Author's Note: Chapter four! Once again from Sara's POV, this chapter picks up where the last one left off, instead of revisiting the previous chapter's events from the opposite perspective (I thought you all might kill me if it always took two chapters to progress the story!). And yes, apparently there will be more. There is some nummy goodness in your future.
Disclaimer: I am a bad girl, so I doubt Santa will give me CSI for Christmas. Oh, well.
I officially hate the concept of a rain check.
I finally kiss Gil Grissom, really kiss him, and he decides to take a rain check. On what? Breakfast? Kissing me? Life?
As he rushes from my apartment, the apathy I have affected seeps from my limbs and brain, replaced by frustrated anger. There really are only so many times a woman can throw herself at someone before things become ridiculous and pathetic. I decide, despite this truth, that waiting for him to make the next move is just not an option, because Grissom doesn't move. He watches, and waits.
I'm done waiting.
Before I can stop to think my actions completely through, I am on my feet and running after him, catching him at the end of the hall just before he starts down the stairs. He is clearly startled by my hand landing roughly on his shoulder, by my flushed and frantic expression. I fix him with my best glare, about to launch into an argument, when it hits me.
Grissom did not wind up in my apartment, kissing me, because I debated him into it. He did it because I finally took some action, and he couldn't resist.
So I close my mouth and drop to my knees. Enough talking. Apparently, we need more action.
His eyes are wider than I have ever seen them as I fumble with the button on his dark pants. I honestly think for a moment that he might be on the verge of passing out. I flash him my most mischievous grin and cock my head slightly as the rasp of his zipper almost echoes in the empty hallway. His hand flies down to mine, stilling it just before I find out what—if anything—my more-than-a-boss wears under a nice pair of black dress pants.
"What are you doing?" He is breathless, shocked, and—since this is exactly what he asked me a half hour ago in his SUV—repetitive. Has he really never had a woman do this before?
"What does it look like I'm doing?" I respond, tugging my fingers away from his. He snatches them back again before I have a chance to undress him in a public area of my apartment building. Disappointing, but probably not unwise.
"You can't do this here, Sara."
"Then you'd better come back inside." I slowly rise, keeping my hand in place over his zipper. Even with my fingers wrapped in his, I can feel the effect I'm having on him, and it only increases my determination to not let him run away this time. "Because I have every intention of doing…this."
"Do I have any say in the matter?" He is almost verging on petulant, and I stifle a grin.
"Of course you do. I think you're making your feelings known." I press my palm against his erection and watch his pupils dilate. The feeling of power is delicious.
He hisses out my name and allows me to tug him back to my apartment by our joined hands. Once inside, we stand and stare awkwardly at one another, hands still entwined, until I start to kneel again, just to keep from losing our erotic momentum. He keeps me upright by shifting his hand to encircle my wrist and pulls me close.
"Correct me if I'm wrong, but I think there's a general order to these things," he murmurs. I study his face. It is a mixture of longing, resignation, humor and fear, and I take another step closer, determined to eliminate any confusing feelings until only desire for me remains.
"There is, but sometimes you have to skip a few steps when there's convincing to be done," I reply gently. A smile tugs at the corner of his lips.
"If it means so much to you…" he says slowly, amusement dancing in his eyes, "…I suppose I could demand payment on that rain check. Now."
Our first kiss was hesitant and exploratory. But the way Grissom takes my mouth now is as different from that kiss as kittens are from exploding grenades. I am lost in the heat and intensity of his tongue parting my lips, his hands cradling the small of my back and the back of my neck, and the well-muscled thigh gently nudging its way between my own. There is no doubt that he has kissed before, and learned how to do so well. I am torn between the desire to kill every woman he's ever kissed and the feeling that I should send them thank-you notes.
I find myself the one in shock when I feel his deft fingers undoing the buttons of my silk blouse, starting at the bottom and inching closer to my breasts with each tiny button. I gasp, arching into him a little, when his fingers brush against the sensitive, almost ticklish skin of my stomach. I feel him smile against my mouth.
"Grissom—" I say suddenly, pushing him back a little, with my hands on his shoulders. He fixes lust-darkened blue eyes on me, and immediately all my hesitation and fear vanishes in the wake of his expression. He wants me. I always suspected it, even thought I knew it, but now neither one of us can deny it. What this means for work, for the rest of the team—for the rest of our lives—I cannot begin to contemplate, and in this moment, I cannot make it matter. What I have longed for, for more years than I can recall, is finally standing in front of me, wanting me back. Forget thinking things through. I just want to move.
He has his head tilted in that familiar way, the way that asks a question and patiently waits for the answer all in one simple gesture, and I simply shrug, letting everything go. With slightly shaking hands, I draw him back into my body, pressing my lips to his and pushing the black leather jacket from his shoulders. He kisses me again, exploding grenade-style, and we make quick work of buttons and shirts and, in my case, one very delicately laced bright blue bra.
The feel of his slightly roughened fingers on my breasts is nearly enough to send me over the edge, but I cling to his shoulders like a drowning woman and pant into his neck as he brushes his thumbs over my nipples, lightly pinching them before soothing them again with his thumb. The way he touches me now is the perfect example of Grissom as he is with me in every way: fierce one moment, gentle the next, and always just a little unexpected and unpredictable. I try to distract myself from the warmth of his hands and the softness of his lips dancing along my collarbone by undoing the belt on his pants, but he stills my hands and draws them behind my back, encasing both of my wrists in one of his larger hands. He effectively pins me and arches my breasts for even more thorough attention, which he begins to lavish with his mouth.
"Gris…" I choke out, more aroused than I had believed possible by the gentle, unthreatening restraint of his hands and the careful, perfect way he is circling my nipples with his tongue. He glances up at me, never lifting his mouth, just raising beautiful blue eyes to my face, and I am undone. I nearly collapse into him, moaning out his name, supported through my climax by his arm gently wound around my waist and the clinging of my fingers to his shoulders, his hand immediately releasing mine when he senses me tumbling over the edge.
When I open my eyes, hazy and breathless, he is studying me with a look of such intense satisfaction that I am almost tempted to smack him. It is only the desire mingling with the satisfaction that makes me smile instead of punching him lightly in the shoulder. He kisses me softly, his hand wrapping around the back of my neck, and whispers against my mouth: "One."
"What?" I demand, pulling back. He grins.
"I have a little bet with myself," he confesses, and my eyes fly open wide.
"About—" I make a vague gesture and he laughs, actually laughs aloud.
"Yes. About that."
"And how long have you had this bet, exactly?"
Grissom's eyes are twinkling. "About…five years."
I flush, starting to pull away, but he tightens the arm still around my waist. "Are you upset that I made a bet with myself about how much pleasure I could bring you in a single evening?"
"I—no," I say, feeling confused. "Yes. Maybe. Why would you make that bet, when you wouldn't even go out to dinner with me?"
He shrugged, a shadow passing over his face. "I said no, Sara. I didn't say I didn't want to say yes."
Something in me breaks a little at this confession, and I fly at him, kissing him frantically, my fingers swift and merciless at his belt buckle, his buttons and zippers, and everything keeping me from the body of the man I might very well be hopelessly in love with. He responds with equal fervor, until we are both naked and tumbling onto my couch, the bedroom silently deemed to be entirely too far away. My last thought as we fall is—I guess I'm not the only unpredictable one.
TBC...
