Author's Note: Thanks so much for the responses I've received for my first fic, Silver Linings. I guess there's something in Nick's brain that makes me want to pick it apart. :) This is an attempt at doing that for the last three minutes of Virgins. If you review (please!), kindly let me know if you think I should expand on this... I have some ideas for an additional chapter or two if there is interest. Thanks!
Thinking was definitely overrated.
His dad was right about that.
Maybe it was the jealousy; maybe it was the desperation. All he knew was that he had the same awful feeling in his gut that he'd had the night he'd kissed her, when he'd seen her walking away with Sam.
He couldn't let that happen. Not with the fireman. Not when he'd almost had her. And for once, he had an inkling of what went on in her head, too - and apparently it was the same noise that played in his own head, that was drowning out what was really important.
It took him less than a minute to move, block the elevator doors, and go to her. She was surprised, but not upset. He may have said something but he didn't remember; he'd shut off his brain, after all, and for once was letting something else drive him.
It felt good. Terrifying, but good.
He locked eyes with her, steering them to his room, making sure he didn't bump her on any doorframes, somehow, which was no mean feat considering his gaze didn't waver from her face. He couldn't look away.
Until they reached his bed, and then he almost lost his nerve. Looked at it, then her again, and tried to figure out if there was anything he should say. He couldn't think of anything. Maybe that was the point.
And then she kissed him, and he was kissing her back, and the clothes came off, and it was everything he'd wanted.
He'd thought about how it might be, with her, the first time. Hell, he'd had enough nights to imagine every possible scenario, from the sweetest to the most perverse. He'd imagined the aftermath, too. On his more despondent nights his self-doubt would creep in and he'd wonder if she would be disappointed; on better nights he figured that he could, at the very least, satisfy her enough to make her smile afterwards.
It was nothing like any of that. At first he couldn't stop kissing her; her responses and her own kisses kept goading him on. And then when he was forced to tear his mouth away from hers, and their shirts came off, he couldn't look away. He needed to see everything she did, every shiver, every gasp. Needed to know what she wanted. What she needed.
Towards the end, they'd locked eyes, and it was possibly the most intense moment he'd ever had, with anyone.
So yeah, it was nothing like he'd imagined it might be.
What he didn't count on was the giddiness. Or that she'd be just as taken aback as he.
It took just a moment for his brain to turn back on again, and all the questions and doubts he'd been harboring about them to reappear in his mind. But they were dulled by the afterglow, this time. And every time he looked at her - every damn time - he'd end up with a stupid grin on his face and the questions and doubts seemed less important.
And then, of course, there was the question that he had never counted on actually having to consider. If it was that good with her, what the hell was he supposed to do now?
There was that grin again.
He was, by all accounts, screwed.