“What are you doing?”

Guiltily, Grissom looked up, caught dead to rights. He turned to Sara, pushing up his glasses by the nosepiece to buy another moment of time for an explanation. She crossed her arms over her chest and locked her hot cocoa-colored eyes on him, waiting patiently.

“I was . . . investigating.”

“Investigating.” Sara echoed doubtfully. He lifted his chin, prepared to bluff it out, feeling a bit warm under the collar but striving for dignity that wasn’t really his at the moment. Grissom nodded.

“The method of scientific investigation is nothing but the expression of the necessary mode of working of the human mind. It is simply the mode in which all phenomena are reasoned about, rendered precise and exact,” he quoted boldly, adding, “Thomas Henry Huxley.”

Sara fought to keep the corners of her mouth from turning upwards. She cocked her head.

“Impressive. So tell me again precisely how this lofty sentiment justifies you pawing through my underwear drawer?” she purred.

Grissom shifted uneasily, the stain of his blush evident even in the soft light of Sara’s bedroom. The top drawer of the big oak dresser extended out, revealing little wisps and snippets of colored silk in an inviting jumble, and he glanced down at it, as if the answer was waiting right there on top of the delicate lingerie.

It was not, and he was forced to look up again at Sara, who shook her head in amusement. This goaded Grissom, and he cleared his throat.

“It’s . . . a part of you,” he attempted in a mild tone as Sara gestured for him to go on. He rested a hand on the knob of the dresser. “An uncharted aspect of . . .”

“—My femininity?” she offered, throwing him a bone. Gratefully he nodded.

“Exactly, your femininity. Your--mystique. A facet of your personality that I haven’t had the chance to examine in situ.”

Sara continue to scrutinize him with her unblinking gaze, and he tried to hold it, but gradually Sara’s generous mouth gave in and she broke into an open grin as she sauntered closer to the drawer in question. With a wave of her hand, she motioned him to sit on the edge of the bed, which Grissom did, slowly. Uncertainly.

“Fine. You want a panty parade, Grissom, you got it!”

Sara fished in the drawer and pulled out a small lilac thong in cotton. She twirled them on her finger thoughtfully. “I bought these two years ago when I was part of that marathon. Needed something lightweight, yet practical. And these—“ here she pulled out a sleek pair of panties in white floral lace, “Are the ones I usually wear to court. That way if I trip on my way to the stand and flash people, they’ll know I’m not some thrill-seeking floozy showgirl.”

She tossed them into Grissom’s lap, then reached in the drawer again.

“Ah! These were a gag gift from Ha—ah, someone with a poor sense of humor. Wore them once and have been thinking about donating them to Goodwill.” The black panties with HOT MAMA in pink sparkly script across the backside soared into the pile oh his thighs. Grissom eyed them in fascination. Sara dug deeper.

“My birthday gift to myself—“ a little fire engine red eyelet thong appeared, “The only thing I bought at that Sweet Nothings party at Jacqui’s—“ a streamlined peach cord G-string flew up, “and ohhhh yes, I remember THIS set---“ she chortled softly.

Grissom looked up as Sara held up a black underwire bra and tiny panties, along with a scrap of lace that he recognized with a hot, deep pang of arousal. He opened his mouth to breathe in, and Sara laughed, a low sexy chuckle.

“This was my ‘When-I-finally-seduce-Grissom’ ensemble. I’ve had this waiting in the wings for almost five years--Jezebel black rose lace bra, G-string and garterbelt. The stockings are still in the package, too. I tell you, this set me back a chunk of change, not to mention the layout for the shoes—“

“Get in it.” Grissom growled.

She glanced at him, watching in fascination as he brushed aside the pile of lingerie in his lap and locked his hot blue gaze on her. The effect of that look was like a nip on her earlobe, and Sara shivered, her nipples rising hard and fast. She blinked at him, and he cocked his head, looking slightly impatient and very dangerous. The slow swell of anticipation rose between herself and Grissom.

“What will you give me if I do?” came her slow taunt. At that challenge, he lifted his chin, and although he gave a little smile, the feral glow of blue in his eyes promised Sara things that made sweet tiny jolts run down her spine.

