The main
dining room of the
Damian
Kanahoe’s features were clearly Samoan, with high
cheekbones, a broad face, a chiseled mouth and thick hair as glossy and
black
as a crow’s feathers. He wore his height and size well for a
man almost six and
a half feet tall and was currently devouring what looked like two full
breakfasts.
Across
from him in the morning light, Grace Pachelli was
petite and curvy, with a natural wave to her thick brown hair. She had
it loose
now, and it flattered her more than the chignon she had worn the day
before in
Vegas.
Grissom
and Sara came
over, seating themselves as Damian signaled a waiter. Within minutes
everyone
was settled in, and Grace looked from one to the other.
“Morning!
Rested? Good, because we have a lot to catch up
on,” Grace smiled, waving a piece of toast at the group.
“Damian and I are in
the Panoramic Suite down the hall from you two. I’ve got the
latest information
from our labs regarding the photos and Damian has the possible profile
of our murder.
We’ve been given an expense account for this case
that’s been supplemented by
our Embassy connection, so we need to do some shopping this afternoon
for the
party on Friday night. Naturally we can’t take in a crime
scene kit, so we’ll
have to disguise it under a toy box. I’ll need a prioritized
list of what
you’ll need for it, Mr. Grissom.”
“Just
Grissom will do,” he replied, buttering a croissant.
“How big will the box be?”
“Standard
tackle box most likely. Damian and I have one with
a false bottom that we’ve used before, so you have the
benefit of that one,
plus the new one we’ll make today. The sooner you get me that
list, the sooner
I can have the supplies in place. Do you have room in your suite to set
up some
processing equipment?”
The
waiter came back, setting the fresh fruit platter in
front of Sara and an omelet at Grissom’s place.
Grissom
nodded. Damian smiled, and finished a mouthful of
pancakes before he spoke. “Beautiful. I have a guest list for
the party and
I’ve been working with a few of our best profilers in finding
some points of
interest among them. I don’t know if you’ll
recognize anyone, but it’s best to
look them over to check. I think Grace was going to take Sara over to
Gothica
while you and I hit Stormy Leather. Any questions?”
“Uh
yeah, I’ve got one,” Sara muttered in a slightly
rebellious tone. When everyone looked at her, she let her gaze go from
Grace to
Damian and asked, “Exactly HOW did you two become experts in
this very
exclusive subculture? And why is the FBI even interested in
BDSM?”
To her
surprise, Grace laughed, sipping her pineapple juice
before answering.
“Fair
enough. Sara, may I call you Sara? Thanks. Well, Damian
and I have been partners for almost eight years now. He’s a
psychologist, with
a specialized field in sexually motivated crime, and I have a degree in
biology
focusing on reproductive cell typing.”
“Which
translated for the civilian world means she’s the FBI
jizz whiz, and I’m the pervert pro. Never let it be said the
Bureau doesn’t
have a sense of humor,” Damian muttered with a twisted smile.
Grace shot him a
fondly exasperated look and continued.
“It
did seem an interesting pair-up. We were called in for
most of the sex crimes that either crossed state lines or involved
criminals
who’d done time for federal crimes. In the course of our
work, Damian and I
found we both had sufficient working knowledge of the BDSM scene to
pass as a
pair of players. Naturally this was enough to get us assigned to
anything that
involved the alternative lifestyle, even cases that involved other
agencies
like the Secret Service or Interpol.”
“We’re
not much appreciated, but we ARE in demand, if you
understand the situation. Fortunately Grace is a hell of an actress,
otherwise
we’d have been made years ago,” Damian rumbled,
grinning. For a second Sara
didn’t understand, but Grissom spoke up quietly as he
finished the last of his
omelet.
“You’re
. . . gay.”
“Very
much so. One of those little ironies that litter our
sordid tale here.
So I have to play big
bad Master to a slave who spends most of her time trying not to giggle.
I don’t
get no respect I tell ya.”
“Shut
up, Damian, I DO respect you, I just have a hard time
taking you seriously when you’re doing your Charlton Heston
impersonation in
your biker leathers. Honest to God, you just kill me.” Grace
shot back, and
Sara felt the flow of genuine affection between the agents. Damian
sulked for a
moment, then glanced at Grissom.
“At
least I don’t have to wear the G string and five-inch
heels. Not that I COULDN’T, but—“
Sara
laughed, and Grace snorted, almost choking on a piece
of toast. Satisfied with his small revenge, Damian checked his watch
and shot
Grissom a look.
“Not
to push it, but we have a lot of errands to run, so we
need to get moving. Grace, when do you want to meet up?
Lunch?”
“No,
let’s say four, back at one of the suites. Any change
of plan we can call and reorganize if we need to. And
Damian—behave.”
“Yes,
mom—“ he shot back with a soft grin. Excusing
themselves, the men rose and left the table. Grissom followed Damian to
the
front of the hotel and waited with him as the valets found them a cab.
Once in,
the agent looked at him.
“First
things, first. How do you feel about getting back in
the game, Grissom?”
“Is
that a professional question or a personal one?” he
responded sharply. Damian shrugged.
