She was always finding out new things
about him. The initial giddy delight of being involved in
ever-increasing intimacy with Gil Grissom might have been reward
enough, Sara thought, but the true joy was clearly in the serendipitous
surprises that came forward day to day.
Grissom knew all the words to the Star Spangled Banner—all six verses. He still had a shoebox of baseball cards on the upper shelf of his bedroom closet; at least three of them worth seven hundred dollars. He liked—LOVED—neck rubs, and groaned in the sexiest way when given one. He ate almost any vegetable she set before him, with only slight resistance to okra, and when prompted was willing to talk about any topic under the sun.
The only shyness he had, the one hesitation that charmed her, was a reticence to talk about himself. When she prompted Grissom, he would respond, and if she asked him to elaborate he would, but generally, he didn’t offer stories very often.
At least in the beginning. But over time, when the man’s natural reserve had absorbed her into the close circle of his heart, then Grissom occasionally told her things out of the blue. It was how she found out about his foiled attempt to steal a dinosaur femur when he was six, and his secret crush on Ann-Margaret. He eventually told Sara too, of a fight years ago with his mother, when he had he yelled at her, shamefully aware that his vocalized words were wounding her twice as hard and unable to stop himself, so lost in his frustration and fury was he over her fear of doctors.
Sara was growing to know Grissom; to love all the human aspects of the man who denied he snored, who saved rubber bands, and seemed to like sitting and reading entomology journals with her bare feet in his lap so that he could periodically rub her insteps and fondle her toes.
The Grissom who wrapped himself around her at night and sighed happily into the nape of her neck.
Not that it was always blissful; there were snippy moments and times of mutual exasperation. Grissom was a dish leaver, setting cups in the sink for later washing—a habit that made Sara grit her teeth. Likewise she found herself reacting defensively when he once swept her hand away from the radio dial as they drove to work.
But those were minor, and forgiven in the face of her own foibles, which included leftovers mummified in foil in the refrigerator and a backseat full of junk mail. Sara had reached a point now where she understood that she herself was not the easiest person to live with, and that a relationship with Grissom didn’t require two-way streets, as much as full roundabouts.
Detours into each other.
So when late one morning, after a bottle of wine and pizza, when both of them were warm and relaxed, sprawled together in a heap on the sofa at her place, Sara felt the happy sense of giddiness well up when Grissom murmured, “Now this is what I used to consider a good fantasy.”
“What? Being laid up on the sofa like a couple of beached whales?” she teased, nudging his shoulder. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see him grin, and wanting to encourage more, Sara shifted, adding, “I never used to think you had fantasies.”
“I’m a man; the capacity is genetically hotwired into our cerebral cortexes whether we admit it or not. In fact . . . “ but Grissom trailed off, his tone mild. Sara waited patiently, sensing a delicacy in the moment. After the appropriate pause, she turned and nuzzled her face against his shoulder.
“In fact?” came her lazy prompt. Grissom turned his face to her, and his eyes held that blend of melancholy and desire that always made her thighs clench up.
“Well this was actually only part of it. The denouement if we’re being technical. The prelude and premise were actually a little . . . bizarre . . . “ came his soft murmur. Sara held his gaze, keeping her smile small, letting her eyes twinkle.
“Bizarre, yeah. I can understand that. For instance, I used to toy with the idea of giving you a handjob at a crime scene,” Sara cheerily confessed. “Latex gloves and all.”
Grissom blinked, speechless at this sweetly lobbed bombshell.
Sara chattered on, shifting her gaze towards the ceiling making it a point NOT to look at him now. “And you know, totally DOING you in one of those plastic wall re-enactment chambers—the ones we make for blood spatter studies? Yeah, very arousing, because the plastic makes it hard to tell precisely what’s going on inside, which would mean we’d have to be very quiet—“
His single interjection of her name said volumes, the flat stunned monotone holding a note of awe in it. She lazily turned her face to Grissom and tried to look innocent. “Yeah?”
“You’ve actually . . . “ he couldn’t quite complete the sentence, stumbling over the verb with uncharacteristic clumsiness. She took pity on him.
“ . . . Fantasized about you? Hell yeah.”
For a long moment Grissom simply stared at her, his big blue eyes astonished. His mouth opened, but nothing came out; every effort to say something died away. Sara gave a shrug. “Well I do.”
It was her turn to pinken a little, and Sara closed her mouth, unable to resist grinning. Grissom’s own mouth twitched and he gave a little shake of his head, as if still not quite at grips with the whole concept.
“I’m . . . “ he attempted once more, blinking as his shoulders finally relaxed, “ . . . . ah, very . . . flattered.”