“Give?” he asked huskily, as if the concept were foreign to him. Sara nodded, lightly holding out the lingerie, caressing it blatantly, and was gratified to see his jaw tighten at the sight.

“Well of course, Grissom. If I cater to your request here and get into this very small bit of silk, then I’m going to need something in return.”

“What do you want?” he asked in a tone both amused and slightly desperate. Sara looked him over thoughtfully.

“I want,” she began with a suppressed smirk, “Your glasses.”

For a moment Grissom frowned, wondering at the oddness of the request, but lust overrode logic, and he carefully took them off and handed them to her. Sara accepted them in the free hand and smiled.

“Very well then, Mr. Underwear Investigator, wait here and I shall be back very shortly.”

She turned, leaving him with a puzzled expression and headed first to the closet and then to the bathroom, smiling to herself.

Getting into the lingerie didn’t take long, and Sara was pleased it all still fit as well as it had the day she’d bought it. Against her pale skin, the black might have seemed harsh, but the panels of filmy lace softened the effect, and the entire ensemble gave her a sleek, mysterious beauty. As she finished adjusting the garterbelt, stroking the clips smooth, Sara glanced in the mirror.

Swiftly, she gathered her hair up in a neat French twist, pinning it in place with the two black lacquered chopsticks she’d used at New Years. A few swipes of deep rose lipstick, and the final touch---Sara slid Grissom’s glasses onto her face. They were big, of course, but the style wasn’t bad, and his prescription wasn’t as strong as she’d thought. Studying herself critically, she fought a giggle at the Mata Hari School Teacher look she’d suddenly achieved.

Carefully she opened the bathroom door and sauntered out, keeping her stride slow as she approached the bed and the man sitting on it; the electrified expression on Grissom’s face was worth the pinch of the heels, Oooh definitely. He stared up at her, then down the cool planes and inviting curves of her body, his blue eyes wide and wondering. Sara stopped a foot in front of him and flexed a hip, arms behind her back, one hand gripping the other elbow in the manner of a schoolgirl.

“This is just how I used to fantasize about it, Grissom. Only I was the teacher and YOU were the student.”

He kept looking up at her face, caught up in the sight of her in glasses, HIS glasses, perched on her pointed nose. Grissom flexed his hands.

“You look . . . “ At a loss for words, he sucked in a sharp breath and tried again. “I WANT you.”

Sara laughed softly and took a step forward, within arm’s range. Grissom reached for her but she slapped his hand, hard. He drew back, his expression instantly angry, but Sara shook her head.

“School’s in session, Mr. Grissom, and if you want to be Teacher’s Pet, you have to follow the rules. No touching unless directed.”

“Sara—“ came his low warning. She looked over the top of the glasses at him and slowly licked her lips. He tensed, his big shoulders shifting at the sight. Sara smiled.

“Good boy, Mr. Grissom. Yes, Teacher thinks you’re going to be the star of the class. Now let’s see---maybe you need to take your shirt off.”

The fiery spark in his blue eyes promised dire revenge now, but the small, annoyed smile on his face left Sara feeling very smug. He slid out of his shirt, then reached for his jeans, but Sara shook her head, making a disapproving sound as she did so.

“Oh no, not the pants. No extra credit yet. Do you like my outfit?”

“Yes. Come closer and I’ll show you,” came his taunt.

“Not quite yet. You need some work in anatomy, Mr. Grissom. Sit down,” Sara told him sternly. Reluctantly he did on the edge of the bed, eyes locked on her the whole time. Sara paced a few steps in front of him, well aware of his gaze, and the heavy ridge tenting the front of his jeans now. Very carefully she lifted one impossibly long leg and set her high heel on his knee. The move, elegant and powerful, left Grissom with a clear vision right up the length. He reached for her foot, but again, she slapped his hand.

“Ah-ah. Not time for touching. Now, Mr. Grissom, what lies north of the ankle?”

His jaw twitched. The point of the high heel dug into his thigh, not painfully, but firmly enough. Dutifully he answered, “The shin, Miss Sidle.”

