Sara blinked, her hand sliding down to the back of her left hip, wandering over the smooth terrain, her expression first puzzled then worried.

“It’s supposed to be right HERE—“ she blurted in a concerned tone. Grissom glanced over her shoulder and shook his head.

“It’s not. I thought you replaced it yesterday.”

“I DID,” Sara frowned, working her jaw back and forth as she thought furiously. “You told me that really BAD joke about the dead guy and the Cheetos, and ripped the old one off—“

“Waaait a minute—wasn’t that about when Figaro fell in the bathtub?” Grissom asked. 

She grinned and nodded, a chuckle bubbling out of her.  “Oh yeah. Mr. Grace and Balance along the edge slipped and landed in the water. God was he pissed!”

Grissom laughed softly as well at the memory of Figaro scrambling around in the four inches of water, wet and bedraggled, mewing piteously. It had taken two towels and a lot of soothing on Sara’s part to restore the feline’s dignity, and even then he’d stalked off to vindictively curl up on Grissom’s pillow.

“So after we dried off his Royal Highness, I remember cleaning the vanity counter, sweeping the paper wrappers for the new patch into the garbage . . . so that’s probably where the patch itself is, huh?”

Grissom sighed, nodding. 

Sara gave a little sigh of frustration and let her fingertips slide up over Grissom’s bare chest, toying with the silver chain resting on it. The little St. Albert’s medallion lying between his pecs was warm from his skin.

“And in all that careful packing, you didn’t by chance include supplies of a more—intimate—nature, did you?”

“No,” he admitted, equally frustrated. “There are still about seven in my nightstand at home, but since you’ve been using the patches I’ve let them sit. It’s okay— Sheba ’s got pharmacies and grocery stores, Sara. We can always run an errand you know.”

She rolled away from him with a sigh, fishing over the side of the bed for her shirt and tugging it on.  “Yes, but that doesn’t help right now—and why the heck do you always make me get naked when we go to bed, even if we don’t actually DO it?”

Grissom propped himself up on one elbow and paused a moment, looking at her.  “I’m addicted to your skin, Acushla mine. In my cranky self-centered middle age I’ve gotten obsessed with the warm sweet sensation of your body around me. I never knew loving you would have such a profound effect on my solitary ways, Sara, but it has. I need you.”

She turned to look at Grissom, astonished at this admission and he gave her his shy, quirky smile.

“Oh I SO want to love you just for that—“ she breathed. 

He shook his head and moved to sit up, taking himself away from the temptation of her big velvet chocolate eyes.  “We have a dinner date to keep,” he reminded her regretfully. 

Sara checked the clock on the mahogany nightstand and nodded.

***   ***  ***

Within an hour they were standing in front of the Green Dragon restaurant. Sara was examining the menu taped to the door while Grissom looked up and down the street.

“It’s Main Street, but not the main drag . . . economic decay is setting in. From where we are I can see three stores that are out of business.”

A clatter of footsteps caught their attention; Daisy came up, a flyer in her hand. She smiled delightedly at them.

“Sara, Grissom—looks like we’ve got quite a turnout for tomorrow. At least seventy folks have signed up, so we’re going to move it to the high school auditorium if that’s all right with you. It’s got sink facilities and all the bells and whistles for your presentations with the added advantage of parking.”

“That’s good—“ Sara replied politely as Grissom blinked a little. 

Daisy motioned to the Green Dragon with her free hand.  “I hope you two like Chinese—Mai’s holding my favorite table for us. Come in, come in!”

The décor was typically tacky and endearing: red plastic lanterns, silk screened oriental landscapes, even a huge fish tank of slow moving carp and koi displayed against one wall. It was a busy place, with many of the booths already filled. Daisy led the way to a bigger booth near the back of the restaurant and slid onto the red vinyl seat with a happy sigh. Sara and Grissom slid in on the other side.

“Finally, a chance just to relax. So--what do you think of the Wayside?” 

From the twinkle in her eyes, Sara knew Daisy was holding back a laugh. Grissom kept a straight face, but Sara felt him shift a little and knew he too was amused.

“It’s . . . atypical,” he finally offered. 

Daisy laughed out loud, a deep pleased sound that Sara couldn’t help but join in on.

