Clementine St. Croix looked down at the copy of her assignment sheet and tried to figure out the room number on it. The scrawl wasn’t decipherable, and she looked instead at the name next to it: G. Grissom, LVPD Crime Lab Supervisor, night shift.  Feeling a little more confident, she walked on down the hall, checking the plaques for a matching name.

She hoped this job would work out. Catching a quick glimpse of her reflection in the smoked glass of one office, Clem blew the bangs out of her eyes and sighed. A short, curvy African American girl with startlingly gold ringlet curls in a frizzy tangle that spilled down to her shoulders looked back at her. A girl with large brown eyes, expressive and bright. A slightly flat broad nose, oval face, and full pink lips—

Lips that never said anything. And never would.

Ironic of course, but she’d dealt with it all her life. She was the victim of a simple birth defect, invisible but devastating at first to her family.

No vocal cords.

She’d never carry their soft Louisiana-tinted Black inflection in her words, never sing or shout or hum.  Gradually though, they’d all learned to cope, and by the time she was four, Clementine had more ways to express herself than any of her five brothers and four sisters. She’d made it through school, mainstreamed and carefully coached in printing, sign language and eventually text messaging. Communication was largely a non-issue due to her dogged determination to fit in. She wasn’t deaf, she wasn’t stupid and she wasn’t going to be lumped together with those she considered truly disabled. Or ‘Otha abled’ as her mother patiently tried to instill in her.

Clem rounded a corner and smacked into a lean body moving quickly, bouncing off of it to collide with a wall. Immediately she scrambled up, even as hands reached for hers, pulling with surprising strength.

“Oh man, sorry about that—“ came a cheerful voice. Clem looked up into an alert, boyish face beaming down at her, and smiled. The man sucked in a shaky breath, going slightly pink as he continued to hold her wrists. He was tall and lanky, with gel-spiked hair and an infectious smile; Clem liked him instantly, feeling he’d be the one to know all the office gossip and current jokes.  She could see his pulse beating quickly along his throat under the shirt and lab coat he wore, and her gaze drifted down to his ID badge.

Sanders, Greg CLT Level Two, LVPD, it read.

She felt his curious gaze drop her temp badge; Clem blushed a little as he cocked his head and grinned.

“Clemen-tine—wow, okaaaay, we don’t get a lot of those around here.”

She fished across her chest for her dry erase clipboard and pen, quickly printing out a quick line of neat commentary, then held it up to him.

Just call me Clem, please. Where can I find Mr. Grissom’s office?

Her new acquaintance seemed a little startled to see the board, but he pointed to a door only a few yards away.

“I’m Greg, and Grissom’s office is this way—“ he led, shooting a look over his shoulder to encourage her to follow him. Clem did. They reached the indicated door, and she looked in curiously at the metal shelves full of specimens, the tidy science lab feel of the place. Behind the desk, a broad-shouldered man in dark green smock looked up. On his desk was what appeared to be a GI Joe doll, covered in pink paint. Clem felt her mouth twitch at this odd sight, but her companion merely cleared his throat.

“Ah, Grissom?”

The man looked up, his expression faintly annoyed, like that of a cat eyeing a buzzing fly just out of reach.

“Yes, Greg?”

“A Clementine St. Croix to see you—“ he mispronounced her last name like so many people did; Clem sighed to herself, calling her ‘Saint Crox’. Grissom’s mouth twitched.

“Yes, Ms. San Kwa?” he directed at her, earning himself a full smile. Clem handed him her assignment sheet and the cover letter, waiting as he scanned them. Greg waited as well, apparently having nothing better to do, and Clem glanced at him with a grin.

 “It says here that you’re in your senior year at Dominican college, studying Criminal Justice?”

Clem turned back to Grissom and nodded, her hands moving. He watched her fingers intently for a moment, then to her relief, signed back. She nodded. Greg watched the exchange keenly, curious but not willing to interrupt. After a few more moments of signing, Grissom looked up at him, irritation far more apparent than it had been a few minutes ago.

“Greg, don’t we employ you to DO things in your lab?”

With a start and a blush the younger man departed, leaving Clem feeling a bit bad for him. Grissom shook his head and glanced back at her, sighing.

“All right, Ms.—“

She scribbled something on her whiteboard and he continued, unfazed. “--Clem, we’ll try you out for the semester according to the duties outlined in your work/study assignment. I hope you don’t have a problem with morgues, insects, blood or guns.”

Clem shook her head in a cheerful lie; three of those factors didn’t bother her but one did, the one she was determined to overcome.

  
***   ***   ***

  
Sara stood facing the round, stout woman before her as Catherine laughed.

“So Lula, what do you think? Something short and flirty?”

Lula managed a slow grin, her gaze traveling up Sara’s length and back down again as the three of them stood in the small dress shop. Sara felt uncomfortable and embarrassed, but Catherine patted her shoulder reassuringly.

“Nah, something long, since it’s a formal occasion, but with those gams, I think a little peek-a-boo would be the way to go,” the woman rasped out in a voice like a laughing foghorn. Carefully she flicked away the ashes from her cigarette and circled Sara, chuckling.

“Great shoulders, not a bad rack, long waist, butt could be a little rounder, but damn, honey, those legs will be the death of any poor schmuck!” came her assessment. Sara blinked, not sure if she’d been complimented or graded by a meat inspector.

“Lula’s been outfitting showgirls in Vegas since Portia Richmond was a teenager, and if anyone knows what you’ll look good in, it’s her,” Catherine assured her. “She got me through my waitressing days, my wedding, and all those events Sam takes me to.” Sara looked fascinated as Lula whipped out a measuring tape.

