A/N I do not own Criminal Minds. Thank you all for the wonderful support! And special shout out, to my lovely Guest Reviewers, I see you and appreciate you! Also, I finally made a cover photo for this story! And though, this is slowly coming to an end, it's just getting started ;)

Story Warnings: Strong Sexual Situations and Coarse Language

Please, enjoy!

Cabaret with Chardonnay

Chapter: X

The deep, rolling beats of drums, the vibrating chime of cymbals, and the jazzy, boisterous tunes of brass instruments flooded his ears, as he stepped onto the bottom landing, which overlooked the stage and bar. He had thought the unique décor that was in the stairway was gaudy, well it was even raunchier inside the club. Morgan smirked. He had definitely misjudged this place, for it clearly had Garcia written all over it.

It quickly became obvious that this factory was actually an old underground speakeasy. Its distinctive markings of exposed brick and reclaimed wooden walls, with dark, mahogany paneling were beautiful. And intermingled throughout the spacious basement, were embellished columns that somehow made the place feel more intimate.

There were high ceilings, which held a large iron, birdcage style chandelier, with colorful boas dangling from it, that floated above many black circular tables and part of the thrust stage. Each table had small centerpieces, which were a cute mix of red, black and shimmering peacock feathers. Littered throughout the place were those familiar mannequin legs, some spread wide open in skimpy lingerie, while others had one leg bent and the other sticking straight up. Everything was accentuated by the flickering candles in stained mason jars, that lit up the faces of its festive patrons.

Taking the last few steps down the steel spiral staircase, he shimmied his way through a pack of tightly bunched people, and made his way towards the bar.

It was reminiscent of the Roaring Twenties, and compared to the rest of the nightclub, the bar was the epitome of aged luxury, with a modern flare. Wooden crates lined the back wall, as white icicle lights dangled over the antique brown and green liquor bottles. Plopping down onto a vacant espresso cushioned bar stool, Derek pulled out his wallet and eyed the chalkboard sign.

Mulling over the list of eclectic drinks, he was going to ask what exactly was in a Sunrise Swindler, when a man with dark glittery eye shadow, wearing a black vest and matching bowler hat, caught his gaze. "What can I get ya, sir?" shouting over the increased noise, as he expertly handled the cocktail shaker.

Arching a brow, blinking a few times. "Uh, hey…" tossing some dollar bills onto the glossy, cherry wood countertop, he settled for something familiar. "Two Old Fashions, please!"

"Ah! Such a strong drink for such a strong man," he cooed, slowly pulling an olive off of a toothpick, he gave Derek a flirtatious wink, before heading down to the end of the bar.

Shaking his head, though there was no denying the amused smirk upon his face, he swiveled around to check out the rest of the nightclub.

There was a lush, velvet curtain covering the stage, which had shadows of dancing women projected onto it. Tucked away in the corner, was an alcove with deep plum and ruby wine satin drapes billowing magically around a grand piano, that had rose petals sprinkled across the top.

Glancing across the club was a sea of tables and lavish chaise lounges in various sizes, that could be moved out of the way to create a larger dance space, and which perfectly matched the black, burgundy, and gold theme. Musicians; all men, who wore similar costumes like the bartenders, were stationed all over the place. Some sat on the bar top, others on the edge of the stage, and a few stood proudly on the tables playing their brassy show tunes.

Turning back around, just as a lowball glass, with an orange peel garnish, was placed in front of him.

The bartender gave him a saucy grin, before dropping a bright maraschino cherry into his drink and then cheekily popping one into his mouth. "Enjoy!"

Derek hoped the alcohol would help get him through this night. Taking a huge swig, and then another, he relished the bitingly sweet, citrus blend.

"Oh, mon cher," a rough, feminine voice, purred to his left. "I would just love to tie you up, and show you a good ol' time."

Derek choked on his drink. Sputtering, he looked for a napkin, only for the older woman, with her big hair and cakey makeup, to pull out a white lace handkerchief from her very large and very fake bosom. Batting her thick, crooked lashes, she flashed him a lopsided grin, and waved it in front of his face. "Got a little on your chin," stepping closer, pointing her long, bedazzled acrylic nail at the spot. "Right there."

Taking a step back, wiping his face with the back of his hand, managing a friendly smile. "Oh, umm. Thanks."

"Pleasure is all mine, Monsieur Sexy," she cooed with boozy breath, as she teasingly played with the hot pink boa wrapped around her neck. "Classic Manhattan," blowing a kiss to the bartender, who winked back at her in return, she turned her heated gaze back onto Derek. "Names Lois."