“Oh yes, the Wayside is definitely out of the mold, that’s for sure. Mazlo Pearcy built it in 1968 and the décor hasn’t changed since then, even if the years have gone by. Kids around here call it the Austin Powers motel, and it’s got a reputation as a bit of a passion pit. However, it’s not too expensive and it’s central, so Joe and I put you there to save some money. Just say the word if you want to go to the Econo-Lodge instead.”

“No, the Wayside is fine. I particularly like the, uh, coziness of all that shag,” Sara smiled. 

Daisy laughed again.  “Good to hear. Joe will be joining us shortly, but we can order now if you’d like.”

They chatted for a while after placing their orders, and Sara relaxed a little. Daisy asked good questions and seemed to know how to keep the conversation in safe territory. Only once did she stray off, complimenting Grissom’s wedding band.

“I’m not married,” he offered with a quiet smile. 

Sara was tempted to nudge him under the table, but sensed that discretion was the better part of valor at the moment. Joe Morgan finally showed up, settling in next to Daisy, and Sara noted their personal space overlapped almost as much as her own and Grissom’s. She mentally filed that away as the food arrived and they all began eating.

“So the story is that Rory Atwater grew up in this town, and still has family around here,” Daisy commented, waving her chopsticks for emphasis. “I tutored him through high school chemistry and I’ve never called in the debt until this last election when Joe and I ran into a problem with what we laughingly call a crime lab here in Sheba. We have one full-time tech, Lloyd London, and while he’s good with fingerprints and collecting Trace, he—“ Daisy paused. Joe sighed and picked up the thread, shaking his head sadly as he sipped his tea.

“ . . . Pukes at blood and semen. Every damn time. It’s embarrassing but true. So, we convinced Rory to set up this series of lectures to get Lloyd some respect. He and our part-timer Anita both need some better PR. And it doesn’t hurt to share the wealth with our local busybodies too. I’m sure you have your own groupies who want to help and don’t really know how.”

Grissom and Sara nodded concurrently just as a beeper went off; reflexively all four of them checked with Joe and Daisy sighing.

“419 . . . oh God, Joe, it’s at the CockaDoodle. Just what we needed for dessert,” Daisy groaned. 

Grissom looked swiftly at Sara then back to the coroner, his expression curious.  “The strip club? Sara noted the sign back on the highway—“ he quickly clarified, earning an annoyed glance from her that he ignored. 

Joe nodded and shoved the beeper back in his pocket wearily.  “That’s the place,” he rumbled in his deep bass voice. “One of the few businesses in town that’s making money, but God I hate calls out there.”

Daisy shot him an amused smile. “Be honest Joe— both the patrons and the dancers hit on you. All that testosterone on the loose.”

Joe rubbed his face and didn’t reply; instead he glanced at Grissom with an almost hound dog look in his eyes.  “Care to ride along? I realize you and Ms. Sidle aren’t obligated in any way, but it would be a good opportunity to see our team in action and point out where we need priorities in improvement—“

“We’d love to—“ Sara spoke up, reaching for her last vegetarian spring roll and scooting out of the booth after Grissom.

***   ***   ***

The blond was quite dead; his big body sprawled on the industrial carpeting of the dressing room floor in a heap that suggested a sudden end. A toppled chair lay near him in the small room, right beside the square wooden pillar in the middle of the room. Joe, Daisy, Grissom and Sara stood peering into the backstage room carefully.

Sara set her extra field kit down and unlatched it, pulling out a pair of gloves. With unconscious synchronicity, she and Grissom pulled on their latex in swift, absent-minded efficiency. Daisy followed them into the room as Grissom took the lead and carefully looked around.

“The body’s been redressed—“

Not by much, Sara mentally noted, eyeing the green satin pouch, which was the only thing the man wore. She fought a smirk and made herself study the elements of the furniture around the small room instead, trying to figure what seemed out of place or off. Grissom was examining the body as Daisy knelt on the other side of it and gave a sigh.

“It’s Not-So-Tiny Tim Dickens,” she looked up at Grissom, who shot her a startled look back. Sara fought off an inappropriate giggle. 

Joe cleared his throat with a hint of menace.  “You KNOW this stripper, Dais?”

“Harper and I saw him strut his stuff two months ago at her sister’s bachlorette party over at Mona’s. Nice boy if you could get past the flirting—“ she responded absently, setting the probe into the tough muscle of the corpse’s abdomen.