“So talk to me honey, what colors do you prefer? ‘Cause I’ll tell you, if you say basic black I may have to climb a ladder and throttle you.”

“Something—hot. A deep pink, or a red!” Catherine suggested cheerfully. Sara tried to protest, but Lulu made a deep grunt of agreement.

“Look, Catherine, I’m just as happy to pass—“ she tried to mutter, the words painfully sincere. The thought of going out to party was completely unappealing, and the added horror of trying to act as if she was having a good time was overwhelming. The only thing she longed for was a chance to slip back to her apartment and hole up for a while.

It wasn’t that Grissom was angry; rather, it was as if he wasn’t aware of her; off in his own mental version of Siberia. At the house for the last two days he went through the motions of daily life, and answered her in monosyllables, always looking faintly surprised when she spoke to him. Sara had tried ignoring him and pleading with him, but Grissom remained abstract, too pre-occupied with whatever was on his mind to register her attempts. It was maddening.

“You’d look hot in a nice brick red, Honey. And I think I’ve got just the number for you to make any guy sweat through his tongue. Hold on—“ Lula rolled away across the shop, leaving Sara and Catherine waiting. Sara turned to her, brows drawn together.

“Look, New Year’s Eve parties aren’t my thing. Too many people trying to pretend they’re having a good time, getting drunk, getting rowdy and wild—“

“Getting jealous. That’s what I want to see.” Catherine murmured. Sara paused, not missing the speculative tone in the other woman’s voice. She held her breath as Catherine went on, not looking at her as she spoke.

“I want to see Grissom worked up a little. Hot under the collar, Sara. He’s got it bad for you, that’s kind of obvious, but I don’t think he’s really seen you in the spotlight.”

Sara held her tongue, only too aware of how many different ways Grissom HAD seen her, but the seed of Catherine’s words quickly took root. Had Grissom ever been jealous? Pondering over this new consideration, Sara missed Lula’s return and Catherine’s gasp. Only when she looked up did she notice the dress the round little lady was holding up.

“G’wan, try it on while Catherine and I wait. I’ve got a ten spot riding that it’s gonna be a knockout.”

With a wry shake of her head, Sara took the dress and disappeared into the dressing booth. She peeled out of her sweater and jeans, shedding her thick socks and boots as well, then reached for the dress, pulling it carefully over her head and easing it on. There was a side zipper, and a few fastenings on the front; when Sara was finished she checked her reflection in the full-length mirror.

Lula had been right; not only was brick red a great color on her, but the dress also did a lot for her shape. It was a sleeveless Chinese cheongsam in dark red brocaded silk with a standing mandarin collar and black frog fastenings across the chest. The top half fitted snugly, accentuating her natural curves. Sara stepped forward and gave a grin; each side of the long floor-length skirt was slit all the way up to the top of her thighs, almost to her hips. The hem was a little long, but Sara knew with the right high heels it would be fine.

She felt like a glamorous concubine, slinky and yet formal as she slowly turned and checked the back view. The dress had a low back, exposing her spine. Sara laughed breathlessly, and a sudden surge of reckless delight filled her. The only way Grissom wouldn’t notice THIS dress would be if he were wearing a toe tag.

“Are you coming out?” came Catherine’s slightly impatient call. Sara took a breath, flicked the curtain open and sailed out into the shop.

“Holy shit!” came Lula’s admiring blurt. Catherine rocked back, blinking, her grin from ear to ear as she circled Sara.

“Forget about Grissom, I’M jealous!” she laughingly confessed, her dimples flashing. Sara returned the smile, grateful for the moment of feminine camaraderie and smoothed her hands down her hips.

“It’s got . . . ventilation,” she informed her partner. Catherine caught a glimpse of the slits up the side and hooted happily.

“Oh yeah, definitely a selling point. Put on a pair of thigh highs and stiletto heels under that and you could have the majority of the night shift crawling over broken glass for you. And Grissom---“

Sara said nothing, but Catherine’s exuberant pleasure was contagious, and she grinned. Lula lit up another cigarette, her own smile sweet and contented.

“I can let you have that one at a good price, it’s pretty old. I bought it from a dressmaker who claimed it was handmade for Julie Newmar back in the late sixties.”

“How much?” both Catherine and Sara blurted at the same time. Lula laughed, a deep rolling sound. She took in the sight of Sara once more, her gaze lingering on her face.

“For you honey, one eighty, and that includes a garment bag and pressing. You can pick it up in a few hours if you’ve got cash.”

 
***   ***   ***

  
Grissom found her in the drying room, flicking through the rack of clothing that held the paint-splattered work shirt. Under the heat lamp lighting she looked serious and austerely beautiful, her concentration focused on the pink paint splotches down one sleeve. She glanced up at him when he entered, a tiny flicker of emotions crossing her face before she settled on a politely neutral expression.

“Sara, I need to talk to you,” he began calmly. She flinched a bit, but Grissom motioned for her to follow him to the table, and carefully laid an old file on it. He spoke in a low voice, measuring his words.

“I want you to look at this and tell me what you see. Give me your initial impressions from the photos and the first report.” Seeing her wary look, he added in a lower more personal tone, “please.”

Sara looked. After the first two photos, a little chill ran up her spine, and she knew, without a doubt that she was looking at the body of Doreen Sullivan. She lay face down on the cement floor of the garage, the pool of blood around her head a black puddle, one arm under her body, the other crumpled next to her. Other things Sara noted included a boot print next to the body, and clutter just beyond it: a bucket and mop, some rags. Sara gave a painful little sigh.