And Derek did all he could not to stare at the large mole on her chin, that jiggled when she talked, though his Momma had raised a gentleman, so he politely shook her hand. "Nice to meet you, Lois," giving her hand a quick peck. "What brings a fine young thing like yourself, to a place like this?"

"Ooo," she blushed, dramatically fanning herself. "Oh, honeybuns!" she playfully looked him up and down. "If I was thirty years younger-…Hell! Even twenty," she hooted, then slid up next to him, and rasped. "I would make a man outta you."

Raising those dark expressive brows in shock, this woman was almost seventy, maybe even older! Maybe he could hook her up with Rossi? Chuckling to himself, he was just about to respond, when the lights dimmed and flashed a few times – indicating the show was about to start.

"Sorry, Lois, but I need to go find my seat," grabbing his drink, he quickly read the shiny card, though it made little sense.

Shit!

That bejeweled hand reached for the card, and flipped it over. Lois tapped the golden script that read Baiser toute la nuit: numero sept.

She tutted excitedly. "Well, well, Mister VIP," handing the card back over. "You're in the very, very front. Look for the seat numbered seven."

"Wait, what does the rest say?" trying to sound the words out, only for Lois to push at his shoulders.

"Have fun!" she shouted.

Morgan stumbled his way towards the stage. The lights got a little darker and he moved a little faster, until he spotted a row of armchairs. They were the only seats in the front, and all of them were filled, except for the one that was dead center to the stage.

It was a beautiful, plush Victorian armchair. Its velvet and gold Casablanca pattern was scrumptious, and the back had a metal monogram of the number seven.

He barely had time to sit down, when the curtain parted, and a tall, lanky man with sleek black hair, and smeared mascara, clapped his hands, instantly ending the buzzing hum of chatter and faint music.

Donning a white tank, black trousers and red sequined suspenders, the man easily commanded the stage like a ringleader. "Welcome, ladies and gentlemen!" his voice full and cunning. "To the Very Pretty Ladies Cabaret!" delicately flicking his cigarette with practiced poise. "Je m'appelle, Jonathan. And I shall be your host for the evening."

The room burst into thunderous, rowdy applause, and he held up a red tipped finger, and silenced the audience once more.

"This cabaret is where our gents are hot, but our ladies hotter," rolling his 'R's perfectly, while pretending to cup and shake his chest suggestively. "Where the bourbon is spiked underneath the candlelight. Where French kisses are…the only kisses," opening his mouth, and provocatively licking his lips. "But beware my children of the night, for all who enter, will fall under the spell of the one and only, Miss Cherry...Jubilee!"

Wild catcalls erupted in the quickly darkening room, as the sharp, swirling sounds of drums being brushed, and the deep baritone of a trumpet, filled the electric space.

Derek took another swig of his drink, before placing it on the small table next to him. Blinking his eyes in pitch blackness, as excited whispers and dirty cheers were shouted around him, he couldn't help but to sit up straighter.

A singular spotlight came on, as the curtain lifted over the stage, revealing a woman completely folded over from the back. Long, ruby red nails, were wrapped around her ankles, and they gently tapped a beat with the music. Her curvy legs, were covered in black, striped thigh-high stockings, with a lace top that connected to a matching lace garter belt, which was roguishly peeking through, as well as the plump swells of her ass, beneath that obscenely, teensy leather skirt.

Swaying her hips seductively to the dark music, she leisurely slid her hands up over the curve of her calves and the flare of her hips, only to grab the end of her skirt and playfully shake it back and forth. Then she flashed the audience her fine, heart shaped ass. Earning her hoots of approval from everyone, but Morgan.

He could barely breathe, let alone utter a syllable. His throat was tight, back suddenly stiff, and every single nerve ending was on fire, and setting off warning bells. Yet, he prolonged his torment, by silently watching.

Watching, as the curvaceous woman bent at the waist, and raised her body, one glorious inch at a time. Swallowing his parched tongue, Derek wanted to look away, feeling like he was doing something naughty, almost forbidden, but the stirrings of arousal that flushed his body, kept his eyes glued to the exquisite woman and his ass rooted in that seat.

Balancing perfectly on those strappy crimson stilettos, she made each move with practiced precision, and it was oh-so very alluring. Finally standing straight up, she raised one hand high above her head, as her other hand slowly slid down her arm. Her beautiful, straight blonde hair was hanging down her back, swishing gently over her lavish corset.

