Just Another Moment
By Midnight Caller
Disclaimer: Don't own 'em. Wish I did. And the last time I looked, lawsuits cost more than $4.75, so please don't sue me.
Rating: PG-13/R
Summary: Well, this started off as a companion piece to Images II, from Grissom's POV, but it sort of... evolved into something else. I don't really know how to summarize it.
Spoilers: Up through Hunger Artist
Archive: Just tell me where
Thanks to my virtual support team, namely Meg and Devanie. And thanks to my computer, brought back to life by Dell tech support after it attempted suicide late Friday night. I'm starting to think it was a political protest against something I wrote. Maybe my motherboard is a member of a parental watchgroup for sexually explicit material. But, it's cooperating enough to let me finish and post this, so thank you, machine.
And, I've never done this before, but I'd like to dedicate this to my father, who made me realize why you have to stop and smell the damn roses once in a while. Perspective is highly underrated. Love you, Dad.
***
I never thought it could consume so much energy just thinking about one person. Being distracted by my thoughts happens all the time; the preoccupation of case details, victim autopsies, interrogation room confessions, the linear regression of insects on a body. All of those things exercise my brain to its fullest, every hour of every day. But lately, the newer thoughts are more than just a preoccupation. It's more of an obsession, a physical and mental addiction to a living, breathing person. That dependency scares me, startles me, appearing out of nowhere in the middle of a thought, on the drive home, in the shower, or, more recently, in my sleep.
As of late, Sara stares at me a lot, and I want to know what she's thinking. I wonder if she has fears and doubts about me, or if she's able to look past my flaws. I pray for the latter.
I wish I could touch her. I would take a strand of her hair and smooth it between my forefinger and thumb, memorizing the texture of the cuticle with my fingertips. I'd love to press my nose to her skin and breathe deeply, like one does to smell a flower. She's intoxicating.
She has skin like the smooth marble of a Greek statue, only the warmth and the blush of circulating blood reminds me unequivocally that she's more alive than I could ever be. I remember feeling that warmth on my face not too long ago, her thumb tenderly stroking my cheek. She said it was chalk. I'm not entirely sure there was any, but it doesn't matter. I should have known by my skyrocketing pulse that she affects me like no other.
And then there's my dream. The one I've had every night for the past twelve days. I'm in my apartment, resting on the couch, and just as I'm about to nod off there's a knock at the door. The exact number of knocks changes from night to night, but there's always an urgency to the rapping. Sleepily, I rise from the couch and open the door without even asking who it is; I already know it's her. She never says anything, she just walks over the threshold and suddenly her hands are on me, warm and tender, uncovering a level of comfort in me I didn't even know existed. Instantaneously all the wrong I've ever done her is righted, and she forgives me with a kiss so agonizingly sweet it tortures me to no end when I awaken clutching the empty sheets beside me.
I haven't shared my bed with anyone in a long time, but I never thought the need to do so would ache inside me like a dull, nagging throb. Oh, God, how I just want to tell her everything, to pull her away from the death and suffering and horrendous refuse of humanity we see everyday, and show her that I've come to love her with such relentless ferocity that it's beyond my abilities to quantify or categorize how I feel.
I guess that's where I start to become deficient. I suppose it's a naturally occurring fault that elements falling outside the realm of physical authentication confuse the hell out of me. I let emotions build within me until they fester in the pit of my stomach, and by the time the confusion and love and all the other incomprehensible ways she makes me feel evolve back into a singular, recognizable sensation again, it seems I've managed to destroy everything pleasurable about it.
It's just so much more manageable that way, and I can go on with the day's work, earn my paycheck, and return home to the shielded specimens hanging behind the glass on my walls. I envy those winged creatures, suspended in timeless beauty, frozen at the peak of their essence. I stare through the glass, wondering how many others are fortunate enough to have their lives cut short, lest the colors fade from their wings, forever losing their beauty to the simple, unforgiving truth of death.