The report was terse: Police were in pursuit of Raoul Nieto, a known felon wanted for questioning. The suspect entered the garage of 10867 Caliente Way and resisted all attempts by officers to peacefully extract him, firing several shots through the windows. When officers finally broke through the main door, further gunfire was exchanged, and Raoul Nieto died after being shot in the throat by Lieutenant Andre W. Nickleson. The body of Doreen Sullivan the homeowner was discovered in the garage as well.

Sara frowned. She glanced at the photos, then pawed through the evidence list, looking carefully.

“So Raoul had two guns—a colt .45 and a .22. Doesn’t that seem a little weird? Most lowlifes only pack one weapon when they’re on the move, unless they’re planning a heist.”

Grissom gave a slow nod. Sara looked again at one of the photos. She drew in a breath.

“This bugs me. The position of the body. The mop and bucket. The rags, Grissom. Right next to her—“ she looked up at him, insight hitting her hard in the stomach. “This wasn’t a murder, it’s a suicide.”

Grissom looked at her, not saying a word, his eyes bright and haunted. Sara blinked a little, and flipped a page until she found the signature line for the Scene assessment. G. Grissom.

“Grissom, you were personally involved, that’s a major breech of protocol!” came her shocked mutter. She looked up at him, eyes wide, her entire lanky frame tense as she waited for some explanation of this insane infraction of the rules. On the table, the photos and reports lay strewn in haphazard fashion. Grissom drew in a harsh sigh.

“Doreen had ovarian cancer. I moved out to Las Vegas partially because I was recruited and knew the area, but also because Mom and I knew I could be closer to Doreen. You have to understand chemotherapy in those days was pretty harsh, Sara. A last resort. Doreen was fading fast. I knew within a few minutes of looking at that scene that she’d decided to end it all. The death would be quick, and garage would be easy to clean, especially with the supplies so thoughtfully placed right there. That was pretty typical of my aunt. Nieto came in only an hour after she’d shot herself, and picked up her .22. Given his record, it wasn’t hard for most people to believe he’d killed Doreen during the standoff in the garage.”

“But it’s not the truth,” Sara pointed out stubbornly. Her stomach ached with tension, with this strange loss of faith in Grissom. The man and mentor who adhered so ruthlessly to the truth, who made integrity the backbone of his profession had lied on a report. It seemed—incomprehensible. She risked a look at his face, stunned by the aching vulnerability there. It was as if she could look through the years and see a younger tormented man.

“I lied,” he agreed through clenched teeth. “I lied for the sake of my mother’s heart and my aunt’s immortal soul, Sara. If the price of their peace is that I carry this sin to my own grave—I will.”

“I don’t . . . understand,” Sara whispered. She reached out her hand, laying it over his in a slow, tender caress; Grissom gripped it with unexpected tightness, desperation in his clasp as he spoke again.

“Sara, in the Catholic church, suicide is a sin. Twenty years ago, Doreen would have been denied a funeral mass and burial in the plot she’d paid for at Holy Trinity. If my mother knew her little sister had killed herself it would have broken her heart. Raoul was already dead, so by calling it murder I deliberately brought a sense of finality to Doreen’s death for my mother. I’ve wrestled with this lie for years, Sara. Years. It’s the primary reason why I push so hard now—“

“--For the evidence to speak,” she finished slowly. “For us to remember the victims.”

He nodded, his big shoulders tensing under his lab coat as his fingers tightened in hers. Close to tears, Sara bit her lips. She turned, brushing her free hand over the ancient case file, sweeping the contents back into it and laying her palm flat on it, as if to pin it shut.

“I love you SO much right now, right in this single, lonely second—“ she whispered brokenly. Grissom shifted closer, not letting go of the lifeline her hand made in his. He drew in a shaky breath.

“The other night--when you asked that question while practically standing on the spot—I couldn’t deal with it, Sara. It all came slamming back. So I had to get out and regroup a little. But I want you to know that I’d already decided to tell you the truth as soon as . . .”

“As soon as . . .?” she prompted, looking up at him. Grissom’s face flushed, his eyes locking on hers.

“. . . As soon as I could deal with your contempt. Doreen’s case makes me a hypocrite, Sara. Everything I’ve ever taught you about objectivity and staying emotionally clear of cases. All of it –“

Abruptly Sara turned, cupping his face, her thumbs stroking his jaw line in soothing circles as she breathed up into his features.

“Is still valid, Grissom. I love you; that’s not going to change. You’re a flesh and blood man who risked his integrity and conscience for the two women who raised him—can’t ask for much more nobility than that.”

He sighed, a long slow exhale of uncoiling tension, of repressed anger and frustration. For a long lovely moment they stood in the gloom of the Drying room, their faces inches apart, their entire intimate focus on each other.

“So—“ Sara sighed. He smirked back a little and she thrilled to see it, that return to normality.

“So.”

“Welcome back—“ she smiled, and leaned up to kiss him. Grissom resisted for a fraction of a second, but his body rebelled and he scooped her up, kissing her thoroughly, savoring the flavor and pressure and sweetness he’d missed for the last five days.

After a few more kisses, Sara wriggled free, laughing softly. She shot him an impish look as she let him go.

“So now, do I get my way?”

Confused, Grissom let her go, cocking his head. Sara gathered the file and handed it to him.

“About the OTHER thing we’ve been fighting about,” came her low tone. Grissom pulled away and shook his head.

“Oh. That. We’re not fighting, Sara. You can only fight if the issue’s still open to debate, and that one isn’t. I’m not going to spank you.”

