Nibble


“ . . . And so to say thank you for all your help in getting my lovely things back I just wanted to drop these off,” the little old lady beamed at Sara. Uncomfortable but polite, Sara reluctantly took the paper bag, feeling warmth seeping through it. The wafting scent of freshly baked cookies rose up like an edible perfume and she couldn’t help but smile.


“Um, thank you Mrs. Machina. They smell great.”


“Oh they’re special,” the woman nodded knowingly. “Packed with καλές προθέσεις και impure ωθήσεις. Just the thing you and that courtly Mr. Grissom need after a long night.”


Sara blinked a little, not sure what to say. The words didn’t make any sense, but Mrs. Machina was looking at Sara in a meaningful way, dark eyes as shiny as apple seeds. She leaned closer and Sara had to bend down to hear her speak again. “Oh you know--καλές προθέσεις και impure ωθήσεις! Best to devour those while they’re still hot. Let them work from the stomach out. Promise me!”


“Mrs. M—“ Sara began, feeling a little trapped. The cookies DID smell wonderful, and it had been quite a while since her last Grande of coffee; weakly she found herself nodding. The crone smiled happily.


“All right then!” Pulling her sweater closer around her, and giving her cottony hair a pat, Mrs. Machina shot a look around the glass halls of the lab and gave a sigh. “Technical achievements are good, but sometimes something a bit more . . . hands-on is needed.”


“Uh, yeah,” Sara agreed, as visions of all the aspects of evidence collecting came to mind: the dusting, the bagging, the sorting and reconstructing. Hands-on was a darned good way of describing the job. The old woman’s head turned sharply, as if she’d read Sara’s thoughts, and an impish smile crossed her wrinkled mouth.


“That’s not what I meant, dear, but it’s a start. And if you’d do a favor for an old lady 
. . . I’d be grateful if you’d make sure that passionate Mr. Grissom gets the first cookie. After all, he did manage to get my Simon out of the chimney.”


“He did, didn’t he?” Sara smirked at the memory of Grissom examining the fireplace, the huge black cat dropping on his head amid the sound of claws scraping on the flue bricks, and a muttered vocabulary of surprising obscenity. Apparently Grissom DID know certain Anglo Saxon words, and could hiss them with delightful menace when the situation called for it.


Mrs. Machina nodded. “Yes. And the bleeding stopped fairly quickly, so it’s all to the good. Anyway, I’m certain my cookies will put some things back in balance. I’ll be off then, and thank you so much, Miss Sara. Remember-- καλές προθέσεις και impure ωθήσεις!”


“Is that . . . safe? Edible?” Sara questioned. The little old woman nodded.


“Both—“ Mrs. Machina replied. “It's just an organic enhancer that ought to wake up a few taste buds. Enjoy!”


Sara watched the old woman sweep out down the hall, her long black skirt brushing the polished floor, then turned away, feeling slightly bemused. Mrs. ‘Deusa E. Machina was not the first eccentric old lady she’d ever met in the course of a case, but she was certainly one of the most interesting. With a sigh, Sara made her way down the hall towards Grissom’s office, paper bag in hand.


*** *** ***



Grissom examined the photo with the magnifying lens and absently rubbed at the small Band-Aid on his neck. There was something about the setting that irritated him, but it kept eluding him, nagging at the edge of his awareness; something on his radar that wasn’t coming into focus. A knock at his door made him look up, and Grissom felt a sharp flush of pleasure at the sight of Sara there, smiling.


“I come bearing gifts from our latest victim.”


Grissom beckoned her in, silently savoring the sweet curve of her hips, the gleam of her hair. Sara looked very good today. Healthy. Savory. Good enough to—


“—Cookies. Mrs. Machina insisted you have the first one. They’re—“ Sara held back, not sure if she should tell Grissom about the mysterious ingredient the old woman claimed were in them. She set the bag on his desk. “—An apology for the whole cat on your head . . . thing.”


Grissom scowled, briefly. “Yes well the hazards of the job are many and varied.” He eyed the bag and sniffed a little. “Chocolate chip?”


