“Go
home, Gil. Not to put too fine a point on it, you reek,”
Simon growled from the desk.
Grissom
leaned against the dresser, arms crossed, watching
Sara sleep. He waved off Simon’s grumble, and contented
himself with studying
the slow rise and fall of her chest, barely visible under the blanket
and
quilt. At rest she was unmoving, utterly lost in slumber, and in the
semidarkness the planes of her face were exotic. Grissom let his gaze
sweep
over her.
“Dying
here. Slow suffocation. If you’re so damn afraid of
leaving her here with me, at least go shower up. She left a bunch of
lemon
halves from room service in there--” Simon added in an
undertone. Grissom
looked over at his mentor, who was busy writing something in the circle
of
light from the desk lamp.
“I
should go home.”
“But
you’re not going to,” Simon balefully pointed out.
“Noo, you don’t trust ME, a gentle, honorable
septuagenarian--”
“I
don’t trust you, the multi-married Simon Munro--”
Grissom
replied calmly. Simon tried to look annoyed and failed, slightly
pleased at his
status of potential threat. He peered over his reading glasses at
Grissom.
“Okay,
you have me there. So if you’re staying, please go
shower at the very least. I’ll totter out and get your spare
clothes from the
car if you trust me THAT far and you can sack out on the other bed
while I get
my damned Society of Anthro-Forensics conference speech
written.”
Grissom
thought it over and gave a slow nod; Simon collected
the car keys and left, grumbling softly about putting in overtime as a
geriatric cupid. When he returned with the overnight case, he knocked
on the
bathroom door and handed it over to the steamy muscled arm that reached
out
from the crack.
Simon
returned to his speech, grinning to himself over the
small side trip he’d made to the front desk on the way back
in, and waited.
Gradually the water stopped and after a while Grissom came out, dressed
in
clean jeans and a sweatshirt, toweling off his hair. Sara had rolled
over, but
slept on, and he shot her a glance before turning to face Simon.
“I
should go--” he repeated. Simon shrugged, pen moving in
graceful longhand over the legal pad. Out beyond the curtains the day
was
dawning, muffled by the thick drapes.
“So
go. Believe me, I won’t stop you.”
“--And
that alone raises my suspicions,” came the answering
grumble. Simon gave a noisy sigh that he immediately stifled as he
glanced over
his shoulder at sleeping Sara.
“Christ,
Gil, get in BED already and let me get this thing
finished, will you? I have to fax it to Holly by ten and if you keep
harping at
me I’ll never get it done.”
Grissom
cast a longing glance at the empty bed and
hesitated. Simon snorted softly. “Hit the sack. No bedtime
story either, unless
you’re interested in hearing this speech--”
Grissom
peeled back the coverlet and slid into the bed, his
chuckles low and deep. “No thanks, Simon. I want to sleep,
not go comatose.”
“Ha.
Ha. Ha. Tell me, does Sara know about this cruel habit
you have of abusing senior citizens?” Simon replied absently,
crossing a
sentence out. “I think she ought to be told you’re
not nearly as wonderful as
both of you seem to think you are.”
Grissom
lay back, his hands crossed behind his head on the
pillow, quiet for a moment.
“She
thinks I’m wonderful?” he asked in a sotto voice,
not
daring to actually look at Simon. With a long-suffering sigh, the
anthropologist set his pen down for a moment.
“Yes,
Gil she does. Take a moment to consider the facts. She
moved to this state and city because you asked her to. She’s
put up with your
damned dithering for what, four, five years now?”
“Dither?
What sort of verb is THAT? I don’t dither, Simon.”
“Pffft!
You damn well DO when it comes to matters of the
heart, Gil. According to the gossip I’ve picked up, Sara
tried to make you
jealous, which didn’t pan out, and then fought hard for a
promotion so you’d at
least acknowledge she was competent and hard working, but apparently
that
didn’t pan out EITHER,” came the quiet but slightly
accusing whisper. Grissom
felt his face heat up at Simon’s recitation; he rolled
towards the man and he
opened his mouth to argue, but Simon shook his head.
“It
doesn’t matter, Gil. She’s still here. A little
less
naïve perhaps, but at your side, like always. Don’t
you think it’s time you made
the choice? Fish or cut bait, Doctor Grissom, because God as my
witness, I
personally am tired of seeing such a brilliant man so unhappy despite
the
riches already in his grasp. And that’s all I’m
going to say on the damn
subject, so get some sleep.”
With
that, Simon picked up his pen again and forged on with
his speech, ignoring the low grumble coming from the bed behind him. He
wrote
for twenty more minutes, racing through sentences that efficiently if
somewhat
colloquially conveyed his love for his vocation, and risked a glance as
he
finished the last one.