She shifted her weight and unconsciously took a slightly belligerent stance as she remembered the garment bag in the back of her car. Flashing Grissom a bright, artificial smile, she made a noncommittal sound. He looked at her warily.

“Sara—“

“Hand me that magnifying glass, will you?” she interrupted, turning her attention back to the pink-stained shirt, and gathering her professionalism around her again defensively. Grissom watched her for a minute longer, hesitating. He cleared his throat and Sara looked at him as if she’d forgotten he was standing there.

“So. You found a dress?” Grissom asked in a desperately casual voice. She gave a nod, and turned the shirt, staying cool, but gratified at his question.

“Yeah. I’m going to have to dig in my apartment closet for the shoes that will go with it, so I’ll meet up with you and the guys at the hotel, if that’s okay.”

Her tone made it clear that despite whatever he replied that this was the way things would be, and as Grissom left the drying room with Case File 79-19483353 tucked under his arm, he wondered why he didn’t feel entirely comfortable with Sara’s indifferent demeanor.

  
***   ***   ***

  
“Hey Nick . . .” Warrick called across the fifteen feet that separated them. The main ballroom of the Tangiers was beginning to get crowded, and the added confusion of the band at the far end playing a jazzy rendition of A Train made talking difficult. Nick caught sight of Warrick and Catherine on the edge of a group standing between the tables and the dance floor, and made a beeline towards them. Catherine pretended to fan herself at the sight of him in his tux.

“Where were you two when I needed a prom date? Don’t answer that—“ she warned, catching Nick’s mischievous look and Warrick’s amused one. She looked striking in a black, low cut gown flecked with gold glitter. The gold sandals brought her up a few inches, and Warrick liked being able to look in her eyes. Nick glanced around, ruining the lines of his tux by shoving his hands deep in his pockets.

“So, pretty big turnout for this, but I can see where the boundaries between the two groups are drawn. Anybody else here yet?”

“Some of the Day shift are around, along with Ecklie and Cavello. I saw Brass talking with Archie over by the other side, and I think Greg’s here too,” Warrick dutifully reported. The band had taken a break, and as they did the conversation levels rose all over the room. Catherine snagged a champagne flute from a passing waiter.

“And Grissom?”

“He’s here, sulking over by the curtains,” Catherine laughed. “Come on, let’s go see if we can offer him the grim comfort of company for a while.”

Grissom was indeed sulking, looking out over the glittering lights of Las Vegas with an utterly gloomy expression. Catherine approved of how distinguished and commandingly handsome he was in his tux, his silk vest patterned in a grey and black check that matched his bow tie. He looked at his watch.

“Two and a half hours. I’ve been standing at this damn window for a hundred and fifty minutes,” he sighed.

Catherine noted that the view included the main entrance to the Tangiers, and suspected it was Grissom’s way of checking on arrivals, but she merely handed him a glass of champagne to distract him.

“Sheesh, Grissom, lighten up! It’s a par-tee. We’re supposed to have fun at them, theoretically.”

“Hours of banal small talk over pointless and boring topics while we wait for a single moment in time to either childishly blow noisemakers or kiss someone. What an utter waste of an evening,” he announced. Warrick smirked while Nick ran a hand through his hair.

“I dunno—that last part could be worth the rest of the night, Gris. Depends on your circumstances and charm.”

The look Nick got in return was enough to make Catherine and Warrick laugh out loud. They were still laughing when Grissom’s expression changed. He lifted his head, his gaze riveted to the other side of the room, to the main doors. Curious, Catherine and Nick followed his line of sight, along with Warrick.  A little murmuring rumble of appreciation winnowed through the crowd, and stepping forward towards them, Sara smiled at her co-workers.

“Hi,” she breathed, her dimples deep. Her glossy dark hair was up in a sleek twist, held in place by two lacquered chopsticks, and soft little tendrils dangled down. Her lipstick matched her outfit, and her tiny jade earrings seemed to glow in the light.

And she was wearing THE dress.

“Ohhhhhhh—“ Warrick managed, his voice dropping an octave. Nick shook his head a little.

“Damn! Sara, you look . . .” he trailed off, unable to finish his comment. Both of them stood gazing at her with the rapt expressions of men who had just realized how amazingly beautiful Sara was. Catherine discreetly shot a peek at Grissom, anxious to see the effect of the dress in his eyes.

He was frozen to the spot, his eyes a bright blue, his mouth in a thin line. Catherine noted that the champagne flute was twitching in his hand, the wine sloshing along the inside and foaming. Carefully she took it from him, but Grissom never even glanced at her.

“You look nice,” he told Sara in a flat little voice. She gave her usual little shrug and turned, the sleek line of her gorgeous leg suddenly exposed through the long slit of the dress. Catherine noted in fascination that Grissom’s eyes instantly narrowed.

“Well, I’m off to mingle with the beautiful people, guys—don’t wait up,” Sara cheerfully sang out and sailed away, the bare expanse of her back gleaming in the muted lighting of the ball room. A collective groan seemed to escape from the three men watching her go; Nick and Warrick shook themselves free of the spell and wandered off. Catherine, however, stayed behind, looking up at Grissom quietly. She could smell something rising off of him, something under his Old Spice and clean wool scent.

Jealousy.

Catherine remembered the smell of it well; several of her lovers had the same scent during her dancing days. Eddie wore it off and on throughout their marriage. The sharp musky hint of it made her quiver slightly, even though she knew this dark emotion wasn’t about her, didn’t involve her this time.