“Very good. You’ve been studying, haven’t you?”

“Extensively,” he admitted, eyes sliding along her foot with lustful cheer. She could see how much he wanted to touch it, so she pressed the heel down a little harder.

“Excellent. And above the shin, young man?”

His mouth twitched at the incongruity of Sara calling him ‘young man’ but she looked so stern, so amazingly HOT in his glasses that he spoke up quickly.

“The patella, or kneecap.”

“Correct, Mr. Grissom. For that, you may touch those three places—“

He did, sliding his big hands hungrily over her high heel and foot, caressing up her leg to her knee. Sara held still and fought to look unmoved by his stroke, difficult as it was. He had a soft way of sliding his fingers in little circles to tease.

“What lies further north of the patella, Mr. Grissom?”
He leaned forward, and without warning Sara shifted her foot, high heel pressing against his hard-on. He tensed.

“Th-the thigh, Miss Sidle,” he gulped a little, worried now, but still achingly aroused. He’d never pictured Sara as the dominatrix type, but judging by his body’s enthusiastic response it was clear that her smug mastery needed conquering . . . and yet, the odd desire to . . . please her . . .

“Yes, Mr. Grissom. You certainly know a lot about large muscle groups—“ came her throaty reply.

“Hands-on experience,” he offered with a smile dipped in naughtiness. Sara fought hard not to laugh. This game tickled her in more ways than one, and the gratification in seeing Grissom aroused but compliant sent a shiver of heat down her stomach. She reached her forefinger up to touch the glasses, the gesture flirtatious. He watched her intently.

“And do you LIKE my thighs, Mr. Grissom?”

“I more than like them, Miss Sidle,” came his confession. “I . . . “

“Yeeeeess?” she drawled out. He sighed a little.

“Well, when I see them, I want to lick them.”

Sara quivered a little at that confession, looking down at Grissom, who nodded, as if to back this statement up.

“You said that on purpose,” she accused, frowning. “Just to throw me off.”

“Guilty. Do I win?” he added hopefully. Sara withdrew her foot and shook her head, stepping back, the long lean lines of her body an erotic silhouette. She reached down and slid one high heel off, letting it drop to the floor.

“Not. Just for that you’re going to take my stockings off with your TEETH, Mr. Grissom.”

Then she slid the other heel off and tossed it over her shoulder.

His eyelashes fluttered and he cocked his head, like a dog wanting to be very sure of what it just heard. Sara slowly, sensually unhooked her garters, then shot him a cool look through the glasses, clearly waiting for him to comply.

Unhurriedly, Grissom moved off the edge of the bed and got to his knees, shifting with deliberation. Even then, he was still too tall, so he leaned forward, his head tilting. Sara felt his hot breath warm the front of her thigh, the feel of it making her skin erupt into goosebumps. A soft nip, and looking down she watched him tug gently on the sheer stocking, trying to keep his balance without using his hands to brace himself. She reached out and stroked his hair, as if he were a big shaggy dog, and the softness of it under her hand tickled.

“Carefully, Mr. Grissom. You DO want to do a good job—“

He did. Stomach quivering, Grissom fought the alternate waves of anger and lust surging through him. He fought for balance, nose rubbing along Sara’s beautifully muscled leg, longing to kiss it, but there was a job to do. He dropped lower, hands on the carpet and carefully tugged the first stocking down, trying hard not to think about the pangs of frustration that shot through his chest.

Galling. Utterly galling. It went against the grain, the very Alpha fiber of his nature and Grissom inwardly growled. Bitterly he knew Sara should be the one on her knees, not him, yet the taste of the silk, warm from her body, and the added spice of her sexual musk, so close, was making it hard to resist. He struggled, again, feeling a confinement not unlike the cuffs, but more insidious. The casual taunt of her soft words was enough of a challenge for him to do the job with contemptuous perfection, and earn the pink.

Sara stepped back and turned around, not looking at Grissom, who was rising back up on his knees.

