“It’s synthetic fur,” Nick announced with relish, “A nice easy to trace polymer used to make stuffed animals. Primary buyer of the stuff is the Yasnana Toy Company, who uses it for their Rica, Kes, Kirstin and Suzy dolls.”

“Cuddle Honeys? “ Grissom asked softly. Both Sara and Catherine shot him surprised looks and he shrugged.

“It’s the Christmas season, and you’d have to be deaf, dumb and blind not to have been broadsided by the advertising. Even I know about Cuddle Honeys.”

“Will wonders never cease? I thought you and I had enough of plush animals with the whole raccoon/lamb/wolf love triangle,” Catherine snorted as she reached for the pot of coffee. Sara suspected Grissom’s information had actually come from Sophie; she glanced at Nick’s report to hide her smirk.

“Well, given the layout of the convention floor, there are about ten tables selling Cuddle Honeys or their accessories, so we can divide and conquer, talk to the sellers.”

“What else have we got so far?” Grissom asked smoothly, letting his glance move from Nick to Sara. She flipped through the files in front of her.

“I have the guard’s rounds as verified by his electronic key. His circuit is monitored and recorded by the security computer. The cameras show him at his five different checkpoints right on time throughout the day, including the one for the vault, all the way up to four o’clock when they mysteriously went dark.”

“Broken? Unhooked?”

“Lens covered with Silly Putty. No fingerprints, damn it,” Catherine muttered. “Usually that stuff is great for good clear prints, but not this time. The patty was about the size of a flattened tennis ball and hardened on the lens.”

“Premeditated. So all we have at the moment are fibers. Let’s follow those then.”

The group broke up, moving out of the break room and into the hall. Sara hung back and Catherine shot her an exasperated glance that she pretended not to see. Nick looked over his shoulder and grinned, cocky and confident.

“Hey Sara,” he crooned, crooking a beckoning finger at her as he paused in the doorway. She lifted her chin, her expression knowing but soft.

“Nice try Nick but—“

Hodges appeared behind Nick’s shoulder, clipboard in his hands; he pushed past and as he did so, lightly leaned over, kissing the other man’s cheek.

“Shit! What was THAT for?” Nick spluttered, wiping a palm over his face in distaste. Hodges blinked patiently.

“For fifty bucks and the cheap thrill of it all, of course. Are there any other questions I can answer for you?”

Sara and Catherine each fished out a twenty and a five from their pockets, laying them into Hodges’ outstretched palm while Nick looked daggers at them both. Catherine was pink and breathless; Sara’s deep chuckles bubbled out so brightly that after a few seconds more of indignation, Nick softened a little, beginning to laugh himself. Hodges loftily ignored them all and poured himself some coffee.

“So how long have you two been planning THAT little trap?” he demanded wryly. Sara and Catherine exchanged knowing smirks.

“Ever since we heard you brag to Archie you were going to nail both of US before the weekend, Stokes. Don’t think word doesn’t get around this lab, buddy boy,” Catherine warned.

He shook his head and sighed, then wandered off down the hall. Hodges sipped his caffeine and sighed dramatically.

“And now—he’ll never call, never write . . . “

“Yeah, well you’ve been well compensated for the heartache, believe me. Whoa . . . Sara . . . ” Catherine trailed off. Sara glanced at her, puzzled.

“What?”

“Here—“ Catherine handed her a napkin from the stack near the coffeemaker, “You laughed so hard your nose is bleeding. Come on, let’s get back to Toyland and see if we can find some green fur.”

*** *** ***

He caught her. Sara stiffened, trying to look innocent, as if poking around in the upper cupboards in the garage was a perfectly normal activity, but the twitch of her shoulders gave away her guilt, and Grissom leaned against the garage doorframe, his arms crossed over his chest, waiting.

“I was looking for bleach,” she lied outrageously, turning around to face him. Grissom shook his head, eyes twinkling.

“The bleach is on the shelf over the washing machine. Don’t give me that Figaro face, Sara. Be honest and admit you were snooping.”

“I don’t snoop, I investigate, and anyway you told me there’s nothing here, so technically that would nullify these circumstances since there wouldn’t be anything to find,” Sara shot back with a tentative look of triumph. Grissom pushed himself off the frame and walked over to her, looming.