“Either.
Both. It can’t be easy, even knowing it’s all for
charade at the moment.”
Guiltily,
Grissom thought back to the night before, about
the dark arousing thrill of having Sara on the other end of the phone
slowly
getting naked. He managed a smile.
“It’s
. . . interesting. As you put it, the capacity to play
will always be a part of me. I’d forgotten how it . . .
intensifies
sensations.”
“I
understand, yes,” Damian nodded. “And
you’re lucky that
Ms. Sidle is already in a strong personal dynamic with you that falls
along
authoritarian lines. Do you have any idea what sort of scenario would
be best
for her?”
The taxi
rumbled up a hill and through traffic as Grissom
pondered Damian’s question. Finally he shrugged.
“She’s
a tactilist, with control issues. I don’t think
she’ll be ready for bondage beyond verbal and symbolic
ritual.”
“So
you can get her to wear a collar and follow your orders,
but she’s not going to let herself be tied up or
down,” Damian neatly
translated. “Fair enough. Grace is a kinesthetic with more
than enough practice
in rope play to suit the setting. If Ms. Sidle is tactile, perhaps
she’d respond
well to waxing.”
“I’d
thought of it,” Grissom admitted, pleased to hear
Damian using more formal terms of address for Sara. It was good manners
in any
society, but definitely a hallmark of the lifestyle, where another
Dominant’s
pet was always treated with respect. “And she might do well
with spanking,
although I don’t think anything harder than that would be
effective.”
“It
won’t be a problem. If anyone asks, she’s still in
training. All right, here we are—“
They
climbed out of the taxi in front of a tall brick
building where a sign in Old English lettering read Stormy
Leather.
Grissom
took a deep breath, feeling his pulse speed up, a
frisson of anticipation move up his spine. As he followed Damian into
the shop,
the heady scents of suede and polished wood hit his nose. He looked
around
curiously.
Spinners
of jackets and coats stood in neat rows along the
shop floor. On the walls, racks of pants, suits and dresses hung neatly
by
color and size. Various displays of gloves, chaps, boots and hats were
scattered about with signs indicating what was on sale. The muzak
humming
through the air was low and slow; Grissom vaguely recognized it as
Stravinsky
as he stepped further into the shop. Damian was standing by a spinner
of
cattleman dusters.
“I’m
guessing a 2X for those shoulders of yours. Length?”
Grissom
came over, his expression slightly alarmed. He
looked at Damian suspiciously and muttered, “I
don’t know what sort of expense
budget you have at the Federal level, but a coat here is not a
compensatible
item in my line of work.”
Damian
said nothing for a moment, simply handing Grissom a
coat, his dark eyes unblinking. Reluctantly Grissom took the garment,
feeling
the weight of it, the soft texture of the black suede.
“Are
costumes for hiding one’s true self, or displaying it?
I’ve spend years studying that question,” Damian
rumbled. He motioned to a
three-panel mirror and Grissom drew in a breath. He pulled the coat on
over his
sweater, adjusting it here and there, tugging the shoulders into place.
He
studied himself in the mirror and felt his stomach tighten.
Dangerously
elegant. The coat gave him an air of quiet
authority, bringing out the silver in his beard, the cold blue glint of
his
eyes. The cut was right, long and lean, a few inches clear of the floor
and
draping the way a good duster should. He turned, stretching his arms,
testing
the flexibility of the sleeves. Behind him, Damian watched, his
expression
cautious yet indulgent. When Grissom looked at him, Damian nodded.
“Best
of both worlds, Grissom. Buy the coat; keep the
receipt. If you want to bring it back afterwards, you can, no fuss. But
for
Friday, you need to be in the skin of a dominant, and this is the first
step.”
Grissom
debated for a moment longer, then gave a nod and let
his glance sweep over the rest of the shop. Damian followed his gaze
and the
small smile grew broader.
“Now
that that’s settled, let’s
accessorize—“
***
*** ***
“I
hate shoes,” Grace muttered in honest annoyance.
“Forget
all the clichés about women and their love affair with the
damn things, I
completely hate them and that’s why I never spend more than
half an hour
shopping for them. I hope that’s not going to cramp your
style, is it?”
“Ah,
no, no—I’m not thrilled with it either. I pick up
some
of my best pairs at the supermarket—“ Sara
confided. They were standing in a
carpeted alcove, pawing through boxes and tissue paper, pulling out
shoes and
examining them. Sara was worried about the pairs Grace had set aside
for
re-evaluation—most of them were at least three inches, and
several had arches
so high they resembled miniature playground slides. Sara
wasn’t thrilled at the
idea of towering over Grissom.
Although---she
had a suspicion he did admire her legs, and
Sara was aware they were one of her better features. Clearly Grace knew
it as
well since she’d steered them into the boot and shoe section
of Gothica first.
“No,
no, no, YES!” Grace yelped, holding out a pair of
leather ankle boots. They had stiletto heels and complicated silver
buckles up
the fronts. Sara stared at them, wondering if she could even keep her
balance
in the damn things, and Grace was grinning widely.