“Yeah? Well you should be, I guess,” Sara mumbled, brushing her pointed nose along his shirt, breathing in the sweet scent of him. “Although reality is putting the pale on imagination big time. You’re outdoing yourself—so tell me about this fantasy of yours . . . there weren’t any bugs in it, were there?”
Startled yet again by her lightning change of topic, Grissom drew in a breath and let it out, slowly, feeling bemused. “No bugs. I find insects fascinating, but not arousing. And my fantasy, like yours, is somewhat grounded in . . . work.”
“Jumpsuits and cars?” Sara guessed. Grissom shook his head, although his thoughtful expression hinted that her suggestion appealed to him. He cleared his throat a little, and felt heat along his face.
“Noooo, it involves . . . . dusting.”
“Dusting. As in for prints?”
“In a manner of speaking . . . “ Grissom hemmed, “Although definitive prints probably wouldn’t be possible, nor would they . . . um, actually be the point—“
Sara laughed, a low bubbly laugh as she sat up and looked at him full in the face. “Oh my God. You’re talking about using the brushes . . naked dusting! Right? Dusting skin?”
Grissom closed his eyes, his lashes fluttering slightly. “Dusting YOU, Sara. From head to toes, powdering up each curve, each velvety inch of your skin until you’re so completely aroused by it that you . . . um, force yourself on me.”
He didn’t dare risk opening his eyes, aware of the thud of his heartbeat, of the lingering warmth of Sara’s weight along his side, of the twitter of a jay outside the sliding glass door of the townhouse. It was a moment in suspension, the drop of water ready to fall; the poised kiss on the edge of the lips.
Grissom wasn’t sure how it happened. Around Sara though, almost anything could happen; that was a fact that added luster to his days. One moment they’d been lounging around, pleasantly full and ready to go to sleep and now here they were, standing in the candle-lit bedroom, eyes locked on each other.
He felt hot, as if his skin had a rash; a flushing of heat rising from the core, from places he’d never looked at too closely. Grissom knew he was introspective by nature, but there were still aspects of himself he rarely examined, and certainly not in the light of day—or even of a candle for that matter.
And yet here Sara stood in her glorious curves and angles, demure but unafraid of his hungry gaze, her big brown eyes sweeping over him in shy delight. One hand held a screw top acrylic jar glittering with gaudy powder in a shade he knew very well. Intimately, as it were. Her other hand held a bouquet of brushes, the bristles flared out in thick and fluffy black dandelion heads.
“Come on, Grissom. Dust me . . . “ Sara murmured. Grissom looked up into her eyes, shivering as her words uncoiled, creating a bridge from his fantasy to this moment, sweet familiar illusion solidifying with shimmering heat along the edges.
Just the way he himself felt at the moment.
Not the same, no. It wasn’t the fantasy he’d indulged in for the past few years, but at the same time the elements were so right, so REAL, and the added lure of her breathing, her warm scent . . .
“On . . . on the bed with you,” he ordered in a voice twisted and low. It was a strange sound even to him, but it must have been right because Sara shivered visibly and handed him the tools before moving.
Sara’s full bed had a velour comforter in sage, with tiny flowers along the corners, and Grissom knew from joyous experience that it was warm and comfortable, definitely a haven for the both of them. They’d first made love here, and spent most of their days entwined between the flannel sheets, sleeping in blissful unity.
But now it looked very different, yes, decidedly so as Sara slid herself onto it and stretched out long legs, flexing one as she propped herself up on her elbows. The candle glow highlighted her long, long angles, and made her rosy jutting nipples gleam a bit. She shot Grissom a challenging smile.
He took a step forward, then another, his fingers sweaty round the brush handles. Sara lay still except for her long toes; she waggled them a bit, and Grissom focused on them, feeling a sense of déjà vu.
Toes, yes, it always started with her toes.
Carefully Grissom set the brushes down and unscrewed the lid of the jar, swirling it a bit to loosen the powder, his gaze never leaving Sara’s body. She preened a bit, luxuriating under his dark-eyed gaze. He picked up one of the biggest brushes and carefully dipped it into the powder, flicking the residue off expertly, absently.
Sara waited, feeling a swell of desire at the sight of Grissom contemplating her toes. Then with delicate grace, he brought the feather soft bristles up under them, the touch unbearably ticklish. She flinched. Grissom looked up at her, startled.
“It . . . tickles,” she told him. He half-smiled then, blinking a little.
“I never thought about that part before,” came his confession. “It’s always been . . . from my perspective.”
