The Insect
Rated M - mature audiences only please. Romantic themes.
They were in the car on the way back to the lab when it happened. It was a bright, sunny day – the hottest of the season – and Grissom pulled up his sleeves as he sat at the wheel, driving. Their SUV lumbered along the lonely stretch of deserted highway, and in the passenger seat he saw Sara, his lover and employee, sip contently from a bottle of water.
He looked away. Sometimes it took all his strength not to admire her. But the fact was, she was beautiful. It was not just her long legs or her figure, but something in her manner which he found captivating. Despite how long they had been at the crime scene for she still looked refreshed, her shoes off, her top hugging her chest in all the right places, her sunglasses perched on top of her head, holding back her youthful hair.
"You okay?" she asked.
She had caught him looking. He did his best to look impassive.
"Fine," he said.
She took another sip, shaking the remnants of the bottle. Her eyes caught the desert landscape outside – the melting highway, the shimmering heat. Even the seats in the SUV were burning – they had been parked in the sun at the scene. Grissom reminded himself to put a towel over them next time.
"It's so hot," she complained.
He saw her frown, and then put the empty bottle aside. She then grabbed the hem of her top, and fluttered it a little, airing her sweltering figure. He saw an inch of skin, a flat belly button.
He shifted, adjusting himself.
"It's about to get a lot hotter if you keep doing that," he pointed out.
"Keep doing what?"
Her innocent tone almost fooled him – almost. He gave her a sidelong look, careful to keep the car on the road, and it was a full moment before she smiled, guilty.
He could not blame her. He was looking forward to their weekend alone, himself. It had been a devil to schedule, and he had finally pulled it off, having them both on leave simultaneously without drawing suspicion.
All he had to do now was to make it home.
She smiled for another moment before looking outside again, and it was then that it happened – she shifted in her seat, looking uncomfortable.
"You okay?" he asked.
He tried to catch a glance as he drove. She was frowning down at herself, pulling her shirt away from her chest.
"Yeah, I –"
But she broke off, and he had to risk another glance – this one in time to see her rub herself, one palm against her breast, as though something was wrong underneath.
"What is it?" he asked.
"There's something in my shirt," she complained.
"You mean other than the obvious?"
He couldn't help it – he was in a jovial mood.
She slipped him a smile, but it was only brief. She then pulled the neck of the shirt forward, and peered down. Her brow was furrowed; something was definitely bothering her. He caught the briefest glimpse of cleavage.
"What is it?" he asked, again.
"I think it's an insect," she said. She was looking again when she suddenly yelped. "Ow!"
She winced, and jumped in her seat, rubbing furiously.
Without a second thought, Grissom swung the car off the road, braking in the dust. The car jolted to a halt. He quickly slammed on the brake.
"You okay?" he asked.
He leaned across the middle. In a flash, she undid her seatbelt, and reached in, pulling out a small something he couldn't even see, and tossed it unceremoniously out the window. She leaned back in her seat, and let out a slow breath.
"Why is it you attract bugs?" she complained. She shook her head, as though he had done something incomprehensible.
"They must know I'm a friend," he replied, trying to be fair.
He did not joke about the bug's good taste, though he could have, and instead gave her a moment. He put his hand on her knee, trying to be of comfort.
"You all right?" he asked, again.
"It stings," she said.
She looked frustrated more than anything else. She rubbed absent-mindedly, through the bra and cotton of her shirt, and Grissom looked out the window. He knew what he wanted to do, but as another car passed, gliding by, he knew it was the wrong place to do it.
He started the engine, and took off, veering off-road for a few hundred yards until he had taken the SUV around a small mountain of bright red Nevada rock, and around the other side to a place of total desert seclusion. All that was out there was scrubland, and nothing but desert beyond.
"Take your shirt off," he instructed.
Sara looked surprised, and despite her evident pain, she still smiled, that typical Sara Sidle lopsided grin that he loved.
"Are you sure that's appropriate?" she said, flirting.
"I'm serious," he urged. He waved a hand at the hem, though he didn't touch it. "You look like you're in pain."
"I'll take it off if you turn around."
Frustrated, he hesitated. But her playful eyes stared at him, challenging him, and he conceded.
"Fine," he said.