“I didn’t look. She did say you were supposed to get the first one.”


Grissom wished that hadn’t sounded so suggestive, but then again, Sara said it, and everything Sara said these days took on a tinge of innuendo. He felt at times as if he was back in high school when certain verbs and entire phrases made him automatically think of sex. He was a man; he thought about sex as a matter of course, but in the last few months it was as if some renewed surge of hormones reared up every time he was around Sara.


Then Grissom wished he hadn’t acknowledged that. The word rear brought Sara’s to mind instantly. So taut, so tempting, so . . . God damn it--grab-able. Out in the field a lesser man would have at least brushed against it and apologized. Grissom could only sneak peaks and fight his dry mouth. Sara’s ass was a thing of beauty, worthy of at least as much attention as the other magnificent features on her.


“I’m a little hungry,” he admitted in a slightly choked tone. Sara parked a hip on the edge of his desk and folded her arms over her chest. That reshifted his focus upward, even as his bloodflow headed south.


“Well, since nobody else can have one until YOU do—“ she motioned to the bag. “Dig in to my proffered goodies and have at them.”


Great. More sexual imagery crossed his mind instantly. Sara in nothing but a tiny red and white checked apron, her long naked legs and tempting chest peeking out from both ruffled ends. Cookie dough everywhere, waiting to be smeared and eaten off of her shoulders and flat smooth tummy, her navel filled with chocolate chips he could slurp out with his tongue—Somewhat desperately, Grissom grabbed for the bag, the rustle of it loud in the office.


Sara pursed her full mouth, fighting a laugh as she watched Grissom open the sack and reach into it. He was rattled; although why cookies would get to him she didn’t know. Maybe it was some weird Betty Crocker fantasy--- impishly she conjured up an image of Grissom, strapped naked to her kitchen table with dish towels while she iced his nipples with frosting and drew pink and green arrows down his rounded tummy towards his—


“Well they look good,” Grissom’s words broke into her smutty reverie. Sara felt heat on her face as she blinked and tried to look demure. Tried, anyway. She glanced at the cookie. Ohhhh . . . it was a thick craggy disc of confection perfection. Studded with chips, wrinkled and heavy, the rich perfume of sugar and chocolate wafting through the room. Grissom held it up and she wanted to crawl over the top of the desk and eat it out of his fingers. Then lick those fingers clean. And keep licking.


Grissom stared at the way Sara stared at the cookie. Heat flooded parts of him that did NOT need any more heat at the moment and he shifted a little. This was getting surreal; after all it was just a cookie. A big, heavy cookie probably made with real butter and brown sugar, thick and sweet, the perfect flavors to taste deep in Sara’s mouth—


“Man I want a bite of your . . . cookie,” Sara admitted while fighting her salacious thoughts. Confessing to one appetite was safer than just staring in silence, and letting Grissom assume the worst. He blinked, his blue eyes wide and intense.


“Here—“ he held it out swiftly, gaze locked on her wet lower lip. Under the desk Grissom was all too aware that his personal hydraulics were in action, rising like a toll bridge, like a train crossing gate—inevitably, inexorably. He didn’t dare risk standing, not at this point. Enough of him was already starting to do that.


Sara leaned further towards him across the desk and as she braced one hand on his blotter, the unmissable view down the front of her blouse drew his gaze instantly. Grissom firmly bit the inside of his cheek, letting the pain make him blink and fight the allure of that creamy rounded flesh. So many things could slip between those dainty mounds--


“Tell you what—we’ll go halvsies. That way you get yours first along with me, okay?” came Sara’s husky offer. God that sounded smutty, but she was DYING for a bite of that cookie, especially right out of Grissom’s grip. She’d always had a thing for hot chocolate chip, and right now Sara could almost see the wisps still rising off the treat.


Grissom nodded, sure that steam was rising off of himself as well as the cookie; he could certainly feel the heat. He took the cookie between his two hands and broke it in half, watching the gooey chocolate of the semi-melted chips stretch out between the halves in sinful lace. Sara slipped a long finger under the strands and caught them before they dripped on the blotter. The thick chocolate lines across the pad of her index finger blatantly beckoned Grissom.


