Sara appreciated the quiet welcome home from Nick and Warrick, the light quick hug from Catherine. Even Greg gave her a smile and a wave through the glass of his station as she passed by. When she joined the rest of the crew in the break room Grissom was handing out assignments; he glanced up at her briefly.

“And since it’s already near the end of October, I don’t need to remind you that we’ll be getting a rush on vandalisms and costumed assaults around Halloween. Tonight we’ve got a break-in at a bakery—Nick, Sara, you’re on it.”

“Someone robbed a bakery?” Nick shot Gris an incredulous look. Sara nudged him.

“Maybe they kneaded the dough—“

Warrick winced, good-naturedly; Catherine groaned.

“Fun-nee, Sara.” Nick grumbled, taking the slip from Grissom.

“Warrick, you’re testifying in that arson case, so you’re off the hook. Catherine and I have the shoe store robbery. Everybody clear?”

His tone was calm and Sara respected the return to normalcy it provided. She glanced over at Nick and smiled teasingly.

“After you—bread man walkin’.”

Nick shook his head in aggravation, leading the two of them down the hall and out to the parking lot. Warrick pushed himself out of his lounge against the doorframe and ran an exploratory hand over his chin.

“Guess I’ll shave before I go to the courthouse—“ he grumbled. Grissom nodded.

“If it’s Judge Benton, she’ll take you more seriously if you do. Catherine?”

“Good to go,” she replied.

*** *** ***

Ramplings was a tiny shoe store set just off a busy corner near the Atlantis casino; despite its small size, the displays were exquisite and the prices, astronomical. Catherine sighed gustily as she studied a crystal pillar in the front window which was topped with a pair of gleaming silver and gemstone encrusted shoes.

“Dear God, Astrabellas! Nothing like a seven hundred dollar pair of stilettos to make you reconsider consumerism.”

Grissom stared at the delicate high heels, appalled. They were pretty, yes, and he knew they’d set off Sara’s charms to sweet fuckable perfection, but seven hundred dollars—

“That’s not footwear, it’s an investment,” he announced. Catherine, who was examining a satin lined display case, nodded.

“Exactly. High heels for the well heeled. A sugar daddy’s present for his baby doll.”

“Where would she wear them?” Grissom wondered out loud; the answer came to him just as Catherine snorted.

“Honestly Gil, you’re SO naïve sometimes—“

He hid his smirk at her assessment and shifted the sweep of his glance to the display counter.

“Now, now, that’s a little judgmental,” came his mumble. Catherine shot him an exasperated look.

“I think when it comes to undressing for success I may know what I’m talking about. Shoes like these aren’t accessories except to seduction, Gil.”

“Double action pumps—“ he quipped back, making Catherine stifle a laugh. For a while after that they said nothing more, making a swift efficient study of the break in. As Catherine dusted the glass counter for prints, Grissom scanned the carpet around the doorway, his thoughts miles away from the case at hand.

He fretted, although he figured he was hiding it well. Catherine wasn’t as adept at reading his mood these days, not like Sara of course. And thoughts of HER circled around his mind, along with her request. It was an obsessive mental mobius loop he couldn’t seem to escape for very long.

Grissom cursed himself for not seeing it coming, for not realizing that Sara would want more than the bottom in everything she committed herself to. It was her way, every time. The gorilla corpse had been a prime example of that above and beyond drive of hers, that need to take things over a comfort zone.

He bit back a sigh that threatened to become a smirk, knowing full well that Sara’s enthusiasm was often its own reward. She’d blossomed, become a lovely dynamo of passionate responses, and he knew a part of that was his mentoring. Grissom cherished the fact that she genuinely loved following his lead, playing along with him, teasing him, expressing her own brand of sexuality in oh so many delightful ways.

It was good. So damn good.

Fighting the growing erection he was now sporting, Grissom shifted and called over his shoulder.

“I’ll check the back door—“

“Might as well, but I’m betting you won’t find anything. This was strictly a grab and run, and the only reason we’re here is the insurance company,” Catherine told him absently. He shrugged and walked down the carpeted store past the glittering display cases to the back door. Once there, he looked down and frowned at spots on the carpet. Carefully he pulled out a swab and dabbed at one.