The woman was the prettiest thing he had ever seen, and he had only seen her from behind. Though it was perhaps the way that she moved, that had already struck a tendril of familiarity within him. The hairs on the back of his neck were now standing at attention. He then licked the back of his teeth, needing saliva to help his suddenly parched tongue. Shifting uncomfortably in his seat, he braced himself, as she rolled those shapely hourglass hips, and slowly turned around.

The hot, bright light struck her face, and the air whooshed out of his lungs.

Holy shit!

His jaw hit the floor, and all of his blood went south, straining his already heavy, pulsing dick with unbridled lust.

Holy…fucking…shit!

Standing up there, dancing like a voluptuous harlot, was the one and only, Penelope Garcia. Though she wasn't wearing her signature quirky glasses tonight, and she was prowling around the stage like a carefree sex kitten to the voracious whistles and encouraging cheers that swarmed the room, she was still, very much, his Baby Girl.

And she was absolutely stunning. A true vision, that effortlessly, in that effervescent way that only Garcia could do, had everyone eating out of the palm of her hand. A hand, which she lifted towards her lips, as she seductively put a finger into her mouth, swirling her tongue around the digit, only to release it with a teasing, wet 'pop'. Proving that she had to be a reincarnation of the Goddess Aphrodite. For his woman was purely sex incarnate, and by the mischievous glint in those lovely hazel eyes, she knew it too.

How could she not be, when she was simply irresistible with her smoldering, purple smokey eyes, thick black lashes, winged eyeliner, and those glossy garnet painted lips. It was while he was admiring her immaculate makeup, that he thought of the one and only time, when he had witnessed her not all dolled up. His breath hitched, and his face twisted with regret. It was after she had been shot, when he had taken her home to protect her, while that man was still on the loose.

Her face had been completely bare, and she had looked so young, so innocent, standing there in her adorable jammies. He had wanted to hold her, kiss her, take away that pained look which had thankfully only momentarily dimmed her hopeful outlook on the world. That memory, though sweet, had brought with it, the reminder that he had confessed his true feelings for her that night.

And though she had returned the 'I love you', she obviously hadn't believed the severity of his words. For it was that same evening she had ran off with Lynch, leaving Derek standing by, with a speared heart and a broken spirit.

A trumpet burst, shattering his negative thoughts. Shaking his head, he brought his full attention back onto Penelope, and took in the sight of her hair. It was no longer that brazen copper, but was back to her original blonde tresses, which had his heart fluttering rapidly in his chest. It was now a pretty platinum color, with honey highlights, that weren't styled like her typical curls, but those sleek, straightened locks, which fell past her bare shoulders, were just as beautiful.

He couldn't help but to smile, to lean forward in his seat, wanting to be closer to her. For it was that shade, that dazzling blonde, that was so similar to what she used to wear, when he had first fallen in love with her.

It simply gave him hope. And he wasn't going to fuck it up this time. Nor was he going to let her traipse her way out of it. Nope. This was it.

His body was beginning to coil with poorly suppressed desire, and was thrumming with everything that screamed 'Mine! Back off!' that he had to fight the powerful urge to run up there and claim her.

And he was seconds away from flashing his badge, and shutting this shit down, before anyone else could lay a greedy gaze upon her body. Clenching his jaw to a point that he could have easily cracked a molar. Eyes flashing dangerously, keeping them solely on her, he did his best to keep from storming the stage. Choosing to guzzle the rest of his drink down instead.

That perky ass of hers is in trouble! Fuckin' sexy little thing it is too...

Focus, Morgan, focus-…. Oh, daaamn!

Oh. Fuck…

She gingerly danced her fingers over the swells of her breasts, that where pushed up proudly by that corset. They were large, pale, and looked oh-so-fucking soft. He wanted to wrap her up in a blanket and hide that deep valley of cleavage, and drag her off the stage, so that he could bury his face in there himself.

His stiff cock twitched painfully beneath his belt, and it took all of his might to remember how to breathe.

In…and out…in and out-….Oh, hell no!

Then good ol' little Jonathan, snapped his suspenders and walked up behind her. He held an arm out, which she gladly took, and he twirled her quickly, firmly, towards him. Pressing her back indecently against his front, they rolled their hips together to the increasing sensuous drum beat, and the crowd erupted accordingly.

Somewhere in the distance the deep, piercing tone of a saxophone added to the rhythm. Creating a sweltering dance that was downright dirty. Jonathan's hand wrapped tightly around her waist and then slipped lower, and lower, until he teased the red strap of her belt, grasping that smooth creamy thigh, only to then slide his hand up underneath her skirt.

Never missing a beat, Penelope dropped her head back onto her partner's shoulder, finally raising her heated gaze, beneath those newly trimmed bangs, to immediately lock eyes with Derek.