“You of all people should know that a search is still a search, whether or not you come up with anything viable at the end of it. It is a process, regardless of the results, Acushla. Face it, you’ve been naughty and you’ve been caught.”

Sara looked up at him through her lashes, knowing how susceptible Grissom was to that maneuver. He drew in a deep breath and his mouth twitched.

“Nice try, but I still think you deserve a spanking.”

Sara quivered. They stood close enough to feel the exchange of heat from their bodies, close enough to drink in the mingling scent of their skin, inches away from touching each other. She lifted her chin, and her voice was husky.

“You. Wouldn’t. DARE.”

Grissom paused, as if considering the challenge hanging in the air between them, heavy with erotic possibility. Reluctantly he shook his head, his glasses catching the light from the overhead bulb, his bluff called.

“You’re right. I’d never strike you Sara, not even in play.”

Sara exhaled slowly as she tried to figure out why she felt slightly . . . disappointed. She blinked a little, caught in the odd excitement a the thought of being over Grissom’s lap, of him peeling her thong down, of feeling the sting of a soft smack from his big hand.

“It’s not the same,” she protested softly, trying to explain, her words sounding slightly strangled. “You’ve swatted my butt more than once before, Grissom, and I never took it as anything more than playing around. We both know that.”

He leaned down close to her ear, a hot breath tickling it as he spoke.

“It’s a game you’ll have to show me then, because I don’t know what to do.”

Sara wetted her lips. Very carefully she reached out and took one of his hands, caressing it in hers, stroking the long fingers and broad palm. He watched her, saying nothing, just letting her play with his hand.

“You’re a big guy. All over, Grissom. When I’m near you, I always feel . . . daintier, which is really weird because I’m not a dainty kind of woman. But something about the set of your shoulders, and span of your arms . . . “ Lightly she lifted the hand and laid the palm of it on her cheek, “. . . Totally cranks my femininity. Around you I blush, and stammer and generally make a fool of myself all because the chemistry is so intense.”

“Pheromones. Attraction, hormonal surges,” he nodded with a slow smile. His fingers stroked the velvety softness of her cheek, his thumb caressing her cheekbone. Sara nodded.

“But there’s more to it. Our bodies are only one part of the whole connection, at least for me. The more I’m with you, the more I realize there are so many things about you that are amazing. You’re like an iceberg with only enough of the real you showing to fool people. But underneath, that’s where the real Gil is. The one I keep falling in love with.”

“Sara . . .” moved by her words, Grissom blinked a little, rubbing his thumb over her full lips. She kissed it.

“All my life I’ve been pretty average. I did things the way a lot of people do. Maybe a little faster at times, maybe a little more intensely at times, but all in all pretty average.”

“You’re anything but average, Sara,” Grissom assured her, pulling her into his arms. She hugged him for a moment, then pulled away to look up into his face, her dark eyes bright.

“What I’m trying to SAY is that you’ve given me opportunities I haven’t had before, Grissom. Alternatives. Options. Variations. Chances to try what I’ve only heard or read about. You know what I’m talking about.”

Grissom nodded; Sara let her hands slide from around his rib cage down the slope of his spine to his buttocks. He eyed her quizzically.

“So in the interests of fairness, if I have to show you, I’ll need your . . . co-operation. Unless you think I’d be too rough on you.”

Grissom’s eyes widened and he tried hard to hide his surprise and amusement as he locked gazes with Sara.

“Let me get this straight. You’re the one who was caught snooping--red-handed I might add--and YOU think you’re going to spank ME.”

“That’s pretty much the general idea, yeah,” Sara replied, as if this outrageous statement was perfectly reasonable. “After all, you did just suggest I show you.”

His expression shifted into a wary mirth; a clear if unconscious reflection of his own self-assurance as both a man and a bigger person. The look was as good as a thrown glove, and Sara gave a squeeze, making him grin a bit more broadly.

“Sara, the last person to spank me was Sister Martha back in fourth grade at Sacred Heart Elementary and despite the contact, it had little impact. However, if you truly want to spank me, you may.”

“Brave words,” Sara scoffed playfully, then demanded, “Why did you get spanked at school?”

“I got into a disagreement with Sister Martha over scorpions. She insisted they were insects but I told her, correctly, that they were arthropods as are spiders and lobsters.” His voice held a dry note Sara knew was spurred by the long remembered injustice.