Someone was breathing a little loudly now, and he was pretty sure it was him.


Sara gazed at her finger and drew in a happy breath. Yes it would be tasty and sweet, yes oh yes she wanted the chocolate, but more than that in this lusciously weird moment she knew that Grissom did too. And that if she held her finger out right now, he’d slip it into his mouth without a second of hesitation.


And THAT trumped the chocolate, big time.


Grissom stared at those gleaming cocoa bands on Sara’s finger, breathing in the rich scent, feeling his stomach do a flip flop. Sara. Chocolate. Chocolate. Sara. The most succulent combination since Chocolate and FantasySara. The pull was too much to resist, and even has Grissom dipped his head forward he hoped to God his hard-on wasn’t going to rap against the underside of his desk.


The minute Grissom’s mouth slipped over Sara’s finger, a soft duet of muffled moans echoed in the office. Sara felt as if a cannonball had hit her stomach, leaving her breathless. God! Grissom’s lips were soft, and hot and tender and HOT. His tongue slid around her finger in a wicked glide, cleaning the gooey chocolate and caressing the skin in ways that should be downright illegal. The sight of his closed eyes and blissful expression as he sucked was damned near enough to flood her panties, and Sara groaned again, feeling her nipples flush hard and hot against her shirt.


Grissom sucked harder. The chocolate added an exotic tinge to the overwhelming thrill of Sara’s index finger. To be able to stroke it with his tongue, to caress it under the pretense of slurping chocolate made him shiver. And this was just her finger, for crying out loud.


Sara cried outloud, softly, as the pad stroked the ridged roof of Grissom’s mouth, and his bottom teeth scraped her knuckle. Instantly Grissom softened his jaw and slid his tongue along the skin, soothing it tenderly. He wanted to grip Sara’s wrist to steady her hand, but his two fists were filled with half a squashed cookie each, and he really really didn’t want to pull back from licking chocolate to look at the mess he was making. The one in his hands was pretty bad now too.


Sara fought a wriggle, torn between wanting to let Grissom keep making love to her finger, or pulling it out with a naughty ‘pop’ and replacing it with something much nicer. Like her tongue. Clearly the crime lab’s resident entomologist had amazing oral technique that he’d been suppressing, and damn it, it was high time she promoted a little cookie-munication with the man. Sara reached out and tugged on the mashed remains in Grissom’s big left fist with her free hand.


Messy. Hot. Sara knew those were supposed to describe the cookie but in truth she like how they applied to the man reluctantly letting her finger slide out of his sexy mouth. Grissom looked rumpled, aroused and with those wide blue eyes, a little stunned. She looked down at his hand.


“MY cookie—“ Carefully she lifted his hand to her mouth.


Grissom squeezed his thighs together and tried to get his breathing under control. The heartbeat was out of the question now—galloping along and accelerating—but he might be able to stop wheezing like a Hoover unless Sara . . .


And she DID it, of course, ohhhhh God slid her wicked probing tongue along that delicate webbing between his fingers tickling him unbearably, making his dick throb so hard it was a wonder the stitching along his fly didn’t give out. Sara had lips like slippery marshmallow, and she was moving them across his palm, her tongue flicking out in a way that was sending fresh erotic jolts up his arm and down his stomach, going lower in a mighty big way. If this was the way the cookie crumbled, Grissom could live with that. Yep, yep, yep-


Harsh impatient footsteps made them both blink; there was no mistaking the sound of Catherine on the warpath. Grissom glanced to the closed office door, feeling the sharp flare of panic setting in—why did the odor of cookies have to carry?


Sara scrambled. Moving with determined stealth, she scooted over the top of Grissom’s desk and folded herself up, sliding under it in one sweet CSI-ninja maneuver that startled the hell out of him. Where had she learned that? WHEN had she learned that? And dear God, now she was . . . right in the line of fire, as it where—


The door flew open, and Catherine Willows stood there, hands on hips, her scowl determined and ferocious. “Gil, let me borrow your scissors.”