“You okay?” she asked in the silence. Grissom started, and looked at her, his gaze returning to something striving to be normal.

“Hmmm?”

“Never mind.”

  
***   ***   ***

  
Sara was aware of being . . . pursued. It was a lovely feeling, one she hadn’t felt in a while. The hum of low voices, the admiring glances of men, both those she knew and didn’t know, those were all nice, but the added frisson of knowing Grissom was always somewhere nearby added a hint of danger to the night. She circulated, sharing a laugh or two with Jacqui, swapping comments with an uncomfortable Hodges and finally ending up next to a dark-suited Brass near a tray of canapés. He gave her the once over with flattering slowness.

“Man—that’s a heck of an outfit, Sara.”

She preened a bit, for show, glad in the security of his company. Sara knew where she stood with Brass, appreciated his straightforward friendship. He held out a canapé.

“So, is the new year going to be any different from the old one for you?” Sara asked softly, taking the proffered treat. Brass’s expression shifted to something soft and almost shy; he gave a little shrug.

“Actually, yes. I’m not staying until midnight this time. I’ve got someone I’m going to be with for it.”

“Really?” Sara smiled with delight. “So why didn’t she come here with you?”

Brass’s mouth twitched as he fought a smile. He glanced around the room, then back to Sara, leaning closer.

“Let’s just say in her line of work, she’s seen about a third of the people in this room at their most vulnerable and leave it at that.”

Sara blinked; she didn’t think Brass was the type to date a psychiatrist. He took another canapé and chuckled.

“You know you’re driving Grissom nuts, don’t you? He’s practically on stake out about ten feet behind your left shoulder.”

“Good,” she responded shortly. The band struck up Stardust, and Sara drew in a breath. “Hey—wanna dance?”

Brass blinked and nodded with flattering rapidity; he held out his arm to Sara and they walked out to the dance floor amid thirty or so other couples already there. Sara was amused to see Jacqui in the arms of sheriff Atwater; judging by the look in his eyes and from the grip he had on her, they seemed to know each other very well. Brass gave a soft sigh, taking Sara into his arms and smoothly leading.

“So . . . why are you trying to give your new roommate fits, Sara? Did he leave the toilet seat up? Forget to add fabric softener?”

Sara tensed, but one look in his patient blue eyes and she knew the jig was up. She managed an off-center smirk as they danced.

“None of the above. Let’s just say I’m practicing physics. Cause and effect. I have a certain effect I want.”

“So you’re instigating the cause—risky maneuver you know. It could backfire with an oddball like Grissom.”

“I’m monitoring the experiment,” she assured him gently. Sare could see Grissom standing on the edge of the dance floor, watching them intently as they sailed past on the strains of music.  She looked away, letting Brass lead, enjoying the moment as best she could.

A moment later, someone cut in; a tall young policeman Sara dimly remembered from a case in Henderson. Brass gallantly permitted it, and Sara found herself dancing with him. His palms were sweaty. After that, a blushing Archie asked if she’d do him the honors as the band slowly began to play String of Pearls.

From that point, she danced almost nonstop. Warrick made her laugh when he dipped her, his confident style a tribute to patient lessons from his aunt, he confessed. Nick was a little mechanical, a box stepper but still a lot of fun as he gossiped to her about Greg’s inability to land a single dance with anyone so far. Hodges was a good partner, but utterly silent, concentrating as if the whole process were like a driver’s test.

By the time an hour had passed, Sara felt warm and oddly happy, despite her sore feet. Clearly the dress was a hit, given the rush she’d been receiving throughout the night. The only irritating point was that Grissom didn’t seem care; he stayed on the periphery of her good time, watching but not doing much else.  As an experiment in physics and manipulation the whole thing seemed a bust, and Sara was almost ready to give it up when she caught sight of his hands.

She knew Grissom’s hands very well, having held them, kissed them, caressed and having been caressed by them. A great deal of his unspoken emotion showed through his hands, in their deliberate gestures and actions.

At the moment Grissom’s hands were flexing. Fascinated, Sara watched him tighten and straighten his strong fingers in slow, absent rhythm as if trying to calm himself. That little sign of his eroding control gave her new hope, and she made her way through the crowd to him, keeping her eyes on his face.

“Not having a good time?” came her low question. He stared at her, blinking slowly. Someone brushed behind Sara and she stepped forward, nearly bumping into Grissom. This close to the man it was impossible to miss the scent of hungry desire that rose from him. Playfully, Sara reached to caress the satin of his lapels.

“I’m angry,” he replied in a dry, almost formal way. She looked up at him, letting her eyes half close as she spoke.

“Why would that be, Grissom? Because I look great? Because I’m having a good time, for once? Because we haven’t made love in almost a week and a half?”

“YES,” He bit off with a growl. His flexing hands rose up uncertainly, wanting to settle on her hips and hovering instead, aware of the crush of the crowd around them. Sara laughed up at him.

“That’s difficult. When you want things, but your partner isn’t cluing in, I mean. When you’re suddenly aware that you might have to take certain—reckless—measures to get your point across.”

A strange wash of emotion crossed Grissom’s face; he blinked. Focusing on Sara, a light dawned in his blue eyes and seeing it, she gave a little sigh.

“Like my dress?”

He nodded. She cocked her head and ran her own hands down the hips, smoothing the fabric.

“Thanks. It feels pretty nice too, considering it’s the only piece of clothing I’m wearing tonight.”

Grissom sucked in a breath, but it was too late; Sara patted his arm and added huskily, “You won’t tell anybody, right?” and sauntered away, hips swinging smoothly, drawing admiring glances from several directions.