The real problem wasn’t that he didn’t trust Sara, he mused. He trusted her. Implicitly, when it came down to it. Sara owned him, heart and balls and everything else he could share outside of his soul. No, the problem lay within himself, he knew. That hard core of inner beast hadn’t been breeched in—well, a hell of a long time, he admitted with a grimace.

Not for decades, Grissom grimly prided himself. Not since that bleak day nearly thirty years ago when the pressure had twisted him so hard that he could almost feel the cracks along his skull.

The long pressures of his overloaded schedule had been nothing compared to walking in on the OD suicide of his roommate Paul and his girlfriend Betsey. Finding them in their gory stiffness on HIS bed. Calling the police, being questioned for hours. Being released too late to make his Chemistry final and having to take the F. Then the mother of all migraines; Grissom remembered the agony that made him claw chunks of plaster out of the wall near the sofa and damning Paul for using all of the prescription to kill himself. The rain leaking in and ruining two months of Western Civ notes. The sound of some asshole playing a KISS album so loudly that the entire building thrummed with the bass--

Grissom remembered the baseball bat, and very little else except a satisfied exhaustion afterwards. He remembered waking up hours later and looking around at the consequences of his animalistic fury: the entire apartment lay in ruins, every wall bearing holes, every piece of furniture destroyed.

Gil recalled the intensity and white-hot focus of that ancient rampage searing through his senses and momentarily obliterating all traces of reason or sanity or civility. He kept that memory close, and like Dorian’s portrait used it to hold himself in check. Over the years that self-control had hardened, forming a frame around his personality—voluntary confinement as it were.

His capacity for rage still frightened him.

Grissom noted more stains along the doorframe, swabbed them as well, and then leaned forward to sniff one.

“Cath, I think our perp might have dye on her hands.”

Catherine sauntered over and looked at the indicated stains, frowning thoughtfully.

“Dye would mean he’d been either around the counter, or in the back room—but that’s not where the money is, so why go there?”

For a moment they both looked at the door, then Grissom spoke up.

“Shoes. She was after the merchandise, not the money.”

“She?” Catherine asked, but it was a formality; the stains on the door were at the two and a half foot mark, indicating a short suspect, logically a woman. Grissom nodded.

“Did the owner report anything missing from the inventory?”

“I’ll check—“ Catherine mused, walking off and fishing out her cell phone. Grissom turned to the back room and let his glance take in the repair table.

He didn’t rage these days, but some of his intimate sessions with Sara definitely came close. Something about driving her to the brink of passion would thin out his control and he’d find himself acting on sheer alpha male instinct, responding to the flavor of her skin, her kiss, her silky warm pussy. The glorious release in taking Sara gentle OR hard still made him shiver, and the memory of it fueled the constant hunger for the next time.

“Owner says the only thing she KNOWS is missing was the money from the till, but since she wasn’t actually here today suggests we check with the two clerks. You’re thinking the robbery was a diversion?”

“Possibly. A place like this doesn’t handle cash transactions—most of these shoe purchases would be by charge or check, so the till was barely two hundred. A smart thief would go for the merchandise—portable, small, easy to hide.”

“And easily disposed of. But the dye?”

“Grabbed a pair from the bench here, maybe a last minute choice—“ Grissom hypothesized. Catherine nodded slowly as they both stared at the heavily stained linoleum countertop.

“Sort of a Cinderella in reverse—“ He added.

*** *** ***

“No cracks about buns of any kind,” Nick warned. The warm yeasty scent of Panini’s Bakery washed over them as they stepped in and under the barrier tape. Sara gave a shrug and Nick eyed her suspiciously.

“It’s not like you to give in so easily—“ he pointed out. She smiled.

“Hey, no bun jokes—but everything else, from bagels to baguettes to brioches are fair game, Nick.” She warned. He gave a long-suffering sigh, but his gentle smile reassured her and they got to work.

Sara let her thoughts wander as she meticulously dusted the doorframe, trying to analyze her current mood of trepidation. Taking it apart piece by piece might help dissolve it, or at the very least give her a clue on dealing with it.

She wasn’t afraid of Grissom. Despite his physical size and strength, she’d always felt secure with him, cherished in fact. Sure she’d gotten bruised a few times, ended up sore, usually in places that didn’t show, thank God, but those were incidental, never deliberate.

So why the tingle of apprehension in her now, she wondered.