Avoiding regret in life does hold some urgency for me. Unlike my glass- cased roommates, my colors have begun to fade, and I worry that I might succumb to the simple truth still holding on to too many ifs. I can already sense the loss, phantom pains from a heart still strangely trapped in the process of healing itself. And so I continue to stare at those frozen wings and wonder how much longer the color will stay with me, if it hasn't already faded.
Maybe that's why I need her. Maybe... maybe she is what will stop the loss, the pain, the methodical deterioration of what is left of my soul. At least that's what she makes me think is possible. She's so unaware of her abilities, too. From a scientific standpoint the entire concept is full of holes and utterly nonsensical, yet I can't deny that in her presence I feel more like a butterfly than a tired, old man who shares his bed with the scattered remnants of whimsical dreams.
**
My own breath echoes in my head as her heat comes closer and closer, the energy radiating from her body to mine like a warm, soft light. A moment passes before she caresses my lips with her own, the slight hint of her tongue alerting every nerve already on edge. But before long, it comes like a rush of water; the acute, agonizing sweetness that I try hard to deflect so that I might protract the dream just... another moment longer. That's all I want. Just another moment...
I'm allowed one more taste of her before my slumber is interrupted by more than just fading hopes. I blindly reach for the phone by my bed, and bring the receiver to my ear with a loud, tired exhale.
"Hello?"
There is a slight pause before a jarring CLICK lets me know the other party has hung up. With a heavy sigh, I roll back over, bury my head in the pillow, and sleepily attempt to recreate the final moments of my dream.
**
Despite what I try and tell myself, I love my days off. I rarely sleep late, but my body wakes on its own, which is far more refreshing than any alarm clock could ever be. The slightest hint of light illuminates my drawn curtains, and I watch as the sun shining through the weave of the cloth creates a distorted, flowing pattern on my floor. The pattern... it makes me think of the case we closed yesterday, or rather, the case Sara closed. Ashleigh James, sentenced to death by her own inability to love herself. All the makeup in the world couldn't save her from not believing the girl on the billboard was who she truly was. But Sara knew. She knew before any of us.
I sigh again, and then I freeze. My ears may be deceptive at times, but it's more than just a shift in the ambient tone of my room - the hairs on the back of my neck begin to rise, one after another, until a chill finally creeps down my back and I shudder.
Slowly, I turn onto my other side, and then some unseen force prevents me from leaping from my bed in surprise. There, next to me, lying on top of my blanket, is Sara's sleeping form.
Her back is to me, her knees slightly tucked up toward her chest in a semi- fetal position. Involuntarily, my head falls to the side as I watch her shoulders rise and fall with each breath, and my ears prick up to hear the tiny sighs escaping from her mouth. So many questions hit my brain at once that they seem to cancel each other out, and I settle for simply watching her.
As the chilled morning air hits the bare skin of my chest, I'm suddenly very aware that my sheets have fallen down to my waist, clearly exposing the elastic band of my boxer shorts. Carefully, I lean over, wondering if I should wake her or just enjoy the visit, as much as the reason behind it is piquing my curiosity. I decide on the latter, and slide back down under the sheets, gently scooting just the slightest bit closer to her, enough so that I feel the tautness of the blanket where the weight of her body presses it to my mattress.
I must be more tired than I realize, and I feel my eyelids growing heavier with each passing second. But just as I start to slide farther into the encompassing pool of slumber, my other senses start to betray my brain's need for sleep. The most gorgeous blend of citrus and something between rose pedals and honeysuckle finds its way over to me. And then I feel the bed shake slightly as she stirs. I figure it's just a minor adjustment, but then she shifts toward me, her backside suddenly pressing against my stomach. I do everything in my power to translate every thought that has just passed through my brain into the smallest sigh I have ever released.
I hear quiet, peaceful breaths coming from her, and I'm suddenly overwhelmed by the need to ... touch her. After all, she climbed into my bed for a still unknown reason, so can't I just... feel her? Just for a moment? All I want is a moment. But as quickly as I reach toward her, I draw back. As my hand instinctively retracts, that intense sensation of loss instantly fills my soul, and I bite my lip to hide the pain, to quickly grasp the color slipping from my being.