He knew what he had to do. With a sensual clarity he hadn’t felt since the moment he first looped stockings around Sara’s slender wrists, Grissom knew perfectly well now what needed to happen. What was fated to happen.

And soon.

  
***   ***   ***

  
“The night shift are all total freak cases, I’m telling you,” came the annoying buzz from in front of him. Grissom tried to block out the sound, and concentrate on filling out the card. He stood in the line at the registration booth outside the main ballroom, calmly joining the last-minute crowd of partiers taking advantage of the overnight package deal the Tangiers was offering. The voice came again.

“Brown’s a gambling addict of course, story is out he’d bet on the life of his partners—and has. That redhead is an ex-hooker. She claims she was a stripper, but we all know what that means in THIS town. And word is that the hottie in the geisha dress is actually a lesbian who’s got a vigilante thing going for wife-beaters. I’m telling you the nightshift is all one twisted sideshow.”

Grissom looked over at the little round man in line ahead of him who was making this announcement to the fascinated lady at his side. Seeing Grissom look up, the round man nodded knowingly.

“You know what I mean, right buddy? And it’s common knowledge that the one in charge of that looney bin, that bug specialist is the worst of the bunch. I wouldn’t be surprised to find out he’s got a woman in a pit somewhere—I mean, come on! Anybody who digs bugs and death scenes has got to be torqued to a major degree, right?”

“Two women,” Grissom commented softly. The round man looked at him. “And it’s a basement, not a pit. I find it’s much easier to lure them down there. Saves me trouble.”

“W-what?”

“I mean, why do them one at a time when pairs are so much more gratifying to one’s sadistic ego?”

The round man’s face went the color of goat cheese as recognition dawned on him; he took a step back; Grissom smirked. At the table, the Tangiers clerk cleared her throat.

“Next?”

The round man hopped out of line with alacrity, backing away without saying another word.  Smoothly, Grissom turned his registration form and American Express card in to the clerk then received a card key for hotel room 2024.

He paused, looking at the number, recognizing it before tucking it into his inside jacket pocket. Stepping back into the ballroom, he spotted Sara immediately despite of the semi-gloom of the place. She stood chatting with David and Greg, both of them mooning over her in the way of shy men everywhere. In a flirtatious gesture she reached out to touch Greg’s nose.

Something deep and feral lurched through Grissom’s chest.

Striding forward, he moved straight through the crowds until he loomed before her. Startled, Sara looked up at him. He grabbed her wrist, wordlessly and led her off to the dance floor without giving her a chance to say anything to the either man.

Flustered, Sara allowed herself to be towed out into the press of bodies on the floor, then pulled into Grissom’s arms. They settled possessively around her, one flat palm pressed along her bare spine, the other cupping her right hand in a tight grip. For the first time she felt a spike of fear as she studied his face. The music was fading as the band ended their tune and began another one.

“That was rude.”

“I don’t give a damn,” he responded flatly. Grissom’s hand pressed her closer, and Sara felt the heat of his body seeping through her silk dress. He smelled of clean perspiration and arousal, a personal cologne that left her weak with desire. Goose bumps broke out along her arms, her nipples hardened as she brushed against his chest.

“Well I DO. What gives you the right to just drag me off like that?” she tried to sound cool and amused, but her voice betrayed her with a slightly squeaky tone to it. Grissom’s smile was grim.

“You did. You gave me the right from the minute I pinned you down and made you open your thighs for me, Sara. You are MINE, and no one else’s, is that clear?”

She trembled. His words were soft and his tone light, but there was a core of heat in them that matched the hard throb of him against her thigh. Slowly the music rose and she recognized the song. Grissom brought her close, his lips near her ear.

“Night and day, you are the one . . .” he sang faintly, his fingers caressing hers. On her back, his other hand slid lower, unseen in the crowd, but Sara felt it stroke her hungrily. She quivered and pressed harder against him.

They danced.  Sara knew it would be the sort of dreamy memory that would haunt her years later as a moment of sensual torment. The feel of Grissom in the semi-darkness, the anticipation building as he sang and caressed her, knowing the song wouldn’t last forever and wishing it would. Her hands clung to his back, molding against his strong shoulder blades as he guided her around the dance floor, gradually steering her towards one of the side exits, their journey a subtle trip across the floor. The song ended and the bandleader called out inanities to the crowd, pointing out that midnight was only forty minutes away.

In the darkness near the side exit, Grissom shifted his hold of Sara’s hand, and gripped her wrist again, lightly. He twisted her hand until it was face up. Something stroked her palm; a hotel card key. Grissom leaned forward speaking with soft authority.

“Get your purse. We’re going upstairs, Sara. I’m going to take you across my knee and spank you for everything you’ve put me through tonight. Then I’m going to bury myself in you until you’re hoarse from screaming my name. Is that clear?”

She looked at him, eyes wide, feeling her body flush hard in quick passionate response, the wet heat between her thighs growing. Sara’s fingers closed around the card key. Grissom gave a harsh sigh as they slipped out the door.

The corridors were crowded with party guests; seeing them, Sara turned towards Grissom. He gestured to one elevator and then the other. Wordlessly she slipped in to her indicated one. Around her the crush of passengers chattered away, but it was just noise to her now, her attention was taken up internally, in the hot memory of Grissom’s words echoing in her head.

The car rose higher, passing the seventeenth floor, letting the last three guests off. Sara pressed the button for the twentieth and pressed her palms against the metal doors, trying to steady herself. When the car slowed, she tottered out and into the hallway. Grissom was leaning with his back against the opposite wall waiting for her. Sara froze, but he shifted, rising up and moving towards her, crowding close, backing her up until her naked spine pressed on the gilt wallpaper of the hall.