“Definitely
F-me shoes, I know, but they’ll go good with the
rest of the outfit I have in mind, and you’ll have less
trouble walking in them
than you think. Try them on.”
“If
I break my ankle, it’s not going to help with the
investigation,” Sara warned. Grace sighed.
“Good
point, but you have to get into the site in the first
place, and these are probably going to be more comfortable than you
think.
Certainly less of a pain than what Damian will have me wear.”
“He
makes you wear stuff?”
“He
has a say, absolutely—he HAS to, otherwise it
wouldn’t
work. Of course, my boyfriend occasionally has fits about my work
clothes, but
that can’t be helped.” Grace murmured absently. She
looked up into Sara’s
puzzled face and managed an embarrassed little sigh.
“It’s
complicated. Not everyone understands.”
“Yeah,
I can see that,” Sara remarked, doing up the buckles
on the boots. “Let’s face it, you and your partner
look pretty . . . normal.”
“We
are normal. We just had different reasons for studying
the lifestyle, and the separate personal ones helped fuel the
professional
one.”
“Personal?”
Sara blurted, then bit her lip. “Sorry, I didn’t
mean to ask—“
Grace
blinked, and gave a little shrug, encouraging Sara to
stand in the boots. ”It’s okay. It started years
ago because I had a problem.
With sex. I figured out that I couldn’t have an orgasm with
someone else. By
myself, no problem, no pressure, but with a lover—it was
impossible.”
Sara
carefully kept her face in profile, surreptitiously
studying Grace, who was looking at her boots.
“Sounds
frustrating,” she ventured.
“Jesus,
you have NO idea! I tried therapy and courses and
massage, and well anyway, this went on for years. After Damian and I
were
friends I mentioned it to him and he told me that it was a matter of
control
within myself. I was so geared to please my partner that any hint of my
own
pleasure was like a betrayal by my body, and it would shut down my
responses.
And that made sense, finally. I understood that.”
“So
you had to stop thinking of your partner?” Sara was
confused, but Grace flashed her a quick smile, slightly embarrassed,
but
sincere.
“No,
more along the
lines of giving the responsibility up. If my partner was in charge of
me, I had
no options. Tied up, I’m not responsible for anyone
else’s pleasure, and
therefore, I’m free to feel--everything. It sounds so strange
to lay it out
that way, but it’s what works for me. I submit to my lover,
and in doing so,
I’m utterly free to climax. Of course I only act it out with
Damian, but I do
it for real with my boyfriend. Annnnnnd I’ve probably said
too much, but it’s
the truth, Sara. I practice what I preach because it works for me.
Those boots
are perfect.”
Sara
nodded, walking a few steps down the hallway, thinking
about Grace’s words and feeling a tingle in her chest. It
made perfect sense
that there would be reasons people did these things. She thought of
Grissom and
wondered about what little he’d told her. The knowledge that
he got pleasure
from her pleasure still sent low urgent pangs through her body, and she
wanted
him more than ever now. As she returned, Grace was in deep discussion
with a
clerk. The thin pale girl had so many piercings Sara wasn’t
sure how she could
even talk.
“Oh
definitely the leather. We have a vest that goes well
with it, and wristlets too—“
“No
wristlets—net gloves?” Grace countered. The girl
nodded
and disappeared while Sara slowly took the boots off.
Within
fifteen minutes she was staring at herself in a
dressing room mirror, her pulse a rapid beat at her temples. The woman
in the
mirror looked . . . well she sure as hell didn’t look like
Sara Sidle, CSI3
that was for DAMN sure.
The
low-slung black leather pants fit like skin, seamless
and smooth, a faint sheen to them. They barely reached her hipbones;
skimming
so low in the front and the back that Sara dreaded any bending she
might have
to do. And the little leather vest was a marvel of anatomical
engineering as
well. It was small and snug, wrapping around her upper body as tightly
as a
corset, and strung across the front were five delicate silver chains.
They were
the only things holding the vest edges closed, and Sara felt her
breasts strain
against them, creating a view of cleavage that startled her.
From
throat to just under her navel, Sara had never publicly
exposed so much bare skin in all her life. Her stomach was toned, and
that
helped, but the unexpected sensuality of it all shocked her a little.
She
stepped out, holding her gloved hands across her chest. Grace drew in a
breath.
“Ohh
Sara . . . I had NO idea how perfect your bone
structure really is! Oh you look wonderful! Absolutely scrumptious, in
terms of
S and M! I hope you don’t give Grissom a heart
attack—“
Sara
tensed, remembering that he would indeed, be seeing her
in this outfit. She began to wheeze a little, but Grace waved a hand in
front
of her face, shaking her head sternly.
“No!
No hyperventilating! We’ll take the outfit and
we’ve
got to keep moving—"
***
*** ***
When
four o’clock came Grissom looked up to see Sara stagger
in with arms full of bags. He moved to help her, amused at the shop
names on
them: Gothica he knew, but Jezebel, Killer Green and Bay MS he
didn’t. Sara
collapsed on the nearest sofa and rubbed her eyes as he stacked the
bags on the
other sofa and sat there, looking at her.
