She totally set his pulse racing.
In the evidence room, where her hand deliberately brushed his when she handed him a case file.
In his office, where her leg ran up against his under his table.
In his townhouse: the carpeted floor, the leather couch, the waterbed, and once, spontaneously, the kitchen counter.
He lived for these moments, these minutes, these hours.
And the best thing was, nobody knew
Nobody would ever know.
They'd finish up their cases, she'd report to him before getting off shift; she'd get her stuff from the locker room and take a shower. He'd finish up some of that ever-mounting paperwork and grab his coat before heading out to the parking lot.
They'd meet on the steps of the crime lab, smile at each other, and set off for their respective cars.
He'd turn right; she, left.
It sort of reminded him of a Chinese film he'd seen before.
Sara would always start her car first and turn right, starting the long drive she took nearly everyday.
He'd linger a little longer; he'd turn left and hit five red lights before finally parking his car in his townhouse's driveway.
Her car would appear a minute or so later, parked it on the other side of the block next to a deli where she'd buy veggie burgers and milkshakes for them to share.
He'd get out plates and heat up the oven.
She'd ring the doorbell just as he was watering his last plant.
He'd put the watering can back under the kitchen sink, wipe his hands on his slacks and answer the door.
She'd always be standing there, two brown paper packages in her arms, a smile on her face.
The bags would be stashed in the oven, curtains would be drawn; he'd pin her up against the wall and slowly, softly, passionately start from her navel all the way to her mouth.
Shoes would be kicked off; clothes stripped, carrying and kissing her simultaneously would ensue.
They'd make love on the carpeted floor, the leather couch, the waterbed, and that night, spontaneously, the kitchen counter.
Dinner was always late.