“Harper never mentioned you were at that party—“ Joe grumbled under his breath. 

Sara shot Grissom a glance, but he was carefully examining the neck of the body, studying the red impression all around it.

“Strangulation?” Daisy wondered out loud. 

Grissom shook his head.  “The most damage is right in the front, along the larynx. His windpipe was probably the target.”

“Effective but a painful way to die,” Daisy agreed. 

Joe ran a hand through his hair, coming to some inner resolution.  “Okay then, if you guys can handle the scene, I’ll leave you to it and go talk to Fuzzy, see who was in and out of here tonight. Daisy, you called Lloyd?”

“Yep—I’ll get a ride back with the body and see you back at the morgue,” she shot him a quick glance and Sara noted the hint of tenderness in it.

To avoid being caught staring, Sara bent down and touched the chair, noting the position of it to the body. She looked down and bit her lips at the sight of a familiar puddle a foot away.

“We’ve got semen here, fairly fresh—“ came her soft comment. Grissom glanced over and nodded as Sara swabbed it, capping the evidence quickly. He carefully probed into the red weal along the body’s neck with tweezers and fished something out that glittered in the lights of the dressing room. 

Daisy peered at it curiously.  “Flake of metal. Something polished,” came her comment.

Grissom nodded.

***   ***   ***

In the end, Daisy sent them back to the Wayside around two in the morning, insisting they’d need the rest before the first presentation at ten. Grissom might have argued the point, but Sara was yawning, and without the advantages of Greg and his seventy-five thousand dollars worth of equipment on call, the murder case would move at Sheba’s pace, not that of Las Vegas .

As they cruised back towards the Wayside, Grissom slowed the Denali, turned into the parking lot of a Ready-Mart drugstore and then looked at Sara. 

She glanced at the store, slightly confused.  “Grissom?“

“Supplies,” he whispered to her in a soft reminder. 

Sara arched an eyebrow at him in a teasing challenge.  “I see. Toothpaste?”

“No.”

“Razors?”

“Ah, no.”

“Aspirin? Shampoo? A bag of Oreos with double stuff in the middle and a six pack of Orange Crush to wash it all down?” she commented with a dreamy tone in her voice.

Grissom stopped mid-stride to stare at Sara, managed an innocent expression as they approached the front doors. 

She grinned, the gap in her teeth flashing.  “I guess not. So with all that out of the way I have to ask one thing—why am I going IN with you?”  Grissom kept looking at her and Sara shrugged her shoulders. “I mean come on—you don’t need me along to buy prophylactics, right? In fact, it’s going to look downright smutty if I’m standing there next to you while you pick them up.”

“No it won’t. If anything, it will look highly responsible of us, not that I particularly worry about making a moral impression on a nightshift clerk in a small town in upstate Nevada, Sara. What I DO worry about is waking up in a few hours and wanting to play Lord of the Burgundy Bed, but being unable to indulge in my droit du seigneur because we don’t have any birth control.”

Sara’s jaw dropped and she laughed. Grissom pursed his mouth but his eyes were twinkling as he strode into the drugstore, Sara trailing behind him, trying to regain a sense of composure and not succeeding very well. 

She caught up with him down the nearest aisle and snorted softly.  “Lord of the Burgundy Bed?”

Grissom said nothing, but she noted a flush along his neck along his collar. She pointed with her chin to the back of the store towards the pharmacy and followed him there. They slowed as they approached the appropriate aisle. Little boxes hung from display rods, each touting their advantages over the others with claims and promises across their packaging. Grissom pretended to seriously examine the display as Sara studied him.

“Games of jus primae noctis—boy, you think you know a man and he still manages to surprise you.” She reached for a small box in yellow and grey, a package that advertised the contents were designed for HER pleasure. Grissom sighed softly, still not meeting her eyes.

“Yes, well let’s just say the décor at the Wayside got the better of me.”

“Fair enough,” she smiled softly, bumping his shoulder with hers. His mouth twitched again when she spoke softly, even though the store was almost completely empty at this hour of the morning. “Pretty considerate of you not to knock up the virgin peasant bride here.”

