He’d never done it, Sara
realized. Oh he’d witnessed it, been annoyed by it, ignored
it, but as for actually doing
Not Grissom. Not once in all his years.
Sara smirked at that. She’d done it, once or twice. When Grissom asked her about it, she told him yes, and had seen the slightly jealous glint in his eye and it warmed her. He had nothing to fear at this point, but it did flatter her that he was piqued about her former partners, even now.
But Sara was sure nearly everyone else had done it at least once in their lives; it seemed a natural and spontaneous sort of deed; an unplanned but delightful diversion. Certainly Catherine had—probably to full culmination, and considering the other team mates, Sara could easily picture each of them in action as it were, from Warrick through Greg, easily caught up in the process--Oh yeah, they’d all done it, she was sure of that.
It hardly seemed fair that Grissom had been deprived.
With this in mind, Sara plucked the entertainment section of the newspaper up and scanned the offerings, determined to help Grissom through his missed rite of passage.
The Crest Theater was an older establishment on the end of the block, just beyond the main civic renovations, but still within the next phase, the slightly seedier section of the city. They parked the car in a pay lot, and walked, holding hands all the way to the glass booth out in front of the theater. Grissom was waxing enthusiastic about the featured attraction, filling Sara in on half-remembered scenes, his face alight with expectation. She nodded, her own thoughts a bit preoccupied as a doubt struck her.
Maybe she should have picked a different movie.
After all, Grissom sounded thrilled to be seeing Mothra VS The Sea Beast. He seemed genuinely delighted with the date, and if that was the case, then maybe this wasn’t the time to try what she had in mind.
Sara loved the man, and she knew better than to come between him and a giant moth.
Still, she could give it a shot, and if things didn’t work out, at least she’d have popcorn and good company. With this cheering justification in mind, Sara smiled and took the ticket Grissom handed her, then followed him into the lobby.
It was a cavernous affair, dim now, but clearly sporting hints of past glory. Grissom glanced up at the chandeliers and smiled gently. “A bijou—not many of them left. I hope the city will spring for renovation over demolition.”
“It’s huge,” Sara agreed, looking at the sweeping staircases that rose on either side of the snack bar in front of them. “They actually have a balcony?”
“Best view,” Grissom told her. “We’ll go up there.”
Sara hid her smirk. They bought popcorn—no butter—and Good and Plentys, and a pair of sodas, all of which set Grissom back another twenty dollars. Before he could gripe, Sara scooped up all the goodies and nodded towards the right staircase. Carefully they ascended the curve up to the second level, and Grissom held the door open for her to the seats.
The balcony level was at a slight angle, and Sara noted that the seats here were plush burgundy velour, with liftable armrests. She looked to Grissom, who motioned to the middle section, just off the left aisle. They were mid-way down from under the projection booth, and still six seats behind the balcony railing. From here, Sara could see the entire lower level, noting seven other people in the theater.
“Wow, good thing we came early and beat the rush,” she murmured, deadpan. Grissom shot her a dry glance that he couldn’t hold; he smirked and settled into the seat, moving the armrest between them out of the way.
“Mothra fans are few, but quality,” he countered. “Want me to sing her theme song?”
“You’ll hear it soon enough,” Grissom predicted confidently. “All during the opening credits, in fact.”
“Oh be still my heart,” Sara snickered. “Candy please—“
“No. The official rules are, no eating any candy or popcorn until the lights go down,” Grissom told her firmly. Sara gave him her best deprived little girl pout, and he tried to stare her down, but when she added the tiny quiver of her bottom lip, he caved, handing over the box of Good and Plenty.
His sigh was harsh. “You’re going to be trouble, aren’t you?”
“Nothing but,” Sara assured him with bright-eyed glee. “Want one?”
