A/N: Thanks so much for reading...we appreciate those who take the time to review!

This Kind of Love

Chapter 11

Off Kyle Canyon Road, the long driveway to Alma Sullivan's house was lined with a dozen vehicles by the time Gil Grissom and Jim Brass extradited Brass' car and headed back to Vegas. The two men were quiet until Brass turned onto the highway.

Grissom said, "I will never get use to things like this—never."

The sound of a grump came from Brass. "Seeing someone blow out his brains is never forgettable, Gil."

"And just a kid—why did he do it?" Grissom knew there was no answer as he asked the ambiguous question.

"He might have been a kid, but a kid who had been pilfering and robbing from his neighbors for a while. That hand gun was stolen a year ago. And he shot his neighbor with her own gun when she recognized him!" Both men remained quiet for several minutes. Finally, as a shift in thought occurred, a quiet chuckle came from Brass. "Who are you trying to call? That cell phone has been in your hand for the past hour—just make the call. I'll pretend not to listen!"

Grissom squirmed in his seat, muttering, "It will wait."

And he decided this case would wait; the murderer of Alma Sullivan, her teenage neighbor, had killed himself in front of them with his parents watching. His head ached as he tried to process all of it. Rubbing his eyes, he leaned back and sighed. The case would be closed with no further investigation.

Jim Brass chuckled again. "Some ladies won't wait, Gil."

"I need a vacation, Jim," Grissom grumbled. "About a week with no phone calls."

"Wow," Brass said with a laugh, "this one must be special if she deserves a week!"

Grissom closed his eyes in an attempt to stop the conversation—or at least change its direction. "My head aches."

"Well, I'd offer you my sofa but I think you'll be better off at home—or wherever." Brass chuckled, adding, "Sometimes a new car or a motorcycle is a lot easier."

Softly, Grissom laughed. "You should know!" He laughed again before putting dark glasses on and lapsing into silence for the drive.

Sara had paced the floor listening to the scanner until she heard enough to figure out a suspect had taken his own life. Restless, she roamed; Grissom had told her there was plenty of food but she had not eaten. Now she opened the refrigerator, removed a bag of carrots and proceeded to slice each one with a precision that would have surprised her co-workers. Too late, she realized she had too many for a salad, so she found a pan, added water and put the carrots on the stove.

Once she started working in the kitchen, the edginess left her and she lost her apprehension about being in Grissom's place as she found more food to prepare—elbow macaroni for macaroni and cheese, lettuce, tomatoes, and cucumbers for a salad, and finding several apples past their prime, she sliced them up, added sugar and put the bowl in the oven.

She lost track of time as she worked—as macaroni cooked, she grated cheese, melted butter, and was surprised to find soy milk to make her sauce. Once she placed it in the oven, she started on a salad.

Grissom made one stop after he left the lab and when he parked his vehicle, he could see the blinds in his condo were pulled open—something he never did. As he looked at the windows, he saw Sara's shadow moving about and watched for several minutes until he figured out she was walking back and forth from the kitchen to his table. But not walking, he realized—she was dancing—slow dancing across his floor.

He realized he wanted this—more than he should. To come home. To deal with the day, shake it off, and come home to music and light. To a woman—this woman.

Picking up his purchase, he got out and headed to the door, found it unlocked and eased it open. Now, he could see Sara as she slow-danced to his music, her hands holding a hand towel that surrounded something hot. He let her place it on the table before he said anything. His mind began to spin around the idea of having Sara with him all the time—living here, being here together.

And the only thing he could think to say was: "It smells good in here."

Sara's head popped up; she grinned. "Hi. Wondered when you would find your way home." She tilted her head to one side. "You—you look a little rough around the edges—what've you been up to?" She walked around the table, a smile—showing understanding and relief—on her face.

He held out the flowers—a bouquet of daisies and roses and ferns he had gotten at a florist—requesting nice flowers for a lady friend.

"What's this for?"

Grissom smiled, saying "I—I realized we were working backward—in the traditional sense. We've already gotten into bed so that pressure is off, so now I'm—I'm romancing you."

Sara's hand covered her mouth—in surprise or in an effort to hide her amusement—he wasn't sure.

She stepped forward; instead of taking the flowers, she wrapped her arms around his neck. "Romancing me," she said, emitting a giggle that instantly heated his groin. "Can we still have sex while you romance me?"

Using his free hand, he skimmed back a lock of hair, leaned over, eyes open, and kissed her. Soft and quiet, the warmth between them sparked with licks of heat. He kept his eyes open—as did she—and watched those perfect loving brown eyes of hers flicker once.