“Four
stores all at the furthest points from each other
possible. I have no desire to ever do this kind of Kamikaze shopping
ever
AGAIN, Grissom. And if it wasn’t bad enough, Grace made me
wear the shoes for
half the time to break them in.”
“Painful,”
he acknowledged, seeing only her usual
espadrilles at the moment. Sara sighed, continuing.
“I
have things in these bags that I never in my wildest
dreams ever thought I’d put good money down for. Clothes
I’ll never wear in
public after tomorrow night, and the hell of it is, it’s
amazing stuff.”
“Quality,
I know. It’s ironic to think that fetishists have
a higher standard for workmanship than the average consumer. Maybe
it’s because
for many of them it’s more of an investment rather than a
simple outfit.
Something to last longer than a fashion season.” Grissom
agreed.
Sara
rolled her head to look at him, and in that blue gaze
she found amusement and heat, all swirling together in a stare of
unmistakable
intent. She swallowed, hard.
“Grissom—“
she began, slowly sitting up, “Even though I
don’t really GET all the reasons why you’re into
this . . . way of doing
things, it’s--okay. I just want you to know that.”
He
looked as if he wanted to say something, but a soft knock
at the door, and Damian’s voice cut him off. Grissom rose to
let the agent in;
Damian carried bags of his own.
“Grace
tells me you hit the medical supply store, so that’s
great. I had a few lab people who owed me favors Fed Ex some other
things too,
so we can get cracking on putting together a decent kit.”
It took
a while. The black leather case was narrower and
wider than a standard field kit, more like a briefcase, and Sara had to
prioritize. She and Grissom checked over the standard supplies, adding
a few
and reconsidering others. In the end, they had enough to check and
collect
fingerprints, blood, semen, footprints, trace materials, insects and
ash. All
of it packed neatly under the lining of the case, organized and tidy.
As Sara pushed
the felt back down tacking it in place with Velcro, Damian sighed.
“I
took the liberty of having some toys and tools for the
main part of the case. The thing will be checked cursorily, so you need
the
accoutrements for a few scenes. Cuffs, fur-lined, a gag, some cinnamon
oil,
matches, candles, fur-lined blindfold . . .”
“I
have a few other things to add,” Grissom murmured,
carefully setting each item in the bag, “Later. Thanks,
Damian. Where’s Grace?”
“She’s
arranging for the manicure/pedicure for herself and
Sara for tomorrow. Nails and all that girly stuff.”
“Isn’t
that going to the extreme?” Sara demanded softly.
“It’s not as if we actually NEED that.”
Damian
gave a little sigh and nodded as he spoke. “It’s
her
way of preparing for the acting this is going to take. She’s
got to divorce her
personal feelings from this, and I respect that, so I encourage her to
find
ways of remembering this is all fantasy, nothing more. Besides,
it’s part of
the hotel service, and she’s never turned any of those down
yet.”
“Ah.”
Grissom gave a rueful smile. Damian stood up and
collected some of the empty bags.
“Yeah.
I suggest you too relax tonight, get some rest. This
town is going to be celebrating in various places tomorrow, and
we’ll be at the
Embassy by seven o’clock. Our contact there has given me a
map of the rooms in
question, and a guarantee that we’ll have access to them for
most of the
evening, so we’ll need to talk about strategy and timing.
Once we have the
evidence we’ll need to get back here and start processing it
ASAP.”
“For
whom?” Sara wanted to know.
“Well,
that depends. If the persons involved are foreign
nationalists, we’ll have to bring in the agencies of the
countries involved.
Possibly Interpol. But we won’t know until we have whatever
we can pull from
the rooms.”
Damian
left, after reminding them to meet up at breakfast
again, and when the suite door closed behind him, Sara looked back at
Grissom.
He had a small brush in his hand and was studying it, twirling it
lightly.
She
shivered. Sara had seen Grissom twirl a brush before;
hundreds of times in fact, but never over the palm of his hand,
flicking the
bristles along the length of his fingers. The sight was sensual, and
full of
tingly promise, and Sara found herself drawn towards him like a nail to
a
magnet. He looked up at her.
“What
did you buy today?” he asked. It was a perfectly
innocent question, but Sara flushed red at the knowledge of what lay in
the
bags on the sofa. She glanced guiltily at them.
“An
. . . outfit. And uh, shoes.”
“For
tomorrow night.”
“Yes.”
The tension in her voice was clear, and Sara
struggled with herself. Half of her hoped he would want her to model
it; the
other half was far too embarrassed to consider it.
“Did
you get any accessories?” Grissom asked, throwing her
for a loop. Sara blinked, watching the little brush spin against his
palm, and
the low simmer of arousal suddenly began to steam up a bit. She shifted
a
little, thinking.
“Gloves—we
got gloves.” Sara recalled. Grissom set the brush
down, rose up and stepped towards her, holding his gaze on hers until
he was so
close she could see the intensity of his eyes. He fished in his jacket
pocket
and pulled out a small green silk drawstring bag, handing it to her.
Sara
looked down at it, but he cupped his hands over hers, warm and strong.