“I’m following the rules,” he told her with a hint of smug virtuousness in his voice. She laughed huskily, and slowly the lights went down all through the theater. On the screen, light flickered, and then the slow grinding soundtrack geared up to speed, revealing a newsreel, the nicked and patched film moving through a story about increased corn crops in the Midwest. Sara watched it with vague amusement, tickled to see how Grissom cleared his throat and officially began to nibble at the popcorn.
“Does it taste better because you waited?” she whispered. He shot her a glance, and for a moment his smirk widened.
On the screen, the newsreel ran on and ended. A short subject film began about the sunny beaches of Majorca, circa nineteen sixty three, complete with women in Jantzen bathing suits and cat’s eye sunglasses. Sara giggled at the dated fashions.
“Those can’t be comfortable—“
“Which those?” Grissom wanted to know. Sara gestured to her own chest, her hands forming cone shapes in the air.
“The, um, torpedos.”
“Well,” Grissom paused for a moment glancing at the screen, “They are going in the water—“
“Grissom!” Sara shot him a scandalized look, but his innocent expression dissolved her in to giggles. For a while they said nothing, watching the rest of the travelogue in companionable silence, crunching on the popcorn.
Sara noted that the theater was fairly dark, and that their seats were well under the projection light; a bonus for her plan. As the Mighty Mouse cartoon rolled on, she shifted, taking her time to allay any suspicion.
She undid a button on her blouse.
It was a thin scoop neck sweater in cranberry, one that she knew Grissom particularly liked on her. There were eight buttons on it, and Sara wondered how many she’d have to undo before he noticed. Betting with herself she estimated five—six, if there were serious monster battles in the movie.
Sara settled back into her seat. She was aware of a soft sound coming from the man sitting next to her, and it took a moment for her to realize that Grissom was in fact, humming the theme song that was coming from the theater speakers.
Grissom was in a wonderful mood. When Sara had suggested the movies he’d been skeptical; he wasn’t a fan of most modern offerings, especially in horror. But she’d mentioned the Crest and he’d perked up, knowing full well that the features there were more along his line of preference.
Mothra had sealed the deal. Oh yeah.
Quietly thrilled that the woman he loved was willing to watch the giant moth he rooted for, Grissom counted it as a great afternoon in the making.
He grumbled a little at the price of the concessions; since when had popcorn cost as much as both tickets? But Sara motioned to the balcony, and the sweet view of her ass sauntering up the sweeping staircase was enough to make him move after her, eyes riveted.
Sara in tight jeans was always enough to leave him a little dry-mouthed, and the cranberry sweater was a personal favorite. The combination of the two made him happy, and as he settled into the velour seat next to Sara, he made sure that the arm was out of the way so he could feel her against his side.
She suckered him out of Good and Plentys with that pout of hers; the one that could make her look like a Keane painting with big sad eyes. Grissom knew it was all a ploy, but he couldn’t deny her anything these days, much less a box of licorice candy.
He loved to hear her laugh. Sara hardly ever did at work, and in a way Grissom was glad other people didn’t get to hear that husky chuckle of hers. Happy Sara made him happy; it was a sign that all was right with the world, and he’d never been more grateful that he had his hearing so that the sound of her giggles could enthrall him.
The newsreel was interesting in historical context, and Sara’s comments about the travelogue made him laugh in return. The cartoon ran on, and then it began, the sweet familiar theme, and he hummed it, feeling as if he was a ten-year-old again, ready to cheer on the misunderstood moth and her adversaries. Sure the entomology was skewed, particularly in the whole life cycle sequence, and clearly the writers hadn’t looked at the coloration of too many real moths when putting together the script . . .
It didn’t matter. Mothra was still a beauty and always would be.
Grissom glanced at Sara to she how she was faring, and that was when he noticed her innocent grin. Something about it bothered him, and even as he looked back to the movie, it nagged at his thoughts. He tried to concentrate on the impending doom of Tokyo, but after a few minutes he figured out exactly what had caught on his radar.
Grissom glanced again, and noted that not one, but two buttons were now undone, revealing a lower cleavage than Sara usually showed in public.
