Opening, a csi fanfic

Title: Opening
Author: Anansay
Summary: Just a little blurb about Grissom and Sara.
Rating: PG
Spoilers: None.
Disclaimer: I do not own these characters. Just borrowing them for now.

Opening

by Anansay
October 6, 2003

She can't believe she's here. With him.

He's standing in front of her. She can feel him, feel the heat emanating from his body. She can smell him, the slightly pungent scent of pheromones aroused to powerful degrees. She can hear him, his breathing short and shallow and jittery.

Neither of them move. The newness of the situation has not yet faded from their consciousness'.

They are standing in the living room of her place. It wasn't anything planned. He'd come knocking on her door, standing in the main hallway of her building like a lost puppy looking for a home. It wasn't his body stance that told her that. No, he stood like a man of business: head up, shoulders back, body straight. It was the subtle details that never escaped her attention. The way his eyes didn't quite meet hers. The way his lips moved a bit before the words came out, like there was some battle happening behind them on which words would emerge. It was the way his hands shook almost imperceptibly as he handed her the folders for her perusal. It was the way he'd paused for a moment when she'd invited him in - for coffee.

A few civil words exchanged, an almost physical dancing around each other as they maneuvered the small area that was her living room without actually touching one another. He hadn't sat down; she hadn't asked him to.

And now there are no more words to say. None in their heads and none in the air. The silence is thick and oppressive. She desires to speak, to break the tension but she can't.

She can see his chest rising and falling, a little too fast for someone just standing, doing nothing. She knows her breathing isn't all that normal either. She wishes she could control it. But she knows, after three years of trying, it's impossible to control her own responses to this man.

He speaks, finally. Her name. "Sara" It rolls from his mouth on a heated breath, gently brushing her hair from face. Her eyes close, a quick momentary lapse into a state of utter bliss at his voice directed at her and only her. She opens them, but nothing has changed.

"Grissom" It's so easy to say his name. She's said it so many times before, enjoying the feel of it on her own lips. Grissom She doesn't know why she's said his name. All she knows is that she likes to say it. It sounds beautiful.

His hand reaches out and touches her bare arm. A light feathery touch, just fingertips on flesh, barely touching. But she feels it deeply. Her body shivers and goosebumps form on her skin. She can't control it, it just happens.

She wants to reach out, to touch him. But she doesn't. It would be like trying to touch a wild animal: they panic and run away. She wants him to stay so she doesn't touch him. She just stands in front of him, her body on fire and needing something so strong she hopes she can control it.

He's still touching her, but it's more now. He's growing bolder, stronger. His fingers move from her wrist to her elbow in excruciatingly slow progress. She can feel his hand trembling against her skin. He's nervous, or maybe scared. They retrace the path back to her wrist, just as slowly.

Feeling a glimmer of hope, she turns her hand slowly and opens it. His fingers continue their trail past her wrists to her palm and stay there, rubbing tiny circles on the tender flesh. She takes in a shaky breath and swallows.

His thumb replaces his fingers and they wrap around her hand lightly. She closes her hand over his, just enough to let him know but not tight enough to scare him.

He keeps his hand in hers.

Now they are touching. Skin against skin. And his breathing has quickened.

She drags her eyes up to his and is caught. He is staring at her, dark blue eyes wide with swirling eddies of passion. Her breath catches in her throat and she is aware that something remarkable has just taken place. A change. A transformation. An opening.

She feels him, senses his perturbation for the moment.

There is no movement, only sensation. But it comes not as a conscious thing, but more of an empyreal impression. Something that can only be felt if one were to use that part of the mind that is reserved for those times of intense communication. It's here. She can feel it. And she can't believe it.

Her eyes dart down to his lips, those small, pink, puckered bits of skin that have haunted her sleep since first meeting him. And the darkness that lay beyond, the lithe little bit of muscle that would sometimes pop out, at times of profound concentration.

She feels herself drifting toward him. Leaning in, dragged toward him by some invisible force that had always tugged at her soul, that had always drawn her to him, no matter where they might be. Just to feel a brush of skin, a hand on her back, a whisper of air as he spoke right by her ear.

Drawn to him, like a moth to a flame, their chests touch. Their heaving chests. She searches his face, from his eyes of deepest blue to his lips that had parted and allowed but a peek inside. His hand clenches hers, a desperate action of a drowning man. He doesn't move.

She can feel his breath against her face, jittering breathing that he can't control. She leans in a bit more and her eyes drift closed but not before she sees his eyes do the same. And then it happens. So gentle. So soft. So delicate. Her lips touch his.