“Now the other one, and maybe then we’ll see how well you understand being the student, Mr. Grissom.” She told him without a backward glance. He stared at her slender figure, wondering who this chilly stranger in his glasses was, and what had happened to his Sara, tender and loving.

Then she shifted, and leaned forward; the image of her perfect ass, the thin lace barely dividing the peach-like globes made Grissom bite back a slightly desperate growl. Her taunt was purely sexual; his reaction surged from places deep within him as he lunged and let his teeth rake the back of one long hot thigh.

Sara flexed a little, but other than that made so sign she’d even felt him, despite the light scrape of his beard and the wet nuzzle of his lips as he carefully caught the edge of the stocking in his strong teeth. He made it a point to rub his cheek against her this time as he worked the stocking down that sleek length. When it fluttered to the carpet and she stepped out of it, Sara turned and shot Grissom a cool smile, once again stroking his head with an almost absent caress.

“Now THIS is a fantasy . . . you have no idea how many nights I lay in that bed dreaming of a moment like this, Mr, Grissom. Of having my big, brilliant boss on his knees, WANTING me so badly. And you do, don’t you?”

Grissom fought the rising rebellious urge to just grab her, to take her right there on the carpet. If this was Sara’s game, this slow torment, he vowed to take it and win. She might think she could boss him around, but he could see the bright fever in her eyes behind the lenses, the little flutter of pulse at her throat. Sara was just as hot and aroused as he was.

“Yesssss,” he replied with less than grace. His cock ached, confined and throbbing against his jeans, spurred on by the sensory overload. Sight, smell, taste, touch and sound, all radiating an Anglo Saxon four-letter word between them.

Sara laughed, the sound husky and sweet, tinged with sex.

“If you’re hungry I’ve got something you can eat, Mr. Grissom.”

Her words slammed hard against Grissom’s ears and he blinked as his entire body pulsed with lust now, feral.

“Christ, I KNOW you do, honey . . .” came his croaky response. Sara sank her fingers into his hair and tugged, not enough to hurt, but to tip his head and look down into his hot blue eyes, his open lips.

“Jeezus, Grissom. Keep looking at me like that and I’ll come right here—“ she grinned. 
He shifted closer, moving on his knees towards her, one hand helplessly sliding down to stroke the ridge in the front of his jeans, anything to ease the pressure now—

“Yeah, well the view’s magnificent—“ he rasped back, savoring the black lace against her hipbones, the low cut of the thong only inches away. Sara turned, and backed up a few steps to the wall, then stroked her stomach, letting her fingers toy with the garter belt before she unhooked it, letting it fall. Grissom moved closer as she leaned against the wall.

“Don’t take them off, don’t rip them,” Sara ordered, running her elegant hand over the front of her panties. His smile flashed out, and with gentle hands, Grissom stroked the outsides of her thighs.

“I won’t need to,” he promised, and dipped his head.

The lace was thin and filmy and his kiss wetted it thoroughly as he tasted the tang of her arousal through it. Sara moaned when he pressed his mouth onto her mound and muffled the heat of his breath there. His hands slid up and down the outside of her hips as he kept kissing the front of her panties. Sara’s hands dropped to his shoulders as she tried to steady herself. She widened her stance, opening her lean thighs, but he kept his kisses focused on the front panel of the lace for a long while.

“Good . . . “ Grissom whispered against her trapped curls, and Sara rocked forward a little. His hands curved around her ass and he shifted his face, beard tickling her thighs as he gripped the edge of one leghole in his teeth, tugging it aside and nuzzling along the uncovered fur. Sara tensed, bringing one knee up and hooking it over his broad shoulder.

“Good—“ she agreed in the hot little voice she had when she was turned on. Grissom loved that tone, that undeniable proof. He let his tongue slide out, licking the hot sensitive crease between her thigh and mound. Sara shivered. He did it again, pressing a kiss there for good measure, them worked the tip of his nose across through the damp curls, keeping his touch soft until he found the small rigid little bud and lightly flicked his tongue over it.