She was, definitely, trying to kill him.

Unconsciously his fingers white-knuckled the armrests, as knotted tension furled his shoulders.

Some waitress dropped off his second drink, and giggled at his disgruntled expression. He frowned, and scooted back in his seat, trying not to cross his arms and pout. Though before he could dwell on the fact that some man was pawing his woman, the lights shifted, changing the space into vibrant red and violet.

As the music grew, more performers came out onto the stage. Two other couples; a pair of women and men, wearing sheer black bodysuits with skimpy lingerie underneath, each took a corner of the stage and imitated the salacious movements. The lights started to pulse and the dance became more frantic, even darker; precariously toeing the line of carnal obscenity.

By this point, Penelope had been twirled around. One of her knees was loosely wrapped around Jonathan's waist, flashing that black lace belt and panties; revealing the smooth, rounded flesh of her ass. Derek narrowed his gaze, watching with bated breath, as her hands clawed at the other man's chest. Then she grasped his white tank, and flung her head all the way back, creating a titillating arch, until she was looking at the audience upside down.

Taking note of her flexibility, for the little shit was going to be paying dearly for this rather risqué stunt later, only to flex his jaw, when she poked her cute, pink tongue out and playfully licked her lips.

Then the drums got louder, deeper, and Jonathan pulled her back and she jumped up into his arms. Locking both legs around him, Penelope mimicked what Derek wanted her to be doing later tonight, and for the rest of their lives, if she would just get over her stubborn insecurities and forgive him.

Her body snaked up and down, slithering against him in a taunting riding motion, and as the beat hit a crescendo, she ran a finger through his overly slicked hair, disheveling it. Tucking her head into the crook of his neck, Jonathan ran his hands from her thighs, up to tightly squeeze her ass, and Derek growled out loud, something guttural and possessive.

He had always known that Chicago was one of Garcia's favorite musicals, for she loved the cabaret numbers, but he didn't remember any of these choreographed dance moves. Otherwise he would have bought her the damn DVD and had them watch it every movie night. This, however, was something more along the lines of burlesque, and he felt the stage was only missing a silvery pole and crisp dollar bills flying around it.

Then that little voice, which guided that raging green-eyed monster, had him checking himself. For this was his best friend's show, and if he wasn't so envious, then he would be beyond proud of her. They were professionals up there, who had clearly put in hours of hard work to make this show a success. Yes, it was raunchy, sexy, as all hell, but there was a refined class to the whole performance.

So, he sat back, bending his arm, resting his chin on his hand, he covered up part of his mouth, as his index finger tapped his cheek, and tried to relax. Settling in, he decided to enjoy the show, since she was doing this all for him. He knew that now, and it thrilled him greatly, and the molten fervor that had already flushed his body, intensified.

Penelope then broke away, and expertly flicked her wrist over her hip, unhooking that leather skirt. It unsnapped, hanging daintily in her hand, revealing the full garter belt and those black lace Brazilian panties. Derek was parched before; his mouth was watering now. He had recently fingered that soft, slick intimate flesh between her thighs, and he could tell from ten feet away, that she had waxed, everything.

Jesus…

Penelope arched a brow, full lips pulling into a smirk, as she slowly walked down the steps at the front of the stage. Getting closer, Derek couldn't wipe that strained, goofy grin off of his face. Standing directly in front of him, she reached a hand out, and roughly palmed the top of his freshly shaved head. He moaned, quite loudly, and received giggles from nearby patrons.

She then bent at the waist. Now eye level with him, she took that last step, and lowered her mouth to his ear. Whispering deliciously, filthy words, that he didn't understand, only to jolt, when her warm, wet tongue darted out, and traced his ear. Her teeth nibbled, playfully bit, and then pulled the soft, spongy lobe into her mouth, and suckled. His eyes rolled back, and his dick throbbed painfully, making him want to desperately reach his hands up and wrap around her, never letting go.

Instead he closed his eyes, breathing in that familiar, sweet scent that was altogether comforting and arousing, only to shoot them wide open when he felt something cool placed around his neck.

Glancing down, he spotted her skirt hanging around his shoulders, and he quickly looked back up, only to watch her sashaying confidently away, towards that colorful alcove. The music slowly faded, and she grabbed the feathered bowler hat off of the pianist, and placed it on her head. Tucking the brim down firmly, before jumping up and crossing her legs, as she perched herself on that shiny grand piano.

A warm, gentle spotlight covered her, and she pulled out – much like Lois had done earlier – a white handkerchief, from her ample bosom. Impishly dabbing at her face, she then swiped, slowly, deliberately, across her heaving chest. Her hooded eyes never left Morgan's burning gaze, as she balled the lace material up, and then tossed it into the crowd.