Fear, she knew, was contagious and Grissom’s permeated her bravado. She didn’t doubt it was genuine; his expression still haunted her. Even now she debated holding him to the deal, but her pride won out every time.

“Empty register, spilled change, some footprints behind the counter—“ Nick dutifully reported. “We may be—“

“—On a roll?” Sara supplied. He scowled at her.

“—In luck,” he finished, shaking a latex covered finger at her. “Warned you about the jokes, Sara.”

“Nick, come on, lighten up—I’m just trying to get a rise out of you—“

“Aw, quit trying to butter me up,” he gave in with a grin, reaching for his kit. Sara moved to the back of the bakery, walking carefully between the rolling racks of bread, still lost in thought.

She wished she were better at sex. The mechanics were easy enough; Sara knew her fair share of positions and understood the sequence of foreplay and rising action to climax and post-coital sleep. No, the weak element in her experience was the emotional one. Lust had been her primary drive with lovers before Grissom, and it was a frame of mind that burned out easily without other emotions. But with Gil—

From the first time she’d glanced into those big blue eyes she’d felt a giddy sensual tickle that started in her stomach and kept shifting lower. His quick smile and flat Midwest accent charmed her, and Sara knew she’d fantasize about him the next time she had her hand between her thighs.

The lust was there, but infused with so many other amazing elements she never knew a man could bring out in her: tenderness, amusement, awe, confusion and frustration. Every time she thought she had Gil Grissom figured out some other facet of him emerged, keeping her on edge.

And then the whole dominance and submission aspect blossomed.

That hadn’t been a total surprise, but her response to it had been, Sara admitted to herself. No hesitation, no second thoughts about giving in to his rules. She wondered if that made her either desperate or a slut somehow, but it didn’t matter, not when the end results were so incendiary. Between the sheets and her thighs, Grissom was big, rawboned and magnificent.

With a squirm of embarrassment at her sudden arousal, Sara swung her flashlight around and caught a glimpse of a paw sticking out from under a low cabinet. Cautiously she squatted down and let the beam travel up to touch the face of the shivering puppy huddled there.

“Hey Nick—“ she called, “How do you feel about bagel dogs?”

*** *** ***

Grissom drove slowly, aware of his destination but not in a hurry to get there. Catherine was delivering the dye samples to the lab, and until Brass picked up the clerks for questioning there was little else to do. He took a side street and managed to find a parking place just beyond the shop he needed. Taking a deep breath, he gripped the steering wheel tightly for a moment, his eyes shut, his teeth clenched.

“For Sara,” he reminded himself sternly.

Climbing out, he glanced down the street. A liquor store, a pizza place, and beyond that—Sin City. The shop’s window glowed with pink neon lights; Grissom pushed the door open, well familiar with the recorded whip crack that acted as a doorbell.

It was small but organized, and the stout little clerk behind the counter brightened at the sight of him.

“Doc Grissom!”

“Skipper,” he acknowledged. Out of a sense of whimsy and security, all the clerks at Sin City went by character names from Gilligan’s Island. Skipper looked like his namesake, round and jovial, although the eyebrow piercings and long braided goatee were his own style.

“Need more liquid latex?” he asked cheerfully, pulling up an order pad. Grissom nodded.

“Another bottle wouldn’t hurt. I’m actually working on a wrist ligature comparison, so I need to look over your bondage stock.”

“No problem—“ Skipper nodded agreeably, pushing over a desk copy of a catalog. Grissom flipped through the pages to the middle of the book. The collection was impressive, and he paused at the considerable options available.

“How many of these do you generally have in stock?”

“Most of them—only the fuzzies are a custom order because of the different animal print fabric. But the three basics: neoprene, leather and Velcro we’ve got.”

Skipper paused and shot Grissom a perplexed look.

“Cuffs don’t LEAVE ligature marks, Doc. That’s the point of using the right equipment.”

“True, but some abrading can occur with any restraint, and right now I’m still compiling a database for comparison,” Grissom countered smoothly.

Skipper grinned, impressed. His skull and crossbones pen hovered over the order pad.

“Fair enough, Doc—what can I stick on the crime lab PO tonight?”

“Latex, two bottles, no particular color. One set of each of the cuffs on page two twelve—all standard size. Does Ginger still carry the plaster mold kits?”

