This one goes to Kelly, who reveiwed both of my latest fics, forensicsfan, who is Queen of the snickers story, and all the other fantabulous readers and writers of fanfiction.

I own nothing, ect ect

Las Vegas was the one place in the entire country where you could get off work at 6 A.M. and still find nightlife. Warrick Brown grinned ruefully as he leaned again the bar of the dance club. 'Zebra,' the aforementioned club, was where Catherine had towed them all in celebration of Greg's birthday. Though most of the club-goers were slightly younger than the nocturnal team of scientists, it had been a good choice.

The establishment boasted excellent music, mature, fun-loving patrons, and an open bar, as introvert Sara Sidle had discovered. Sara was the true reason Warrick had excused himself from the dance floor. The rest of the team, sans Gil Grissom, who had turned down the invite, was having fun, enjoying rare human contact.

"I'll have whatever's on tap," he informed the bartender, accepting his third beer readily. "So," he began, only to be cut off.

"Y'know, I have a life," Sara said to the space between Warrick and her shot glass. "I have relationships," the word pronounced like "shlipps," refuting Warrick's suspicions that she was completely plastered. "Everyone thinks I go to work, pull triple overtime, go home, and drink my way through a liquor store, but screw everyone. They told me to get a life. I have a life." He only nodded, arching his eyebrow lightly as he examined his empty glass. Even in his relatively buzzed state, he recognized that 'everyone' meant Grissom.

"Of course, how can I have a life when I'm such a 'workaholic?' Oh, hell," the brunette sighed in an exasperated tone. "I have no life. I'll admit it." Warrick milled this over momentarily, and then opened his mouth to retort.

"Not now Warrick. I'm wallowing in self-pity." At this, Warrick felt half of his face slide into an easy grin. Though Sara had ingested more alcohol than a stadium full of Red Sox fans, her vocabulary was fully enabled. "In fact, I haven't had sex in ages. When was the last time you jumped in the sack? You're the ladies man in this conversation." He shrugged, distinctly uncomfortable with where this line of questioning was going. "Uh, two months? Maybe?"

Sara responded by laughing heartily, her head thrown back as if Warrick had just been struck my comedic muse. Fighting to control her giggles, she leaned forwards toward him. Gesturing him forwards by crooking her finger, she lowered her voice to what counted as a conspiring whisper in a deafening club.

"Don't tell anyone, but it's been over a year and a half for me." Pulling away, she nodded towards him before seizing her refilled glass. "Cheers," she muttered in an unenthusiastic voice before downing the amber liquid and coughing as it singed her throat.

Warrick shifted uneasily, the non-inebriated fraction of his brain telling him to call her a cab and see her home. Meanwhile, the much more significant part was all in favor of the cab idea, only with a much different destination. However, before an epic internal war broke out, Sara grabbed his large hand, which had been resting on the bar. "C'mon, let's dance!" Well, there went that dilemma.

Joining the group of post-college aged partiers, Warrick and Sara danced up a storm, alcohol not wreaking havoc on their motor skills as of yet, only their inhibitions. Warrick soon found Sara's arms slung over his shoulders, and his wrapped tightly around her waist.

He looked deep into her dark eyes, and, surprisingly, did not find the drunken euphoria he expected. Instead, he noted the same risk-takers determination he saw every day, along with an emotion he itched to label lust. He felt his temperature raise and his eyes narrow as he realized it was aimed at him.

The music changed, from a hip-hop dance mix to a taboo, hair-raising song dedicated to casual sex. After the chorus of the first verse, Sara allowed one of her hands to fall to Warrick's chest, clutching a handful of his shirt. Using the blackberry linen of the button-up shirt as leverage, she pulled him to her. Pushing her lips to his, she kissed him urgently.

He responded promptly, thrusting his tongue deep into her welcoming mouth. Retreating an inch for air, he leaned his forehead against hers. "Sara…" he whispered, the sound not as resolute as he wanted it to be. The miniscule, still-functioning sliver of Warrick's brain was screaming with what-ifs. However, the feel of her heaving chest against his, her hand still above his racing heart, and the sight of her fiery eyes and swollen lips sent all protest out the window.

His lips swooped down to conquer hers again, with an aggressiveness to which Sara quickly became accustomed. Warrick's hands slid down her hips to rest at her thighs. Almost lifting her up off the ground, they shared a moan as their bodies strove for union. She tasted like hard alcohol, the tomato and vinegar salad she had for lunch, and something uniquely her.

He growled low in his throat, expressing his satisfaction at finally owning her mouth with his, and his desire to experience more. Before the song reached it's final innuendo-filled lyric, Sara asked of Warrick in a husky tone, "Your place or mine?"

To any Red Sox fans I may have offended; While I understand that not all Sox fans have drunk and disorderly charges, I've been in a stadium full of Red Sox fans. It's quite dangerous, especially when it's a Sox vs Angels and you're from Cali.

Next Chapter; May feature some "hands-on" action, or be relatively clean. It'll depend on how steamy my sex scene gets. Oh, you knew it was coming.

Reveiws make me post faster. They do. I was gonna wait three days to post this chapter, but Kelly's nice reveiw got me off my butt and typing.