When he eased back, he brought the flowers between them as she rubbed her lips together. He said, "It's good to kiss you."

Maybe it was the atmosphere, the easy conversation, maybe it was Sara, having her in his house, maybe it was the food prepared by the woman he was certain he loved, but he could not remember a more relaxed meal. Of course, she had listened to the scanner and had figured out he could not easily call her. She had heard Jim Brass go off-duty, had called him and heard about the shooting, learning Grissom had left at the same time.

As they ate, Grissom filled in the details, telling her about Alma Sullivan's teenage neighbor who, when confronted by his parents, denied involvement but then had suddenly changed when his mother headed to the boy's bedroom. He had shoved her aside, run into the bedroom, and returned with a handgun.

"It was chaos, Sara. Brass was trying to talk him down, the parents were shouting at him—at each other—when he turned the gun on himself and pulled the trigger!"

Sara held his hand across the table. She asked, "Did he admit to killing Alma?"

"Oh, yes—yes, he did. He knew about the gun—thought he could get inside and find it while Alma was asleep."

"And she knew who he was when she woke up."

He nodded. It was so easy to talk to her, yet under the ease was a frisson of excitement, that sexual buzz that heated his blood with anticipation. He wanted to get his hands in her hair, his lips on her neck; his belly tightened as the weight of the past hours slid off his shoulders.

She rose. "Let's get these dishes out of the way."

When the kitchen was tidied to her specifications, Grissom began drawing her toward the bedroom. "You know I think about you all the time."

Sara hooked her arms around his waist. "Such as?"

"Like picturing you naked when I was going over reports."

She giggled, "Why don't you get me that way now?"

"I like you dressed, too," he said as he tugged her shirt over her head. His fingertip traced along the edge of her pink bra before he held the same finger in front of her. "But I want a shower—need a shower." When Sara scowled, he quickly continued, "I can be fast," his eyebrow lifted. "You could join me?"

Grissom did not wait for an answer—it was in her eyes—bright with sparkles of gold in a pool of brown. Pulling her along as he walked backward—or was he pushed? He didn't care; he liked the feel of her body under his hands, how warm and smooth she was. Knowing there was the secret, sexy scent that only he would find.

Sara touched him, easily, eagerly, stripping his shirt from him as he did for her. And she lit something inside him, something more than lust, more than desire. Something that had been hibernating far too long. He could lose himself in her without feeling lost.

In the bathroom, there was a minute of hesitation as he realized he had nothing—no personal items—for a female guest in his house.

Grissom said, "I—I don't have anything—not for you—I—I…"

Wearing only her bra and pants, Sara laughed. "I brought my own things—just a sec." And leaving him for a few minutes, she left and returned with a small bag.

Turning on the water, he waited for her to return and holding the shower door open, waved for her to enter first. With unexpected ease, she slipped out of her pants, panties and bra, and managed to cause him to stare as she flipped her panties across the space with her foot.

Laughing, he quickly followed her into the shower.

They managed to get wet and use soap—his soap that smelled like a forest in the spring, Sara decided. Grissom had entered the shower and she had been pulled into his arms and her leg had hooked around his, her nails scraped up his back. She brushed a hand through his hair and then both laughed as she shampooed his hair while he kissed her.

She felt his tongue slide over her, his teeth gently grazed over her shoulder, and nibbled at the nape of her neck. As warm water showered over them, she wondered how this had happened—what had she done to deserve him. Then his lips touched her left breast and his hand found the warm, damp center between her legs and she shuddered.

Somehow, they got out of the shower and wrapped towels around their wet bodies. They circled toward the bed, lowered to it. Sara drew him down, to her as she arched and offered her body as his mouth roamed. Her hands welcomed him, stroking his back, his butt, as she felt his heart beating against hers.

She knew he needed her; she wanted to give to him, to ease away that smudge of sorrow that haunted his eyes when he walked in. She knew there was more to the heat of his lips, to the greed of his hands than a search for satisfaction.

He moved over her as she rose to meet him, sending tremors up her spine and working her flame into a blazing inferno. Finally, he clasped her hands to keep her from arousing him too much, too soon. He tasted her—shoulders, breasts, the long lean line of her—stroking his tongue over her, into her, and caused an explosion; her body went hot and damp at once as pleasure flooded her and then she wanted more.

He gave her more until she could have clawed and screamed to have him; he lifted her hips and was inside her, at last. As her body went lax and dazed with exhaustion, she felt his body tense as he said her name, touched his forehead to hers, and emptied; linked, he fought for breath and she held him close as their bodies merged and minds blurred.

A/N: There is more to come-several more chapters, so read, enjoy, and let us hear from you!