Both
Grissom and Sara were sleeping now, each curled in
their beds, and Simon sighed, looking at the pair of them
“Ah
children, you do frustrate me so sometimes. Both of you
headstrong, both of you too smart for your own good--” he
whispered with an
amused smile. Quietly he arose, flinching at the creak of his knees and
back,
and picked up the speech. He quietly took a suit of clothes out of the
closet,
packed up some toiletries and underwear and left the room, locking the
door
behind him and slipping both card keys back under it.
At the
main lobby, Simon sweet talked the cute concierge
into faxing his speech to the
***
*** ***
He could
see her leaning, too close, FAR too close, about to
slip, and yet as he tried to move, his limbs felt as it they weighed a
ton.
Grissom tried to shout, and warn Sara about being on the edge of the
cement
mixer,TOOCLOSE and the hot horrid fear of seeing her FALL into the
flesh pulped
acid burned through his mind and heart in one searing RUSHofFEAR--
“Grissom!”
He woke
in a spasm of terror, blinking up into Sara’s
worried brown eyes as she stared down at him, her hands on his
shoulders. Bit
by bit he relaxed, the comfort of seeing her whole and real, her dark
hair
dangling down almost in his face. He reached up, hands sliding along
her arms
and to her elegant shoulders, and the overwhelming relief of touching
her,
feeling her solidity made the fear flow away like a wave receding back
into the
sea. Sara’s apprehensive expression shifted as she drank in
the bare lines of
emotion on Grissom’s face.
“It’s
okay. It was just a nightmare . . .” she soothed in
her low, husky voice, “You’re okay . . . “
“Barely--”he
blurted, feeling the residual tingles of the
acute horror fading now. His thumbs slid along the front of her
shoulders,
moving in little caressing circles, and Sara shivered a tiny bit, but
refused
to pull away. Carefully, she reached a hand out to his forehead,
finding it
damp, and hot.
“Yeah,
well it’s over now and you’re fine. A little warm,
but fine,” she reassured him again. Grissom closed his eyes
and took a deep
breath, finding the scent of sleep-warmed Sara utterly entrancing.
Hints of
soap and lemons mingled with warm feminine musk beckoned him on, and
without
realizing it; he pulled her shoulders, bringing her closer down. Her
hair
brushed the sides of Grissom’s face.
“Warm,”
he croaked, and surging up, Grissom kissed her.
Surprised for a moment, Sara stiffened, but the hot press of his mouth
was
impossible to resist, and she leaned down into it, the nurturing urge
within
rapidly morphing into a brighter, hotter desire. Grissom
didn’t give her time
to think; his kiss hummed against her lips and Sara parted them, her
moan of
desire eagerly gliding out to slide against his in a lovely primitive
response.
Glorious,
their kiss shifted and danced on their mouths and
tongues, as strong and blatantly sexual as any words, any thoughts that
either
Sara or Grissom had ever had; and by the time they reluctantly gave in
to the
need for air, both of them were panting.
“Jesus,
where did THAT come from?” Sara blurted,
half-laughing even as she brushed her lips against his cheek. Grissom
struggled
to sit up and hang on to her at the same time; his blue eyes danced
with sparks
in the dim light.
“Desperation.
Desire. Lots of that,” he admitted in a
wondering tone, his gaze drinking her in with awe. Sara tipped her head
up and
laughed, the lovely muscles of her long throat moving as she did so.
“You
too, huh? And here I thought it was all pretty much
one-sided. That I’d always be Teacher’s pet and
nothing more than that.”
“Sara--”Grissom
reached out, his big hands cupping her face
with tenderness as he tilted it towards him. His thumbs stroked her
high
cheekbones. “I always wanted to do more than pet
you.”
She
laughed again at his unconscious double entendre, and a
second later he blushed. The sight of him red-faced and bright-eyed was
so
enticing that Sara bent to kiss him again, her mouth softer this time.
Grissom
let himself drink her in, not demanding anything this time, simply
riding the
softness of her lips. When Sara pulled away, she smirked at his
slightly dazed
expression.
“Grissom,
not to be nosy, but what are you doing sleeping in
Simon’s bed?” she asked. He leaned back against the
headboard and sighed a
little. Sara was in an oversized black and green-checkered flannel
shirt and
sweatpants, obviously her spare gear. She sat on the edge of the bed,
not quite
out of arm’s reach but out of harm’s reach, which
Grissom wasn’t sure he
appreciated. He ran a hand over his bearded chin before speaking up.
“I
had to take him home, and we both found you here,
asleep.” He offered. Sara gave a little encouraging nod, and
Grissom looked
around.