“Part
of this is ritualistic, Sara. Ceremonial. You need to
know that before you open this bag, because even though we’re
going to be
carrying off a charade, this piece means more to me than the outward
décor. I
don’t give this lightly, and even now I’m not sure
it’s the right thing, but it
will complete the illusion.”
Sara
fought her tremble and nodded. She undid the knot in
the bag’s cord and tugged it open to reach inside, feeling
the silk caress her
hand. She touched something heavy, and pulled out a long, linked strand
of
polished silver rectangles. They gleamed in the light of the suite, and
each
rectangular bar had a ruby crystal embedded in it. There were no clasps
on
either end of it, only silver loops.
Sara
looked up at Grissom, who took it from her cool fingers
and held it out in a long line from one of his palms to the other as he
spoke
again, his voice softer than before.
“The
ultimate symbol of submission. Most of them are
leather, and not as dramatic or showy, but I thought you deserved
something . .
. memorable.”
And Sara
understood. She touched the collar with her index
finger, both amazed and afraid of the beauty, the workmanship of the
piece. It
was a piece of art, but the looped ends puzzled her and she touched
one.
“How
. . . how do you fasten it?”
“First,
you have to accept it,” Grissom told her in husky
tones. She glanced up at that, and for a long moment Sara simply looked
at the
man in front of her.
Grey
curls, blue eyes, slightly boyish face framed in a
beard. Grissom. A man she’d admired, respected for years. A
brilliant mind, a
dedicated CSI, a gifted teacher. She’d harbored a longing for
him for years, an
attraction tinged with love and lust in equal measure, and it
hadn’t faded or
died over time, only hardened over with the realization that he was
trapped in
some way, unable to move closer or pull away from the strange little
folie aux
deux they maintained.
The man
who still hadn’t kissed her, but only a day ago had
seduced her and made her come in one of the most intense climaxes
she’d ever
had.
Slowly
she dipped her head, nodding in a deliberate gesture.
“I
accept it, Grissom. And what it means to you.”
He
sighed. Carefully Grissom slid the cool links around her
slender neck, bringing the two loops together in front, then fished
into the
bag again. From it, he pulled out a polished silver lock in the shape
of a
heart. Stunned, Sara watched him kiss it, then slip the hasp through
the loops
and click it shut. It dropped against the hollow of her throat, and for
a long
moment Sara felt the slow rise of heat across her skin.
She was
wearing a collar. Grissom’s collar. Her breathing
was faster now, and her nipples very hard under her shirt. Sara
suddenly wanted
to run, to yank it off and go back to Vegas, to get away from the
arousing
weight of the sterling silver around her neck. She sucked in a breath,
shivering in her fight or flight ambiguity when Grissom reached out,
cupped her
head in his hands and pulling her forward, kissed her.
Full,
hard, powerful—the first press of his mouth, the
pliant softness of his lips on hers lit a fire inside and she moaned
with the
sensory overload. The heat and pressure, the overwhelming strength of
Grissom’s
kiss wiped away all other thoughts. Sara opened her lips automatically,
hungry
for the taste of him. His tongue flicked against the tip of hers, a
tiny tease
of sensuality. Sara pushed harder, letting her own slide eagerly
against his in
a silky dance of slick, primal delight.
Good
kisser. Grissom kissed with passion, not rushing; he
pulled away to brush his lips on her fuller ones from one corner to the
other,
then used his hands to tip her head and possessively dropped his mouth
on hers
once more, settling in, taking her sweetly and deeply. Sara’s
arms slid around
him in sheer self-preservation; without his shoulders to cling to, she
knew she
would be a melted puddle on the suite carpet, just a volatile stain of
inflamed
passion.
Sweeter,
deeper, hotter—Sara felt her entire being focus
through her mouth and lips, reveling in the beautiful sensuality of
Grissom’s
mouth. It was a sweet lust between them, a ripeness borne of patience
and
longing. She resented the need to breathe, to pull away from the tickle
of his
mustache and gasp in a quick bite of air. Grissom laughed.
“Sara,
relax—“
“Can’t—“
she growled a little helplessly, “--Don’t want to.
It’s so good I don’t want to EVER stop!”
As if to add emphasis to her words,
she wrapped her arms more tightly around him, and Grissom gave a little
groan
at the strength of her hug.
“Oh!”
came her chastened exclamation, but Grissom softly
laughed again, and with unexpected strength, he scooped her up off of
her feet
and against his chest. Shocked and delighted in equal measure, Sara
gasped
suddenly aware of Grissom’s strength, the hidden power of his
arms as he hefted
her for a better grip.
“Is
this all you weigh, honey?” he murmured, almost
perplexed; Sara didn’t know what to say. He drew in a deep
breath and managed a
slow smile down into her face as he spoke again. “Elegant
Sara. Sleek and
beautiful and very, very desirable. I want you.”
Suddenly
dry-mouthed in the face of such a simple
declaration, Sara nodded. Grissom nodded too, moving towards his
bedroom in
slow strides.
“You
can always say stop . . .” he breathed softly. In
reply, Sara clung to him harder, her mouth against his throat.