“Noblesse oblige,” Grissom shot back with mock loftiness that dissolved Sara into chuckles again. She held up another package and he finally did look at her, his smile slow and knowing; Sara felt herself blush, and the heat in the pit of her stomach flared. He nodded approval and they walked back up the aisle. Before they could head to the checkout, however, Grissom steered Sara down another lane and carefully reached up on the shelf, handing her another, bigger package. She laughed, hefting the Oreos and throwing him a grateful look.

“Bribing the wench?”

“I’m a beneficent lord, generous in many ways.”

Sara tossed the bag lightly from hand to hand. “So does that mean you’re going to fork over for the Crush too?”

“Sara,” he growled, “You’re going to end up hyper on sugar.” Nevertheless, he led her to the refrigerated wall cases and fished out a six pack of orange soda. 

She took it from him and batted her eyes, smiling so widely her dimples showed.  “Oh yeah, I’m totally swearing fealty to YOU, Sir Grissom of the Burgundy Bed—“

Grissom gave a long suffering sigh, but managed to lightly swat her rump as they moved to the counter and dropped their goods onto it. The teenaged clerk, a pale thin girl with bloodshot eyes tried to smile at them.  

“Did you find everything okay?”

Sara nodded politely, trying not to look embarrassed. The girl swiped the cookies and six pack easily, the ‘bloop’ of the scanner loud in the empty store. As she dragged the box of condoms over the light, however, it screeched. All three of them winced; the girl fumbled with the package and dropped it at her feet, fishing for it around the letterman jacket, baton and pom poms there while Sara held her breath and Grissom sighed.

“Uhhh, sorry about that—“ the red-faced clerk mumbled, tossing the box up to the counter and sliding it over the scanner once more. It gave a second screech and the teenager looked helplessly at Grissom.

“These usually don’t do this—“ she blurted. Sara covered her eyes with her hand as the girl began to reach for the intercom, about to loudly broadcast a request for a price check on---

“They’re ten dollars and fifty cents; with tax, eleven ninety-four,” came Grissom’s calm flat accent. The girl hastily rang it up, stuffing the package into the bag with the cookies and soda. 

Sara grabbed the bag up and shot out of the door with Grissom following behind her after paying the clerk.  “Oh God. That was THE most embarrassing moment of my life!” she moaned, clutching the bag tightly. Grissom started the Denali, his expression still mild, but a hint of heat along his cheekbones.

“Yes, well for me, it runs a close second to buying Maxi pads for my mother while standing in line behind Eldon Rothman.”

Sara glanced over at Grissom, who caught her look and elaborated, reluctantly.

“Football jock, first class bully, bane of my seventh grade year. He loudly speculated on my unavoidable purchase in every class we shared for a month until the afternoon I took Polaroids of him in the locker room, masturbating over a copy of Playgirl. After that he left me alone.”

Sara blinked, both a little frightened and downright amused. 

Grissom shrugged.  “I was a ghost by choice, Sara.”

***   ***  ***

Clem wrote a hasty note on her board and held it up to David, who was busy washing his hands in the stainless steel sink in the morgue. 

He shook his head sorrowfully.  “No, I’ll either take the make-up session, or pay the fine. Natalie’s counting on me to coach her on Saturday, and we’ve really worked hard for this—“

Clem gently pushed his glasses for him, one slender finger on the nosepiece; David gave a grateful smile and let his hands drip for a moment longer.

“—But it’s okay. I know Grissom and Sara will have to take the make-up as well.”

Clem shot him a doubtful look and he shook his head firmly in reply to her silent question. “No, it’s important that you do the session, don’t worry about us. We’ll miss you, but these things happen.” 

David reached for a towel and dried his hands as Clem sighed. She waved goodbye to him and continued pushing the interoffice mail cart down the hall, stopping periodically to set packages and letters down on various desks. When she reached the lab she handed Greg a huge stack of manila envelopes. He took them and flashed her a quick smile she didn’t return.

“Not a happy camper, Ms. St. Croix—have to take that Saturday session?” he ventured, trying to sound sympathetic. Clem nodded and managed an elegant eye roll as Greg began sorting his mail with a nonchalant shrug.  “Ah well, political correctness comes before a social life for some of us. Sorry about you and--David.”

Clem eyed him for a moment, then nodded. She grabbed her board and swiftly wrote a few lines, then flashed the board at Greg, who read it.

