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Summary: Nick decides to teach you a lesson for standing him up.
Companion piece to:
The Romantic - Nick has always been a romantic when it comes to you.
Distraction - You distract Nick from work.
Symphony (NSFW) - Nick welcomes you home in his own special way.
Come Back To Bed - Nick tries to coax you back to bed.
Cancelled - You cancel your plans after Nick comes home exhausted.
How High - You say jump, Nick asks how high.
Adorable - Nick comes home to find you looking adorable.
Prequel to:
Bitter Sweet Symphony - Nick steps up when you realise you face a career ending illness.
And The Music Plays On... - Nick helps you come to terms with your diagnosis.
Right There (NSFW) - Nick decides the two of you need to take a break.
Dire Straits - Nick realises there's something wrong.
There is nothing on this earth like Sunday mornings tangled up in you. The warm press of your skin as Nick’s fingers hook those baby pink short pyjamas, dragging the silky fabric down your legs. The fabric sticks to the moisture between your thighs, so dewy and wet for him already.
The top is long gone, discarded when he’d practically torn off the buttons because he wanted to get his mouth all over those pert, rose coloured nipples. His lips follow the waist band of the shorts, his five o’clock shadow stubble grazing over your sensitive skin as he balls the damp material up in his fist tossing them at the hamper. His firm hands grasp your thighs, pushing your knees back towards your chest revealing that perfect pink pussy.
It's a power position, you can only receive what he’s about to give you. Your head tips back into the pillow as his tongue drags through your folds. Your fingers gripping the sheets, grasping them tightly. His lips suck gently at your clit, his fingertips swirling gently around that needy little hole of yours, dipping in, teasing.
“You’re being mean.” You pout as his tongue traces circles, his fingers finding a slow steady rhythm. Nick doesn’t respond, he simply curls his fingers, hitting that sweet spot. “Fuck Nick I…”
A low moan tears from your throat as he nips you, a light grazing of teeth that sends you hurtling straight into the stratosphere. You clench around his fingers, just on the cusp when he stops, holding you right there at the pinnacle of release.
“Nick…” You plead, your breathlessness only fuelling his resolve. You’d had an orchestra rehearsal that ran late last night, you hadn’t been able to find a minute to text. He ended up dining alone and then going to bed alone because you didn’t wrap until eleven.
“Oh honey.” He drawls, his heated breath ghosting over your clit as he withdraws his fingers, his tongue replacing them. “This is what happens when you stand me up. You keep me waiting, I keep you waiting.”
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We open on the Dream Team discussing the case with their boss. Sam rocking the world in an amazing red dress.
Welp. They had a witness that had him dead to rights but she won't tell the truth on the stand.
They can threaten, cajole, guilt and coerce her all the want, she won't get on the stand and say what they want her to say. Also another on point outfit from Sam.
Unproductive meeting with an undercover cop that doesn't want to cooperate. When Theo talks to him after this, he explains that wasn't just two prosecutors, it was the head of the homicide division and the damn DA.
Theo convinces him to testify and they get a guilty verdict! Yay!
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@magicomsworld prompted me to write something, and I had to oblige!
Nolan admits to Sam during a big case that he thinks someone is following him after court.
"Wait a minute, Nolan, are you okay? You look anxious, even for you," his junior partner, Samantha Maroun told him fondly, shaking her head, her dark hair tossed over her shoulders.
"Wait — since when do I look—" Nolan started, not realizing that he often had certain ticks that gave away his pre-trial jitters. He rolled his eyes. Now was not the time. He hurriedly set down the Chinese takeout that he'd gotten for the two of them to eat while doing trial prep, ripping apart his chopsticks with more force than necessary, the wood snapping. "No, no, Sam — listen," Nolan urged. "I think I'm being followed," Nolan confessed, glancing around to make sure none of the night cleaning crew heard him.
"Wait a minute, Nolan, are you okay? You look anxious, even for you," his junior partner, Samantha Maroun told him fondly, shaking her head, her dark hair tossed over her shoulders.
"Wait — since when do I look—" Nolan started, not realizing that he often had certain ticks that gave away his pre-trial jitters. He rolled his eyes. Now was not the time. He hurriedly set down the Chinese takeout that he'd gotten for the two of them to eat while doing trial prep, ripping apart his chopsticks with more force than necessary, the wood snapping. "No, no, Sam — listen," Nolan urged. "I think I'm being followed," Nolan confessed, glancing around to make sure none of the night cleaning crew heard him.