This was disconcerting.
This was arousing.
This was, Grissom stared at the movie, unfair.
He leaned back and slid an arm around her shoulders; Sara snuggled against him, and in doing so, Grissom felt her warmth.
“Cold?” he asked her innocently.
Sara shook her head. “Is that enormous larvae really going to push over the control tower?”
“Yep. That’s not one of the usual job hazards for air traffic controllers,” Grissom told her confidently. “Except in Japan, of course.”
Sara reached towards his lap for the popcorn bucket. “Bet it’s hard to recruit for the monster-prone positions—talk about a HR nightmare.”
“Yes, I’m sure explaining the high turnover rate is tough,” Grissom agreed. He deliberately kept his eyes on the screen, but even so, caught the sly shift of Sara’s hand as she undid another button.
So that was the game.
Grissom fought for his poker face, feeling a jolt of delight through his body as he remembered a past conversation with Sara, and understood the immediate ramifications of it.
Mentally he debated in a split second the next course of action. If he did anything, she’d stop unbuttoning. If he pretended not to notice, however . . .
Grissom wondered if she’d go for all eight buttons. It would be fun to force her to do so by playing dumb. The heat along his stomach intensified, and he kept his gaze on the giant screen, determined to be a pure as possible.
Even if it killed him.
Sara was feeling . . . impish. Down four buttons now, and try as he might, she knew perfectly well that Grissom was NOT clueless about her situation. He was striving to keep his attention front and center, but his flickering glances were giving him away, and it was flattering as hell to know that Mothra had competition for Grissom’s interest at the moment.
She leaned towards him, shifting her shoulders to increase the gap of her blouse and offer him a nice view of her breasts. They were halfway exposed now, not bare yet, but certainly an eyeful for anyone.
“Do you have anymore soda?” Sara whispered. Grissom reached for his cup, fumbling a little as he handed it to her. Lasciviously, Sara mouthed the straw, then sucked, bending her head down over the cup.
She heard Grissom exhale loudly and knew he’d been peeking, oh yes. After a good mouthful, she handed back the cup, licking her lips before saying thank you. Grissom was looking at her in the dark, and she could see the glitter of his eyes as they deliberately looked from hers and moved down, across her body. For a moment Sara held her breath, chest arching deliberately. Not quite a taunt, but a coy move; an invitation.
He leaned forward, gesturing gently, and Sara cocked her ear towards him, not sure what Grissom was going to say, bracing herself for the heat of his breath against the delicate, ticklish places. Grissom’s lips were so close that they brushed her skin.
“What are you doing?” came his soft rumble, slow and sweet. Sara felt herself grin as the sweet rush of arousal surged through her, tightening her nipples in a way that the air conditioning never could.
She turned her head and let her lips graze against his ear, gratified when she felt Grissom shudder under that light touch. “Being very, very quiet for the movie,” Sara whispered back, ending her reply with a kiss on the shell of his ear.
This time Grissom’s mouth slid along the side of her cheek before reaching her ear, and his voice was deeper as he leaned against her in the dark. “Oh reeeeeeally?” he slurred. “Not making any noise?”
Sara fought the urge to squirm; the heat of his popcorn-tinted breath had her skin pebbling into goosebumps, and the timbre of his voice . . . .
It was his sex voice, definitely, she knew. The one that came out when he was aroused and focused on her. The one that could get her feeling like a kitten skittering around a big dog.
“Shhhhhh----“ she chided him, licking his sideburn. “It’s Mothra.”
“Nami no yo ni yatte kuru--“ Grissom murmured playfully, translating, “Like a wave, you’d come—“
“Oh shit, don’t talk about coming—“ Sara moaned. Grissom leaned towards her, his hand sliding under the open edges of her blouse to cup her bare breast. The feel of his thumb flicking slowly against her nipple made her gasp as hot tingles ran from his touch to straight between her legs.