You’re telling me—I was really looking forward to seeing his sister in her second Special Olympics. David’s been coaching her for six months. He asked me to be her timekeeper, but now he’s going to have to do that as well. Stupid seminar!

Stunned, Greg looked up at Clem, blinking rapidly.

“Special Olympics? As in—his sister is . . .?”

Clem nodded, her lips twisting in a wry smile. A wipe of the board and she penned:

Yeah, Down’s Syndrome. She’s darling, Greg. Fourteen and as sweet and playful as a puppy. Natalie’s so damn lucky to have a brother like David.

Greg drew in a breath but Clem shrugged her shoulders and wiped the board once more, setting it on top of the cart.

“I thought you guys were dating!” he blurted. Clem’s beautiful pink mouth dropped open a moment and then Greg’s stomach twisted when she appeared to consider the idea. Quickly she grabbed the whiteboard once again.

Ohhh! Do you think he’d ever want to date me? He’s a real sweetie you know. Maybe he’d be okay with a nice dinner out if Natalie wins—Great Idea! Thanks, Greg!

Clem beamed at him, waggled her fingers and pushed the cart off with renewed zeal, leaving Greg sitting forlornly amid his half-sorted mail, wondering why he felt a sudden, personal kinship with Daffy Duck.

***   ***   ***

Sara, trying not to break the mood, peeked over the top edge of the blanket at Grissom, who was just climbing into bed next to her. Ever since the ride back from the drugstore she’d been determined to play up to Grissom’s little fantasy as a show of trust. It had taken a lot of it for him even to admit it, she knew, and somehow this ridiculous hotel room was starting to get to her as well, making her a little bit more aware of her own skin.

The fireplace helped, the blaze set low so that shadows danced along the shaggy walls; Sara felt the comparison to some castle bedroom wasn’t too far off. She rolled to face Grissom, who was stretching out, eyes closed, a mild expression on his face. She laid a hand on his bare chest, toying with his St. Albert’s medal.

“My lord?” she managed without actually laughing out loud. Grissom opened one eye, looking a little surprised. Sara took a quick breath and rushed on, “Hey, aren’t you supposed to be taking my maidenhood or something?”

“That’s the problem with peasants, they have NO patience—“ Grissom muttered to the underside of the ram’s head far over them. 

Sara’s hand slid down his bare stomach, stroking lazily, feeling the muscles tense under her touch. She shifted closer to breathe into his ear.  “What did you expect? I’m on a sugar high and I’m horny. We toilers of the soil run on very basic needs here, even if we DO have quick metabolisms.”

Grissom grinned as Sara’s fingers slid down further, raking through the wiry fur at his groin. He sighed as her grip slid around his thickening erection, stroking gently.

“Ohhhh. Nice grip—you churn butter for the castle, don’t you?” he teased. 

Sara bubbled up a giggle and pressed a kiss to the white hair at his temple as her fingers continued to caress him.  “Hey, whatever lifts your lance, lover—“ she burbled right before Grissom rolled in her direction and cut her off with a good deep kiss. 

She clung to him, knowing part of her giddiness had nothing to do with sugar at all, just the sleek heat and joyous desire of wanting this man, feeling his hunger for her. Their legs and arms entwined in slow caresses; Sara licked the tender flesh across Grissom’s cheekbones, aware that her breath was tinted by cookies. 

He slid one big hand around her waist, pulling her closer, nestling his thick cock between her thighs.  She shivered against the heat of him, and Grissom said nothing, merely dropped his head to her chest, kissing it as his beard tickled her sensitive skin. Sara felt her breathing grow ragged as she tightened her thighs around his shaft, squeezing it; he growled, thrusting hard.

“Sara . . .”

“Sorry,” she whispered back with teasing tenderness, “Be gentle with me . . . my lord.”

At her words he paused a moment, studying her face carefully, his own face a study in vulnerable indecision. Sara stroked his cheek, cupping in, and in that little gesture he closed his eyes, a tiny smile lighting his face. He gently pulled free of her grip and rolled, shifting his big body before Sara quite realized his intentions, but by the time she did he was already lying half across her facing her feet, his hands stroking her lean thighs, urging them to part.

“Hey!”