“Yeah, we still have a few—should I add them in?”

“Yes,” Grissom nodded. He waited patiently while Skipper put the order together, trying to ignore the other customers browsing the aisles behind him. When the clerk returned, Grissom handed over his Visa with a sigh, and Skipper laughed.

“Reimbursement from General Funds again?”

“You know how it is when Billing is four to six weeks behind pressing need.”

“Totally—we run into that every time there’s a Trek convention in town,” the clerk laughed.

Out in the car, Grissom set the bag on the passenger seat and tried to ignore it. He drove back to his townhouse and carried it in along with his mail and the newspaper, then left all of them on the table as he went to the kitchen.

One tarragon chicken sandwich and beer later, after the bills were sorted and paid, after his daily crossword was done, he grudgingly reached into the bag. Grissom left the plaster kits and latex in it, and withdrew the other three boxes cautiously, setting them down on the table. Carefully he examined each, reading the packages from end to end, weighing and judging.

The leather and Velcro went back into the bag. Grissom picked up the last box and carried it over to the sofa, setting it on the coffee table. Very slowly he opened it, dumping the cuffs out onto the surface, hearing the soft rattle of the links. He sighed.

The cuffs were blue and black, the neoprene padding thick and cushiony. They had a buckling strap around each like a miniature belt; a strong band of nylon webbing linked by metal rings joined them. Grissom brought them up to his scrutiny, studying them with the intensity he usually reserved for insects. His fingers trembled slightly as he turned the cuffs this way and that, examining them.

They were flawless, and smelled new. He slowly unbuckled one and draped it around his left wrist; it encircled it easily, the feel of it as comfortable as a tennis sweat cuff. Grissom hesitated.

“To fear love is to fear life . . . “ he quoted to himself in a rush, “And those who fear life are already three parts dead—“

So saying, he swiftly threaded the tongue of the strap into its buckle and cinched it, locking the black and blue cuff around his wrist in a snug embrace. He lifted his arm, aware of a thin sweat along his temples, more in his palms.

Far more terrifying was the steel hard strain of his erection against his fly.

*** *** ***

The puppy processed well, holding still in Nick’s arms long enough to let Sara comb her for evidence, and take her paw prints, which matched the ones through the spilled flour along the main aisle in the back of the bakery.

“Hazard a guess?” Sara offered; Nick gave her a twisted smile.

“Our robbers left the back door open, and this little mooch seized a moment of opportunity to wander in and chow down. The lights probably scared her so she froze up under the racks.”

“Too bad we can’t question her about the suspects,” Sara chuckled. Nick nodded, petting the pup, who gave a low gusty sigh.

“I’d guess she’s about nine weeks old, some sort of terrier hound mix. She likes you.”

Suspecting another joke, Nick shot a sharp look at Sara, but she was smiling and petting the puppy herself.

“I get along well with dogs,” he agreed after a moment. He set the puppy down on the trace lab floor and she skittered on the linoleum, sniffing excitedly. Catherine peeked in, grinning.

“Brought in a suspect already?”

“Bystander, innocent despite the yeast on her breath,” Sara smiled. Nick was fighting to get his shoelaces free of the puppy’s interested nibble, and Catherine sighed.

“The shelter doesn’t open until seven, so who’s taking her home?”

“I’ll do it—my case, my canine,” Nick tried to grumble but both women shared a glance acknowledging his obvious delight.

“Fair enough. Just don’t lock her in Grissom’s office,” Catherine warned. Nick shot her a questioning look even as the answer dawned on him.

“Too many bones, right---“

He sauntered off with puppy in his arms as Catherine and Sara watched him go.

“A boy and his dog,” Catherine murmured. “Odds?”

Sara shook her head.

“Oh he’s keeping her, no doubt about that. I got to hear the baby talk all the way back to the lab, if you count calling her a ‘bread chomping woofy girl’ as any way affectionate.”

They both laughed, and Catherine let it die away before shooting a sideways look at the other woman.

“Sara, have you noticed anything—different—with Grissom?”

Fighting a surge of panic, Sara slowly shook her head, “No—“

“Because I swear he seems . . . upbeat. I can’t really put my finger on it, but the last few months he’s been less of a grouch. Hope it lasts.”

