A/N: While we know the outcome, here's our story based on Sara's "last year in Vegas" remark. Yes, spoilers if you haven't seen any episodes since Fannysmacking and Greg's beating, but who would that be? We don't own CSI or any of its characters, just having fun!

That Last Year in Vegas Chapter 1

Dim light reflected off smooth surfaces in the dark room picking its way along the mirror, a door knob, the vase holding flowers, something he could not recognize. The television in the other room could not be heard but its faint light was enough to cause him to toss covers aside and get up. He raked a hand through his hair—it wasn't the television keeping him awake—it was who was missing from his bed.

Gil Grissom made his way to the kitchen, quietly walked up the few steps to the living room to find his bed mate.

"Come to bed, honey."

Sara was curled on the sofa staring at the muted the television. "I can't sleep—every time I close my eyes I see Greg."

He waved his hand and she leaned forward so he could slide beside her. "He's going to be okay. Greg's resilient; he'll snap back." Grissom sighed and wrapped an arm around his companion. She snuggled against his chest and he relaxed.

"You feeling okay?" He asked because earlier she had been vomiting in the bathroom.

Sara rubbed her belly. "Yeah. I nearly threw up at the scene—right in front of Sophia and the medics—when I saw Greg. He looked so broken." She wiped her fingers across her cheek. "He—he couldn't see, Gil—his eyes were so swollen." She hiccupped, softly, before continuing, "He had guarded his hand—his fingers—I almost cried when he started telling me to collect…" She almost sobbed, but caught herself with closed fingers against her mouth.

He took her hand. "Come on, let's go to bed. I'll rub your back or read to you—you don't have to close your eyes."

She went with him. He stopped in the kitchen long enough to pick up an orange. Let her stretch across their bed and then he started to massage her back. Their co-habitation situation was new—not new to them—but the space was new and in the process of becoming theirs. While she had not refused, she had postponed moving into his previous place until one day he realized he was spending more time in her small apartment than in his own townhouse.

"Let's move," he suggested. She had looked at him with wide eyes.

"Move? Where?"

"To a new place—for us—get us a dog and decorate a place to our liking."

Sara's eyes remained wide; she tried to stammer but nothing intelligible came out.

"We can do it—this is a big town—find a place we like. What's your dream?" He had pulled her onto her bed because that was the only comfortable piece of furniture the woman owned. "House with a fenced yard? A place for flowers? Maybe a place for—I don't know—a little swing or a place to play?"

They were so much in love, so restrained while working, so infatuated and besotted with each other that nothing was ever a "no" and before too much time had passed, his townhouse was sold, and Sara found "the perfect place"—no picket fence, no swing in the back yard—an old building undergoing a rehab as condos, near work, near a park, a workout area on the roof, and inside parking. And if it was perfect for her, it was perfect for him.

Telling him she was living a fantasy, Sara worked hours on making a home for them. He would pull a double, arrive home to find her working on assembling bookcases or going through boxes of books—things he had not seen in years—and placing them around their new house. They would fall into bed, exhausted, but obsessed with making love. And excessively pleased with themselves for keeping their relationship very private and extremely exclusive; only one other person knew they were living together.

On their bed, Grissom flattened his palms sliding them along her back, pressing his thumbs against her spine, thinking she was too thin. He massaged her shoulders gently moving fingers along her neck, outward to her arms.

She turned her face toward him. "I should be doing this to you." She lifted her arm and circled his neck pulling him beside her. "This hasn't been a good day for us," she whispered.

"No, it hasn't—did you know Greg had never told his parents he wasn't working in the lab?"

They rearranged positions so they were facing each other; he kept one hand on her arm, light touches of his fingers as he moved his hand. She put her head against his shoulder tucking her face against his chest, feeling the softness of his shirt, smelling the unique scent of his skin.

"His mother freaked out when he was hurt in the lab," Sara said. "So I'm sure she is totally bonkers over this. Poor Greg!" She felt his lips against the top of her head as he pulled covers around them, wrapped arms around her and, as quietness settled in the room, his breathing became the soft, regular breathing of sleep.

It took a bit more time for Sara to sleep. Some time she had to bite her tongue or pinch herself to know she was really living this life and then she would smile. Nothing had prepared her for this; she had loved Grissom for years and he had, for most of that time, ignored her unconcealed efforts to get him to respond to her, until she had almost given up.

She stayed still, wrapped in his arms as he slept. Early one morning he had taken her home—and one of them had changed—no, she thought, they had both changed, taking very small, tentative steps toward each other until he came early one morning and stayed. Now they were together; she closed her eyes. Now, they knew what to do.

In her sleep, on some conscious level, she felt warm fingers moving along her back, dipping lower to find the cleft separating her backside. A thumb, she thought, sliding, separating, then heat from fingers lifting, caressing her butt before moving a little more between her legs. She shifted to test her dream state; it wasn't a dream when she felt the solid rigid part of the anatomy of the body connected to that hand. She smiled and lifted her leg, resting her knee on his thigh, opening herself to that hand. Before she could utter a sound, his mouth closed on hers, exploring, hot, wet, delving into hers as she responded to him.

The only sounds made were those of skin against silky fabric, of flesh against flesh as they moved together, soft, smooth, supple, firm and solid. Sara's mind flashed to "ravage" as he moved above her—that word was too rough, too abrasive for what was happening. He was taking her, controlling her in a way no one else had ever done. His mouth moved downward, around and over each of her breast in a hungry, searching act. His hands slipped underneath her, moving in the same hot, searching way. She arched, knowing he was between her legs, trying to get her hand to—around—the exceedingly warm erection he had managed to tuck next to her fleshy female folds and was skillfully managing to move against her in a most erotic way.

Between his moist mouth, his pulsating erection, and her growing dampness, he was driving her to complete distraction—and when she thought she could take no more of this intense stimulation, just as she was ready to scream his name, his mouth was back to hers, his hands pushed her butt up, his own hips met hers in a downward thrust, and he was inside, captured, secure, held tightly by her own throbbing muscles. She heard a moan—unsure who made it, just before she gasped and felt smiling lips on hers.

For a few seconds, neither moved. His mouth closed on hers again and he began moving in a slow, rhythmic way that seemed as natural as breathing, but would quickly plunge her into ecstasy. She knew it would not be long as the surge of hormones and endorphins hit her brain, her body shuddered, waves of contractions pulled him into her. He was no longer taking or possessing her; as her own desire reached a crescendo, she knew he was her possession.

A/N: Be kind and leave a review for chapter 1! We promise regular updates and a complete story in a few weeks!