“Shhhh—“ came his soft reprimand as he stroked his bearded cheek along the inside of one silky thigh. The tickle sent a jolt of hot arousal through her, and Sara tensed, still shocked at how the feel of Grissom’s face against her body made her breathing go ragged. She reached her arms down to touch his broad back, her hands stroking the shallow trench of his spine. Soft yet searing kisses slid along the muscles of her leg, moving inward and she helplessly spread her thighs wider to him.

The slow, reverent strokes of his tongue sent shivers through her; Sara longed to make him speed up but knew better than to try by now; Grissom never rushed, never hurried through kissing her between her knees. It was the most infuriating erotic factor of loving him; she suspected he drew it out partly as payback for teasing him, and partly for the sheer dominant male thrill of it all.

Nevertheless she squeaked out, “Grissom!” in a choked high voice as she squirmed under his body. He ignored her hands pushing against his back and merely kept up his soft delicate lapping, his hot breath blowing through the fluffy curls under his lips. His hands slid up and down the outside of her bent legs, constantly stroking until Sara thought she’d die of sensory overload. Impatiently she lifted her hips, pushing against his mouth only to hear him laugh.

“We’ve got a peasant uprising!”

It was such a bad pun and his voice was so delighted that Sara growled, pressing her feet hard against the burgundy sheets to buck against his chin and lips once more.

“Grrrrrrrisssom—“ there was no mistaking the lustful desperation in her tone, and he dipped his head once more, sucking warmly, his tongue tapping lightly the swollen bud of her desire. The effect of his maneuver was gratifying: Sara stiffened in a rush of tingling pleasure, her body shuddering under his as jolts of searing gratification surged through her long frame.

Grissom waited until she stopped clawing at his back, then kissed her inner thighs and scooted back up the bed. She lay limp, smiling with her eyes closed.

“Sara?”

“Oooooohhhh yeah, I am SO ready for you to storm my ramparts—“ she murmured, finally opening her lashes and shooting him a look of pure bliss. 

He snorted, but reached for a condom from the nightstand. 

Sara sat up and took it from him, tearing the packet and reverently rolling the latex onto his shaft. Grissom stretched out on the bed, reaching for her, pulling Sara down onto him even as his hands trembled a little. The firelight lit her lithe body in gold as she gently knelt over him and guided him deeply into her.

“M-my queen—“ Grissom gasped as she rocked against him, her smile beautiful.

***   ***   ***

Sara yawned as he brushed her hair in long slow strokes. She gently rubbed more lotion on her arms.

“Sara?” he asked softly. 

She turned to look at him as he sat around her on the edge of the bed.  “Yeah?”

“Tell me—what was your first orgasm like?” It was a shy question, a very intimately Grissom question and she ducked her head to smile to herself for a moment.

“Scary. Accidental. I pulled a muscle in my thigh during volleyball in 8^th grade PE. Mom made me use a massager on it, and the thing accidentally slipped into my lap. Bam! Two seconds later I was folded up gasping and wondering how I could be having a heart attack between my legs,” Sara told him with a low laugh. He drew in a breath and she rubbed long strokes of lotion on her shoulder. “It freaked me, but I couldn’t get over how amazing it felt. I learned to sort of muffle the intensity with a folded towel, and I wore the massager out by my first year at college.”

Grissom chuckled, shaking his head and shooting her a wry look that she returned full measure.

“And you?”

“Ah. Not an accident per se. But scary. I thought I’d . . . broken myself.”

“Broken yourself?” Sara asked, setting the lotion down and stroking the last of it on the other shoulder. Grissom shifted the brush to his other hand.

“I was twelve, with a somewhat limited range of knowledge. I knew I hadn’t urinated, that it wasn’t blood, or mucus or saliva. I thought it might be vitreous fluid since I had seen white stars behind my closed eyelids—“

Turning, Sara smothered her laugh against his chest, slipping her arms around him.

“Grissom! Vitreous fluid?”

“It was a panicked guess. Gray’s Anatomy only showed body parts, not fluids so I had to figure it out on my own.”

“Why didn’t you just ask your mom?” she lazily demanded, steering them back under the sheets. 

Grissom set the brush down and turned out the light, chuckling.  “Because I didn’t think she’d know, and much as I loved my mother, I wasn’t about to explain how I’d ended up leaking eyeball fluid out my penis.”

Sara laughed and Grissom joined in as they settled around each other in the darkness, gradually dropping off into a deep and contented sleep.