“So she spanked you for arguing?”

“No, she spanked me for commenting that she wasn’t a good science teacher. Tact was never my strong point.”

Sara laughed, then asked, “Your mom never spanked you?”

Grissom’s expression shifted abruptly, and he shook his head as he hugged Sara a bit tighter.

“No. Whenever I did something wrong she would look at me and simply sign ‘I’m disappointed in you.’ And it was always enough. I would rather be hit with a two by four than see that look in her eyes.”

Unexpectedly Grissom realized the same could easily be said of Sara now, and that his easy consent of a moment ago was clear proof of that. Before he could ponder this epiphany further, Sara began to massage his ass, which proved amazingly distracting.

“Welllll, given the density of muscle here, I suppose I could give it a shot or two, strictly for the educational experience.”

“And I suppose I can endure your best efforts . . .” Grissom replied loftily. Sara added a pinch, which made him grunt a little and glare at her.

“THAT was not a spank.”

“THAT was to get you paying attention. Go into the bedroom Mr. Grissom and give me a moment to join you.”

Intrigued but unintimidated, Grissom did as she asked, slipping out of the garage and through the kitchen to get there. Sara had repainted the bedroom a soft sage, and found a lovely border strip of silver dragonflies that matched the spread. A framed watercolor of a moon bridge and garden hung on one wall.

He sat in on the edge of the bed and glanced at himself in the mirror of the Chinese armoire, trying not to grin as he noted his appearance: jeans, black polo shirt, bare feet. A sound made him look up; Sara stood in the doorway, hands on her hips, glint in her eye.

“Take your clothes off for me, Mr. Grissom. All of them. Slowly.”

“This is supposed to be a spanking, not a strip show . . .” he complained, but in a daze. The sight of her in a tiny pink tee shirt and matching panties sent a strong surge of arousal right down his spine and through his cock. She said nothing, standing there, eyes locked on him, and Grissom felt the slow shift of power begin. He drew in a shaky breath.

“Sara . . .”

“Now.” Her tone stayed firm yet light; he let his jaw work back and forth for a few seconds, eyeing her. Slowly, Grissom stood, and pulled his shirt off, draping it on the arm of the chair. Sara stayed in the doorway, letting it frame her haughty stance as she eyed him. He reached for his belt buckle and undid it, then pushed the jeans down in easy unhurried movements, stepping out of them. Grissom laid them over the shirt and stood in his boxers, looking slightly discomfited as his covered erection thickened under Sara’s serious gaze.

“Amazing. I haven’t even begun and already the swelling’s started . . .” She chuckled in a deep sweet tone. Grissom blushed, his ears going red, blinking behind his glasses. Sara stepped into the room, gliding over to stand in front of him, watching his chest move as he breathed, seeing the pulse at his throat speed up a bit. The sweet animal beauty of Grissom’s face always awed her: his curly beard, the strong straight line of his nose, his big blue eyes, bright and intelligent. Sara smiled up at him.

“I believe I told you to take off all your clothes, Mr. Grissom.”

“So you did,” he breathed down at her, nostrils flaring slightly. His hands skimmed under the waistband of his boxers and he pushed them down his hips and thighs, letting them drop on the tops of his bare feet in a pile of blue cloth.

For a moment neither he nor Sara said a word, letting the lovely charge of adrenaline and desire build between them. Sara drew in a warm deep breath full of his scent and smiled.

“On the bed. Lie down on your stomach, Mr. Grissom, arms out to either side.”

He reluctantly turned from her and did as she asked; Sara kicked the boxers under the bed with a grin. Once Grissom was on the middle of the mattress he stretched his arms out, and they were long enough to reached the edge of the mattress on each side. Sara came over and knelt so that she was eye level with him for a moment. His face was turned to her, his cheek resting on her pillow. Sara reached out to brush an errant curl from his forehead.

“I’m thinking of a number between one and ten . . .”

“ . . . Two,” came his smug reply. Sara continued.

“ . . . That will be multiplied by three.”

Grissom glared at her; without missing a beat, Sara gently took his glasses off and set them on the nightstand. She walked around the bed until she was on the left side, between it and the French doors. Grissom turned his face to watch her, wary but waiting.

