A/N: this story was written for the Geekfiction Live Journal 2009 Smutathon - Sugar and Spice, and takes place a couple of weeks after "Letting Go," the first entry in my "A Year In The Life" series. It stands on its own, I think, but check out "Letting Go" if you want to see the beginning. Finally, a thanks to Clannad and their song "Stepping Stone" for setting the pace of the final, um, scene. Yeah.

A Friendly Wager
by Alice Day

I wonder if it was like this for Grissom and Sara, Jim Brass mused.

Two weeks ago, the Homicide captain's life had taken a very unexpected turn. As previous unexpected turns included his accidental shooting of another cop, discovering his only daughter Ellie working as a hooker in Hollywood, being shot by a psychopath and almost dying, losing Warrick Brown to that murderous scumbag McKeen, and watching Gil Grissom head off to paradise, no one could blame him for feeling nervous.

This time, however, the unexpected turn could best be described as "magical." Or "unlikely" if he had to be honest. Because two weeks ago, Catherine Willows locked the door to her office and climbed into his lap, announcing that she wanted to go to bed with him. Two weeks later, he was still pinching himself and waiting to wake up.

Yeah, he'd had the occasional (okay, more than occasional) fantasy about the gorgeous CSI supervisor. But she was...Catherine. His good friend, second only to Grissom, she'd stood shoulder to shoulder with him over God knows how many crime scenes, laughed at his lame jokes and understood how he worried about Ellie. A constant in his life was that Catherine had his back, no matter how deep the shit got. And he valued that far more than a quick roll in the hay, spectacular as it would have been.

But then something happened over a glass of Scotch at the end of a shift. No; something clicked, and the next thing he knew they were at his place, tearing their clothes off and tumbling into his bed. He'd made good on his promise, kissing every glorious inch of her body, and a heavenly time later she cried out his name. When she fell asleep in his arms, he stared at the ceiling of his bedroom and wondered what he'd done to deserve this.

Of course, by the time she woke up, a healthy dose of latent Irish Catholic guilt had set in. He figured he'd do the decent thing and give her an easy out -- they'd just finished a rough case, it had been the Scotch talking, no harm, no foul. A great night between friends, but nothing more.

The look she'd given him was...memorable.

"You are not weaseling out of this, Brass," she replied, planting fists on her naked hips. "You know damn well I didn't sleep with you because I was drunk. I slept with you because you're one of the best men I've ever known. You're smart, gorgeous, compassionate, you smell great, you've got sexy hands--"

"And you think my eyebrows are cute," he reminded her.

"Exactly. So stop making excuses, get your ass back into bed and love me some more."

He gave her a penitent grin. "Yes, dear."

And things just got better from that point. By some mysterious grace of God, he was now dating Catherine Willows, CSI grave shift supervisor, single mom and quite possibly the love of his life. Granted, they hadn't told anyone at work yet, but their friends were trained investigators. He figured it was only a matter of time before Nick or Sofia put two and two together and came up with a couple.

Not that he minded. Ecklie would probably have something to say about it, as well, but the new undersheriff could also go fuck himself. He and Cath weren't in each other's departments, and if some defense attorney wanted to make hay over the fact that an arresting officer was dating the CSI processing his evidence...well, they'd deal with that when it happened.

In the meantime, there were other things to deal with. He turned on his side, studying the strawberry blonde stretched out next to him. You are one lucky Irishman, Jimmy. Don't ever forget that.

"Anyone ever say you have dynamite legs, lady?" he said.

She kicked one up, keeping it straight as she brought it against her body. "All those years of dancing," she offered in explanation. "Had to be useful for something."

He looked down at a certain area exposed by her move, and sighed. She hadn't complained about his grey chest hair or the rising hairline, but there was one area where age definitely had an effect. "Baby, I love it when you flash your sweet spot at me, don't get me wrong," he said. "But it's been a long night. I think I'm done."

"Oh, you're no fun," she said with a grin, bringing her leg down. "Besides, we only did it once."

He glanced at the deflated skin of latex and "evidence" on the bedside table. "And you got two, ahem, happy endings," he reminded her.

"Well, yeah," she admitted. "And I'm not complaining, but I wouldn't say no to more." The teasing sparkle increased. "But if you're tired, that's okay. We'll just cuddle."

Brass gave her a long, measured look. She knew damn well what that phrase meant to a man. It's all right, honey, it happens to all guys, really, I'm perfectly happy even though you can't get it up. Want to watch Beaches? "Hmm."

He reached out and stroked her thighs, watching the skin marble under his touch. I wonder...