She walked off, leaving Sara to smile crookedly and echo her words.

“Yeah, hope it lasts . . .”

*** *** ***

Gibraltar Cliff was the color, officially although to Grissom brown was brown. The oil-based dye had left indelible traces on the fingers of former Rampling’s clerk Trudy DeVries, and the Astrabellas were in the evidence locker awaiting their day in court. Grissom took faint satisfaction in closing the case as he checked his watch. Close to six AM and the weekend.

He finished piling his files on his desk and slowly locked up, taking his time. Part of him did so out of careful habit, the other out of deliberation. Making a choice and putting it into action were two different things; Grissom gave himself time to appreciate that difference. As he turned, he caught sight of Sara coming down the hall towards him; her steps faltered and she seemed reluctant to meet his eyes.

“Grissom—“

“Sara.”

She finally dared a glance and he lost himself in the rich, deep mahogany of her eyes. After a few moments Sara smiled self-consciously.

“So . . .” she began awkwardly, shoving her hands into her back pockets. Grissom smelled the slight hint of apprehension on her, the barest kiss of fear, and it brought forth a responding surge of heat in the pit of his stomach.

“So. I hear Nick has a new roommate.”

“Uh, yeah. I think he’s planning on calling her Bagel,” she replied, searching his face. He nodded.

“Every kid should have a dog . . . Nick must be getting a late start.”

At that Sara smiled, the slow grin bringing her face into a lovely bloom of good humor. Grissom drew in a small breath.

“Time to go home, Sara. Both of us.”

And at that, her smile became luminous.

*** *** ***

Sara’s hand shook badly; Grissom laid his over hers to steady it as she lit the candles on the nightstand. She sighed, relaxing as his warmth seeped into her cold fingers. Sitting on the edge of the bed, Grissom didn’t let go as she shook the match out. Instead he gave her hand a slow squeeze.

“We can’t both be nervous. That’s counterproductive,” he announced, but lightly. It worked and she grinned at him, dropping a kiss along his hairline when she leaned over to drop the matchstick in the small trash can.

“I’ll have to be all secretive and commanding, like Lady Heather.”

Grissom shook his head and she caught the briefest hint of sorrow in his expression as he turned to look at her, the candlelight making his profile shadowy.

“You’re the ULTIMATE seductive mystery, Sara. Unrehearsed. Cool and poised, passionately deep. In a single heartbeat you’re a woman of drives I’ll never understand.”

Sara shivered as his words flowed over her. She nodded. In one swift gesture she reached for his shirtfront, gripping the fabric in two big handfuls. Sara tugged sharply; Grissom swayed towards her, his eyes widening with surprise and amusement.

“Shhhhh—“ she told him, her voice shaky but gaining confidence, “Tonight’s MY show. You don’t get to do the seducing, not even with words, Grissom.”

Something in her desperate little growl let him know she was serious and he nodded gently. Sara smiled briefly at his acceptance and worked her fingers towards the buttons of his shirt, plucking them open one by one.

“The cool and calm Gil Grissom. Neat and tidy, rarely fazed by anything. You have no idea how infuriatingly sexy that is, do you? “

He started to speak then realized it was a rhetorical question by the shake of her head. Sara tugged the shirt open and let her gaze cross his exposed chest as one finger circled a brown rivet of a nipple. She let a laugh bubble up from her throat, a nervous excited sound.

“All the good stuff gets hidden under cotton and khaki and knits. All that muscle. You’re strong, babe. “

He blinked, flattered by her words, but realistic enough to grin a little too. Sara shook her head at his expression and a little gleam flared in her eyes. With one hand she lifted his chin high, commanding,

“Look up, waaaaay up—“

He complied a little uncertainly, and she scooted closer, pressing her mouth on the thin sensitive skin of his throat.

Grissom shivered under her kiss, so hot and wet against his flesh. Sara’s words were slightly muffled, and her hands were busy pushing the shirt off his shoulders.

“I love the salt on your skin. I love the roughness of your bristles. I love feeling your nervousness—“ came her low purr. He fought to keep his hands at his sides, and marveled at how arousing it was just to sit on the edge of the bed and let Sara touch him.