She places a hand on his shoulder for balance and continues with the touching.

He doesn't move. He doesn't lean in nor does he back away. He is rigid.

She pulls away and leans back, her eyes fluttering open to see him looking at her. For a moment there is fear. Fear that she might have over stepped over a silent boundary. But he doesn't move. He just stares at her, his eyes wide, his breathing hasty.

She opens her mouth to speak, to say she's sorry but suddenly he moves and his mouth is on hers, harder than her touch had been. She gasps and her eyes close. His hand moves up to latch onto her upper arm and keeps her there, with him. His other hand joins in and she can do nothing but let him kiss her, let him move on her mouth. She tilts her head, parts her lips and gently touches him with her tongue.

He exhales with a force and opens his own mouth, his arms going around her back and pulling her to him, holding tight.

Her body responds but her mind stays back, watches from a distance, two people coming together in a timid yet forceful way. She sees her body molding to his. She sees her arms coming around his neck. She sees her fingers weaving through his hair, nails dragging gently along his scalp. And then she hears it, a groan. She feels it against her chest, coming from his. It happens just before he crushes her against him and then she feels something else. Something against that part of her that has burned on nights when sleep has eluded her. Something that signals a break, a start, a beginning, a genesis of something new and exciting.

His hands are on her back, touching and feeling her. His hand are touching her, more than just a guiding hand on her back. These hands aren't guiding; they're searching, seeking, exploring and memorizing. They're wanting, wanting more than just the material on her skin. They seek the real thing, the real and heated flesh beneath. The fingers poke beneath and lift, allowing hands to roam unimpeded along her skin. Up to her shoulders and then down again, all along sending shivers of excitement all over her body.

There is an urge in her, an urge that had long since taken control of her mind whenever she'd see him. His chest is pressed tightly against her and she can feel his heat, his passion, the quick staccato of his heart, his laboured breathing. But she longs to feel more than that.

Her hands leave his hair and run along his shoulders - bunching with need - and come down to his chest, to his buttons. Keeping her lips with his, she gently pushes him back and begins on the buttons. One by one, she is allowed more and more of his chest to come to her world.

When the buttons are all freed she pushes the fabric aside and splays her hands on his chest, glorifying in the intimacy of such an action.

She feels she should stop. This is too much. Too soon. With a strangled cry, she pulls back, their connection broken with a wet snapping sound. She rests her dizzy head against his and tries to regain her breathing, her composure, her balance. Her hands graze down his chest to the waistband of his pants and rest on his hips.

She can feel his trembling hands as they rest on her arms, his thumbs drawing lazy circles on her flesh.

Words must be spoken, she thinks in images, in feelings. Communication must happen, especially after this. She opens her mouth but no words come out. Her mind is still whirling with this newfound realm of possibilities. He's here. She's touched him. She's kissed him. Their bodies were pressed together.

"Sara" He speaks first. Her name on his lips sounds like the angels of the heavens above moaning in delight.

She sighs in response. It is the only thing she can do at the moment.

There is nothing that had prepared her for the tumultuous whirling motley of feelings that are cascading down around her, like shimmering droplets of dewy passion. It can't be contained any longer, she thinks. Her hands begin to move again, moving around and up his torso, feeling his stomach contract at the feather light touches of her fingers. It is a marvelous feeling, this touching of a part of him, something so innocuous as a stomach yet it contained within itself the fragment of the advent of a journey that had only existed in the far reaches of their minds. She was touching him. Running her hands along his skin left bare from the shirt as it hung to the side, like some sensual offering of himself.

Her hand moves higher, feeling the pulse at his neck race beneath her fingers as they travel to the back of his neck. She pulls away. His eyes are closed, his lips parted, his breathing shallow. She brings her head toward his, brushing her cheek along his roughened one toward his ear. His body trembles at her nearness. She brings her lips close and fights the urge to lick his earlobe. Her fingers are gently rubbing his scalp, getting lost in the heavy curls.

"Do you want to go to dinner with me?" she whispers in his ear.

She feels his sudden breath as he releases it with a flush. His head moves to press his cheek closer to hers, his lips mere inches from the tender flesh of her neck. She can feel her skin being tickled by it and gives in to her urge. Her tongue snakes out and licks his earlobe just before her lips wrap around it, sucking it into her mouth. His gasp is a satisfying sound as is the moan that follows it. His hands move from her waist to her back and once again she is pressed tightly to his body, his arousal very evident against her own.

"Yes" he whispers in her ear when she releases his. "Yes"

Sara smiles.

~*~