“Yeah
. . . . and?”
“And
I was pretty tired, so Simon talked me into taking a
nap . . . .” Even to his own ears it sounded horribly lame.
Sara’s grin
widened. She leaned forward until her nose was just touching against
his.
“Let
me get this straight--Simon talked YOU into staying
here and sleeping.”
Grissom’s
eyes closed, since he couldn’t focus with Sara so
near. His other senses: touch, scent, hearing took over, and he
shifted, hoping
she wouldn’t notice his physical enthusiasm for the tickle of
her breath on his
mouth. Slowly, reluctantly he shook his head.
“No,
all right, actually I volunteered.”
“Pretty
selfless of you, offering to stay and keep my virtue
secure from a man in his seventies.”
“Four
marriages, Sara, Four! And God only knows how many
love affairs--“ he protested faintly, his mouth brushing hers
in a slow caress.
Grissom decided he liked a LOT about this moment: the almost kiss which
was
about to become one, the way Sara willingly slid into his arms, the
fact that
they were on a bed . . .
“So
what you’re saying here,” Sara murmured against his
lips, “ is you’d prefer I didn’t sleep
with Simon.”
Grissom
growled. It startled him almost as much as it did
Sara, who spluttered into giggles at the low sound rumbling through his
chest.
He tightened his hold on her and recklessly kissed her once more,
getting in a
good tasty tongue sweep before glaring into her mischievous brown eyes.
“No
sleeping with Simon. In ANY context, Sara. Platonically,
accidentally, spontaneously--” he warned. Sara tossed her
head back and picked
up the thread of his words with ease.
“So
not willfully, or inadvertently, or that really
dangerous one . . . deliber--” She never finished that taunt
since Grissom
tugged her him and quite thoroughly sucked it off her mouth. Not that
she
minded in the least, her long arms winding around his neck. He leaned
back
again; taking her with him and for a long lazy moment the world between
them
consisted of tangling tongues and urgent little moans that seemed to
arise
between them.
Sara
found Grissom made a quite solid mattress himself, even
with a sheet and a few blankets across his body. He was certainly . . .
lumpy
enough, she thought giddily as she straddled his hips. The resulting
shift of
her weight made him shudder visibly, and Sara was quite pleased with
that
effect.
“You
like me--” she observed with a grin. Grissom opened one
eye and tried to glare at her, but a little wriggle of her bottom on
his lap
dissolved his expression into a helpless sigh.
“Like
is far too mild, Sara. I LIKE calamari. I LIKE the
“Prove
it--”she challenged, enormously thrilled to hear the
unhesitating honesty in his low tone.
“I’ll
buy you shoes, and take you out to dinner, I’ll water
your plants, I’ll spend evenings listening to the scanner
with you, I’ll send
you valentines and name a tarantula after you . . .” Grissom
rattled off in a
strained but playful tone. “I’ll give you all the
best assignments and let you
use Red Creeper whenever you want, I’ll let you have my
official parking space,
Sara--”
She
listened to this list of offers, wide-eyed and soulful,
seeing so much in his deep blue gaze as his hands slid up her back
again. Sara
blinked against the sudden heat of tears and hugged him tightly, her
long arms
wrapping around Grissom with happy desperation.
“All,”
she choked, “I’ll take them ALL, thanks--”
“Good,”
he agreed softly, whispering the words into her
hair. “Good.”
For a
moment they didn’t speak, but merely held each other
in a warm cocoon of comfort in the dim light. Sara finally shifted and
shot an
anxious look around the room, her mouth twisted in a comical expression
of
concern.
“Simon--
speaking of the man, where IS he?”
Grissom’s
eye caught a glint from the rug; he looked down to
see the two room keys lying on the floor like an opening hand of
Twenty-One. He
frowned. Sara followed his gaze and gave a little snort of amusement.
“Geez,
subtle, isn’t he?”
“And
the Do No Disturb sign’s missing too--care to bet
it’s
on the other side of the door?” Grissom pointed out with
commendable patience.
Sara snickered.
“Let’s
face it, Grissom, the man’s a die-hard romantic with
an agenda neither one of us can stop. Given his patience and
persistence, I
think I can see how he’s been married four times.”
Grissom
looked as if he wanted to say something, but Sara
was beginning to unbutton her shirt, and that wiped all thoughts from
his mind
as he gaped at her for a moment. She arched an elegant eyebrow, daring
him to
speak. He blinked, and leaned back against the headboard, not saying a
word,
just watching and waiting. Sara’s dimples deepened and she
flicked the flannel
collar open exposing the sleek bones and cream-smooth skin of her
shoulders,
the tender, intimate curve of her breasts. As she uncovered her
nipples,
Grissom gave a little gasp.