I close my eyes against the blinding agony, and try to ignore the feel of her still pressed against me. An occasional breeze parts my curtains, allowing tiny increments of sunlight to flow into the room. As the cloth opens, the room is briefly flooded with a pastel yellow, and as the drapes close, my surroundings return to their usual muted blue.
It's when I lay my head back on the pillow that I feel it. Skin. Her skin. It slides over mine as she takes my hand from where it rested on my thigh, and brings it around to in front of her. I don't even know if she's still asleep, if she somehow felt the cheerless drain I just experienced and knew exactly how to stop it. After several long exhales assure me that she's not yet awake, I relax and allow my arm to rest over her body, marveling at how just the slightest gesture on her part ebbs my fears and keeps the pain at bay. My thumb gently rubs over the smooth knuckles of her hand, and I settle in against her as the heat of her body bleeds through the blanket to warm me.
**
It's like she knows exactly what I want and how I want it, and giving it brings her as much pleasure as it does me. I feel this in the kiss that I've managed to sustain without interruption for longer than I ever thought possible. I feel it in the way her hand runs up my arm and along my chest, in the way she looks at me when she first appears in my doorway. I squeeze my eyes shut, and our contact intensifies, and for the first time in my life I realize this is what contentment must feel like, what it means to step back and understand that pure, true happiness cannot be defined, enumerated, or explained, and, more importantly, that it doesn't need to be.
**
When my eyes finally open, I'm not entirely sure I've woken from my dream. After all, my bed isn't empty, as the warm body next to me confirms. What's different, though, is that she's very much awake, and has turned to face me in such a way that the length of her front is pressed against mine. My arm is still draped over her waist, my hand poised at the small of her back. She returns my gaze with hypnotic eyes, and I'm suddenly lost in their complexity, unable to offer any words in response to what I see.
"Grissom ... I'm sorry for hanging up on you."
I dimly recall the phone, and the click on the other end. And I still can't speak. Sara Sidle is in my bed.
"I just wanted to make sure you were here..."
"Is..." I start, trying to brush the shakiness from my voice. "Is everything okay?"
She nods after a moment of hesitation, and despite wanting to know more, whether or not I believe her seems irrelevant given the circumstances.
The bed shakes again, and I feel her shiver beneath my arm. "Are you cold?" I can feel goose bumps on her skin, but I can tell she's reluctant to answer right away.
"I'm a little chilly," she mumbles.
"Second drawer on the left. You'll find a sweatshirt in there."
She gives me a little smile, ruffles my hair, and then rolls off the bed, walking toward my dresser. Immediately, I miss her, and she's only three feet away. I hear the drawer slide open, and then close, and I look over to see her slip her arms and head through the fleece clothing. She walks back over to the side of the bed, and then pauses, looking down at the mattress. As I try and figure out what she's debating, she lifts up the sheets and climbs under them, and before I can even process her actions, she's back in the same position, pressed up against me.
After I catch up with my thoughts and my breath, I try, unsuccessfully, to relax. Without the blanket to filter out my cravings as they escape me, her seems heat twice as intense, her presence twice as overwhelming, the skin of her hand twice as soft as it slides across my back.
The curtain blows open again, spreading light across my walls, and I follow her gaze up to the ceiling. The yellow and blue don't mix like their primary nature implies. The blue refuses to vanish, and the yellow light seems satisfied to simply float over the surface like an atmosphere of pastel. They're caught beautifully between blending and separation, as one filters the other like two layers of paint on a canvas, neither color seeking supremacy, but both borrowing each other's characteristics. It's a fascinating, symbiotic relationship, a liaison derived not from obligation, but from mutual understanding and the realization that their synthesis is far more remarkable and beautiful than what they are when separated.