She slid to her knees and wormed her way between his knees impatiently, reaching for his belt buckle, tossing her hair out of her eyes as she did so. Grissom watched her intently, aware of the gleam of her hair, the soft feminine line of her arms. He fought off a wave of dizziness as his body ached for her.

“Up,” Sara muttered, tugging his pants down, her concentration adorable. He lifted his hips enough for her to finish undressing him fairly quickly. Sara impatiently set the clothing aside and stayed between his knees, her hands on his thighs.

“Gawd . . .” it was said with as much reverence as amusement, and Grissom felt her palms slide along his bare skin. He drew in a sharp breath.

“It’s beautiful,” she breathed, bringing her face close to the thick rosy shaft of his thickening cock. Grissom’s hands rested on the mattress on either side of his hips and he clenched them reflexively, but Sara flashed a smile up at him, a look of such soft love and awe that he had to smile back. Her hands shifted, encircling his girth, gently caressing him.

“Fess up, Grissom—did you ever name it?”

He arched an eyebrow at her, but it was nearly impossible not to smirk, his dimples deep in the candlelight.

“No. I’ve never felt the need to call any part of my body anything other than what it is.”

“Now THAT is so typical Grissom,” Sara grinned at him with loving amusement as her long fingers slid around the satiny steel of his shaft. He bit back a groan of pleasure at her tender touch, his hands shifting towards her.

Sara frowned at them and he froze in a moment of awkward surprise at the fierce expression. She rose up to stand between his bare knees, trembling a little, but trying hard to look serious.

“Not your turn here,” she reminded him. Grissom looked up, and Sara bit back a sigh at the sight of him in the candlelight. His iron grey curls, the sweep of his dark lashes, the strong masculine beauty of his face half in and out of the shadows—

“I know. It’s difficult not to—touch,” he sighed softly, no trace of a smile on his mouth, and for a moment she wanted so badly to give in, to simply roll over on the quilt and drag him on top of her the way they had so many times before. As she opened her mouth though, he cocked his head and thinned his lips.

“I took the liberty of getting . . . “ he let his gaze shift to the pillows, and that little gesture was enough to pique her curiosity. Sara gave him a puzzled look. He patiently looked back. Carefully, she leaned over and slid a hand under the cool cotton of the pillows, touching something under it.

Sara pulled the cuffs out and stared at them, her face flushing a little in surprise. Grissom watched her carefully, not moving a muscle as she turned the neoprene restraints over in her hands, looking at them as closely as he had. She shot him a grin through the center of one cuff.

“You take this ‘hoist on your own petard’ thing pretty seriously, don’t you?”

“Sara—I’m three inches taller and eighty pounds heavier and I don’t want to hurt you. Better safe than sorry.”

His words brought a shiver to her skin, and at first he thought it was fear. It was only as they continued staring at each other that he realized she was—

--Excited.

Sara’s espresso eyes glittered, and her sweet mouth puckered in a naughty smile so enticing he felt the surge of wild desire run down his spine and straight up the length of his cock, stiffening it. She looked down to where it pressed against her thigh eagerly.

“Let’s play a game,” she sighed. Leaning down, she moved closer, forcing him back onto the quilt, looming over his body as he lay back, eyes locked on hers.

“It’s called Grissom on the Bottom. Will you play that with me?”

Sara’s kiss was hovering over his open mouth, her lips barely touching his, teasing with a slow sweetness that made him swallow hard.

“. . . Yes . . .” he whispered faintly.

And then she kissed him, a delicate brush of lips back and forth over his. Her hair swept against his cheeks and neck, and he drank in the soft scent of her.

“Scoot up and lie down. I’m new at this—“ she laughed softly against his mouth. Obligingly, Grissom broke away from her spell long enough to comply, stunned at how quickly Sara had managed to captivate him. His body thrummed with tension, and he could feel a tightness behind his balls that made him restless.

“Arms up—“

He gritted his teeth. For a moment he hesitated, blinking up at Sara as she watched the struggle in his face. She bit her lower lip, and that sad little gesture was enough; Grissom reluctantly extended his arms over his head and towards the headboard without a word. Sara nodded.

She slipped the first cuff around his left wrist and cinched it firmly, hiding a smile as her chest pressed against Gil’s face as she did so. Carefully she looped the second cuff under the spool railing and brought it around his right wrist. Under her she felt his big frame stiffen again.