She closed her eyes, all the better to focus on the sensation, arching back against the seat and letting her skin drink in the warm stroke of Grissom’s fingers. He knew how to play with breasts, Sara knew, oh yes. Light, teasing touches, little patterns on her skin, gentle and slow caresses that frankly, drove her nuts.
The first time he’d ever touched her chest, she’d come, Sara remembered with a hint of embarrassment. She’d been SO worked up; tense, aching, hungry for him—and the softest stroke of Grissom’s thumb over her bare, hard nipple had set her off like a firecracker.
He’d been thrilled. So thrilled that the minute she’d touched him---
Ah well. They were both much more relaxed nowadays.
She hoped, anyway. The way Grissom was working her up right now was pretty intense, and she fought the little whimpers that were rising up in her throat as his hand slid from one breast to the other in a lovely lewd way. Once again Grissom pressed his mouth to her ear, his tickly hot breath making her shudder with pleasure.
“You’re . . . cold,” he whispered thickly. “Scoot closer.”
Sara did, shifting her butt over so that she could lean against him, her blouse definitely open now that his hand was in it. Grissom tightened his arm around her shoulders, holding her close, giving himself easier access to the long exposed line of her throat and chest.
He licked her gently under her ear, right at the pulse point where the skin was thinnest and most sensitive. Sara squeezed her thighs together and felt deliciously dizzy.
Hot. The word fit for how he felt, inside and out, Grissom decided. He sensed the rise of his body temperature, the degrees climbing upward each passing minute as his senses ratcheted up. On the widescreen down below, Tokyo’s mass transit system was having another monster-induced traffic stoppage while right next to him, Sara was breathing hard.
“Uhhhhhhhh---“ she squirmed a little; considering he’d just totally copped a gentle squeeze on her right breast, her sigh made him throb. Grissom fought a grin.
Making out at the movies—all of a sudden he understood the appeal of the act, very much so. The scent of Sara mingling with popcorn, the buttervelvet of her bare skin under his questing fingers, the taunting pebbly rivet of her nipple---
Grissom pushed her blouse open wider, exposing the whole of her right breast, and the flicker of dim light over her naked skin sent another surge through his rapidly growing erection. Sara’s gaze was slightly glazed now, and she licked her lips, not moving to cover herself up—not that anyone from down below could really see anything. The light coming from the projector window overhead was in front of them, shielding them behind its light.
Grissom kissed her warm wet mouth, then moved down her chin; eagerly Sara lifted it, and he skimmed down her long throat, moving south at a slow pace, feeling her rapid breathing under his lips. The sensations were rolling in waves through him now, throbbing through his dick as he let his tongue slide out to lick her skin.
Mothra be damned, Grissom thought sacrilegiously; the giddy thrill of exciting Sara in public was putting him on overload, and he slid his left hand along his inner thigh, rubbing himself.
Sara reached for him, one hand sliding over his along his leg, her touch shifting up to his full groin. Grissom had to muffle a groan against her breast.
Shit. He was going to lose control if they didn’t slow down.
Grissom’s mouth reached her nipple, and he sucked it hard; Sara bent her face to the side of his head, burying her helpless gasp in his curls.
They both paused, trying to calm themselves, lingering in the moment of pleasure in the darkness. Sara nipped his hair, her fingers raking through it. “You make me feel like . . . Tokyo,” She told him.
Grissom laughed, his chuckles vibrating against her breast. His hand shifted from her stomach down to her jeans; deftly his fingers popped the metal button open. “Then you need to be laid bare to me—“ came his husky whisper as he slid his hand down into her opened jeans.
Sara lifted her hips slightly, her own hand slithering on top of his, pushing his palm deeper. Grissom felt the warm softness of her curls and slid his middle finger gently down, finding the slick seam of her cleft. The dampness there left him breathing hard now, but he concentrated on gentleness.