Sara shifts again, her arm pulling me closer, and I can hear my nervousness when I quietly clear my throat. After a long moment, I gain the courage to move my hand down her back until I stop at the bottom of the sweatshirt, and then after a pause I move back up to her shoulders. I repeat the action over and over, even after her eyes shut and she moves closer. Her hand gently starts to trace a line along my waistband, moving from my stomach to my spine and then back again. My abdomen shivers from the contact, and it's my turn to close my eyes.
When my hand wanders down to her waist again, I stop it there, and run my fingers along the bottom of the material, mimicking what she's doing to me. With my eyes still shut, I press more firmly with my hand, moving under the fleece and then under her own shirt until my fingers finally touch the skin of her torso. When I find her eyes again, they're moving closer, blurring from proximity as I suddenly feel her breath on my skin, and then I taste her lips as they move lightly over mine. My eyes close again.
The kiss is both urgent and gentle, our lips grazing against one another before firmly joining together, the action repeating over and over as our mouths move in a rhythm I can't even fully comprehend. And then, I feel just the slightest tip of her tongue, sliding along my lip, glancing across my own tongue in the process. The sensation sets off a tingling surge of electricity that runs down the length of my entire body. Quietly sighing against her mouth, I run my hand up her back and tighten my hold.
With our eyes closed, we lie there for what seems like forever, slowly moving our hands over each other, our lips touching now and again, and I just enjoy the feel of her on my skin. Amazingly, despite the intimate nature of our actions, I feel no urgent need to move forward, move toward what I used to long for in my dream but could never have.
At the same time, I resist the impulse to categorize this moment, to strip the pleasure from what I feel. For once, I don't want it to be manageable; I want to be confused, bewildered, and completely overwhelmed.
Eventually, our mouths separate, and she pulls her head back just a few inches. We can't help but smile at one another, and I feel her wrap her arm back around my waist. She lays her head on the pillow, closes her eyes, and pulls herself against me.
I follow her lead and rest my head next to hers, and then curl my arm around the skin under her shirt. We share one last kiss before I close my eyes, drifting off to sleep with the knowledge that my dream will be waiting for me when I wake up.
(fin.)
Disclaimer: Don't own 'em. Wish I did. And the last time I looked, lawsuits cost more than $4.75, so please don't sue me.
Rating: PG-13/R
Summary: Well, this started off as a companion piece to Images II, from Grissom's POV, but it sort of... evolved into something else. I don't really know how to summarize it.
Spoilers: Up through Hunger Artist
Archive: Just tell me where
Thanks to my virtual support team, namely Meg and Devanie. And thanks to my computer, brought back to life by Dell tech support after it attempted suicide late Friday night. I'm starting to think it was a political protest against something I wrote. Maybe my motherboard is a member of a parental watchgroup for sexually explicit material. But, it's cooperating enough to let me finish and post this, so thank you, machine.
And, I've never done this before, but I'd like to dedicate this to my father, who made me realize why you have to stop and smell the damn roses once in a while. Perspective is highly underrated. Love you, Dad.
***
I never thought it could consume so much energy just thinking about one person. Being distracted by my thoughts happens all the time; the preoccupation of case details, victim autopsies, interrogation room confessions, the linear regression of insects on a body. All of those things exercise my brain to its fullest, every hour of every day. But lately, the newer thoughts are more than just a preoccupation. It's more of an obsession, a physical and mental addiction to a living, breathing person. That dependency scares me, startles me, appearing out of nowhere in the middle of a thought, on the drive home, in the shower, or, more recently, in my sleep.
As of late, Sara stares at me a lot, and I want to know what she's thinking. I wonder if she has fears and doubts about me, or if she's able to look past my flaws. I pray for the latter.
I wish I could touch her. I would take a strand of her hair and smooth it between my forefinger and thumb, memorizing the texture of the cuticle with my fingertips. I'd love to press my nose to her skin and breathe deeply, like one does to smell a flower. She's intoxicating.