Suddenly he grinned. "Okay, you want more. In which case, madam, I would like to make a friendly wager."

"A wager? What's wrong with a good old-fashioned bet?"

"A wager sound classier. And hey, you're a classy broad."

She chortled. "Thank you, Sam Spade. All right -- what's the wager?"

"If you do exactly what I tell you to do, you'll get so much more you'll beg me to stop," he said. "But you have to do what I say -- if you don't, you lose."

She rose up on her elbows. "Hah. Okay, you have my attention. What do you get if you win?"

"Apart from the satisfaction that I wore you out?" He thought. "A home-cooked dinner, say, lasagna with garlic bread and a nice red wine, followed by a private lap dance."

"James Brass, you are a chauvinist," she laughed. "Fine. What do I get if I win?"

"The same thing?"

Her eyes crinkled in amusement. "You're gonna dance for me?"

"If you want." He gave her the patented Brass leer. "I'd suggest sticking to the lasagna, though."

"I bet. Okay -- if I win, you take me out for dinner and dancing."

"You have a wager, lady. Let the games begin."

He stroked her stomach, letting his hand settle just above her legs. "Now, remember, you have to do what I tell you."

"All right," she said, with a delighted gleam in her eye.

"First things first. Open your thighs, and keep them open like this." He eased her legs apart, keeping them spread at approximately a 50 degree angle. "Comfy?"

"A little wider than normal, but it's not a problem."

That was what he wanted to hear. "Good. Now, no matter what I do, you can't move them from this position, okay?"

"Gotcha. Bring it on, big boy."

He moved closer and began kissing her shoulder and collarbone, tilting his head so that he could nuzzle the hollow where shoulder met throat. The kisses trailed down, following the valley between her breasts, them climbed one until his lips captured the perfect pink tip. As he sucked gently, his fingers brushed the short, curly hair between her legs, stroking it gently, then easing lower. With her thighs apart like this, she was fully exposed to his hand. He took advantage of it, letting his fingertips trail over the warm, damp flesh.

With care, he teased the full outer lips, then the delicate inner lips, enjoying the silky feel of her. When she sighed and closed her eyes, he took it as a good sign and eased one finger into hot, sleek flesh. Her inner muscles tugged at him in response.

He moved his mouth back to her throat, running his tongue along the pulse there. "You're still wet," he murmured.

"I know," she breathed. "Mmm. That's nice."

"Good." He slid in a second finger and started a gentle, deliberate rhythm, his wrist flexing as he worked. She wriggled, silently urging him on.

He stopped. "Uh-uh -- no moving your legs."

"Yes, sir," she muttered, then gasped as he added his thumb to the game. It played across the sensitive nub, brushing it with just the right amount of pressure. "Oooh, yes."

His tongue went back to work, tracing designs on the heated skin of her throat. He could feel the gentle trembling of her thigh against his wrist, the muscles straining to close.

"Keep them open," he whispered between kisses.

"Ohhhh..."

"Yeah." He nuzzled his way to her ear, kissing the lobe. "Want to hear a fantasy of mine?"

"Oh yeah," she breathed.

He shifted closer so that he could murmur the words directly into her ear. "It starts out with my hand on your thigh," he said. "We're in the Denali, in the parking garage. It's near shift end, so the sun's just coming up. You're in the driver's seat, and you've got your seat belt on so you can't really move. You're wearing those brown slacks I like, the ones that show off your legs. I reach over and put my hand on your thigh. You smile at me, then take my hand and slide it between your legs, asking me to touch you through the fabric. Anyone could walk past, but they can't see where my hand is, where I'm touching you."

Her breathing changed. "Then what?"

"When I can feel you getting wet, I undo the button on the slacks, pulling down your zipper. There's just enough room for me to slip my hand inside, and now I can feel you against my fingertips, so wet and hot. I start playing with you, sliding my fingers inside you, stroking your clit, and you're rocking on my hand. Anybody can see us but nobody knows what I'm doing to you, where I'm touching you, stroking you. How I'm making you come on my hand."

She threw her head back and wailed, pushing up hard onto his fingers as her inner muscles clenched, released, and clenched again. Panting, she caught her breath and swallowed hard, then sagged back onto the bed.

"Wow. Okay, that was great," she sighed, licking her lips. "But I think you lose."

He hid a smile against her shoulder. "Mmm, no, the terms were you'd beg me to stop," he murmured, continuing to stroke the slick, soft flesh. "Did I say I was finished?"

"Oh. Oh."

"Keep your thighs open. Now, where was I..."