Sara stiffened, arching a little, and when she did Grissom gripped her ass more tightly. With the leisurely strokes of a grooming tiger, he licked, sliding the wet broad length of this tongue along the cleft under her mound, losing himself in the tart honey flavor of Sara. Every stroke made her shiver and clutch his shoulders more tightly and the steady stream of Sara’s groans and curses were filtered by the ache of growing lust in her voice.

“GodohGod, Mmmmmister Grissom you are sooo good at that!”

He barely heard her, his focus solely on the tender pleasures of toying with her taut body, teasing in a slow steady fashion with his beard, lips and tongue. Within a few minutes he sensed the change in her breathing, the spasmodic grip of her fingers on his shoulders and fought the throbbing of his cock long enough to keep his gentle wet kisses moving over her slippery little pearl.

Sara cried out, sinking her nails into Grissom’s shoulders, rocking her hips forward in wanton thrusts, pushing herself against his mouth as the electric shock of beautiful, nasty tension seared through her in wild jolts from the center of her pussy outward. Sara clutched Grissom with her hands, her long leg and as her passion slowly abated, she slowly slumped against the wall, sighing heavily.

Grissom shifted her thigh from his shoulder and rested his cheek against it, loving the feel of her warm damp skin against his slick face. The heady scent and taste of her lingered on his mouth and he sucked on his lower lip happily. He knew he needed her badly but for the moment he was the only thing holding her up, and the fierce pride in having reduced her to this limp, sated softness kept him on his knees.

Sara moaned, shifting her wet ass off the wall and looking down at the top of Grissom’s head. She couldn’t quite focus, not with the glasses askew off one ear, and when he turned his face to look up at her, he smiled.

“I’m still hungry, Miss Sidle,” came his little growl. Sara tottered off to one side of him and reached for the bed, sliding herself across the coverlet. With languid abandon, she slid out of her panties and patted the mattress.

“Come here—“

He didn’t need a second invitation. Grissom moved off his knees and to the bed, feeling a twinge in his legs and ignoring it in favor of greater needs at the moment. Sara pinned him, holding his big wrists down and kissing him deeply, licking her slickness from his mouth in a wild little frenzy between their mouths, punctuated by puffs of breath, groans and soft sexual threats.

“Mine, Grissom, right now you are SO mine . . .”

“WANT you, damn it, Sara, please honey, I NEED you . . .”

She shucked his jeans down, sliding a slender hand into his boxers, caressing him only to feel the wet head throb against her fingers. Laughing, she dropped her mouth to his ear.

“Oh Mr. Grissom. I think I could take care of this very nicely if you’re good . . .” she tugged the boxers down.

“I’ll be good,” he gasped, “Completely good, just . . .”

Sara shifted again, moving Grissom until he was over her, propped on his hands, his belly kissing hers, the hot impatient nudge of his thick cock along her hip. She pushed up on his chest and sat up.

“Just a minute—“

Puzzled, Grissom rose up on his knees, magnificent in his nakedness, cock rising from the heavy thatch of wiry grey fur. Sara carefully folded her legs, sitting Indian style, then rolled back, keeping her legs folded. Grissom looked down at her, then placed one big hand on the point where her ankles crossed right under his chest. Her thighs were widely parted this way; the gorgeous flare of amber fur lay parted and open to his gaze, her slick raspberry cleft gleaming enticingly.

He leaned forward, guiding himself with the other hand, and the tension, the exquisite compression of her supple body around him made Grissom groan loudly. He thrust, unable to hold back anymore, compelled to take Sara now, hard and fast and deep. Arching, he rocked into her, driving his cock into the lush caress of her wet sex.

She gave a low cry of pleasure, arms snaking up to wrap around his shoulders as he braced his hands on either side of hers and pumped. Sara watched him, studied Grissom’s face and loved the achingly intimate expressions blazing across those familiar features. Grissom in the heat of animal lust was terrifyingly gorgeous. His half-shut eyes blazed, his mouth formed low urgent growls and the soft trickles of sweat ran down his forehead and dripped onto her.

Sara rolled her hips, feeling a soft but no less urgent wave of desire building up. She laughed, and let her words urge him on.

