Thank you Marlou, for the beta. Thank you Lauren... for putting up with my unhingingness... And thank you readers. I really enjoy that you're all so wonderfully literate.
It was as if he could feel her hand on the doorknob before he could hear her turning it. It was some sort of balm to his ears just to hear the acceptance of the metal creaking against the wood. A 'please'; a vacant, hollow and lost 'please' was all it took for her to allow him solace in her presence.
Upon regarding her for the first time that evening, his heart was torn between imploding upon itself with the sadness etched on her skin and thrumming away in ecstasy for the relief that she held in her eyes.
But there was a stalemate there on the doorstep. She, with tears coursing down her cheeks could not seem to utter the words to allow him access. He, rooted to the spot there, couldn't make the move to pull her into his arms, the only place he ever wanted her to be, ever ever again.
Electricity crackled in the air between them and Grissom was forced forward, nearly sweeping her from her feet with the force of his entrance. She barely had time to kick the door closed before his lips plucked at the skin of her neck, breezing up the freckled the skin to then press his lips against hers lips, moist with lust and so many unspoken words.
"Is this how he kisses you, Sara? Is it?" Grissom took her mouth with force, feeling every cell of her lips against his, pulling, straining, needing to hear the truth. "Does he kiss you like I do, Sara?" His beard was rough on her skin, creating lovely patches of red across her cheeks.
They were on the couch before he could continue and his lips assaulted her in such a wonderful way that she didn't bother wondering what more he wanted to say.
It was a task to draw words from her mouth, so she didn't. Instead, she kissed him back and felt music in her soul, music and alcohol and glitter, glamour, something like love-it was all running through her veins at a type of light speed she chose not to place. Was he about to love her?
No, she was sure that the look in his eyes was eons from love, and yet she succumbed none the less. He'd never, ever see her. Not with the way his eyes were clouded over in that moment. She couldn't ever imagine him seeing her as true with the way he looked in that moment, and yet she didn't stop him.
Angry tears, hot and salty, cascaded down her cheeks. His lips were on her neck, his hands pulling her shirt, up, up, over her stomach, her collarbone, pulling it from her body. Shirtless, tousled and lovely in the dim light pouring from the window, he kissed her with all the passion he had kept, stored and ready, all for her.
His shirt somehow followed hers, their hands working together to rid him of the oppressive fabric. Their bodies were bare in moments and he wondered how he had ever truly done without her warmth surrounding him. A chill scampered out from her open window, but he ignored it. All the warmth he needed was wrapped around him.
It was a task, simply and truly, just to move. Eventually he did, hard and fast and made her yelp so loud that he clamped his hand over her mouth. She, not ready to give in, far from submitting, licked his palm and scraped her teeth against the flesh of his palm.
Sara couldn't help but slowing down the moment in her head. She remembered as he kissed her ear. She saw him answering her questions in seminar, and yes, she felt the rock welling in her throat. Sara saw them on some pier in San Francisco, there were so many; she saw them pecking, pecking and then kissing somehow. That was the one kiss that she ever remembered, because it was so deep and thorough and bordering on the edge of love.
Was there rain? She couldn't remember, but for the sake of romance she imagined there was; she remembered her hair curling and frizzing as he turned to her, speaking of blood or bugs or something, she was sure she wasn't listening; His eyes were so blue then, his hair dark. She, well she felt nothing but an attraction to him, but when he admitted to her that he'd never been in love, never seen the hue of her eyes in anyone else... she was in love too.
Sara recalled so very vividly how he told her that everything was askew, everything was wrong. And then, oh then his lips were on hers and she had to bite back the chuckle... because there were the lights of a carnival in the backdrop and his strangely welcome heat on hers.
He'd spoken to her, something out of Shakespeare and had articulated himself so. He spoke words that she laughed over with her friends because they were so poetic and yet so heartfelt. Was it possible that the words he spoke were real? At that moment in her life, she wished. The kiss had been so, so deep and she wished she'd met him in a bar or somewhere other than a seminar. It would have been easier. She didn't know how but it would have.
A goodbye or two or three (or was it kisses? She didn't remember...) and he was back to Vegas. And two months later back in San Francisco he was kissing her again. He was kissing her and telling her that he had to leave, leave... please let him leave. She was beautiful and he told her over and over but there was something else, something else...
It was both kisses and goodbyes, but she'd left him at the airport with an anonymous goodbye because she'd arrived a minute too late and she'd had to watch him board the plane alone.
Yet she was drawn back to the present, to the press of his lips against hers, begging in their own silent language. Kisses, would they ever amount to what she felt for him? No, she wanted to tell him, she really did. It was impossible, because his eyes held nothing but jealousy and want. If Peter had never wanted her... would he have ever taken her?
Making love on the kitchen floor was much more like them, not on the couch. Not without words.
She worried that he would forget her when it was over but was placated by his lips on her cheeks as he moved into her so delicately. He knew she wasn't delicate but he knew, knew that the moment called for it, for just a moment. He didn't open his eyes and her mouth opened, almost trying to swallow his face in that second, his expression; he wouldn't look at her.
