Vegas in Red: Guess Things Happen That Way4

"Moira! It's good to see you, love!" Carson greeted with a smile.

"Moira! I heard you were back but I didn't believe it and you oh oh," Evan's smile was tempered when he saw her mood.

Moira had stomped into the bar, to the back booths where the men were sitting. Waiting for her. She recalled the note John had left. The two words scrawled on a scrap of paper sitting on some underwear he had chosen for her. Beckett's. One. She had taken the note and torn it into pieces, furious.

She ignored the greetings of her friends. Her gaze was locked on one man. John was lounging in the booth, across from the other two men. Almost sprawled on the seat with a lazy indifference. A smug smile curved his lips as he met her gaze. Taking in her lilac woven shirt, her blue jeans, her loose ponytail. He felt himself reacting, his pants tight as he saw her anger. He wondered if she was wearing the sexy lingerie he had selected for her.

"Moira," he drawled, voice low, husky. Possessive. He licked his lips slowly. Knew he was making her react to him. Could almost feel her tensing, her tightening. Her dampness.

Moira glared, making a beeline for him. Reaching him she soundly slapped him across the face, slapped that salacious smugness off his handsome mien. "You son of a bitch! You son of a bitch!"

"Ow," he mildly complained. Straightened as his cock jerked in sudden alertness. He rubbed his stinging cheek, his jaw. Smiled. "That good, huh?"

"What the hell was that?" she demanded. Becoming turned on despite herself.

"Do I really have to tell you? Are you sure you're a biologist?"

"Fuck you!"

"Again?"

"You…you…" She whirled, out of words. Strode out of the room.

"Moira? What was—" Evan began, shocked.

"Give us five. No, ten." John sprang to his feet to pursue her. "Moira! Moira!" He followed her down the hallway. Right into the women's bathroom.

She whirled. "John! You can't be in here!" He caught her. Kissed her. A slow, savoring kiss that made her melt into him. But she pushed, fighting it. Fighting him. "No! What the—"

"What? Too much? Damn it, Moira, you know arguing with you always gives me a hard-on!"

"We're not arguing!" But he held her firmly, keeping her close. "John! John, let go of me!" She hit his chest, his shoulders. "John, let go!"

"No. Are you wearing it?" He gently shoved her backwards until she hit the wall. "Are you? Fuck, baby, it was hot. Taking you like that, I mean. Ah. You want me to do it again, do you? Naughty little paleontologist!"

"John! No! Yes! No! You just left! You just left without a fucking word! Just a note to meet you here! Oh, that's right, I forgot! You don't love me!" She shoved free but he moved her back against the wall.

"Yeah, that's right, baby. We already had this conversation, didn't we? So what's the problem?"

"You…you…" she stammered, lost in his green eyes. The firm grasp of his hands on her arms, pinning her to the wall. He freed her to touch the buttons on her shirt. To open one by one until the shirt was open and he could see the crimson bra shoving her breasts up and together.

He smiled. Licked his lips. Traced a finger along the swells of her breasts. "Show me. If the panties match."

"John! You—"

"Show me," he instructed, voice low. Sending a shiver along her skin. Making her tighten, tense.

She bit her lower lip, seeing the challenge, the mischief, the lust in his eyes. Like a warmth washing over her. She undid her jeans. Unzipped them. Opened them, wiggled and let them drop to the floor.

John smiled, eying the matching crimson panties, so lacy, so sheer. He ran his fingers along her hips, her pelvis. He met her gaze and undid his pants. Unzipped them.

"John? John?" she asked, swallowed.

"Fuck you are killing me, Moira." He kissed her, drowning her protest, turning it to a more passionate exhalation of his name as he moved to his knees in front of her, his mouth sliding along her skin, down, down, down.

He only hoped the counter was wide enough for what he had in mind.

"What do you think they're doing? I better go check on—" Evan began, but Carson caught his arm. Stopping him.

"I wouldn't," the doctor advised. Trying not to smirk.

"Moira was pissed. What if retaliates? Did you see that bruise under her eye? What if he—"

"He didn't," Carson assured. "John would never hurt Moira, of that I am certain."

"Are you? How can you be certain?" Evan challenged.

Carson shook his head. "Isn't it obvious?"

"What?"

"He went all the way to Mongolia to get her back here."

"So? She was coming back anyway, sooner rather than later because of those storms. And he only went because he needs her help on this case. What if he did hit her?"

"He didn't. He never will hurt her, Evan. Sheppard may be a lot of things but he's not that kind of man. Moira is perfectly safe in his hands."

A woman touched the bathroom door, about to push it open and enter when a chorus of sounds hit her ears. Voices rising and falling. A woman's breathy whimpering, tone rising higher and higher and higher. A man's grunting and groaning in a strange cadence that came faster and faster, matching the odd banging noise on the far wall. The woman froze, recognizing the blatantly sexual sounds. Eyes going wide with realization.

Abruptly the woman cried out, a stuttering exhalation of a man's name over and over and over. The man's groans became guttural, elongated and then a frenzy of swear words hit the air. His voice was loud, echoing off the tiles of the bathroom as the woman moaned and sobbed and kept saying his name until the noises stopped suddenly.

Elizabeth Weir shook her head. Amused. Intrigued at the passionate activity. Impressed at the duration not to mention the exclamations. Apparently it had been very good for both of them. She stepped back suddenly as the door opened. A rather plain woman with a messy ponytail of brown hair stared, startled. She was flushed, brown eyes bright with love, with passion. Her lilac shirt was haphazardly buttoned.

"Excuse me," Moira stammered, stepping past the other woman to head down the hall. Abruptly she stopped. Flustered. Smoothing down her shirt, making sure her jeans were zipped and buttoned. Making sure her underwear was in place.

"John?"

Moira whirled, hearing the woman's recognition. John was stepping out of the bathroom. A smile on his handsome face. His white shirt was somewhat unbuttoned at his chest. His black jacket open. His black pants a little askew, the belt hastily fastened.

"Weir, right? With the big gun."

Elizabeth smiled. "I could say the same, couldn't I, Sheppard."

"Nah...not so big now." His gaze flew to Moira who was staring. "Excuse me." He stepped round Elizabeth and moved to Moira. "Move that pert little ass, baby. Unless you want me to take it next," he teased, voice low.

"Shut up! You, you know her?" Moira asked, looking past him but the other woman had entered the bathroom.

"Yeah, sort of. She's one of McKay's clean-up crew. Believe it or not she packs a P90 and knows how to use it." He smiled, stepping closer, closer, backing her up into the wall. He brushed a stray strand of hair from her flushed face. "Of course, so do I. Isn't that true, baby?"

"Shut up! If you would be a tad more considerate!"

"Hey, you're the one who keeps bringing it up."

She shoved past him, trying not to laugh. "Guess I better stop doing that before you trip over that thing!" John snorted, following her. "Lock it down, Sheppard!"

"It is, O'Meara, but if we start arguing again I may have to issue a warrant."

"No need, sweetie, I've already been served!"