“Oh yeah, yeah, you want it, yes, I know you do, take me, Grissom, nice and deep, feels so fucking good, love it, want it so bad don’t you—“

His hips were ramming hard into her now, finess gone, only raw lust riding his spine as he growled.

“Sara, Sara God gonna come HARD, Jesus baby HARD, I . . .”

He dropped on her, arms giving out as the staccato thrusts drove him on. Sara felt pinned, and the hot surges of his cock against her slick walls were enough to send the little roil of desire into a flame between her thighs. Mewling, Sara came again, dazzled by the flashes of white going off behind her eyes.

When she opened them again, Grissom was looking down at her, his expression so tender it hurt to see it. Carefully he reached down and with his teeth along the side of her face, took his glasses off of her nose.

“ ’I. Oo ook coot in ease.”

“Mmmmm, not as cute as you do. I love you in glasses, you look all seducible in them, you know?” she murmured, content with the feel of his body on hers.

Grissom chuckled a little through the mouthful of earpiece and shifted, sliding free of her body and rolling onto his back next to her. For a moment they lay together in silence, and Grissom slipped an arm around her shoulders.

“That was . . . particularly intense. I can’t believe how sexually compelling you are when you’re . . . authoritative.”

“Dominating?” Sara teased, but very, very softly. Grissom turned to kiss her damp temple, his lips moving against her hairline.

“Not quite dominating. But definitely—confident. And the glasses were appealing in that schoolteacher way. Miss Sidle is far and away my favorite teacher for lunch.”

Sara laughed, burrowing into him, kissing along the edge of his beard.

“It’s a nice way to say goodbye to this place, actually, living out that old fantasy of mine. Thanks for doing it. I know it wasn’t really what you were expecting, but—“ she kissed him again, “I appreciate it.”

Grissom laughed, tightening his arm around her.

***   ***   ***

Greg looked at his mother, his expression a jumble of tenderness and relief. She was sitting up in bed, already crocheting, with Peter holding her yarn. She smiled at Greg and patted the edge of the hospital bed.

“Hey stranger. Who’s got Wyatt?”

“Oh! Um, Catherine and Lindsay wanted him for a visit so I slipped him their way. So, when can we start packing?”

“Already packed and ready to go. The nurse is coming with the chair in a few minutes,” his uncle commented softly. Greg sat down and reached for his mother’s hand, squeezing it softly. She squeezed it back in a perfect little moment.

“So.”

“So.”

“So.” Peter smiled. “Tell us about this Clem girl you kissed.”

Missy’s eyes widened and she stared at Greg. “You kissed Clem?”

“No I didn’t—well sort of, but it wasn’t on purpose, it was an accident,” Greg protested. Peter shot him a doubtful look and Missy’s eyebrow went up.

“So let me get this straight—you accidentally kissed Clem and didn’t mean it? What’s wrong with you? What’s wrong with her?”

“Nothing! Nothing’s wrong with her OR me, Mom! Clem’s a very cool girl and I’m sure she’d be great to kiss, but I didn’t really kiss her, okay?”

“How can you not really kiss somebody, Greg?”

“By missing their mouths, mom. It was—“ he foundered for a moment, “—a grandmother kind of kiss. Sort of on the corner of her mouth, you know? A slip of the lip. And why are we even talking about this anyway?”

His mother sighed, and looked down for a moment, setting down the crochet hook and yarn.

“Because you’re a young man, Greg. And you’ve been alone a long time, and because I don’t want you missing out on a chance to date even though you’re a father. You deserve a shot at love you know, even if the first one didn’t work out.”

Face flaming, Greg looked from his mother to his uncle, seeing the mutual guilt there.
“So you’re talking about my lovelife behind my back. Great, just what I need—Norwegian matchmaking. So on your advice I should date Clem, fall in love with her, marry her, have babies and start a new generation of Sanders right here in Las Vegas, right?”

A little movement caught his eye, and as he turned to face the door he saw the bouquet first, and behind it, the startled blushing face of Clementine.

She dropped the flowers, and darted away, leaving all three Sanders staring.