“Bad girl,” he commented, his lips brushing hers as he spoke. Sara squirmed, aware that the elevators could open at any moment; that they were in a semi-public place. She nodded quickly. Grissom sighed. His hands moved faster than she realized, into the slits of the dress and up each of her thighs. Sara gave a tiny gasp, but it was swallowed away by his almost-kiss as his big palms glided up to cup her bare hips. Grissom gave a grunt against her mouth.

“Sara--!”

She laughed a little, arching as his hands slid and touched her semi-naked body with brazen delight, his caresses rougher than usual. Grissom gripped her naked ass under the back flap of the dress and growled in her ear, hot and deep.

“Very. Bad.”

“I’m sorry,” she breathed back insincerely, trying to kiss him. Grissom pulled away and straightened up, blue eyes fierce. Sara heard the elevator a moment later and understood. He led the way down the hall, passing the doors until he reached 2024. Sara followed.

The room was large, done in vaguely Moroccan style with mosaic art and inlaid furniture heavy in greens and golds. Sara got the impression of a few armless chairs, an entertainment armoire and a pair of beds with heavy spreads. Grissom tugged his jacket off, and yanked at his tie. Sara trailed in cautiously, her pulse sounding loud at her temples. Grissom dropped himself in one of the ornate chairs and looked at her; the only light came from the tiny bedside lamp, so the room was filled with shadows.

Grissom spoke in a voice heavy with controlled passion.

“Come here, Acushla. Tell me why you deserve this.”

Sara stepped forward. She set her clutch down on the table, then looked at Grissom as he unbuttoned his vest and set it aside. His dress shirt gleamed white, and the suspenders made black stripes along the sides of his broad chest. He looked so good, so unabashedly sexy that Sara sucked in a shuddery breath.

“I . . . “ she stopped. Grissom prompted her.

“You chose to wear something that you knew would provoke this.”

She nodded, relaxing a little. Grissom’s expression wasn’t smiling, but his voice was. Sara cleared her throat and spoke softly.

“Yes. I took off my panties and left them in the car knowing that was—a risk.”

He shook his head, almost sorrowfully as he looked her up and down. Even though he was sitting, Sara felt his commanding presence. The heat along her skin rose as Grissom softly whistled.

“And . . . you flirted.”

She nodded; yes there was that, an undeniable fact. She’d flirted quite a bit.

“Sara, that was . . . unacceptable. You have no idea, no concept of how insane you drove me tonight. So beautiful and defiant, so very, very bad.” His voice dropped in a dangerously low whisper, “Come here—“

It caressed Sara’s hearing, and she trembled a bit, moving forward before she could even think about it. Grissom reached up, sliding his palm up her exposed thigh, his touch shockingly warm against her cool skin. Sara willed herself to hold still, even as his hand made the lingering trip up her leg.

“Warrick, Nick, Hodges, David, Greg and Brass—six men you flirted with, sweetheart. Six swats to remind you whom you belong to. Who IS that, Sara?“

Under the front flap of her dress, his fingers slid over her hipbone, stroking the toned flesh, the soft fluff between her legs. Sara widened her stance, hungry for his touch as she murmured, “You. You belong to me, and I to you.”

“Yes.”

Grissom let his hand shift to her hip once more, then slid it around to the back of the dress.

“Lift it, Sara.”

She did, reaching back to pull the rear panel of the cheongsam up almost to her waist, leaving the back of her long legs and rounded ass bare in the dim light. For the first time, Grissom managed a tender look at her.

“Down.”

Sara obediently draped herself across his thighs. The moment had an odd quality, dreamy and sensual, but tinged with fear, too; under her stomach, she felt the warmth of his body, the hard muscles supporting her. Grissom dropped his left hand down between her slender shoulder blades, pinning her securely while his right hand flicked the dress up higher, exposing Sara’s body almost to the middle of her slim back. Lightly his hand stroked her satiny flesh, making her quiver as his fingertips teased.

“Oh, I think I can understand this entire power play MUCH better now,” he told her, almost chattily. Sara tried to turn and glare at him, but the precarious balance of her torso over his knees, not to mention his hand between her shoulder blades held her down. At the first hint of struggle, he pressed harder and made an ‘ah-ah’ sound.

“Just spank me already!” Sara hissed impatiently, her sandals barely touching the floor. Grissom sighed.

“Patience, sweetheart. Let me savor the moment. It’s nearly midnight and I’m going to have you under me from one year to the next—“

And his hand came down. Sara flinched, stunned at the sudden heat, the unexpected sizzle of it. She tensed, her hands trying to reach back. Grissom anticipated her move through and caught her wrists in his left hand, pinning them to the small of her back. He smacked again, harder, making her wriggle.

“Ow!”

“Shhhhh—“ he crooned. Sara tried to catch her breath, shocked at how much it stung, at how the heat radiated through her bottom, burning almost as much as her sense of humiliation. Tears prickled but she fought them and tensed again, waiting for the next blow. It came, slower this time, but loud and firm against the rounded globes of her ass. One of the chopsticks fell out of her hair, tumbling to the floor. As she writhed, she felt the hard prod of Grissom’s cock through the seam of his slacks, rubbing against her lower stomach.

Throbbing. Like she was.

That changed everything in one amazing moment.