A table full of young men, made fools of themselves scrambling to get it. Though one lucky lad did, and he held it up victoriously, and Derek wanted to shoot the fucker when he sniffed it and then snuck it into his coat pocket.

Lifting a shot glass, Penelope knocked it back, then proudly shook the empty glass high in the air, while Jonathan clapped his hands.

"Ah, look," dropping his suspenders from his shoulders, he fanned his tank top, and comically swiveled his hips. "Miss Jubilee, is going to sing her famous song about… her amour."

Penelope kept those gorgeous, hazel eyes glued to Derek, even as she pointed at the shirtless, tattooed pianist, who took her cue and began a slow, melodic tune.

Holding his breath, Derek didn't dare blink, not wanting to miss a single moment of her performance. And when she parted those full, glossy lips, releasing a seductive, throaty voice, and began to belt out those beautiful, foreign words, he nearly lost it. For it was her voice, a tone she only used specially for him, which was his biggest turn on. It was that dent in his armor that could so easily bring him to his knees.

She had used that voice, had been whispering dirty promises with it, for the past five years. Had kept him sane late at night when he couldn't sleep, and she would just talk – about everything and nothing – driving his demons away. She was his guiding light, connected via his headset when he kicked down doors and took down UnSub's. She gave him hope, and eased his fractured soul, with that voice. It was his soothing balm. And right now, she was using it like a siren, luring sailors blindly into a storm, and Derek was fully prepared to sink his ship, and dive in after her.

Her eyes glistened with sincerity, and though he only caught a few words, it was clear that she was professing something profound. Her hand trailed up her side, and over her breast; directly above her heart, only to go higher, where her fingers splayed across her porcelain skin. Rolling her neck, she arched her back and then slunk her way onto the piano. Kicking her legs straight up in the air, she gently tossed her head back and forth.

Her words began to mingle with kittenish mewls and breathy, feminine moans, and the audience was on the precipice with her. Derek, however, was doing his best, to tamp down his raging hard on. Grinding his teeth, only to breathe heavily through his nose when the hot, swollen tip leaked, wetting the front of his dove grey trousers.

Well, fuck…

Discreetly throwing a napkin over his lap, Derek swigged the rest of his drink, as he watched his Baby Girl teasingly drag a stiletto down her stocking covered leg. She then slammed both of her heels onto the piano and thrust her pelvis into the air, only to lower her ass and then raise her chest. Then she slowly, spread her legs wide, dancing her fingers across her thighs, only to cup and then palm her crotch.

"Regardez-moi, mon amour," she purred, throwing a hand out, waving it in Derek's direction.

Then there was a complete blackout, to a round of applause and vulgar catcalls. Trying not to swallow his tongue, feeling suddenly overheated, he gripped his empty drink and gnawed on some melting ice, needing anything to help cool down.

The lights slowly lifted back onto the stage, revealing Jonathan lounging, with another dancer, on a velvet Victorian chaise. "Ah, what a beautiful song," rubbing his hands together. "If only…we had a man, to be serenaded to!"

A spotlight scanned the audience, and men; a range from those that were wearing business suits to similar costumes as the cast, eagerly raised their hands. Derek tepidly glanced around, though when the heat of the light landed on him and didn't move, he froze.

Shit!

"Ah, it's Monsieur Sexy!" Jonathan sat up, happily waving his hands. "Look, look, ah, so handsome. So strong," his eyes flashed with merriment. "How perfect!"

Derek turned his head, searching for Penelope, and when they locked eyes, she nibbled on her bottom lip, and winked.

His dick took notice, and throbbed against his thigh, as a fissure of excitement shot down his spine. The same tune started to play again, this time a little faster, more lively, and then a flash of hot pink struck his vision, and he gasped.

For standing directly in front of him, hips swaying, bosom jiggling, eyes dancing brightly, was Lois.

"So, we meet again," pointing her finger at him, as she wrapped the boa around his neck.

Derek shot his worried gaze across the room, eyes narrowing when Penelope shrugged her shoulder, daintily covered her mouth, and giggled.

"Oh, how exciting!" Jonathan's booming voice exclaimed. "Our first lap dance of the night, from Madame Lois. Let us give a warm, round of applause for Lucky Number Seven!"

The audience cheered, and Derek felt sweat bead his brow, as Lois' jerky movements became more sensuous, and she got closer, and closer…

To be continued…

A/N The rating is going to be a high 'M' for the following and last chapters. Please take note!