So long as she was all right. He turned in his seat, staring out the window at the desert. He heard a rustle of clothing as she whipped off the shirt.
"You know, Gil, I was just kidding," she said, humour in her voice. "You can look."
He turned. When he did, he saw her sitting there in a red bra, the sexy one he liked, and obviously the one she had planned to wear ahead of time and take into the start of their weekend. It was conservative, yet with just enough lace that for a moment he didn't breathe.
He saw her grin, enjoying his reaction.
When he didn't say anything, she grinned even harder. Her brown eyes danced flirtatiously.
"Is this all the first aid I can expect to receive?" she quipped.
He was stunned into action, realising he had let the moment go on for too long. He grabbed his water bottle, a clean handkerchief, and poured some water on it. The water was not entirely cold, but it would have to do.
"Put this on it," he said. "The cold might help."
She took it, and pulled aside the cup of her bra. He had to shift in his seat again when he caught a glimpse of nipple. As she touched the wound, which was evidently on the side of her breast, with the wet material, he saw her nipple harden, reacting to the cold. She leaned back in her chair a moment, evidently whatever had bitten her had a sting to it. He wished he had seen it – knowing what it was would have been of some help in rendering aid.
"You okay?" he asked.
He kept his hand on her knee, rubbing softly. He was itching to touch her higher, but didn't.
"It's fine," she said. "It just stings."
"Take it easy."
He rubbed her leg, grateful again for their desert seclusion, and for a moment they just sat there, Sara adjusting to the pain.
When he looked back, he saw her trying to hold the cup of her bra away from the sting site.
"You may want to take your bra off for a while, or it might rub against the wound."
Instantly the smile was back on her face, and the pensive Sara gone. Her eyes danced, holding his, and she was quick with the humour this time.
"Is that legitimate advice or are you being an opportunist?"
"Perhaps both," he admitted.
"There's no way I'm walking into the lab with no bra," she said, dismissive.
"You don't have to. We could stay here a while. There's no hurry."
And indeed there wasn't. All they had to do was drop their evidence off at the lab. They didn't even have to process it. That could wait until the next shift.
"You don't think that's asking for trouble?"
She was flirting again, he knew. He turned over her words, and had to fight the urge to let his hand wander any further than it was – up and down the lower half of her thigh. He already had an inkling where this was going.
"How so?" he asked, innocently.
She said nothing, but kept up her grin. For a moment he could see her mind working furiously, weighing up her options, before she seemed to settle. She sighed, surrendering, and leaned forward, reaching around her back to unclip her bra.
Not wanting to rush her, and also genuinely concerned, he reached for his door handle.
"Come on," he said. "I think I might have an ice pack in the fridge."
He walked to the back of the SUV, opening the doors. Among the stash of their case evidence was a fridge at the back, which they used to keep certain essential samples cold, and also provide a small amount of supplies and first aid material. He opened it, and withdrew a small pre-prepared ice pack. Sara joined him, her shirt clutched to her bare chest, and he passed it to her, steering her to sit on the edge of the tray, wanting her to be comfortable.
She put the ice pack on herself, and he gave her the minute she needed. For a moment, they were quiet, him standing as she sat in the shade, listening to a single bird in the far distance.
He held out a hand and clutched hers, and appreciated in that moment that she was beautiful. He looked at her long legs, slender thighs, her thoughtful gaze as she took in the desert, not taking anything for granted.
Perhaps it was the long weekend approaching, but he couldn't help himself.
"Can I ask you something?"
"You don't usually ask permission," she observed.
She adjusted the ice pack, finding a better angle and held it against herself. He tried not to look, but it was difficult. She didn't make it easy.
"Would it bother you if I kissed you?" he asked.
This took her by surprise, he could tell, despite the build up of flirting. Perhaps she had not expected it so soon. Her eyes held his, and he did not look away, but waited. Then her facial muscles relaxed, and that was all he needed. He leaned in, down a little, and captured her lips.
She met him halfway, and despite her chest being on display for him, he did not touch her.
He gently pulled away, but could not help smiling as he did. He had been waiting all night to do that, and half the morning.
For a moment, though, he wondered if he could stop there. He felt the tension simmering between them, and suddenly had another urge to not get back in the car, to not go back to the lab.
Sara spoke first.