“I can keep quiet—“ Sara offered, treading lightly now, sensing Grissom’s embarrassment. He shook his head, and his smile widened.
“Don’t. Say what you feel, Sara. Already this is better than my own, limited imagination,” he whispered gently.
She nodded, touched. Grissom swirled the brush once more, his gaze drifting from her feet to her face, watching her carefully. Sara pointed her foot playfully, savoring the delicate flick of the brush. Grissom moved up to the top of her foot, leaving a pink trail across her pale metatarsals, circling to tickle the inside of her ankle. Sara giggled, the throaty sound tinged with joy.
“I never realized . . . these brushes . . . were so . . . um, erotic,” she managed between chuckles. Grissom arched an eyebrow up at her and swirled the fluffy head along the sleek inside of her shin; Red Creeper blushed along the smooth expanse. The three beautiful colors--the sage of the bedspread, the cream porcelain of Sara’s skin and the rosy brightness of the powder—glowed in the candlelight. Grissom felt himself throb from the core, lust mingled with an aching sweetness that left him weak. He braced one hand on the mattress and let the brush slide over Sara’s left knee, circling it.
“You’re gleaming, even before the powder is on you,” he observed tightly. “There’s a sheen to your skin, Sara.”
“Ohhh . . . “ came her reply as she arched back on her elbows, fighting to keep still. Grissom re-dipped the brush and shook it off. With artistic finesse, he swept the delicate tips up one thigh, smiling gently at the trail of fuchsia that kissed it. Sara looked down and drew in a breath, unable to entirely suppress a quiver. Grissom glanced up at her, and the lonely heat of his gaze was like a breath against her heart. She blinked back a sudden prickle of tears.
“I think this is . . . “ Grissom murmured, “ . . . the most beautiful thing you wear, Sara. This gleaming skin, dusted in rose . . .” As he spoke, the flamenco of the brush wandered along her smooth hip, the sprinkle of powder fluttering down onto her flesh in its wake.
“Grisssssommm . . . “ she groaned in a soft whisper, unable to hold back his name. The slow sweet sigh of it gusted along, making a few stray twinkles of Red Creeper take flight. Grissom smiled, entranced. With renewed focus, he spun the brush, skirting it into the dip of her flat stomach. He gazed on his handiwork raptly, then sent the feathery fluff spinning upwards, along the bottom half of one pert breast and then the other.
“Ohhhhhhh . . . “ came Sara’s slightly gurgled response, made more apparent by the tight pucker of her nipples. She looked down at herself; at Grissom’s hand guiding the brush over her pebbled flesh.
“Now they look like the undersides of red roses,” he commented gently, working with skill to lay the powder down evenly. His shy concentration amazed her, and Sara tried to stay still, but oohh the maddening flickle, the tiff-tickle of the brush feathertips made her long to squirm. Little chuffs of giggles leaked out.
Grissom smiled. “Every inch of you invites the eye; every long elegant curve commands my lust, Sara. I used to picture you naked, but this reality makes those thoughts nothing but crude imitations; pale unworthy abstractions of the real and dear perfection of you---“
“I’m not perfect . . .” she protested, shocked at how close to tears she was. The sting of them in her eyes made her vision blurry, and Sara blinked, feeling their heat along her lashes.
“Ssshhhhhh. In this moment, you are,” Grissom reassured her. He dipped the brush into the powder and flicked it along the valley between her breasts, watching the glitters drift down on her skin in chaotic patterns, then glanced at her face. “And so, dressed in rose and gleaming like the work of art you are . . . open your thighs, dear.”
Sara did, languidly. She knew her arousal was evident; that Grissom would see the gleam of slickness along the seam of her sex, note the damp sweat along the muscled insides of her thighs, and yet it felt like a privilege to reveal herself to his yearning gaze. Slowly she leaned back on her hands and widened her knees, her gaze dark.
Grissom groaned. It was soft and irrepressible; a sound of longing and worship and desire all in one low male timbre; hearing it, Sara felt the shiver along her spine, delicious and wild. She watched as he dropped the first brush and fumbled for the second one; the clean one. Delicately he drew in a calming breath, and shifted, bringing his big shoulders between her knees, his gaze focused between her legs.
“It is like a purple flower of crimson, full of honey and perfume. It is like a hydra of the sea, living and soft, open at night. It is the humid grotto, the shelter always warm, the Asylum where man rests on his march toward death . . . “ Grissom quoted softly. Sara quivered, closing her eyes at the first, delicate kiss of the brush.