She has skin like the smooth marble of a Greek statue, only the warmth and the blush of circulating blood reminds me unequivocally that she's more alive than I could ever be. I remember feeling that warmth on my face not too long ago, her thumb tenderly stroking my cheek. She said it was chalk. I'm not entirely sure there was any, but it doesn't matter. I should have known by my skyrocketing pulse that she affects me like no other.
And then there's my dream. The one I've had every night for the past twelve days. I'm in my apartment, resting on the couch, and just as I'm about to nod off there's a knock at the door. The exact number of knocks changes from night to night, but there's always an urgency to the rapping. Sleepily, I rise from the couch and open the door without even asking who it is; I already know it's her. She never says anything, she just walks over the threshold and suddenly her hands are on me, warm and tender, uncovering a level of comfort in me I didn't even know existed. Instantaneously all the wrong I've ever done her is righted, and she forgives me with a kiss so agonizingly sweet it tortures me to no end when I awaken clutching the empty sheets beside me.
I haven't shared my bed with anyone in a long time, but I never thought the need to do so would ache inside me like a dull, nagging throb. Oh, God, how I just want to tell her everything, to pull her away from the death and suffering and horrendous refuse of humanity we see everyday, and show her that I've come to love her with such relentless ferocity that it's beyond my abilities to quantify or categorize how I feel.
I guess that's where I start to become deficient. I suppose it's a naturally occurring fault that elements falling outside the realm of physical authentication confuse the hell out of me. I let emotions build within me until they fester in the pit of my stomach, and by the time the confusion and love and all the other incomprehensible ways she makes me feel evolve back into a singular, recognizable sensation again, it seems I've managed to destroy everything pleasurable about it.
It's just so much more manageable that way, and I can go on with the day's work, earn my paycheck, and return home to the shielded specimens hanging behind the glass on my walls. I envy those winged creatures, suspended in timeless beauty, frozen at the peak of their essence. I stare through the glass, wondering how many others are fortunate enough to have their lives cut short, lest the colors fade from their wings, forever losing their beauty to the simple, unforgiving truth of death.
Avoiding regret in life does hold some urgency for me. Unlike my glass- cased roommates, my colors have begun to fade, and I worry that I might succumb to the simple truth still holding on to too many ifs. I can already sense the loss, phantom pains from a heart still strangely trapped in the process of healing itself. And so I continue to stare at those frozen wings and wonder how much longer the color will stay with me, if it hasn't already faded.
Maybe that's why I need her. Maybe... maybe she is what will stop the loss, the pain, the methodical deterioration of what is left of my soul. At least that's what she makes me think is possible. She's so unaware of her abilities, too. From a scientific standpoint the entire concept is full of holes and utterly nonsensical, yet I can't deny that in her presence I feel more like a butterfly than a tired, old man who shares his bed with the scattered remnants of whimsical dreams.
**
My own breath echoes in my head as her heat comes closer and closer, the energy radiating from her body to mine like a warm, soft light. A moment passes before she caresses my lips with her own, the slight hint of her tongue alerting every nerve already on edge. But before long, it comes like a rush of water; the acute, agonizing sweetness that I try hard to deflect so that I might protract the dream just... another moment longer. That's all I want. Just another moment...
I'm allowed one more taste of her before my slumber is interrupted by more than just fading hopes. I blindly reach for the phone by my bed, and bring the receiver to my ear with a loud, tired exhale.
"Hello?"
There is a slight pause before a jarring CLICK lets me know the other party has hung up. With a heavy sigh, I roll back over, bury my head in the pillow, and sleepily attempt to recreate the final moments of my dream.
**
Despite what I try and tell myself, I love my days off. I rarely sleep late, but my body wakes on its own, which is far more refreshing than any alarm clock could ever be. The slightest hint of light illuminates my drawn curtains, and I watch as the sun shining through the weave of the cloth creates a distorted, flowing pattern on my floor. The pattern... it makes me think of the case we closed yesterday, or rather, the case Sara closed. Ashleigh James, sentenced to death by her own inability to love herself. All the makeup in the world couldn't save her from not believing the girl on the billboard was who she truly was. But Sara knew. She knew before any of us.
