Or just defiantly obtuse—Sara couldn’t really decide which label fit the man better. She finished brushing her teeth, rinsed her mouth and plodded out to her bed, slipping into it with a heavy, graceless fatigue, hoping sleep would stop her mind from attempting to pick apart the infuriating emotional ravel that WAS Gil Grissom—


She felt his presence behind her, that solid wall of heat that radiated from him in a personal nimbus of warmth seeping into her as pervasively as a touch. Sara looked over her shoulder.


“You’re the perfect height—want to re-enact the Melton case with me?”


Mmmmmm, those eyes—a girl could drown in a blue that deep. Intense. Steady. She found herself nodding quickly—Melton? Something about a struggle wasn’t it?


“Okay then--our perp was behind the victim, had her in his arms, like so—“ came that deep voice with its flat Midwest accent.


Oh enfolded thrill of that grip! She leaned back against him, letting her spine rest on his chest, oblivious to his words, drinking in that body heat, letting him purr into her ear.


“—With one hand, but where’s the other one? I’m confused—if he’s got her jaw in his right hand, turning it towards his face—“


Matching the action to the mutter, Sara felt him gently cup her face, shift it towards his. Close, so close, his breath brushed her slightly open lips even as his brows were drawn together in concentration. She took his other hand, laid it on the bony edge of her hipbone.


“Bruises here—“ she lied, easily. Gil’s hand cupped the bone, big strong fingers pressing with a nonchalant possessive touch. She longed for those fingers to slide—as soon as the thought touched her mind, his hand followed, gliding inward across her skirt, big palm flat, making her breathing all wheezy, and ooohhh God yesyesyes pressing sweetly over the dim curve of her mound, fitting it EXACTLY , nestling over it and rubbing in slow thoughtful circles through her thin skirt---


“--Would mean he was distracting her somehow. We know the bite was on the right hand, in the webbing between the index finger and the thumb—“ he droned, oblivious to his left hand, which continued the maddeningly sensual grind. Sara tensed, wishing he’d speed up and drop the case, just catch a freakin’ CLUE here—


“Hand job—“ she panted.


“What?” Still, he rubbed, sweet pressure between her thighs building faster, his breath hot on her face.


“Hand job, hand job! He was getting her off and shutting her up so she wouldn’t scream when she came, Gris—“ Sara panted, rolling her hips forward to push back against his palm, her pulse going turbo now—soon, it was going to be soon--


“That’s it! Of course—Brass can talk to the mother again and see if Melton had been dating her—“


The hand stopped.





Blearily opening her eyes, Sara glared at the ceiling, well aware of her harsh breathing, her aching nipples. The dream faded, leaving behind a familiar tension now cranked one notch tighter.




Sara sighed, rolling over to grab the bedside phone and dialing a familiar number.


“Hey, I have an idea about the Melton case—have we considered the perp might have been left-handed?”





CSI menu