So soft, so frustratingly gentle, like the barest sweep of eyelashes and yet the answering pang of hunger left her warm. Sara could feel herself swell; plump under the tease of the brush. She shifted, eager for the stoke, opening wider, inviting him to more brazen caresses. It was hard to think and easier to feel; oh yes, feeling heat as she bloomed, lifting her hips.
Grissom ignored the relentless pounding of his pulse as he twirled the handle of the brush, watching as the fluff bristles darkened in the egg-white slickness of Sara’s arousal. Her sex lay proudly exposed, the tender mauve petals and gleaming edges mysterious and compelling, making his cock throb. He couldn’t stop staring, drinking in the lush beauty of this hidden garden between Sara’s legs, this beautiful hot box he’d dreamt of and worshipped and even now hungered for.
Swiftly, he pulled the brush up and licked the bristles, thirsty for the tang of Sara’s flavor. The little liquid honeydrops whetted his appetite, and he greedily licked again, then turned the wet, clumped tips back to the source. Sara quivered when the tips touched her again, gently caressing the little pearl in the shell.
“Ooohhhyesss—“ she moaned, hips rocking up, her eyelashes fluttering, “yess, yesss!”
“Saaaara . . . “ Grissom groaned again, watching her hips writhe and make the swaying taunt of her sweet sex completely mesmerizing. He trembled, and the brush tumbled from his fingers, lost somewhere in the folds of the bedspread. Now his view was unobstructed, he breathed in the tantalizing scent of Sara; the musky tang.
Grissom bent his head and pressed his lips to her, kissing deeply, savoring the generous sweetness there between Sara’s lean hips. He gently suckled, grinding himself against the bedspread as he did so, giving in to the wave of urgent desire flooding through him, wiping away rational thought.
Nothing mattered but taste, scent, drive---Grissom raised his head and rubbed the side of one cheek against the inside of Sara’s thigh, breathing hoarsely, his mouth smeared with her honey, his eyes a smoky hot blue.
Sara reached for him, pulling him across her belly, her growl a husky command, her fingers scrabbling over his hot skin, “Please, now, rightNOW! Want you, want you SO much . . . “
Grissom grunted in reply, sliding over her stomach, fumbling for only a moment and then the exquisite sensation of sinking into the sweet, searing squeeze of her drove the breath from his body in one long growl of pleasure, a growl echoed under him as Sara tipped her head back and howled. Her long shins slid around him, ankles crossing at the small of his back; he pulled back and thrust again, loving the cradle of her pretty, pretty legs.
It took only a few strokes and the rhythm flowed, catching them both in the perfect syncopation, thrust to lift, the quick slow push of his bigger heavier body into hers, the deep, down the throat kisses that each sought blindly of the other. Only Sara, Grissom knew, only she brought out this passion and rejoiced in it with him, driving him, riding him, making him understand that it was good and right to be a male animal—
And then he heard her breath catch, felt the luscious squeeze of her hot clenching box around him, pulsing and alive. Grissom shuddered, giving in, coming in thick waves that melted his spine and burned away all doubt, all confusion. He pressed his mouth to the side of her neck and cried her name for the prayer it was.
When he finally shifted off of her, feeling guilty about pinning her under his dead weight Sara growled, and clung to him, kissing the corner of his mouth.
“No, not yet. Besides, you’re . . . pink.”
“Pink? I . . . oh, yes, the powder, “ Grissom murmured drowsily, his sigh of satisfaction ruffling her wet bangs. Sara laughed softly.
“YOU look like you had a fight with a stick of rouge and lost.”
Grissom arched an eyebrow at her, “And you look like you failed clown college,” he replied. Sara pretended to take offense and tweaked his nose, which required retaliation involving hands in places not generally tickled in public. Sara wheezed and laughed, rolling free to look at their nude bodies.
“Oh God. We can’t die like this, Grissom. To be found naked with this much Red Creeper between us—“
“I’d say we dyed already,” he punned back, looking regretfully at the velour bedspread, “I’m sorry about the blanket. I’ll get us a new one.”
“Are you kidding?” Sara replied, her voice heavy with love and sleep. “No way. I hope the stain is permanent. I want to keep this masterpiece forever, Grissom.”
He blinked, and looked at her as she propped her head on one elbow and grinned at him, her lean body smeared and speckled with blotches of fuchsia dusting powder, her eyes bright and full.
It came out effortlessly. “I love you. Marry me, Sara.”
She quivered and looked at him a moment longer. “Yes.”
“You—you will?” He blurted, stunned. Sara yawned and smiled.
“Yep. No take backs. Let’s go shower first though—I have this fantasy about you and showers . . . .”