Chapter 17
"Damn you, Gil Grissom!" Sara shouted, wiping the thick whipped cream off her face. "You'll pay for this! Just LOOK at what you did to my clothes! They'll smell horrible tomorrow unless I wash them right now!" She shook a wet fist at him.
Uh-oh. She wasn't amused. Grissom decided that now was the time to grovel. "Er, I'm sorry, Sara. If you want to go wash your clothes, I'll finish up with this pudding. I even promise not to make a mess of your kitchen," he said, holding up two fingers in the boy-scout salute.
Sara grumbled, but accepted his offer. "Fine. Good. I should really make YOU wash my clothes, but since I'm so nice I'll do it myself." Grissom nearly groaned out loud at the thought of touching Sara's clothes – with or without her in them. Luckily for him, Sara didn't notice; she was stalking off toward her bedroom, presumably to find a change of clothes.
Grissom worked industriously for a few minutes, making the top of the pudding look as artistic as his scientific brain would allow. As he was adding the last cookie to the top of it, Sara walked back into the kitchen, wearing a robe. A robe! And he was pretty sure there was nothing underneath it. "She MUST do this on purpose," he decided. Well, he supposed there was nothing wrong with a little good-natured teasing, other than the fact that it was starting to drive him out of his mind.
"So is my dessert ready, kitchen-boy?"
Grissom nodded. "It is indeed. Here, sit. I'll get out the dessert plates." Sara was afraid to question how he knew where she kept them. Either he'd been sneaking into her house at night to explore her kitchen, or he'd seen them in the cabinet earlier. Either way, Grissom wasn't exactly a threat to her flatware. She sat, and a few seconds later Grissom placed a plate with a heap of pudding on it in front of her. Preparing another plate for himself, he sat down across from her.
Grissom ate a spoonful. "Wow, Sara – this is great! I think my mom used to make something like this, actually. Brings back happy memories." He smiled, and Sara smiled back. The two ate happily until their plates were almost empty.
"Glad you like it," Sara finally said. "Actually this recipe did come from my mom. Maybe it's a generational thing." She glanced down at the table. "Hey, you don't have a cookie on top of yours, and I have two!"
"Well, I thought that you'd want . . ."
"Uh-uh, Gris. Share and share alike. Here, take one of mine." Rather than depositing it on his plate, Sara reached across the table and brought the cookie in her hand up to his mouth.
Grissom licked his lips nervously. This . . . this was flirting. Sara was flirting with him! Wahoo! He gently took one bite, then another out of the cookie in her hand. It was now almost gone – if he ate the last bite his mouth would touch Sara's fingers. He noticed that Sara was watching him eat. What to do? Hell, he'd come this far, no reason to stop his momentum now.
Grissom placed a hand on her wrist to steady it, and drew her hand toward his mouth. Slowly, he moved his lips closer to it. Sara felt the fluttering pressure of his lips as Grissom claimed the last bite. What would it be like to feel that pressure against her lips, rather than her fingers? She sighed and ate the last of her pudding. The way they were going now, she'd never know anyway.
Grissom stood awkwardly. "Are you, uh, finished? I'll take your plate to the dishwasher." Sara nodded, and he piled their dishes together, moving toward her dishwasher in the corner. She followed.
"Those were some really great finishing touches you added. I just wanted to tell you thanks for helping me cook tonight," Sara said gently. And in a voice that was a little more brittle, "And for that whipped cream bath. That was just great, Grissom. I especially wanted to thank you for that. In fact . . ." Grissom saw the gleam in her eyes and tried to back away, but found himself trapped between a CSI and a wall.
"Sara . . . um, Sara. Be nice – you got me with that whipped cream too, I was only making things even. C'mon Sara, I didn't mean any harm . . ." She was still advancing on him, paying no attention to his pleas. As Grissom's back hit the wall, he gulped. What kind of revenge was she going to exact for this stunt of his?
Sara knew she looked dangerous. "Good, serves him right," she assured herself, and advanced another step. She was now so close to Grissom's panicky form that her breasts were almost touching his chest. There was a flush rising on Grissom's face as Sara leaned closer to him. "Why would you think I'd hurt you, Grissom?" she said innocently. "I just want . . ." Sara began, " . . . to . . . get . . .a little closer." As she said each word, she leaned an inch closer to her prey. Her last words were said almost, but not quite, against his mouth.
A beat of silence . . . and then Sara pulled away. Grissom's eyes widened. Sara smiled grimly. "Good. Now you know how it feels."
Switching topics smoothly, to the despair of a befuddled Grissom, she added, "Now, I'm going to go take a shower and get dressed. It's almost 5PM; we've got to get ready for work. Do you keep a change of clothes in your trunk like I do, or do you need to go home?"
Sara. In the shower. Mmmmmm. Grissom attempted a smile, but it looked more like a grimace. "I have clothes in my car. A CSI can . . ."
" . . . never be too prepared," Sara finished. "I know. So, I guess you're going to need another shower too, after that exploding whipped cream disaster. I claim the right to first shower, though, being the woman and all." She grinned and headed off toward the bathroom.