“Shhhhh---“ soothing him with a calm she didn’t exactly feel herself, Sara quickly locked up the second cuff around his big wrist. She looked down at him.

Grissom’s eyes were huge and blue, teetering on the edge of panic as he gritted his teeth and fisted his broad hands. Sara stroked the sides of his face gently, cupping the beard against her palms.

“Hey Sexy,” she murmured, straddling his waist, “Let’s be friends.”

“—Friends?” he warily managed to reply through his teeth. Sara’s smile widened.

“Very GOOD . . . friends . . .” she confirmed, running a finger over his parted lips. She kept her weight on her knees and shifted her hands to her tank top, reveling in his full attention. With a slinky tug, she pulled the shirt off and twirled it clumsily in one hand, but Grissom’s gaze followed her gesture with flattering intensity and she felt the ridge of his cock stiffen further under the swell of her ass in response to her half-nudity.

“Yesss,” he replied in a hoarse little whisper. Sara slid her hands over her breasts, cupping them in a sweetly sultry move that felt as good as she suspected it looked. Under her, Grissom’s eyelids fluttered as he desperately tried to compose himself.

“Yes what?”

“Let’s BE . . . very good friends,” he responded in a chuff of frustration, tugging on the cuffs. Sara toyed with her chest a few moments longer, adding a wriggle of her hips, the denim rubbing against Grissom’s stomach. He tensed.

“Sara!” it was both a plea and a warning; she languidly stretched out on him, well aware he could bear her weight easily, that the lovely press of his heated skin was addictive in its own right. Flesh to flesh, her chest on his was enough to make both of them groan. Aching desire pulsed hard between them, almost palpable; Sara shimmied against Grissom’s supine body, grinding her hips against his in a happy frenzy as she stared into his glacier blue eyes.

“I like this—“ she breathed in his ear, “--making out—“

His only answer was his deepened breathing. Under her lithe frame his body flexed, strong, big, powerful in the candlelight. Sara felt a whimper build in her throat when she realized Grissom was whispering to her.

“This is—hard. So very hard . . .”

“Not for long,” she promised, kissing him lushly, her tongue slickly sweeping over his to end his protests. He relaxed a tiny bit; Sara rose off of him to catch her breath and pull her jeans off. Grissom turned his head to watch her undress. She stepped out of her dropped clothing and slid back onto the bed, centering herself over his legs somewhat clumsily, her attention focused on his hips.

And what rose between them.

“You—“ she accused with a choked laugh, “—Are an impressive sight, Gil Grissom.”

He paused a moment, trying to regain a sense of equilibrium, and replied thickly, “Genetics. Testosterone. Excessive masturbation—“

Sara slid her hands around the heavy shaft, feeling its heat against her cool palms. Grissom groaned, and gave a tug of protest on his cuffs as she stroked.

“Really? And how long has THAT been going on?” came her soft question.

“Since I met you,” came a familiar reply; Sara looked around the pillar of his cock and found Grissom faintly smiling down at her.

“—At least the excessive part.”

“Oh you are SO gonna get laid for saying that—“ she snorted, tightening her grip, finding a rhythm that made him shiver and swallow hard. He thrust up, his thighs pinned under her weight even as his cock surged through her fingers. Sara purred her delight, caressing the ridges and veins along its length, appreciating the masculine power and beauty of it in the golden light. Dropping her face she rubbed her nose against the crinkly fur around it, breathing in the warm rich musk of Grissom’s sexuality. He groaned softly again.

“Ssaraaa . . .” his tone while still urgent was also lower. Sara heard the hint of alarm in it and responded gently, her hands stroking his abdomen in soothing sweeps as she lightly kissed the underside of his cock.

“Shhhhh—“ with slow care, she lapped delicately at the heart shaped head, tongue curling to catch the glittering drops leaking from it. Grissom gave a tiny shudder and it rippled through his heavy frame. Sara licked more firmly, gratified to hear his breathing speed up a bit.

“I can’t—“ came Grissom’s soft plea as the headboard creaked a bit. “—Can’t take much of this—“

“You can take plenty, babe. You’re mine tonight, every infuriating inch, so deal with it—“ Sara chided. His growl of protest faded away to a desperate hiss as she slid her mouth over his cock and suckled lusciously. The throb of him on her tongue sent fireballs rocketing down her stomach; Sara could feel hot tension between her thighs, pulsating hard.

