Flight of the Bumbling
Please return your seats to their upright and locked position and stow your trays as we prepare for takeoff. Please turn off all electronic devices at this time.
Grissom glanced at the metallic buckle across his lap. Certainly not silver, probably stainless steel. There was a dent in the upper right corner. As he shifted he noticed tenderness between his thighs. He moved his hand to adjust the belt and remembered why he was sore.
Sara.
The plane angled up and the centrifugal force pressed him into his seat. Like she had pressed him onto her bed.
He closed his eyes to relive it. She was so beautiful, so…so…horny. He shook his head at that word but it was the first one that came to him. It didn't really fit anyway. She was glorious. Like blue morpho didius when they open their wings.
He had never seen her with less on than a tank top, not even a bikini. He sat on the edge of the bed, watching her undress in complete awe. She left her bra and panties on and straddled him where he sat. Wordlessly, she took his glasses off and placed them on the nightstand, leaning back so her smooth belly reflected the citrine glow of her room. Her navel was perfect. He was paralyzed.
"Sara…," he sort of croaked.
"Shut up and kiss me."
He did as ordered and felt her unbuttoning his shirt. Her mouth was soft and sweet like crème brulee…
We have reached our cruising altitude and the captain has turned off the fasten seal belt sign.
Grissom left the belt in place as the tenderness increased. An ache that reminded him he was alive. Not just alive-resurrected. So why had he left her asleep and crept out? What was wrong with him? He cursed himself as he rubbed his chin. He needed to shave.
Sara had complained about the stubble as he kissed the length of her linea alba to her lower rectus abdominus.
For God's sake, you were making love to her, not doing an autopsy. Can't you come up with something more romantic than rectus abdominus?
He cocked his head and pursed his lips, glancing at the reading light overhead. There was a fingerprint on it. A child's thumb.
A more suitable term…he thought of the old bodice-ripping romances his mother used to read. What did they call it? Secret place? It wasn't a secret anymore.
He pictured them together from up on the ceiling. Her stretched out like a lithe cat, gracefully twisting and turning. Him lumbering like a musk ox. He was practically a virgin. She was patient with his fumbling.
She unbuttoned his shirt and pushed it over his shoulders without breaking lip contact, She spread her hands on his chest and kneaded the curling grey hair. He suddenly felt very old as she glanced down at him, one eyebrow arching. She smiled brilliantly as she looked back up into his eyes.
"You're a pretty good kisser for a scientist." Her eyes twinkled, forming faint crow's feet at the corners.
"Oh, really? Well…I'm a little out of practice," he gasped. Could she feel him trembling?
"It's just like riding a bike, Grissom," she whispered as she traced his lips with her tongue.
"I haven't ridden a bike in a while, either."
"Then it's just like dusting for fingerprints." She tore off his shirt and stood up, pulling him with her.
"Have you kissed many scientists?"
She was looking down at his belt buckle, unfastening it in a flash and ripping it from the loops. She tossed it somewhere. "Not lately. Am I going to have to completely undress you?"
He raised his chin indignantly. "Uh, no…of course not." He brushed her hand away and grabbed the button of his khaki pants. She lay on the bad and propped her head in her hand, watching him with great relish.
Feel free to move about the cabin…
Grissom checked his watch, noting the increasing pressure in his groin. Two hours. Was she awake? What was she doing? His eyes stung as he looked out the window. The rows of stratus clouds looked like mashed potatoes. Why didn't he at least leave a note?
When he finally got his pants off, he stood before her naked. She surveyed him from head to toe like Doc Robbins overhead camera. He half expected her to laugh. Instead she lay down and held her arms out to him.
His shame vanished and he leapt on the bed. The rest was a blur of sights, sounds and sensations. Slow motion snippets flashed. Her perfect breasts bouncing as she rode him, holding his hands over her head. The high pitched squeaky scream she let out. And the indescribable feeling of completeness when she first took all of him into her.
His groin throbbed. He wanted to sustain that feeling the rest of his pathetic life. How could he leave?
As dawn broke through the curtains, he started awake, Sara nestled in his arms. The same old dream-a long dark hallway to a cracked open door. The smell of cigarettes and booze. Voices shouting within.
She slept with a smile, her hair falling across her forehead over her eyes. He brushed it away, praying for her not to awaken. He had to get out. He very carefully unwrapped himself from her. He stubbed his toe fishing around for his clothes in the grey morning light. They were all over the room.
How could he have let this happen? It defied logic. All he wanted to do was drive her home. Surely he was above mere hormonal promptings. She had shattered his defenses. She saw him naked! How would he ever face her? Better to bail than admit the inevitable truth. He was a sympathy fuck.
He crept into the bathroom to dress. The garish light blinded him. As his eyes adjusted he noticed red/blue passion marks on his neck. He dressed quickly and crept back into the bedroom for his glasses.
She sighed and turned over toward him. He froze for a second, panic stricken. She moaned-still asleep. He plucked his glasses from the spot she had placed them last night. He placed them on and had a clear last look at her. He tried to detach, like a crime scene. Detachment failed him. He backed away to the door, grasped the handle and scuttled out. He raced home, grabbed his luggage and headed to the airport.
We will be landing in Chicago shortly.
He checked his watch. Surely she was up by now, making coffee. Relieved he had saved them both from a very awkward morning after. Things would be back to normal when he returned in four weeks. That thought made him nauseous. His cell phone rang as he passed the check-in counter.
"Grissom here,"
"Good morning." Her voice sliced through him.
"Uh, yeah…good morning."
"You made your flight OK?"
"Yeah...yes…I got out in time."
"Got out in time?"
"I mean I got up in…time…to make my flight."
"Why didn't you wake me up? I would have made you breakfast." The hopeful breathlessness in her voice made him wince. He ducked into the entrance to a VIP lounge. The carpet needed vacuuming. He swallowed the lump in his throat.
"Grissom, Are you there?"
"Yes, I'm here. Look…I wanted to…I mean…I didn't want
to…" he stammered.
"To what, Grissom?"
"Sara…"
"To what?"
"To have to see you and accept your sympathy, that's what!"
Her silence thundered as he switched ears to his better one.
"Sympathy? You think I slept with you out of sympathy?"
"Of course. What else would it be?"
More thundering silence.
Her voice was like a little girl's. "You don't know me at all, Grissom. Sorry."
There was a loud click. He folded the phone and shoved it in his pocket.
Five weeks later, he pushed open the smoky glass door to the crime lab. Hodges ran toward him, his feet hardly touching the ground.
"Welcome back, Grissom!"
He smirked and avoided a hug. He proceeded down the hall toward his office. His eyes sweeping like a peregrine falcon. Was she here? He robotically took greetings from the crew, shaking hands with Nick and Warrick. He scanned all the faces coming at him. Not hers.
She hadn't returned any of his calls, e-mails or letters. Was she on the schedule today? He edged down the hall to his office. The feel of the handle was familiar.
The door swung open. The first thing he noticed was a huge pile of mail on his desk. The light was on. His chair swung around and their gazes collided.
"Hi. Gil." She had never, ever called him by name. "I'm pregnant."