I sigh again, and then I freeze. My ears may be deceptive at times, but it's more than just a shift in the ambient tone of my room - the hairs on the back of my neck begin to rise, one after another, until a chill finally creeps down my back and I shudder.
Slowly, I turn onto my other side, and then some unseen force prevents me from leaping from my bed in surprise. There, next to me, lying on top of my blanket, is Sara's sleeping form.
Her back is to me, her knees slightly tucked up toward her chest in a semi- fetal position. Involuntarily, my head falls to the side as I watch her shoulders rise and fall with each breath, and my ears prick up to hear the tiny sighs escaping from her mouth. So many questions hit my brain at once that they seem to cancel each other out, and I settle for simply watching her.
As the chilled morning air hits the bare skin of my chest, I'm suddenly very aware that my sheets have fallen down to my waist, clearly exposing the elastic band of my boxer shorts. Carefully, I lean over, wondering if I should wake her or just enjoy the visit, as much as the reason behind it is piquing my curiosity. I decide on the latter, and slide back down under the sheets, gently scooting just the slightest bit closer to her, enough so that I feel the tautness of the blanket where the weight of her body presses it to my mattress.
I must be more tired than I realize, and I feel my eyelids growing heavier with each passing second. But just as I start to slide farther into the encompassing pool of slumber, my other senses start to betray my brain's need for sleep. The most gorgeous blend of citrus and something between rose pedals and honeysuckle finds its way over to me. And then I feel the bed shake slightly as she stirs. I figure it's just a minor adjustment, but then she shifts toward me, her backside suddenly pressing against my stomach. I do everything in my power to translate every thought that has just passed through my brain into the smallest sigh I have ever released.
I hear quiet, peaceful breaths coming from her, and I'm suddenly overwhelmed by the need to ... touch her. After all, she climbed into my bed for a still unknown reason, so can't I just... feel her? Just for a moment? All I want is a moment. But as quickly as I reach toward her, I draw back. As my hand instinctively retracts, that intense sensation of loss instantly fills my soul, and I bite my lip to hide the pain, to quickly grasp the color slipping from my being.
I close my eyes against the blinding agony, and try to ignore the feel of her still pressed against me. An occasional breeze parts my curtains, allowing tiny increments of sunlight to flow into the room. As the cloth opens, the room is briefly flooded with a pastel yellow, and as the drapes close, my surroundings return to their usual muted blue.
It's when I lay my head back on the pillow that I feel it. Skin. Her skin. It slides over mine as she takes my hand from where it rested on my thigh, and brings it around to in front of her. I don't even know if she's still asleep, if she somehow felt the cheerless drain I just experienced and knew exactly how to stop it. After several long exhales assure me that she's not yet awake, I relax and allow my arm to rest over her body, marveling at how just the slightest gesture on her part ebbs my fears and keeps the pain at bay. My thumb gently rubs over the smooth knuckles of her hand, and I settle in against her as the heat of her body bleeds through the blanket to warm me.
**
It's like she knows exactly what I want and how I want it, and giving it brings her as much pleasure as it does me. I feel this in the kiss that I've managed to sustain without interruption for longer than I ever thought possible. I feel it in the way her hand runs up my arm and along my chest, in the way she looks at me when she first appears in my doorway. I squeeze my eyes shut, and our contact intensifies, and for the first time in my life I realize this is what contentment must feel like, what it means to step back and understand that pure, true happiness cannot be defined, enumerated, or explained, and, more importantly, that it doesn't need to be.
**
When my eyes finally open, I'm not entirely sure I've woken from my dream. After all, my bed isn't empty, as the warm body next to me confirms. What's different, though, is that she's very much awake, and has turned to face me in such a way that the length of her front is pressed against mine. My arm is still draped over her waist, my hand poised at the small of her back. She returns my gaze with hypnotic eyes, and I'm suddenly lost in their complexity, unable to offer any words in response to what I see.
"Grissom ... I'm sorry for hanging up on you."
