"I really need to finish this." Rodney was starting to get pissed. He only had about eight...no, nine more things to do to complete the desalinization project specs, and Sheppard was displaying his increasingly decreasing ability to keep it in his pants. If he was wearing pants, which he wasn't, because they were on the floor. Next to Sheppard's tee shirt and boots and socks. And Sheppard's boxers were headed that way, too.

And, damn the man, he had Rodney's shirt rucked up and his pants unbuttoned, too. The son of a bitch must be part octopus.

"Just a few more minutes," Rodney said, hip-checking Sheppard aside to get at the keyboard. "This is important. I promise I'll give you my complete attention in just a few minutes."

"Bullshit," Sheppard said. "That's what you said half an hour ago. You can't call me on the comm, get me all wound up, make me jog all the way here with a raging hard on and then tell me to wait while you decide the best way to make salt." He avoided Rodney's flailing hand and got his pants unzipped.

"I'm making potable water," Rodney corrected. "The salt is a byproduct."

"Rodney," Sheppard growled. He shoved, and Rodney went sprawling into his desk chair, which had the unfortunate effect of causing it to roll back from the desk and away from the keyboard. Sheppard pressed his advantage, straddling Rodney's lap and sticking a hand into his open fly.

"Hey!" Rodney yelped. "That's cold!"

Sheppard completely ignored him and continued to smooth lube onto his cock. He tossed the tube away and raised up onto his knees, positioning Rodney's cock with one hand, covering his mouth with the other. As Sheppard slid slowly down, Rodney bit at his fingers, not even trying to stifle his groans.

Rodney shoved his hips upward, and Sheppard gripped his shoulders with both hands. "Fine," Rodney said. "Remember this when there's no salt for your popcorn."