“My . . . ?” he muttered, acutely aware of how completely stupid he sounded. Sara was under his desk, undoubtedly getting an eyeful of his, er, cookie enhanced batter beater, and now he had to try and deal with the Willownator.

Catherine swaggered forward, sniffing the air.
“Your scissors. I am going to do something I should have done a LONG time ago, and nobody around here is going to stop me.”


Grissom merely stared. It was all he COULD do, because just as Catherine started her words, he felt Sara’s warm hands on his knees, squeezing them. Oh God. Knee squeezes! That was absolutely knocking on the door of his lust and demanding a cup of sugar.


Maybe not sugar, exactly, and at this rate it was going to be more than a cup---


“Oh yeah. I am giving Nicholas Stokes a damned HAIRCUT. I’m tired of that man looking like the poster child for Dorks Are Us. Greg is one thing—Sanders deserves whatever hair he wakes up with, but I won’t stand by and see Nick make the rest of us suffer. You know what he said to me when I told him my plan?”


“W-what?” That sounded normal. Grissom felt sweat trickle down the back of his neck. Sara’s hands were massaging his knees, pushing them open a bit. The scent of cookies still hung in the air.


“He said, and I quote--this is a crime lab, not a beauty parlor,” Catherine muttered disgustedly. She looked down on Grissom’s desk and fished the scissors from the cup near the phone. “Hey, is that for sharing?” came her hungry demand.


Grissom’s eyes widened as he took in the implications of THAT loaded statement. No way! There was only one person he was going to share anything with at this delicate moment.


In the dark under the desk, Sara took in the warm texture of Grissom’s Dockers and appreciated the hell out of the dim- lit view before her. Knobby knees, sure, but his thighs were strong, and considering what else she was getting an eye-full of she suddenly understood Grissom’s bow-leggedness. Talk about heft! Impulsively, she ran her palms up his thighs, knowing perfectly well that with Catherine there he’d be forced to keep his hands on his desk. Under her touch his muscles tensed, but she rubbed again, feeling them tremble; and in that lovely moment Sara realized just what καλές προθέσεις και impure ωθήσεις meant.


It was no longer Greek to her.


“The cookies. I know YOU didn’t bake them, so they have to be a gift—mind sharing the wealth, Gil?” Catherine demanded pertly. She reached for the paper bag and shoved a hand in. “And geez, your fingers are disgusting!”


“I . . . “ Grissom glanced at his palms, both which were coated with smooshed cookie and globby chips. One was noticeably cleaner than the other, and the clean-ee was down between his knees at the moment. Grissom stammered again. “I . . . didn’t realize . . . “


“That you’re a chocolate-coated mess? It figures,” Catherine managed through a muffled mouthful. “I guess deep down all men are little boys when it comes to their appetites.”


Grissom knew that wasn’t true—HIS appetite had nothing to do with anything remotely boyish, and deep down, Sara was certainly reaffirming that. He felt her hands shift to cup him through his slacks, and the little trickle of sweat along the back of his neck grew heavier. Catherine stared at her own cookie and smirked. “I think you’re going to need a tissue before you’re through—thanks for the clips and chips—“ With a wave of her hand she stalked out, moving like a sleek Great White on the hunt for a hapless baby seal named Stokes.


The minute the door closed, Grissom pressed his smudgy palms down on his blotter and groaned, loudly. From under the desk came a husky giggle.


“Saraaaa---“ he pleaded, caught between wanting more touching, ohh yeah, much MUCH more touching, and recovering a faint, fading awareness of good sense. “Honey, this is insane—“ he gurgled just as his office door opened once more, and Greg Sanders hung off the frame, grinning at him hopefully.


“Hey boss—Catherine mentioned you were sharing something sweet and gooey—may I?”


“Greg—“ Grissom croaked. Taking this as an invitation to come in, Sanders did, his gaze firmly locked on the paper bag sitting on the desk.


