Comfort


He’d taken her home.


They’d kissed.


They’d gone out the next night, come home and kissed much more.


They’d skipped going out a few days later and settled for a lot MORE kissing. And touching. And urgent removal of clothing.


They’d very nearly made love, stopped only by an early call in that neither of them appreciated one damned bit.


They decided they needed to plan this, if it was going to happen, because both of them very definitely, NEEDED this to happen before somebody got hurt—mostly likely whoever called them in early again.


*** *** ***


His place versus her place. The relationship was new enough for each to want to make a good impression, which meant some hesitation. Finally Grissom urges her to come over, shyly hinting that she might want to bring a few things.


Sara’s face hurts from grinning, and by the end of shift, she feels tingles everywhere.


His place is just as she remembered it, but with a bouquet of fresh flowers on the kitchen counter, next to a bottle of wine. She sails into his arms and feels his heart beating fast, a sweet syncopated rhythm with hers.


I’m so nervous,” she whispers.


I’m so happy,” he replies.


Sheets, skin, touching, kissing, fumbles and her low giggle mingling with his pleased rumbles, the taste of toothpaste and lipgloss, the shocking, hot sight of pale, bare bodies so long imagined now reality merging in slow delight. Shyness, hunger, the rise of needs growing and that glorious moment of merger when intellect gives way to simple undeniable biology. Heavy breathing, kisses, whispers of tender truths.


A shower later they are still shy, learning about each other. Sara is glad she brought the pink robe; his approving glance makes her smile. Then he takes his turn in the bathroom and emerges in pajamas.


Pajamas. Sara bites her lip, feeling a wave of affectionate amusement at the sight of him in the garish blue and white set, and his anxious look quells her initial comment about looking like a Hawaiian convict. Grissom glances down at them, shrugging.


Every year my mother gave me pajamas for my birthday,” he murmurs. “And every year I donated them to Goodwill. The year she died, I realized this would be the last pair I would ever have from her.”


Sara blinks back a sudden surge of tears. She walks around the bed and into his arms again, moving to kiss the exposed hollow of his throat, a place she’s looked at and longed to taste for years. She can’t say what she feels, so she pulls him to the bed and gently undoes the buttons, laying aside his mother’s gift to make love once more to the man.


Before they slip into the blissful coma of sleep, Sara presses her lips to his, her voice low and husky. “I love . . . your pajamas.”


And Grissom laughs softly, falling into sleep with her in his arms.


                                      
                                               
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