That was the erotic secret to Sara, he knew. Gentle touches, delicate caresses. Getting her off meant slow and soft . . . .
She wriggled against his fingers, hips rolling in a sexual grind, and Grissom throbbed against the seam of his own jeans at the sight of both their hands in her pants, moving sensually. Sara pushed her palm against his tendons, ground her pelvis against his fingers, and groaned.
“Ohhhbabe---“ she sighed, “Niiiiccce----“
Nice was not the right word, Grissom decided. This wasn’t nice at all---
No, it was nasty and wonderful. He sucked her nipple again. Hard.
Sara was having an out-of-pants experience, and she was all for it.
After all, the Crest was dark, the movie loud and Grissom’s hand was playing with her clitoris in sweetly obscene ways that had her hissing and tensing. She wanted more, yes much more. Right now. She writhed and rocked her hips, thrusting herself against Grissom’s teasing fingers, trying to increase the pressure and whimpering with delight.
In-sane. She wasn’t a hormonally charged teen anymore; she had control over her desires—well Sara had thought she did, but somehow things changed the minute Grissom got his mouth on her nipple. The brush of his mustache in that hard pleasure/pain scrape on her already overcharged skin had her mewling like a kitten and hungry for more.
Restlessly she squeezed her thighs around his hand, making it cup her vulva, and in response Grissom pressed back, just where she wanted it. Sara gave a musical moan of approval; the sound just under the tense dialog of the narrator warning that this could be a long battle.
Sara hoped not. Seeking out his mouth, she kissed Grissom hard, thrusting her tongue against his, slickly, shifting to suck on his lips. One of her hands snaked into his lap, and the discovery of his hot and tented jeans thrilled her pride; it was good to know Grissom was definitely distracted from the action on the screen.
She opened her knees wider, and rubbed against his palm, pressing it hard with her own hand until the pressure was perfect.
Sara rocked her hips, stroking, letting the glorious arousal build into a hard, tight little knot of need, knowing after a few minutes that she was going to come, and come very hard. Her body tensed in glorious anticipation and she puffed into Grissom’s mouth, her words slurry even as the sweet wild rush began from the tension in her nipples, rolling down her clenching stomach.
“Ohhhhfuuuuuuuck-----” she groaned into his mouth, letting him swallow her words even as she felt her clitoris pulse against his hand, a stiff little bud overloaded and tender, making her shudder and flex against their hands deep in her panties.
She closed her eyes and rode it out, only vaguely aware of anything outside of her hot thighs, the blissful sag of muscle and satiation eventually letting her slump back in the velour seat. After a few seconds, Sara opened her eyes and sighed, the breath leaking out of her like a deflating latex balloon.
SO damned good.
She didn’t care that her jeans were around her knees and that she still had her hand on top of Grissom’s in her panties now, nor that onscreen, Mothra was using some sort of extremely hokey death beam on something rising up from the ocean.
Grissom shifted, his mouth pressing damply against the corner of her mouth and Sara could feel his grin on her cheek. “Shhhhhh, we’re in a theater,” he chided her gently, kissing her all the way up to her sweaty temple.
She pulled her hand from his and tugged his wrist; reluctantly Grissom withdrew his fingers from her wet curls and brought them to his nose, inhaling while he kept his gaze on hers. Sara bit her lip at his look of lustful mirth.
“Rich and sweet," he commented, licking gently. Sara shifted, pulling up her jeans, feeling her underwear clinging now.
“Are you sure you’ve never done this?”
Grissom shook his head. “No, but I’ve watched it a few times.”
Sara’s mouth dropped open and he shrugged, trying to look innocent. “Well, occasionally the movie was . . . less than engaging.”
“You are such a secret pervert,” she replied with mock gravity. “And here I thought I was teaching you something new—“
As she spoke, Sara let her hand drop to his groin.
Grissom grunted a little. “Careful—“
Sara opened her eyes wide and held his gaze.
