Disclaimer: I do not own.

A/N: So I know I told you that it would be a while before you got any more smut, but adding Sara's perspective changed things. I felt like Grissom--being the superb CSI that he is--would notice her discontent and wouldn't be able to wait it out. He would feel like he needed to fix it, to remain in control, and so... this chapter was born. I know it's a little short, and mostly teasing, but I should have the next one up tonight. I've already started it!

I want to thank everyone for the amazing reviews, opinions, and anger. I love it when you're so involved that you're actually moved to anger and name-calling. :) I appreciate each and every review! Thanks again!

Enjoy!

Oh, also... the Boston Four Seasons is the only super nice hotel that I could be certain was open in 1989/the very beginning of 1990, so it's the one I chose. The rooms can be seen at www. fourseasons .com/boston/guest_rooms_and_suites/state_suite .html (obviously with spaces so you can see this website) and I'm making the leap that they would look the same back then as they do on their website now. :) Willing suspense of disbelief, and all that. Hehe. So if you want a picture in your mind's eye for where this is all taking place, there you go.

Chapter Thirty-Six:

As Christmas break progressed—a time which I thought would be perfectly blissful, with no work and school to drag us away from each other—I felt a seething sort of panic creep up on me, quiet and calm, if panic can ever be described as calm. She had stopped begging me to make love to her. She'd only been doing it for two weeks, but up to this point, she had only become more aggressive in her desires. Becoming less adamant that our relationship progress did not strike me as a positive sign.

She had even stopped initiating intimacy… which meant that if I wanted it, I had to start it. Which wasn't a problem—in truth, it put me in more control than I had been since our intimacy began—but it worried me. Did she not desire me anymore? Had she grown tired of the dangerous nature of our relationship? Or was that just it—she had expected it to be dangerous, forbidden fruit and all of that… and now it was not living up to her expectations?

And there was the matter of her whispered words of love.

At the time, I had thought if I pretended to sleep, I would either know what to say when they came up again, or they simply…wouldn't. And they hadn't, and I was upset by it. I wanted her to tell me when I was awake, even though I still didn't know how to respond. I wanted her to be completely mine. …Which brought me back to the concept of those words as a means of control. Control which I had allowed to slip, and now she was withdrawing from me, exactly as I had always known she would.

But I still had time to remedy the situation… I had to find a way to keep her with me, keeping her wanting me, desperate for me… the way she used to be. The way I was for her.

The answer, of course, was simple: It was hardly a stretch to determine that the way in which our first time occurred would say a lot about the power structure of our relationship. And if I could make it perfect—and in the process, make her more thoroughly mine—then everything would be perfect again.

While she slept one morning, I left a note saying the head of the anthropology department wanted a meeting with the teachers—as school would be starting up in a week—and that I hadn't wanted to wake her. And then I made arrangements.

I took a cab to my office, and made the arrangements from there—writing a letter to Sara, calling the Boston Four Season's and intending to book the best suite they had. But when the Presidential Suite was described to me, I changed my mind.

Not for monetary concerns—I did not make an extreme amount of money, but I had hardly ever spent what I made, and my mother had insisted I receive the payout from my father's life insurance when he died, since she could more than support us with the money she made from the gallery and the sale of her paintings. It had been left mostly untouched to this point, as I'd managed to get a number of scholarships to put myself through college, but I was not opposed to spending a small portion of it if the need arose.

No, I changed my mind because the room contained a full dining room with a chandelier, a piano, a full bathtub. It was like the small, second home of a visiting King. And while Sara deserved that kind of luxury, I had the feeling that it would only make her feel uncomfortable, which I had no desire to do. I ended up booking a State Suite—several rooms, including two bathrooms, and a massive King sized bed. Nice enough that she would know how important I believed the occasion to be, but not so much that she would feel out-of-place.

I took another cab to pick up the essentials—silk rose petals, in white and red, for the bed and around the Jacuzzi tub, and three dozen of each in vases. I had to pay extra for them to be delivered that day, on the next shipment, but that was fine. I chose white and red because of their specific meanings, even though I wasn't sure whether Sara would know them. It wasn't exactly common knowledge, but Sara knew far more than anyone else I had ever known. She was brilliant.

Red roses meant passion and love, white indicated innocence and new beginnings.

Yet another cab took me to purchase white candles—several bags full—and an assortment of bubble baths. Another took me to mail the letter. I paid even more than I had for the flowers to have it delivered to her by that afternoon, and I hurried out to the same cab to have it take me to check in at the Four Seasons to get ready for the night.

The room was beautiful, and I wasted no time setting up the candles and then showering quickly, wanting to be fresh for the evening and to make sure I would be able to last as long as she deserved tonight. I called down for room service, requesting it at ten to six… because I had told Sara to arrive, with the white lingerie that had been one of my Christmas presents, at six. The flowers came just before five, and I spent the half hour following moving vases around the room, unable to decide exactly the right effect. I moved to the door and pretended to be walking in for the first time, several times, until I thought it was perfect.

At five thirty, I spread the silk rose petals on the bed and in a trail to the tub that was big enough for both of us, leaving the bubble bath on the edge. I toyed with the idea of running a bath for her to be ready when she arrived, but the food would be here, and the water would be cold by the time we'd finished eating. I finished lighting the candles as a knock came to the door. Room service.

I pulled it inside and checked over everything, just to make sure. There was champagne cooling and two delicate glass flutes beside it, their stems a twirling pattern that would make them look all the more magical when filled with the light, bubbly liquid. The meal was pasta—a favorite of Sara's—with strawberries and melted chocolate for dessert, something I knew we would both enjoy.

But now that everything was set—now that I had nothing else to concern myself with perfecting—I was unbelievably nervous. Would she find this display cheesy? Over the top? Silly? Not enough? …Would she enter to tell me that she'd realized in the course of the last week that she didn't really want me, and gently let me down before leaving me all alone? Would she simply not show up at all?

The knock on the door a moment later sent my pulse well above 95—the rate at which I realized I was far too angry for my own good. I drew a deep breath, attempting to still my shaking hands, and moved over to open the door.