“So, six smacks, correct?” he asked. Sara arched an eyebrow at him and didn’t speak for a long moment, just savoring the sight of him stretched out on the bed, his broad frame and muscular buttocks tensing slightly. She finally gave in to her own grin.

“God you look sexy, babe. My own Playgirl centerfold, right here at home.”

The flush started at his face and Sara was delighted to see it move down his neck as well. Grissom snorted, his strong fingers gripping the edges of the mattress as he laughed. Sara bent down and slid her right hand over his ass; he tensed at the feel over her warm touch over his skin.

“No pinching—“ he grumbled. Sara made a purring noise deep in her throat.

“Bet Catherine would love to, if she ever got an eyeful of this.”

Grissom’s only response to that was to lift his head and glare at her, so Sara smacked his rump. A good swat, firm and loud. He stiffened in surprise, and Sara glanced down to see the red imprint of her hand on one cheek, the flush of it dark against his pale skin. She shot him a quick glance.

“That’s one.”

“I can count, thanks,” Grissom managed shortly. Sara noted the hard flex of his arms, the tension along his spine. Carefully she bent down and nuzzled his shoulder, kissing it lightly.

“I don’t want to hurt you, you know—“

“It doesn’t . . . hurt.”

Something in his tone caught her ear, and on instinct, Sara slid her left hand under his hip, ignoring his sudden shudder. Her fingers touched the steely velvet of his cock pressing hard into the mattress, stiff and searingly hot. Sara caressed it, and drew in a breath, slightly giddy with a wave of desire. She dropped three more quick smacks on his ass, feeling his prick throb violently in her other hand each time she did so.

When she looked up at his face, Grissom was lightly gritting his teeth, his eyes closed. Sara whispered,

“Two more. Think you can take it?”

“Yesss—“ came his soft hiss, low and seductive. Sara flexed her fingers, aware of her hand stinging, of heat radiating from it. She blew on her palm, then swatted Grissom’s backside once more with sizzle. He gave an involuntary grunt, although she couldn’t tell if it was in reaction to the slap or the stroking grip on his prick. Sara quivered. She could feel the building heat both on his skin and his cock, the coiling erotic tension tightening relentlessly with every stroke. Grissom was close to making a move and she sensed it with an almost swooning dread. Carefully, deliberately she brought her hand down one last time across his ass, putting more force into it than before.

Grissom arched his back, pushing himself up off the bed and reaching for her with brute speed, yanking Sara up and to him on the bedspread. The bed creaked under the sudden change of weight, and Sara gasped as Grissom’s hands slid ruthlessly over her body, yanking on the thong with furious haste.

“Off, NOW,” he growled. Sara struggled, trying to comply, but in a fit of lustful impatience Grissom simply grabbed the back strap in his fingers and wrenched it between his hands. The cloth made a shredding sound and Sara glanced down, stunned at the hanging tatters of her panties looking like a pink ragged loincloth in the afternoon light.

“Hey!” it was all she managed to say before his mouth came down firmly on hers, cutting off any more words. His tongue thrust between her parted lips, moving in as if it belonged there, and dizzy with lust, Sara sucked on it joyfully. She snaked her arms around him and let him roll her across the mattress, lost in the frenzy of heat and scent radiating off of him unabashedly male and aroused. Her slim thighs parted and the solid weight of him felt wonderfully heavy on her frame.

Grissom wetly broke off the kiss and drew in a shaky breath looking down at her.

“I don’t . . . I’m sorry but I want you so MUCH, Sara . . . I’m going to fuck you so long and so hard you’ll be clawing the ceiling . . . “

She wriggled under him happily as he shoved her tank top up and dropped his mouth on a stiff pink nipple, sucking hard. Her glance turned to the left, and the sudden, shocking sight of them wrapped around each other in the mirror of the armoire sent another hot jolt of desire through her body.

“Bad man . . .” she crooned, licking his ear. Grissom shifted to the other breast even as he settled between her thighs, one hand guiding his cock along the juicy sanctuary there. He nudged his way in an inch or two, throbbing.

“Bad girl . . .” he groaned back, then rocked his hips forward in a powerful stroke, sinking deep. Sara shuddered with the mind melting pleasure of his thrust, of feeling the sweet burn of his lust housed in her. She slid her hands down his strong back and lightly raked her nails over the pink handprints on his ass.