He grasped her hair and urged himself into her with abandon. It wasn't how it was meant to be, they both knew it and neither of them could stop it.
Sara moved beneath him, her body struggling to meet his erratic pace but could not.
A thrumming in her head set up with his pace; a constant 'knock, knock,' a 'bang, bang' and she ignored it for as long as she could. The only thing she wanted to register in her brain was the feel of him, the panting of his breath. The feelings, they were both coming so fast that she had to catalogue them quickly, for fear of forgetting them.
But again, the loud thrumming at her door rang true and she had to pull herself from the exquisite sensations she was receiving from him.
Peter, it was Peter calling out to her. He was claiming he'd called her cell phone, called her home phone, but she hadn't shown up for their date. At that point it was impossible to keep the tears from spilling over again and damn, damn if she didn't want them to continue.
"Sara, Sara, where are you?" It was nearly a plea, but not convincing enough for her to stop. He'd never plow through the door like Grissom would. "I called you!"
Grissom's eyes met hers then, dark and whole and angry. Moving into her with jealous strokes, he held back the tears; there was no time for tears from him. No tears, oh no. There was no sadness after years and years (fifteen? twelve? He couldn't remember because she was so warm...) of wanting, of loving her. He was selfish and didn't deserve her and didn't care at all because Peter was at the door and he was capturing her in the moment.
He was watching the sweat on her temples, seeing the love in her eyes even though she didn't want to betray it.
The pounding resumed. "Sara! I hear something... are you asleep?" And the 'pound, pound, pound" and Peter calling to her as Grissom captured her bottom lip with his teeth there on her ugly sofa and gasped; yes, he gasped and gazed into her eyes, no longer lust but something else she couldn't place if she tried.
Her tongue swallowed the cry that bubbled within her.
Peter called again as she came down from her high, "Sara? Sara, are you in there?"
Grissom, skin and lust, pressed against her hard.
Every fiber of her being strained to connect with his body but she had to push him back; this was for the wrong reason. "Not like this Grissom." Her hair was askew but just barely and he sought to fist his hands into it and pull her lips back to his, draw the name Peter out before she forgot entirely who he was.
And he was off of her, panting. Heated and red, droplets of sweat appearing at his temples. "I need to know Sara. I need to know how he makes you feel." Oh, such a heated whisper, but so perfect. Peter's knocks died away as did his footsteps and they were left alone, lying together: sweat and skin consummated.
Sara moved her face away from his and rubbed her hands on her legs, wanting to just scream, just, just let it all out. "He doesn't."
Grissom screwed his face up, confused and so very hurt.
"He doesn't... make me feel. At all," she admitted to him, the tears drying on her face, making her cheeks feel stiff and emotionless. She wondered if she'd ever feel happy again, real and honest happiness, the desolation clawing at her heart, begging for entrance; she was just about ready to give into it. "Never really made me feel, just... I was pretty and alive for him."
Sara bit her lip and looked at him as he stared back in awe. "And that was enough." It was all too much then and she had to gulp back the sudden words that bubbled up. "I think, you know, I really think that could be enough." A pause, a sob and a gulp. "He uh, he wants to love me and you know, that really could be enough."
It sounded neither like a rejection nor an invitation. Grissom was at a loss, a complete and utter loss for anything: words, actions, emotions, still pressed beside her. Batting at her cheeks with the backs of her hands, she continued on. "I keep stopping and going, you know? And I just think... I keep thinking that if I can make myself love him, I can stop with the constant rewind."
"That's bullshit. That's complete bullshit and you know it."
"Well I'm sorry, but this whole staying behind thing isn't working for me either. Something has to change, and it certainly isn't going to be you." Her voice began to raise in pitch, almost to the point of yelling but not quite there yet. "I call you because I need you; I came here because I need you, but it's a brick wall if you don't need me."
Life was too short to keep crying and she really tried to stop, but her life was in such ordered chaos that she didn't know where 'start' started and where 'end' ended.
"I want you to need me. You don't even get it, I would have changed for you, god... something like this...?" She clipped her sentence and pressed her hands over her eyes, trying to gain control of the thoughts whizzing through her head. "He doesn't make me feel, Grissom. He makes me think, he makes me think of what it would feel like to have you."
He moved back to her, ignoring the bite of the edge of leather into his side. "You have me, here."
"But do I, Grissom, do I?"
He gazed down at her for a moment, unashamed by his nakedness. He grasped her hand and pulled her up hard, so hard.
She was in his arms then, unsure and frightened. He too was frightened, but not unsure. He'd seen her eyes dart off in a certain direction earlier and took her into his arms, kicking off his slacks so he wouldn't trip over them. She didn't get a chance to regard him before he wrapped his arms tightly around her body.
"I want to take you to bed," he said, words harsh and low, his hips grinding into hers.
She sighed and slacked off into his arms, "Do you know where it is?"
"I think I've always known," he replied and kissed the crown of her head and drew her across the hardwood floor towards her bedroom.