He hadn’t thought things would go quite this far, but damn it was glorious. Sara--his Sara in heat, urging him on, rubbing herself against his hand, so incredibly wet--
Close to losing it again, Grissom chided himself. He’d managed to hang on to self-control, but it had been damned close, and now Sara’s questing fingers weren’t helping at ALL. On the screen, Mothra was going all out in battle mode now, her eyes glowing.
Sara’s eyes weren’t glowing, but Grissom found he couldn’t look away from them. She leaned towards him and suddenly both hands were tenderly kneading his crotch. Grissom drew in a sharp breath, caught between wanting to stop her, and just riding out the sensations.
Then she undid the fly buttons, one by one. Grissom could feel his eyes widen; felt his pulse race in a skippy jump because this was getting tooooooo damned dangerous now. She knew his wardrobe; Sara knew his preference for minimalist dress—
“Commando Grissom—we meet again,” she murmured, and he tried not to laugh, but every now and then Sara could do that; make him happy and horny with the same expression.
She touched his shaft, squeezing the base firmly, the way he’d taught her so that the initial rush of sensation didn’t have him ejaculating right away. Grissom groaned a little, dropping his hand on hers. “Sara---“
Grissom had no idea what to say. She was looking at him, languid-eyed and grinning. He throbbed in her hand, responding, rubbing ever so softly with tiny pushes of his hips.
“I think I better drain your death ray—“
He barely had a chance to understand her pun before Sara slowly bent forward, slid her mouth around the hot, tight plum of his cock, and Grissom’s head thunked back against edge of the theater seat so hard it hurt.
Nami no yo----- He bit his lips hard, the pleasure rising hot and hard now as he felt her tongue slip up along the underside, the tender, sensitive underside of his prick--
---ni yatte kuru! Grissom’s hands moved, one lightly along Sara’s back, the other gripping the armrest on the other side of his seat. His hips thrust in little desperate strokes, clashing with, then moving in, sensual harmony with Sara’s wet mouthed suction.
The seat creaked very softly. Grissom didn’t care. He kept moving, unable to stop, the core of pleasure accelerating through him, pumped onward by Sara’s soft slurps. All of it: the theater; the taste of Sara on his tongue; the light and shadows; her mouth and hands moving on his aching dick were swiftly converging now, and Grissom closed his eyes, letting himself ride the hot blinding erotic flare that seared down his spine and through his heavy balls.
“Sarrrraaaa----“ he gasped in a whisper, “Nami no yo ni yatte kuruuuuuu----“
She gurgled. Grissom was past caring, his chest heaving a bit as he tensed under her, pulsing in pleasure, his hands heavy. He tried to breathe.
Yep, that was the word all right. It was wonderful to slump back, grinning up at the towering ceiling of the Crest. Grissom felt like melted Jell-o; warm, boneless and liable to slide right off the seat.
He gave a happy groan and stroked Sara’s back, a sense of blissful satisfaction washing through him, mingling with love and deep gratitude.
After all--how could he not adore the only woman on the entire planet who’d blow him at a Mothra movie?
They sat through the credits and walked out holding hands, smiling smugly. Sara tried to look innocent, but there was a wicked twinkle in her rich brown eyes. She squeezed his fingers as they headed back to the parking lot. “So . . . did you get a lot out of the movie?”
Grissom glanced over at the love of his life, and strove for a deadpan expression. “Out of five stars, I give it four hundred and twenty eight. He paused and added, “only two of those are for the movie.”
“Two stars for Mothra versus The Sea Beast,” Sara mused happily, “and four hundred and twenty six for-----“
“---inducting me into the joys of semi-public erotic interaction,” Grissom replied promptly. “You realize this changes how we need to select our future movies.”
Sara leaned closer, her warm laugh low and for his ears only. “Really? Because I saw that there’s going to be a Gamera Versus Rodan feature next month—two hours of a giant tortoise and pterodactyl flattening Tokyo again and again and again---“