“Come inside me, Mr. Grissom, nice and hard . . .”

He needed no second invitation. Thrusting slowly, he settled into a deep strong rhythm, making the bed creak under them as he rode Sara hard. She angled her hips high, taking him deeper as she nipped his sweat-dampened throat and licked the hollows around his collarbones, feeling wild and powerful. The taste of his sweat, his soft groans and grunts all fired her blood and she felt the jolts of tingling desire sharpen, focusing tightly between her thighs with every thrust. Sensing it, Grissom dropped his head, bristly wet cheek against hers as his pace increased.

“Come for me, Sara, make me come, yessss--” he urged in a low desperate growl. She clung to him, nails raking his back through the sweat and along the muscles as her body shuddered. Nipples hard and aching, Sara gasped, cried out his name as she let herself climax long and hard; Grissom joined her, his orgasm melding into hers sweetly, naturally.

When he collapsed onto her she clung to him, and they both drifted off into the grey muzzy twilight for long moments, catching their breaths and marveling at the joy of the right place and time for this wordless soulful connection of body and spirit.

Finally Sara drew in a deep sigh of utter satisfaction, and rolled her head only to catch sight of Grissom watching her, his expression inexplicably tender. He smiled.

“You’ll be happy to know this did NOT happen when Sister Martha spanked me.”

Sara laughed.

*** *** ***

Some wit had hung a clipboard outside the break room door, and listed on it were the various couples who had managed to make it or get caught under Catherine’s saucy sprig of Mistletoe. The most frequently recurring masculine name was Greg’s, linked with several interns and dayshift technicians. The second most popular male was Nick, although his moment with Hodges had been crossed off forcefully in black felt pen.

Jacqui appeared twice, once with Bobby and once with David, and even Doc Robbins had made the list, linked with Catherine and followed by a red heart exclamation point. In fact, the only two names that did not show up on the clipboard were those of Sara and Grissom, although only Catherine bothered to notice. She carried her cup of coffee to the table and sat down, pondering the matter as Warrick came in and grinned at her. He paused in the doorway.

“Care for an encore?” came his light tease. Catherine smiled, going a little pink.

“Don’t want to set off the fire alarms now do we?”

At that, Warrick chuckled and strode in, taking a seat opposite her at the table. She slowly shook her head.

“You know, the only people who haven’t benefited from that mistletoe were the ones I’d hung it up for in the first place, and that’s a lit-tle disheartening.”

Warrick shot her a cynical look, tinged with amusement.

“Maybe it’s because it’s in too public a place. If you’re looking to get Grissom and Sara together you ought to hang it in his doorway instead. Or get another sprig.”

“Another sprig?” Catherine asked. Warrick’s mouth twitched.

“Yeah. I think Greg and Nick have about worn this one out.”

She laughed at that, sipping her coffee as he sighed. Warrick looked as if he was debating with himself, and Catherine shot him a quick, keen glance.

“Come on, spill. What’s on your mind?”

“I don’t know about forcing an issue we all know is there. Grissom’s not the kind of guy who rushes into things.”

“Yeah well he’s been not rushing this particular thing for damn near four years now, Warrick, and I for one am getting tired of it. I’ve watched Sara go from being a sharp, enthusiastic dedicated CSI to a distracted, withdrawn and prickly one.” Catherine paused a moment and added, “She’s gotten a lot better lately, but she still looks at him sometimes like she’s got a bag of nickels, and he’s the candy store.”

“True,” Warrick briefly grinned, then lowered his voice. “All I’m saying is that if he even suspects he’s being set up or manipulated he’s going to resent it, and I don’t want to see Sara caught in the backlash or in the line of fire for something that by rights should come back to you, good intentions or not.”

Catherine cocked her head, her eyes full of mischief, but her voice soft and subtle.

“Out of all the things Sara’s tried to get Grissom to notice her, manipulation ain’t one of them, Warrick. When was the last time you saw her flirt with him?”

He thought back, chagrined at being unable to draw up a clear image of anything within recent memory. Conceeding defeat, he shrugged. Catherine nodded.

“So mistletoe is pretty mild. But you have a point about sticking over HIS doorway—bringing the mountain to Mohammed might be all we’ve got right now.”