Leisurely she stroked him in her mouth, easing off the pressure when he began to thrust himself upward, and then beginning again in a slow tease of slick pleasure. Grissom’s big chest grew damp, and Sara heard the frantic tug of the cuffs against the headboard as she took her pleasure in toying with him. His balls were too heavy for one hand to cradle, but she cupped them as best she could, earning his gasp of pleasure when she did so.

“Never . . . again,” came his threat. Grissom’s voice was tight, and his words tumbled out in a hard curiously flat tone as Sara let him slide wetly from between her lips. Throbbing and hot, his cock thumped against his stomach. She looked up at Gil’s face.

His pupils were so wide his eyes looked almost black in the candlelight, and his expression was a study in haunted pleasure as sweat rolled down his temples. She blew a light breath on his straining prick and it twitched hard, as if seeking her. Grissom groaned.

“What do you want, babe?” Sara demanded in her whisky tones.

“You KNOW what I want—“ he countered grimly. Sara laughed.

“Say it anyway, Grissom.”

“I want you. Right NOW.”

“On top?” she shifted, keeping her eyes on his, enjoying the power. The control. He swallowed again, eyes half-closing.

“All right, yes, Goddamn it!” he croaked, his chest heaving a bit even as his prick oozed onto his stomach.

Sara moved. She quickly rolled a condom on him, and with more speed than grace she straddled his hips, her knees alongside them. Carefully she reached down between her thighs for his cock with one hand and his chin with the other.

“Who do you belong to, Grissom?” she whispered, holding him against the folds of her sex. He tensed. The question hung between them, layered and heavy, full of promises and meanings; inescapable. Sara waited, feeling her pulse hammering in her ears, poised between fear and elation.

Grissom moved. His powerful hips jerked up, and his cock slid up through her grasp to drive deeply into the glistening folds of her sex, impaling her. Sara gasped, surprised, overwhelmed by his sensual strength as his thick shaft drove to the core of her.

“YOU, Sara! You always---uhhhnggg!” came his pleasured cry and she tensed, her body gripping him. The moment flashed into a blinding frenzy of muscle and sleek skin and soft sobbing moans as Sara rode his cock, all thoughts gone, lost in mindlessly wild passion. The arrogant heat of him, demanding and thick overwhelmed her; after a few strokes she felt the corkscrew of impending orgasm spiral up between her thighs, pebbling her nipples, flushing over her skin as she cried out joyously. The thick throbs within her pulsed in time with hers; Grissom’s body tensed hard and he groaned heavily.

“Mine, you’re Mmmmmminnnne---“ she sobbed as the wave of pleasure washed over her and moved the world.

*** *** ***

Grissom studied his right wrist absently. His left arm held Sara’s slumbering form to his side, cradling her against him as the two of them lay together, the heat of their passion slowly dissipating through the sheets and quilt and pillows.

There were no marks, no abrasions anywhere on his skin even though he’d strained hard against the cuffs. He pursed his mouth thoughtfully and let his glance take in the unbuckled restraints sitting on the nightstand near the snuffed candles. Harmless looking, really—

“Hey—you’re stealing all the covers—“ came Sara’s mumble against his chest. Grissom smiled against the top of her head, kissing her tousled hair.

“Sorry.”

“S’okay. It takes some getting used to—“ her observation ended in a yawn.

“What does?”

“Sharing,” she replied softly. He tightened his grip in a quick hug making her laugh. Sara kissed his shoulder and watched his eyes as he paused, pulling together a comment.

“I . . . can learn. About sharing, if it’s with you.”

Sara tipped her head, a long strand of her hair brushing against his skin. Grissom gave a wordless sigh and reached over to tuck it back behind her ear. The tenderness of the gesture made her eyes fill and she blinked.

“Wow. Does this mean I might get to be on top more often?”

Grissom let the pause linger in the growing daylight that filled the bedroom.

“We’ll . . . negotiate.”

“Um hum—“ Sara snuggled into his side, warm. Content.

“But the cuffs are going to the lab,” he added.

“Oh yeah, you say that NOW—“

She laughed, her giggles wetly smothered against his ribcage, and he kissed her crown again, basking in a moment of perfect peace.  

END