“Sara
. . . “
He
stared, unable to stop himself, feeling a heavy thudding
in his chest along with the roaring in his ears. Time seemed to slow,
and only
the warm weight of Sara on his lap lent any reality to the moment as
Grissom
felt his mouth go dry. Sara awkwardly peeled the shirt off and dropped
it over
the side of the bed.
“Um
. . . This is okay, right?”
He
couldn’t formulate words, and certainly couldn’t
stop
staring at the sweet perfection he’d always suspected
concerning Sara’s chest.
She looked down at herself, trying to figure out what had Grissom so
enthralled. Slowly he reached a hand out, sliding it under the soft
perky heft
of one breast, and the warm weight of it made him moan. Sara cupped her
hand
around his, pulling his palm flat against her pebbly nipple.
“They
don’t break--” she teased softly, aroused and
amused
at Grissom’s speechlessness. His gaze flicked up at her face,
and at the sight
of her smile, he stammered.
“I-I
know that. I just--I mean, Sara, we’re--”
“On
a bed. I’ve wanted to be on a bed with you for a long
time, in case you didn’t know. Simon’s giving us an
opportunity, and I figured
you might be . . . interes--ooohhh . . .“ Judging from the
slow stroking his
thumb made over her nipple, Sara happily sensed her instincts were
right. And
that Grissom was better at this than she’d given him credit
for. His other hand
came up and mirrored the gesture, making Sara arch back in pleasure in
his big
palms. For a moment, Grissom continued his teasing, then he pulled Sara
forward, burying his face in the crook of her neck as his arms slid
around her
bare ribcage.
“May
I make love to you?” he asked in muffled desperation,
making Sara laugh out loud.
“I
just took off half my clothes, Grissom--how much more of
an invitation do you NEED?”
Apparently
that was enough; he promptly wrestled her under
the covers and amid much whispering and tugging and groaning and slurpy
kissing
managed to get both of them out of the rest of whatever
they’d had on. Sara was
astounded at Grissom’s single-minded drive, not to mention
his persistence; and
while he was ruthless, he was equally gentle in his quest.
“Long,
my God you’re a long woman, Sara--” he observed, on
his knees now, pulling back the covers to study her lanky body. On her
back
now, Sara bent on knee and flexed a leg up in the air, like a dancer.
Grissom
caught a hand around the calf and kissed her shin reverently.
Apparently the
taste appealed to him and he did it again, working his way up her leg,
his
beard tickling her ankle and the instep of her foot before Sara tried
to tug
away from him.
“Hey,
hey--”
He
rested it against one bare shoulder, and Sara let her big
toe touch his tousled curls at his temple. Grissom looked down at her,
and his
eyes widened. She caught his glance; between them the glorious little
moment
caught and held. Tenderly Grissom smiled at her, stroking a finger
along her
nose and around her lips.
“Um,
Sara . . before we go any further--” he began,
reddening slightly, but his voice soft as he shifted to his hands and
knees
over her. She blinked up at him, a surge of disappointment shooting
through
her. Her lower lip quivered.
Grissom
hated himself in that bleak moment, hated the fact
that he was a grown man, responsible, mature and currently without a
choice.
The allure of Sara’s lean, sweet body taunted him, and even
as he cleared his
throat and spoke, one of his hands slid over her warm skin, drinking
the satiny
sensation in.
“I
don’t . . . HAVE . . . anything,” he muttered,
feeling
his face flush both with the confession and the realization that he was
actually saying such a thing out loud to the woman of his fantasies.
Sara
shifted, her eyes sliding down his body and stopping just under his
navel. She
frowned.
“Yes
you do. It’s right THERE. Maybe you haven’t used it
much lately, which I can understand since I’m a little out of
practice myself
and all, but trust me Grissom, you DO have--”
“Sara--”
with confused patience, he shook his head through a
rueful smirk and tried again. “Not THAT. Yes, I’ve
got THAT. Trust me, I’ve
been all too aware I have one when you’re around.
It’s constantly defying
gravity in fact. No, I mean I don’t HAVE anything . . .
.” he hesitated again;
hoping she would clue in, help him out. Sara’s pretty brows
came together in
confusion. One of her hands slid around the warm heft of his shaft and
Grissom
bit his lips in an overload of pleasure at her casual stroke.
“Ohh!
You don’t HAVE anything--” she echoed, nodding her
head. “Okay. Now I get it. You don’t have any
condoms.”
Her hand
continued its soft stroking, gliding up and down
the blood-engorged length until Grissom dropped a steely grip on her
thin
wrist, his nostrils flaring.
