me," he panted, not caring what Mike might think of him when he heard those words. His need was too intense for him to give a damn about how he sounded; all he could think of right now was how badly he needed Mike inside him.

Mike leaned forward, his lips almost touching Greg's. "The forecast calls for some heavy rain -- and I didn't bring an umbrella," he whispered, his breath warm on Greg's skin, sharp teeth nibbling at his earlobe. "Are you sure you can deal with not having any protection against a deluge?"

"Just fuck me," Greg mumbled, past caring whether Mike had any condoms with him or not. All he wanted was to feel this man inside him; if he didn't, he was sure that he was going to die, right here in his own kitchen, spread out naked and needy on top of the counter.

"Whatever you want, beautiful," Mike breathed, his hands already fumbling with the button and zipper of his pants. Greg closed his eyes, holding his breath; his body tightened, waiting for the inevitable pain of the first thrust that he knew would quickly melt into pleasure.

***

Next story in series - Let the Rain Come Down.