Sara rolled her hips just as Grissom spanked her a third time, his blow landing lower, making a soft slapping sound against her flushed flesh. A charge of energy ran through her slender frame, and she rolled again, pressing against his eager prick, stroking it with a tiny rocking of her hips even as Grissom dropped his hand on her ass once more. Sara could smell the heat, could practically taste the erotic tension twanging in the air of the room. She swallowed hard as molten, syrupy lust flowed between her damp thighs.

“Oh Sara . . .” came Grissom’s ragged whisper, a raspy blend of thrill and fear. She arched her back and struggled a little, for show. He grunted, breathing hard, his hand landing two more swift smacks, one on each reddened cheek. Sara tightened every muscle in her body, aware that she was down to the last spank.

Grissom hesitated for a long, shuddering, edge-of-the-drop moment, then slapped her bottom one last time, straining to hold her, fighting his animal lust that jutted against her body. Sara yanked her hands free of his grip and stood on shaky legs, tugging at her dress, yanking it up and over her head in rash, furious wriggles. Grissom rose, helping her, and the minute she was free, Sara grabbed him around his ribcage, yanking him to her with lithe ferocity. The dress lay on the floor; forgotten as she slammed her mouth on his, tongue slithering into his parting lips.

“Mmmmingh!” came her squeaky growl, somehow all the sexier for the frustration driving it. Grissom didn’t dare laugh, couldn’t laugh as Sara ate his tongue, driving him back against the wall of the room. They hit it so hard the pictures rattled, lost in wet deep desperate kisses that mingled together in raking teeth and sucking lips. Sara’s fingers fumbled with his fly, yanked it open as Grissom cupped her burning ass and they rolled along the wall. A picture tumbled off with a wooden thump on the carpet.

Sara’s fingers wrapped as much as they could around Grissom’s turgid cock, and she braced herself against the wall, dimly glad she was still in her heels. Catching on, Grissom scooped a forearm under one thigh, opening her legs and driving forward. The lovely liquid squeeze of his thick cock slickly impaling her made Grissom growl low in his chest. With a soft wail of delight, Sara let her head rap against the wall and wrapped one leg around his hip.

“Fuck me, Gil, fuck me hard—“ came her throaty order, whispered around his tongue. He bucked his hips, pinning her, sliding his other hand under her other thigh. Sara moaned wildly. Her hands tugged his dress shirt open, and the silver chain around his neck sparkled in the dim light, the medal bouncing gently between his pecs as he thrust into Sara fiercely.

“Fucking Christ! Mine, your HOT little ass is mine from now ON, Sara!” came his panting breath in her ear. She clutched him, nodding, taking in the scorching thick thrusts, all too aware of the dizzy wave of lust surging in a wet crescendo between her hips, unstoppable now--

Mewling, clawing his shoulders with wild pleasure Sara felt her body clench around Grissom from the inside out, clinging to him in pulsating throbs of erotic power as she came. He thrust steadily, drawing her mindless bliss on and on, until a few moments later she softened, sagging forward against him. Grissom pressed his hungry mouth against her neck, his rhythm quickening.

But Sara shook her head, pushing him away with weak shoves. Startled, Grissom pulled away. She motioned to the bed over his shoulder, and he locked his arms around her, swinging her light frame with his, toppling onto the mattress in a few steps.

“No, mine—“ came her languid insistence. Sara moved like a panther, rolling away from Grissom and pushing him back. Startled, he tried to sit up, but she stretched out on top of him, beautiful in her wild nudity, whisky brown eyes glittering.

She pinned him down. Her hands encircled his strong wrists, holding them against the mattress, and with slow, teasing wriggles, Sara lowered herself onto his impatient cock, which rose up, slick, angry and red from his open fly.

“Your cock is mine, Grissom. Mine to ride, mine to make come. You DO want to come, don’t you?” she breathed in his startled face. Gritting his teeth to bite back his groan he nodded, tensing as Sara sheathed herself on him once again and began to pump. Slowly.

Grissom gasped and grunted and cursed, well aware that he could break her grip on his wrists, but choosing not to. Sara pleasured herself on him, moving with increasing speed, her husky voice spilling wild words of love and lust as she drove him to the brink.

“Come on, come on oh yesss, deeper!” Sara urged, pumping herself in sweet grinding hip thrusts against him. Grissom tensed, the tendons standing out along his neck, his spine arching off the bed as he drove harder into her, blind with pleasure in his moment of boiling glorious release. Sara felt herself bucked hard in a staccato of thrusts, clinging to him as he dropped back onto the mattress with a heavy creak of springs.

They lay exhausted for a long, long time, listening to the sounds of firecrackers and noisemakers as the New Year rolled in through Las Vegas, outside and just beyond their own private world.

  
***   ***   ***

  
A few deep hours later, Sara woke in darkness. For a moment she wondered where she was, how she’d ended up under the sheets on a strange bed. The reassuring weight of Grissom’s arm around her waist let her relax though, and she drew in a happy breath as a rush of hot memory came back to her. She rolled over, snuggling in closer, burying her face in the warm hollow under Grissom’s beard, settling into one of the familiar positions they slept in. His arm tightened around her sleepily. Possessively.

“Grissom?”

“Mmmm?” a half-awake tone of indulgence. The sound of a tiger nuzzling his mate.

“I didn’t make a promise to my dad,” Sara murmured, her eyes closed as she cuddled closer to his big naked body in the sheets of the Tangiers.

“Mmmmm,” he agreed.

“So--will you . . . . marry me, Grissom?” she gulped.

“Yes.” Warm and deep, swift.

Sure.

Sara shivered.

“Wh-really? You will?”

"Yes. Go back to sleep, Acushla.”

 And Sara did, with a happy sigh.