“Stop.
That. Now.” He ordered unhappily. Sara thought it
over for a moment and shook her head.
“I
don’t see why I should. You like the way it feels, and I
like the way it feels, right?”
Perplexed,
Grissom glared at her, noting even in his
frustration how rich and beautiful the glint of mischief looked in her
eyes.
Sara stuck her tongue out at him, and that little taunt was enough to
make him
drop heavily on her, pinning her on the mattress amid squealing and
kissing.
“Okay,
that was MEAN, Grissom-- just for that I might not
tell you about the condoms in my purse--” Sara huskily
snorted, dodging his
kiss. He blinked, catching her head in his hands and forcing her to
look up at
him.
“You
HAVE condoms?” he demanded, his hips pressing on hers,
the thick ridge of his shaft throbbing between their bodies. Sara
smirked
boldly.
“Yes--”
“Where!?”
his tone held comic desperation.
Sara’s
shout of laughter rang out as her hands pressed on
his lips. She wriggled her hips lasciviously against his and smiled, a
deep,
endearing look tinged with sadness and patience. Grissom blinked,
stunned by
the depth of her expression.
“Jesus,
Grissom, I love you. I love how you were willing to
stop because you were worried about getting me pregnant. I love how
you’re
turned on and STILL serious about doing things the right way. I love
you
because you’re big and warm and I want to feel you deep
inside me if you can
wait a minute for me to get the box, okay?”
He
nodded, blue eyes big like a boy’s, and Sara slid out
from under him, standing tall and graceful in her nudity. She strolled
to the
window and picked up her purse, which sat on the floor there, then
fished in
it. Turning, she tossed a small package at Grissom, who caught it just
the way
he’d caught the battery before. Sara shifted her weight to
one hip.
“If
you can fit into one of those, I’m sure I can get you
into something a size or two smaller--” she taunted softly.
Grissom cocked his
head, a dangerous gleam in his eyes.
“Come
here.”
***
*** ***
Simon
filled in the last clue of the crossword puzzle and
sighed happily. From his vantage point in the lobby, he had a clear
view of the
bank of elevators. He checked his watch, and began a soft countdown to
himself.
“Fifty-seven, fifty-six, fifty-five . . .”
When he
reached the teens, the doors of the far elevator
opened and two familiar people stepped out. Simon studied them as they
slowly
strode through the lobby, and the tension in his shoulders relaxed as
he
watched Grissom. The man was smiling, his attention focused completely
on the
radiant Sara beside him, who was using her hands as she spoke. They
stopped at
one of the soda machines and Grissom fed it quarters, letting Sara
punch her
selection before choosing something for himself.
Simon
could see the easy give and take between them, and
even though they didn’t touch each other, anyone looking at
them would have the
impression that they had. Grissom said something that made her laugh;
Sara
leaned her weight back on one hip and smiled up at him. Simon felt a
quick hard
spike of loneliness shoot through his chest. He ignored it, rising
above the
unfair emotion to struggle to his feet. He intercepted the two of them
mid-lobby; amused to see both of them turn slightly pink.
“Good
evening. I take it we all slept well?” Simon muttered
blandly, his mouth curling in a very small smirk. Sara flashed a smile
back at
him, striving for casualness.
“Simon!
Hey, yes, I think we can all safely say we slept
well, yeah.” She murmured. Grissom pursed his mouth and
looked at his mentor
steadily. Simon’s smile softened.
“Excellent,”
he murmured. The two of them flanked him, and
all together they walked out of the Sirocco into the cool evening.
The lab
hummed with efficient activity; Grissom took quiet
pride in the smooth flow of processing taking place around him. He
looked up as
Nick passed by, hanging on the doorframe, his face both grim and
pleased.
“Got
a suspect, Grissom. Brass is bringing him in now.”
Grissom
rose from his chair, feeling the surge of tension
return between his shoulder blades. He set the photos he’d
been looking at
down, and came around the desk, feeling a twinge through his hip and
hiding a
smile, remembering how he’d gotten it. He made his way down
the hall, seeing
the back end of Brass passing into the interrogation room. Carefully he
looked
into the two-way glass at the man sitting at the table there.
He was a
kid. Young. Hispanic and thin, with a pockmarked
face and a shaved head. He wore a dark green coverall from A-Pro
Chemicals that
was a bit baggy on his lanky frame, and kept his eyes down as Brass
softly
spoke to him.
“For
the record, it says on this employment form that your
name is Daniel David Galaz?”
The
young man looked up, clearing his throat. His expression
grew softer.
“That’s
my human name, yeah.”