“No
way in hell—“ she whispered on his skin. He carried
her
through the door and set her on the bed, peeling her arms from his neck
and
gently pinning them down for a moment as he looked into her startled
eyes.
“Good,
because I don’t think I could even if you said it,
Sara.”
That
made her smile, and from that gentle response, Grissom
briefly closed his eyes. Sara freed her hands from his grip and reached
for the
buttons of his shirt, but he straightened up and shook his head, still
smiling.
The room was in shadow, the fading light of afternoon coming through
the sheers
over the windows. Grissom gently stroked the side of Sara’s
face.
“I’m
going to undress you, Sara, just the way I’ve
fantasized about for years. Trust me in all things right now, because
it’s
completely about your pleasure, honey.”
“What
about you?” she asked, a little perplexed. Grissom
arched an eyebrow at her, a glint of assurance there.
“Trust
me,” he repeated, “Yours will be mine.”
Sighing,
Sara nodded, not wholly satisfied with that answer,
but far too aroused and impatient to argue. She lay back and watched
him with
big eyes as Grissom gently slid a hand up and under her shirt. It
bunched at
his wrist, and he bent down, kissing the exposed skin underneath,
making Sara
wriggle a little as the brush of his mustache tickled her skin. His
other hand
joined the first, and within a few moments Grissom was sliding her
shirt off
over her head, brushing it aside on the bedspread.
Sara
fought the urge to cross her arms over her chest. Her
utilitarian cotton bra was plain and functional, but when Grissom
nipped the
cloth in his teeth, Sara felt her nipples harden with shocking
swiftness,
pressing up and out against the thin fabric. He tugged up, lifting it
with his
mouth to hook his warm fingers under it, pushing it up around her
collarbones
and exposing her chest.
“You
look utterly naughty this way . . .” he sighed happily,
brushing his bearded chin over each raspberry colored tip. She tried to
reach
for him, but Grissom softly pinned her wrists down next to her
shoulders and
held them their gently with his weight. “Let me,
please—I’ve wanted this so
much,” he sighed. Sara arched up at little and nodded, her
hair tousled around
her head in a nimbus of tangles against the bedspread.
He
kissed her chest, slowly, reverently. Sara felt the
tickly shivers go right down the sides of her ribs, a sensation she
both hated
and loved; sensing her distress Grissom let go of her wrists and slid a
wet
tongue over one hard nipple to make her gasp. When she moved, the
collar clinked
in a soft musical note, and Grissom let his mouth leave a wet trail
across the
valley of her chest to the other nipple.
“Oohhh!”
Sara sighed and put her arms around Grissom’s
shoulders. He moved lower, kissing her ribs, caressing her skin softly
with the
brush of his beard as he carefully licked a meandering trail down and
across
her stomach.
She
tasted good, so much better than he’d ever thought, and
Grissom knew if he wasn’t very careful he’d lose
control completely. God, the
very flavor of her skin was exotic, a sweet tang with a hint of pepper
to it,
and by the time he managed to kiss her navel Sara was quivering with a
tension
he was delighted to see.
Nice to
know it wasn’t a one-way street, this raw desire.
With a
zip and a tug, her jeans were off, as was his shirt,
and now she lay under him on the bed, clad only in thin panties and a
shoved-up
bra. Grissom drew in a shaky breath and began to lick again, right on
the
cotton of her underwear, wetting the cloth and tasting the
concentration of her
musk in a sweet tongue-full that made him choke back a groan.
“What
are you DOING?” Sara tried to sit up; Grissom splayed
one big hand on her solar plexus and gently pushed her back down again.
“Anything
I want—“ he replied in a low voice before letting
his teeth grasp the edge of her panties and pull them down. He loved
the
startled blush of arousal on her face, the sudden uncontrollable
shudder of her
hips as his beard stroked her thigh. Carefully the underwear came down,
and he
stared down at the delicate garden of curls between Sara’s
lean thighs. He
pressed his mouth softly to the top of it in a kiss.
“What
a lovely secret you have, Miss,” he told her in a
light tone, even as he stroked the edge with a finger. Sara moaned,
propping
herself up on her elbows, her eyes huge in the dim light.
“Grissom—“
“Shhhh.
You are Miss and I am Sir, and at this moment I am
contemplating the most exquisite sight in the world. Arousing,
maddening. A
sight I’ve wondered about and hungered for . . .”
he kissed the soft tangle
again, moving down, his big hands tracing little patterns on her bare
thighs.
Sara shifted, parting her legs, allowing him a glimpse at the delicate
folds of
her sex. He sighed, stirring her curls.
“I
think you want me to touch you.”
“Yeah—“
Sara managed, her eyes half-closing. Grissom loved
the sight of her on his bed wearing his collar, her panties dangling
off on
long gorgeous leg, her bra still shoved up high to reveal her pert
breasts and
hard nipples. “God, yes, I do—“
“If
I touch you here, in the most private and sensual way,
then I’ll kiss you down here too, Miss. And after I kiss you
here, I’ll want a
long, slow ride between these magnificent legs of yours. Can you take
me?”