"Followed?" Maroun perked up instantly, leaning in closer, heading into Nolan's office and closing the door, her Beef and Broccoli forgotten. "By who? Did you get a look at them? We can call Brady or Riley and —" she rambled, already in a lawyer's problem-solving mode.
"No, no, Sam it's nothing like that," Nolan said. "I just have… like I have a feeling. A feeling that I'm being followed. I just felt, felt like someone was tailing me all the way back from the courthouse."
"Oh," Sam said, swallowing a chuckle. "A feeling, now that changes things," she said, unable to resist gently ribbing her coworker and friend. "What does that mean, Nolan? Like a spidey-sense or something?" she teased, laughing. Then she stopped herself, taking a sip of water, seeing Nolan's glassy ocean eyes filled with vulnerability.
"Wait, Nolan, you're really serious about this, aren't you?" she said, brown eyes softening with concern. "Do you think it has something to do with one of our cases? A witness? Someone who wants to prevent you from kickin' judicial ass?" she smirked.
"Somethin' like that," Nolan acknowledged, the compliment bringing him a small twitch of his lips. He sat, manspread in his office chair, picking at bits of General Tso's, careful to avoid splattering spicy sauce on his now rumpled white dress shirt. He yanked his tie loose, it now feeling claustrophobically tight, unbuttoning his top two buttons, tossing his tie over the visitor's chair. He didn't know why he was so upset about this, to the point that his stomach was roiling. Chinese takeout had completely lost its appeal. "I mean, there's the upcoming Sorensen trial, the Park case, and the witnesses for the Hocanson murders…" Price rattled off the lists of people he'd been recently associated with, he'd met with for witness prep, or would be facing on cross-examination.
"The Hocanson family had connections," Sam agreed. "Made enemies. Old money tends to do that," she pointed out. "With a case like that, all the press that it's been getting — all the press you've been getting?" she raised a perfect eyebrow. Nolan knew what she was getting at. There was a target on his back.
"Listen, Nolan, it's okay. Tomorrow we'll talk to Baxter, and Riley, and Connie, and the rest of the team at the precinct and we'll figure this out. Trial or your spidey-sense, you have to admit, they're good at their jobs and they can help."
"No, I don't wanna bother them," Nolan shook his head. "I'm just probably overreacting," he sighed. "The city's big. Lots of people coming and going, maybe I was just… being paranoid," he scoffed, going to his dusty bookshelf to find Jack McCoy's gift of a half-drunk bottle of Scotch. He poured himself two fingers, offering some to Sam, who shook her head.
"None for me, thanks," she told him politely, raising her Stanley cup instead. He gulped his drink with a shrug, feeling the warm burn down his throat and to his knotted insides.
"And you're not overreacting," Sam said. "Trust your gut, Nolan. The one that wins cases. The one that says you've been followed. We both know — you, certainly from experience — this job isn't for the faint of heart, and the city doesn't exactly scream safety when you try murderers on the daily," she reminded him. "And besides—" she added. "You'd do the same for them, if they asked, wouldn't you?"
Nolan's shoulders slumped in agreement.
"Hey—" Sam offered, seeing that Nolan was reluctant to leave and go home, as he paused, rearranging his pens and paperclips, long after the takeout boxes were in the trash, voir dire questions prepared. "Do you wanna stay at my place?" she asked softly. "On the futon. In my spare room," she clarified pointedly. "Next to my boxing bag and the treadmill I store my next day's skirt suit on," she said wryly. "It's not going to be the Ritz Carlton or anything, but… at least you won't be alone?" she said, nudging Nolan's shoulder gently. Nolan leaned against hers, grateful for the contact, the company.
"No, Sam, I couldn't — I couldn't impose," Nolan hedged.
"It's not an imposition," Sam promised Nolan gently. "It's giving my nosy neighbors in 4B new gossip fodder," she joked. "Should I get us a cab?" she asked, reaching for her coat. While Nolan got his tie, suit jacket, and coat, Sam walked down the courthouse steps and pressed 'Send.'