“Man you can smell the chocolate all the way down the hall—whoah, they’re like the size of manhole covers! —“ Greg muttered, fishing deep into the bag. “Geez, Grissom if this is the bounty you receive, you should get more cats dropped on your head more often—“


Under the desk, Sara was gently, ruthlessly tugging on the little metal tab of Grissom’s fly, pulling it down one tiny tooth at a time. She worked her shoulders between his knees, loving the black excitement of touching him so blatantly. It was insane, but God for this moment she had him, trapped and turgid—there was no way Grissom could deny the Vesuvius she was staring at as her fingers freed him.


Grissom twitched, and glanced up at Greg, his eyes bright and slightly crazed. “Takethebag.”


“Whaaa?” Greg asked through a mouthful of cookie. Grissom blinked and repeated his words one at a time, expounding his meaning to make himself completely understood. “Take-the-bag-TO-the-break-room-and-close-the-door-beHIND-you-Greg!”


“Oh,” Greg nodded, managing another semi-smirk coated in semi-sweet. “Gotcha. I guess you’re busy. You’re behind your desk for a reason.”


Grissom could barely nod. Sara’s fingers were sliding into his boxers now, touching very excited flesh in a way that was making it a hell of a LOT more excited.


Above Ground Zero, Greg reluctantly scooped up the crumpled bag of cookies. “Okay, but you know if I take these to the break room, you probably won’t be getting any.”


Grissom strangled his groan. “Trust me Greg, you couldn’t be more wrong. Just take them—“ he motioned with his bearded chin to the door, hoping the younger CSI didn’t notice his messy palms pressing flat on the blotter. Greg gave a shrug and turned.


“Okay, you’re the boss—thanks for sharing, man.”


A few steps and a door slam; Grissom groaned deeply as talented, talented fingers slid up and down his urgently delighted shaft. “Jesus Sara, you can’t—Uhngghh!” Grissom lost all talent for language, along with his objections as his dearest object of lustful fantasy giggled and slid her steamy mouth over the head of his cock.


Sara gurgled. Not only was Gil Grissom an amazing entomologist and brilliant CSI, he was outstanding in his trousers, a man of girth and just as cookie-charged as she was. It was clear to her that what she was ‘doing about this’ was meeting with his approval.


Big time.


And hers—Sara slid a hand into her slacks, frantic for a little concentrated pressure of her own as she applied creative suction all along the watchtower. Grissom tasted like salt and chocolate and musk, an enticing blend that made both of her hands dance in a steady rhythm—one on him and one on herself.


Closer, closer, closer—Grissom sank his front teeth into his lower lip, his crumb-coated hands clutching at the blotter, crumpling the paper. His stomach tensed, and the low erogenous squeeze building behind his heavy balls suddenly clenched hard and hot, sending sullen pleasure-filled spasms through him in long pulses.


Sara gurgled again, and then gargled, feeling the thick flood surge past her palate and down her throat, the liquid heat amazingly erotic. The knowledge, the warm wet reality that she’d not only sucked Grissom’s cock, but made him come as well made her fingers slide firmly between her legs and she gave herself over to the waves of bliss flushing over her skin, prickling it with sharp sweet sensuality.


They both slumped, Sara under the desk resting her cheek on his knee, breathless and dazed, Grissom hunched over his desk, utterly stunned and damp, his mind as rasa as a tabula could get. He couldn’t move; not with his spine currently melted like a Hershey bar on a dashboard in summer. Finally Sara shifted, and began to move; Grissom pulled back enough to let her crawl out. She rocked back on her haunches and looked up at him, catching his eye deliberately.


Sara swiped her tongue over her lips, a naughty sparkle to her dark brown eyes. “Cookies and . . . cream,” she sighed happily. Grissom moved.


Reaching down he caught her by her slender upper arms, and lifted her up, setting her ass on the desk, He tipped his face and kissed her, deeply, tongue sweeping into her mouth as if to scoop the words out of it. When he pulled back, Sara looked dizzy,


He spoke up, his tone husky and imperative. “Sara I love you. I love you I love you and by the way, do you . . . own . . . an apron?”


end


                                            
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