The time, the fantasy was walking in on her in the locker room showers, enjoying the sight of warm water streaming over her body as she washed her hair. How he'd take off his clothes and join her in the stall, reaching for the scented soap she liked, caressing her skin as he washed her. Pushing her back against the cool tiles, and sinking to his knees so that he could press his mouth between her thighs, sucking and kissing the salt-sweet flesh there. Feeling the femoral pulse against his cheek, her heartbeat racing as his tongue danced over her, licking her, bringing her--

Orgasm number two was slightly longer and louder than the first one. He winced as her free hand grabbed his thigh, fingernails sinking in. Gently extracting them, he kissed her hand. "So?"

"Nuh...no. Not yet," she gasped.

Damn. His fingers were starting to cramp up. Time to switch to plan B. He kissed his way up her arm, then down her body, pausing to lick and nibble both nipples, until he was on his stomach between her still-spread thighs. Resting his hands on them, he could feel the muscles tremble more strongly now. He also had an eagle-eye view of the delicate coral flesh between her legs, gleaming with the evidence of her 'happy endings.'

Her legs started to close, and he caught them. "Keep your thighs open," he rumbled.

Moaning, she forced her legs back into position.

Satisfied, he lowered his mouth to her right thigh, running his lips across the smooth skin. He repeated the action on the left, adding the tip of his tongue this time in a spiral motion. A happy sigh from above told him he was on the right track. He nuzzled the hollow where thigh met hip, moving to the soft mound and breathing on the strip of curly reddish hair there. Her scent seemed to go straight into his brain, hitting every arousal trigger it could find.

Growling softly, he nibbled the inner lips, enjoying the taste of his woman, then nudged them aside and covered the tiny nub with his mouth, sucking it gently. The sigh turned into a wail. Feeling smug, he settled down to work.

###

He'd heard about it from Grissom, of all people. Who probably got it from Lady Heather, but Brass didn't want to explore that particular leather-paved path. They'd been investigating a suspected rape that turned out to be a B&D session between willing partners gone wrong when the bound woman suffered a fatal CVA during the play.

"Okay, call me hopelessly repressed, but I don't get it," Brass said, studying the crime scene photographs. "He handcuffed her to the headboard, but left her legs loose? I thought the whole point of the game was restraint."

"In this case, I believe the point of the game was power and trust," the CSI supervisor explained. "See how her legs are spread slightly wider than necessary for coitus? I'm assuming she kept them open that far because the dominant told her to do so. Apparently it can be extremely stimulating, partially due to the erotic impact of being so sexually exposed, and partially due to muscle spasms in the thighs creating a referred stimulus in the muscles of the pelvic floor."

"How do you know this sort of stuff, anyway?"

Grissom raised an eyebrow. "I read."

###

There were rougher gigs than using your lips and tongue to make love to a beautiful strawberry blonde, Brass mused.

After her fourth orgasm and the second multiple one, Catherine gave up. Her thighs clamped down on his head, pinning him in place. "Stop!" she yelped, clawing the sheets. "Oh, God, please, stop, no more, you win, I can't, I can't--"

He forced his head up, breathing hard. To his glee, something else was getting hard, too. "Just one more, baby," he panted. "You can do it."

"Oh God, oh God, please--"

Moving as fast as he could, he crawled up her body, kissing and licking every bit of skin he could reach. One hand scrambled on the nightstand for a condom; after few seconds of fumbling, it was on and ready.

Watching her flushed, sweaty face, he eased himself into position. "Guess I wasn't as done as I thought," he growled, pushing into her.

"OOOOOOOOOooooooohh!"

It was like screwing a goddess, this sinking into a hot, wet, tight heaven. "Oh, Christ, that's sweet," he gasped, closing his eyes as he thrust. Her long legs wrapped around him, hanging on for dear life as they both rode to the finish line. This time, she didn't call his name as she came -- she screamed it, over and over again. He may have screamed hers, as well. He wasn't sure.

God, he hoped his neighbors were at work.

###

"I think I win," he murmured into her shoulder.

"Ohyeah."

He chuckled. "Think you'll be able to walk tonight?"

"Noooo. That's okay -- I'll just stay in the lab and supervise or something. Although sitting might be a problem, too." She lay still, grinning dazedly at the ceiling as she stroked his back. "Do you have a preferred wine and music selection for your lap dance, sir?"

"A nice Merlot and 'You Can Leave Your Hat On,' please."

"You got it."

A/N: Of course, now I'm thinking about a story where Cath is wearing Jim's police uniform and hat during her lap dance. I swear, I don't know where I get these ideas...