“Griss-“
his hand slid up the length of her body to lightly
rest on her mouth; he shook his head and held her gaze for a moment. It
was
hard not to laugh had her dazed, lust-filled confusion. He spoke again,
in a
firm whisper.
“Sir.
When you wear my collar, you are Miss, and I am--?”
“—Sir,”
she breathed, still a little confused, but as she
said it, he lightly stroked the fur between her legs, caressing it and
making
her groan a little.
Positive
reinforcement.
Sara
licked his hand, which almost distracted him, but he
let the wet palm slide back down her body until both his hands were
slowly
rubbing the insides of her thighs. Eagerly she parted them, opening
herself up
to his further contemplation.
Grissom
closed his eyes for a moment, almost overwhelmed by
the sheer beauty of Sara’s body. The coral petals of her
cleft, delicate and
tempting, the profuse dainty curls thickly covering her plump mound
were far
more exquisite than anything he’d ever tried to imagine
between her thighs.
He
dropped to his stomach, pinning his erection against the
mattress in an attempt to regain some control over it, and lightly
brushed his
bearded cheek against Sara’s inner thigh.
“The
fate of a man turns on the body of a woman—“ he
murmured, and lightly blew a warm breath across the triangle of curls
just
under his lips. Sara wriggled, her hips rising in a twist of
desperation.
Grissom smiled up at her. “Tell me what you want,
Miss.”
“Touch
me . . . Please—“
Moving
slowly, Grissom lightly, ever so lightly rubbed the
heel of his hand against her, feeling the slickness of her arousal
against his
palm, drinking in the sweet fresh musk of her body. Again Sara
wriggled, trying
to push herself against his hand, but he pulled back to keep the
pressure
barely there.
“Gentle
. . . here or anywhere the pressure is always
gentle,” Grissom told her. She bit her lips in frustration,
but before she
could speak, he pressed more firmly, catching the soft folds of her sex
between
his fingers, rolling them ever so tenderly, and Sara quivered at the
sensation.
Helplessly she let her head drop back as her body reacted to the touch.
“P-p-please
. . . “ came her soft plead, and Grissom
delighted in hearing it. Carefully he laid the broad palm of his right
hand
across the bed of curls from hip to hip, and let his thumb stroke in
slow sweet
concentration just over the tiny peeping bud there. With ever brush of
his
thumb, Sara rolled her hips, but Grissom’s heavy hand held
her down. Carefully,
he slid his other hand under her ass and let his other thumb glide up
and
gently part her slick folds.
Sara
panted. Grissom stroked, making lazy circles of varying
pressure until her breathing changed. He watched her stomach tense, and
forced
himself to keep the same deliberate strokes as under his hands, Sara
gasped, a
long throaty keening note rising out of her as she roiled against his
thumbs.
Her slow lovely climax thrilled him, and he ground himself against the
bedspread, putting his concentration back on her obvious pleasure.
Finally,
she whimpered, and he gently stopped, sliding his
wet hands over the long flat planes of her stomach, stopping just under
her
breasts, cupping them as he looked down on the lush landscape of her
body.
“God
that was SO . . . intense . . . .” Sara croaked as the
zingy tingles began to fade away and her heartbeat finally began to
drop.
Grissom smiled at her.
“Beautifully
so, Miss. You looked like a thunderstorm.”
Sara
rose up to a sitting position, peeled away her bra and
reached up to kiss him, eyes dilated and deep. She sucked his bottom
lip for a
moment then breathed into his face, “And now I want you.
Please.”
“But
I haven’t kissed you yet.”
“You
don’t HAVE to—“ came her plea. He held
her gaze a moment
longer, clearly debating, and Sara’s hand slid down his body
to cup the heavy
ridge between his thighs. He pushed against her hand without thinking.
“You.
I want YOU,” Sara whispered huskily, and it was all
Grissom could do not to come. He nodded, and rose to his knees on the
mattress.
Carefully he worked with her to unfasten his slacks and push them down,
sucking
in a quick breath when she gripped the waistband of his boxers and
tugged on
them impatiently.
“Oh!”
she breathed, wide eyes going wider. Grissom worked
his jaw a little and took her hands in his, gently laying them on his
thighs.
“They’re
only scars, honey. Very old ones; don’t worry about
them.” She shook her head and cleared her throat, tipping her
head to look up
at him, the tangle of her dark hair framing her face.
“That’s
NOT what I was, um . . . you’re sort of . . . big,
Grissom, I mean, Sir.”
“Yes.”
His tone was mere agreement, with no hint of bragging
or false modesty, and Sara blinked a little at his soft tone. He
dredged up a
smile. “It’s not always a good thing.”
Sara
wanted to disagree; from her vantage point his cock
looked amazing, so she leaned forward and experimentally licked one
long stroke
up the warm underside of the thick shaft. Instantly Grissom’s
hands tightened
on hers and he spoke in a thick clenched voice.
“Stop.
Please.”
She
understood.
Carefully
Sara scooted back, lying with her shoulders on the
pillows, looking up at him looming between her knees and reached for
Grissom as
he lowered himself onto her, the heavy heat of his body pressing down
on her in
a kiss of skin and fur. She whimpered, her excitement rising anew and
reached
down, her fingers sliding around his as he gripped himself, angling.
