Show Me Roses
By Dimgwrthien
Disclaimer: I do not own CSI: NY or affiliates.
Your arms are wrapped around the pillow, breathing in the scent of something between sleep and sex. Your mind only processes the time as 'too late', the time that's just known to lovers in bed who know that they should sleep, should make sure they're up for work in time, but their minds are too wrapped around hiding the scratches your dug into your backs, the tender areas where you've become so sensitive and know will tingle if you see his face during he day.
You wonder about how much the shower will hurt in the morning. He's a calm man, almost inhumanly calm and collected for most of the time, but it's amazing what he can do. Even when you shift, you feel every spot his hands have touched you during he night, even when you were in the kitchen, in the living room, walking to the bed, too eager to undress yourselves in violent tears.
Mac's hands play over your hair, twisting the curls around his finger. You feel the tingle in your scalp, something akin to a massage. Even in the shower each morning, no matter what you do, you can't replicate the feeling he causes you. It starts in the very center of you, spreading up to yours stomach, into your breasts, into your throat, then explodes into your brain.
He glides his fingers down your neck, touching your bare back with his fingertips. You want to shiver, but you remain still and embrace each touch.
"What's this?" he asks, his voice tired but sounding energized.
You know what he's touching. He traces blue petals and green leaves over your lower back slowly, going over the lines to darken them with his touch.
It had been an accident, you remember. A stupid thing you did with the first girl you met out of the orphanage. You weren't even nineteen yet, but beer and wine make the pain of needles seem like Mac's touch. The girl you were with chose the pattern for you from a wrinkled booklet, then laughed and said It's you. It seemed so much like you at that moment, though sometimes you wonder. If you had been sober, what would have been the picture?
But when he traces the pattern, you thank that girl, whatever her name had been, for choosing the most detailed pattern she could find in there. You can only welcome Mac's touch.
"It's a long story," you answer in a low voice.
"I have time."
You turn to look at Mac, then study his face. His usually pale face is slightly flushed, though it's starting to fade away slowly. The look on his face isn't fading, though. You grew used to it all night, the relaxed way his face becomes. You haven't seen it in a long time - it's off-limits for Mac during work.
You watch him for a moment longer, seeing the dancing interest in his eyes as he continued to trace the tattoo even without looking. It only seems to matter to you that his touch remains against your body, and you can tell any story, no matter how long ago, no matter how embarrassing.
Smiling, you start your story.