"You know, technically, we're on the clock," she ventured.
He could tell he did not have to explain what he was now thinking. He could see the same ponderings radiating from her own eyes. He saw them do a quick sweep of the landscape, checking they were alone. Grissom did the same thing.
"Technically," he admitted.
He did not give a damn. Sara had made him feel more alive than he had in years. He had almost forgotten what happiness and a sex life felt like.
He leaned in, and Sara started talking, babbling, as she grinned and leaned back.
"You don't think that you should uphold the ethical standards of the lab?" she teased. "No fraternization, et cetera?"
"Are you going to be cheeky all afternoon, or may we proceed?" he challenged.
He did not need an answer; she was already leaning back, her back on their evidence bags, her legs dangling off the edge of the tray. He stepped between them, a hand on each of her thighs.
Her breath was already quickening, he noted.
"Come here," she said.
She whispered it, and he went. He crushed his mouth to hers, kissing her passionately. Immediately the ice pack fell aside, forgotten, Sara's shirt another casualty as it slipped amongst the CSI detritus of his trunk. She was bare chested now, and he had not planned to stop – until she pulled away, panting for breath at his efforts.
She looked stunned, face breathless.
"Wow," she mused. "You've never started like that before …"
"Then put your bra back on," he invited.
But she didn't. Instead, she grinned, more flirtatious than any of her previous smiles. Her breasts were bare, and she lifted them, inviting him in. He took a quick breath; he knew he could not continue the toe-to-toe dance of their verbal stoush much longer.
"Do you think this is a good idea?" she asked.
Grissom was beyond considering it. He already had one hand rising upward, seizing what she offered.
"Probably not," he admitted.
He massaged the breast, the uninjured one, stroking it lightly with his fingers, before applying more pressure, and squeezing and releasing just the way she liked.
"You usually don't like to do this on the clock," she said, sitting back.
"And you usually don't chatter all the way through," he said.
This made her quiet.
He kissed her again, and she leaned up to meet him, her arms around his torso and pulling him down with her. Passion consumed him, hers as ferocious as his, and as he worked the button on her black work pants, she busied herself with his shirt, her hands dipping inside and exploring his chest and waist.
Minutes were lost, time suspended. It went on for some time until they both had far less clothing, and Grissom put his fingers between her legs, in just the right place. He stroked, and Sara closed her eyes, letting out a long breath.
"Oh my God," she said.
He grinned, watching.
"I love it when you deify me," he joked.
But she was beyond joking now. She did not even seem to hear him. The moment went on for several minutes, until she fought her way up, and he knew, without even needing to discuss it, what was happening: Sara hated the missionary position. She stood up, bare feet on the ground, and turned, until he was behind her. He was gentle then, and positioned her, her hands bracing herself on the rear tray.
He never imagined he would be doing this, on shift, but it felt right. More than right.
It was several minutes later that he stood, out of breath, and Sara turned over, leaning back on the tray again. She was naked, her slender frame beautiful, parts of her, including her forehead, glistening with sweat.
"You all right?" he asked.
"Yeah," she said, smiling faintly. "I'm good."
She sat up, and he helped her.
"I suppose we'd better get this evidence to the lab," he said.
"Yeah," she agreed.
She glanced around her, at the piles of bags they had moved aside in their passion. He straightened a few, at the same time getting dressed.
It was then, when Sara found her bra, that he realised something – that the side she had been rubbing and supposedly injured was white, the skin pristine. He had expected a red patch, perhaps a small mark, and yet …
"Something out of place?" she joked, noticing his staring.
"There's no redness," he said.
Sara said nothing. There was a small smile on her lips. This was odd.
"Are you sure you were bitten?"
Sara grinned wider, and finishing with her top, she buttoned her pants, and sauntered around the side of the SUV. She swung open the door, and gave him a lopsided grin as she threw herself in the passenger side of the car.
"Sara …" he warned.
His mind raced. Surely, surely, she hadn't invented that.
He threw himself in the driver's seat, and stared across at her.
"You're not seriously suggesting that I'd make that up?" she said.
But the lopsided smile was still there, and he knew. Grissom knew.
He was not sure whether to chastise her or thank her. She was an enigma – a delightful puzzle.
He looked forward to their weekend.
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