Sara
rubbed her cheek against his cheek, warming the shell of his ear with
her lips,
and in a moment of sweet connection, she whispered to him.
“Please,
Sir . . . “
Grissom
thrust; the slick push and pressure of him opening
her a few inches sent surges of heat and cold through Sara, and she
grunted as
instinctively, her hips lifted. Around her pretty neck came the soft
chingle of
the silver. Grissom planted his forearms on either side of her head,
framing it
as he tried to keep his weight from crushing her even as his hips
nudged
forward another inch, the sound of their bodies slick and squelchy.
“God
you’re . . . tight,” he gasped in a strained voice.
Sara couldn’t reply, so she settled for a little whimper and
breathed deeply.
He joined her, pressing his damp forehead to hers, his voice a low
breath on
her mouth. “I don’t want this to hurt
you . . .”
“No,
it’s doesn’t . . . just full,” she tried
to murmur,
feeling her body soften and relax slightly, the fearful tension
shifting into
hunger as she drank in his scent. Sara reached around his waist, her
hands
pressing Grissom’s strong flanks, urging him forward.
“Ooh more . . .”
He
pushed again, sliding more easily now, the low groan of
pleasure rolling out of his throat as he did so. Grissom pulled back
and thrust
again, more deeply, surely, and Sara couldn’t hold back a
little blissful yowl
as her body clenched around him in slick, hot delight.
Grissom
began a slow pumping of his hips, moving with
deliberate strokes that sent shudders through both of their bodies, the
restrained power of his lovemaking making Sara writhe under him,
desperately
seeking more. He watched her tremble; clutch him, beg and plead for
more, damn
it more, harder, NOW, and when she was on the verge of ecstatic tears
Grissom
caught her hands and pinned them, driving himself hard and deep, riding
the
glorious crest of her climax as he erupted within her moments later,
his hoarse
shout muffled on the kiss-wet skin of her neck, her pounding pulse
under his
lips.
For long
moments he lay across her, drifting in the warm
aftermath of release, dazed at the serenity within himself.
She was
his. Now, in this moment of flesh and blood and
tears, Sara Sidle, she of the taunting smile and cool intellect, the
companion
of his profession and secret passion of his drives, was his. Grissom
wanted to
howl. He wanted to storm naked and triumphant to the balcony and shout
it to
the Wharf, to the ocean, to the moon in the sky.
Instead,
he rolled over, taking Sara with him, nuzzling her
damp face and making her squeal very softly.
“God,
where did you learn to fuck like that? Wait, don’t
answer that, I’m the jealous type. Ohhhhh shit!” Gentle
hands stroked her back, gliding on
sweat. He kissed her chin.
“What?”
he asked, lazily, only vaguely alarmed at her tone.
He felt too damn good to work up to anything more. She pushed on his
chest.
“We
didn’t USE anything! Shit! This is great! Just
GREAT!”
“Shhh,
It’s okay. You do remember when I told you to trust
me in all things.”
“Yeah,
but this isn’t a game, Grissom. This is real life,
and right now is NOT a good time for me to be doing this
without—“
“—I’ve
had a vasectomy Sara. About nine years ago.” She
tensed, looking down at him, big brown eyes narrowing, her expression
caught
between surprise and trepidation. “No babies,” he
sighed. She stiffened;
holding his gaze, her own eyes softening slightly.
“Oh.”
“I
have my reasons—“ he assured her, feeling slightly
awkward as her gaze continued to linger on him. Sara nodded slowly.
“Okay.
Wow. Just when I think I know you, I keep finding I
don’t. It’s scary and compelling at the same
time.”
“I
feel the same way about you. I never knew you were so . .
. passionate.”
Sara
blushed a little, dropping her face to his shoulder,
the collar jingling slightly. “Yeah well, it’s sort
of new to me too. I’m not
normally so . . . loud.”
“Loud
is fine, unless silence is required,” Grissom teased
in a low voice. He felt the first gentle waves of sleep begin to wash
over him,
but before he could let himself relax he still had one more thing to
do.
Sitting up, he fished for his pants as Sara, amused, watched him.
“What?”
He
pulled the tiny key from his pocket and slipped a hand
around the heart-shaped lock at her throat.
“I
release you, Sara,” he told her, pulling the collar free
and setting it on the nightstand. She rubbed her neck self-consciously
and
quivered, but Grissom lay back down, tugging her into his arms and she
sighed.
They
slept.
Later he
awoke to the feel of Sara’s hands sliding over his
chest. He pulled her over him, committing her sleek naked skin to
memory,
leaving nothing untouched, or unkissed. Her tangled curls hung down in
a
curtain around her face, their shadows in a slow dance. Sara set the
pace,
taking her pleasure in the sight of Grissom’s face half lit
from the lights of
the city coming through the filter of the curtains. She savored the
soft touch
of his tongue between her thighs, the press of his teeth to her neck.
This time
was quiet and slow, tinged with a sweetness that spoke of a peaceful
intimacy
between them now.
End of
part three