I dimly recall the phone, and the click on the other end. And I still can't speak. Sara Sidle is in my bed.
"I just wanted to make sure you were here..."
"Is..." I start, trying to brush the shakiness from my voice. "Is everything okay?"
She nods after a moment of hesitation, and despite wanting to know more, whether or not I believe her seems irrelevant given the circumstances.
The bed shakes again, and I feel her shiver beneath my arm. "Are you cold?" I can feel goose bumps on her skin, but I can tell she's reluctant to answer right away.
"I'm a little chilly," she mumbles.
"Second drawer on the left. You'll find a sweatshirt in there."
She gives me a little smile, ruffles my hair, and then rolls off the bed, walking toward my dresser. Immediately, I miss her, and she's only three feet away. I hear the drawer slide open, and then close, and I look over to see her slip her arms and head through the fleece clothing. She walks back over to the side of the bed, and then pauses, looking down at the mattress. As I try and figure out what she's debating, she lifts up the sheets and climbs under them, and before I can even process her actions, she's back in the same position, pressed up against me.
After I catch up with my thoughts and my breath, I try, unsuccessfully, to relax. Without the blanket to filter out my cravings as they escape me, her seems heat twice as intense, her presence twice as overwhelming, the skin of her hand twice as soft as it slides across my back.
The curtain blows open again, spreading light across my walls, and I follow her gaze up to the ceiling. The yellow and blue don't mix like their primary nature implies. The blue refuses to vanish, and the yellow light seems satisfied to simply float over the surface like an atmosphere of pastel. They're caught beautifully between blending and separation, as one filters the other like two layers of paint on a canvas, neither color seeking supremacy, but both borrowing each other's characteristics. It's a fascinating, symbiotic relationship, a liaison derived not from obligation, but from mutual understanding and the realization that their synthesis is far more remarkable and beautiful than what they are when separated.
Sara shifts again, her arm pulling me closer, and I can hear my nervousness when I quietly clear my throat. After a long moment, I gain the courage to move my hand down her back until I stop at the bottom of the sweatshirt, and then after a pause I move back up to her shoulders. I repeat the action over and over, even after her eyes shut and she moves closer. Her hand gently starts to trace a line along my waistband, moving from my stomach to my spine and then back again. My abdomen shivers from the contact, and it's my turn to close my eyes.
When my hand wanders down to her waist again, I stop it there, and run my fingers along the bottom of the material, mimicking what she's doing to me. With my eyes still shut, I press more firmly with my hand, moving under the fleece and then under her own shirt until my fingers finally touch the skin of her torso. When I find her eyes again, they're moving closer, blurring from proximity as I suddenly feel her breath on my skin, and then I taste her lips as they move lightly over mine. My eyes close again.
The kiss is both urgent and gentle, our lips grazing against one another before firmly joining together, the action repeating over and over as our mouths move in a rhythm I can't even fully comprehend. And then, I feel just the slightest tip of her tongue, sliding along my lip, glancing across my own tongue in the process. The sensation sets off a tingling surge of electricity that runs down the length of my entire body. Quietly sighing against her mouth, I run my hand up her back and tighten my hold.
With our eyes closed, we lie there for what seems like forever, slowly moving our hands over each other, our lips touching now and again, and I just enjoy the feel of her on my skin. Amazingly, despite the intimate nature of our actions, I feel no urgent need to move forward, move toward what I used to long for in my dream but could never have.
At the same time, I resist the impulse to categorize this moment, to strip the pleasure from what I feel. For once, I don't want it to be manageable; I want to be confused, bewildered, and completely overwhelmed.
Eventually, our mouths separate, and she pulls her head back just a few inches. We can't help but smile at one another, and I feel her wrap her arm back around my waist. She lays her head on the pillow, closes her eyes, and pulls herself against me.
I follow her lead and rest my head next to hers, and then curl my arm around the skin under her shirt. We share one last kiss before I close my eyes, drifting off to sleep with the knowledge that my dream will be waiting for me when I wake up.
(fin.)