"Nuh uh."
"Yeah huh."
"Nuh uh."
"Yeah huh."
"Liar."
"No you."
"No you."
"Pants on fire."
"You like my pants."
"I like you even more without them."
"Greg!"
"What?" Greg placed his hands on his hips on the other side of her bed; waiting for her to speak, grin tugging at the corners of his lips. She was going to break, any second. He could feel it. She let out a frustrated groan, and tossed a duffel bag at him.
"Stop picking a second grade fight with me and pack your bag. The plane will leave regardless if we are on it." She let the grin spread over her own lips, she didn't have to look at him to know he was about to suggest they skip the plight to the airport and crawl back into bed. "No, we have to actually attend this one."
"I just simply don't understand why the association holds them, it's like we all don't have places to be, criminals to jail, people to sleep with." Greg tossed the last few items in the bag, and zipped it up. "And why do we specifically have to go?" He was whining, and he knew it, but he didn't care. "Can't they send people from days?" She shot him a tired look, and snatched Greg's chess team hoodie from the bed, and stuffed it in her own duffel bag.
"They always send Eliot Harper and Ella Andrews, but Eliot is away on family leave and Ella is on a hot case." She sighed heavily, and rolled her eyes as he pushed their bags off the bed, and stretched out on his side, laying irresistibly on the comforter, a look on his face that dared her to cuddle up with him, a sparkle in his eye that pleaded her for a few minutes alone together before they had to catch their flight to Kansas.
"Gregory." She lowered her voice to that soothing tone she used when she wanted him.
"Mmmhmm." He turned onto his side, and threw her a lopsided grin that reminded her of the quirky, zany lab rat he used to be, cleverly hidden under the more grown up, deadly serious CSI level one that was currently pleading her to come back to bed, even though she had spent forty minutes trying to halfheartedly get away from his incessant need to cuddle earlier that morning. "Five minutes, Sara." He mumbled into the pillow softly. "Five minutes never hurt anyone."
"The plane, Greg."
"Leaves in four hours, from the airport twenty minutes away. Come be lethargic with me for five minutes." Sara caved in, just like Greg knew she would. She kicked off her shoes, and climbed over to his side. Greg cuddled into her side, slipping an arm around the small of her back, laying his other around her middle. She pressed a kiss to the top of his head, where it rested on her shoulder, cradling his shoulders, and tangling her legs into his.
"We should be on the way to the airport."
"We can't do this in the airport."
"Greg, I-"
"I just missed you."
"I was standing three feet away."
"That was too far for me." Sara laughed at him as he rolled on top of her, and pressed his lips gently to hers. Slowly, he pried open her lips, his tongue running along the part in her lips, asking permission, and not waiting for an answer as he deepened his kiss, slow, even pressure turned to frantic kisses, still gentle. Sara's fingers went instinctively to the nape of his neck, and she pushed her hips against his. Greg dropped gentle kisses on the side of her neck, the underside of her jaw, against her throat, vibrating as she laughed, and spoke.
"Is this close enough, Mr. Sanders?" She giggled as she felt him nod against her neck. Greg lay still on top of her, and she smiled with the comfort of his body heat and weight. Her arms encircled his shoulders, and she kissed his temple softly.
"I just wanted to make sure you knew I loved you."
"I got that, thanks."
"Sara Jane, don't be mean."
"I love you too, Gregory."
"That's better."
"Mmmgerroff me, we have a plane to catch." Sara gently pushed at Greg's chest, and he rolled off her, sitting up on the edge of the bed. He reached for his sneakers than had been discarded on the floor, and shot her a grin.
"I love it when you boss me around."
"That's fortunate, because it's my job to boss you around."
"You like it." His tone was jovial, and she rolled her eyes, pulling on her own shoes on the other side of the bed.
"You're crazy."
"Aha! Your boyfriend is a crazy person." Greg lifted his bag over his shoulder, and stood at the door of her bedroom, grinning madly at her. She tried to walk past him, but he caught her in another kiss.
"Greg, the plane."
"What about it."
"We have to get on it."
"Fine, fine." He let her go, and followed her out of the apartment, but beating her to the keys, snatching them from the bowl at the door. "I want to drive."
"Fine, fine." She hoisted her bag over her shoulder, and made her way to his Denali, parked beside her own.
The four-day convention in Wichita had, in it's invitation, requested CSI mentoring pairs, as the main theme of this year's convention concentrate on building a trusting relationship between the teacher and the student. Since Ecklie could not decline sending a pair to Kansas, on grounds that his lab's best mentoring pair had numerous kinds of relationships aside from a trusting one, he was obliged to send Greg and Sara to Wichita for the convention.
That was fine with Sara and Greg. Sara had managed to escape conventions like these since her days in San Francisco and was due, and Greg had never been to a CSI convention, having just been promoted in the last year. This, of course, made Greg act like a small child on a pilgrimage to Chuck E. Cheese, mainly because he had no concept of how boring and useless such events tended to be.
However, complying with Ecklie's request had gotten them three days together, no criminals, no cases, and a hotel room in Kansas. This, of course, also made Greg excited, and he thought that being sent to this convention with Sara was equitable to being given the keys to the mustang and having the hotel room already paid for on prom night. All that workshop bullshit aside, this was going to be like a three-day vacation, and he, for one, was looking forward to the formal dinner on the last night.
Sara had packed that dress.
The dress she'd only worn twice.
The dress that ended up on the floor both times.
The black one.
He loved the black one.
…………
En route to the airport, Sara's fingers had found Greg's, and the ride and the wait at the airport had passed with ease, as well as the wait to board, and the flight. Sara hadn't let go of Greg's hand the whole way, and he was amused at the tinge of pink that arose from her cheeks when they walked to the gate, as he swung their clasped hands childishly between them.
To passersby at the airport, they looked like a happy couple returning home after eloping in Vegas. Greg and Sara both chose to play the part of the happy couple, pocketing their IDs and trying to forget their destination with a pack of cards, two cups of coffee, and a light and friendly banter full of dirty references; at least on Greg's part, anyway.
…………
Twenty-seven minutes into the first session at the convention, Greg found himself making a number of observations. First, Sara's hair was curly, and he decided approximately twelve minutes ago that curly hair was really, really pretty. Second, he decided that he and Sara, as mentor and student, were way better off than the pairs around them, and could probably give the lecture on how to communicate in your "learning partnership." Of course his answer would be just to make sure that you and your mentor never went to bed angry, and that you always allotted enough time for make up sex. Definitely not the solutions they were discussing presently. Lastly, with a quick scan around him, he sensed an obscene amount of tension seething off the other sixty people in the room.
Greg was not listening to the lecturer. He had come to the conclusion that conventions were useless, and that next time Ecklie needed to send Ella and Eliot, they would surely have benefited from this more than he and Sara. He glanced over at her, and let a bemused smile creep over his face, realizing she had stoically fallen asleep beside him, posture attentive, but eyes closed. They were seated further back in the small crowd, but Greg felt that in a room full of professional investigators, at least the ones around them would have noticed the sleeping woman beside him.
Sara's legs were crossed, one thigh draped over the other, in a professional manner. Her foot, however, had hooked itself around his calf. It had, until minutes ago, been seductively lulling him into a daze rhythmically rubbing up and down his calf. He tried stepping on her foot, but she didn't stir. Glancing around, seeing that everyone else was attentively nodding to the points the drone of a lecturer was making, Greg laid his palm gently on Sara's knee, and squeezed gently.
"Sara." She felt a light but intimate pressure on her knee, and opened her eyes suddenly, the conference room in Wichita coming back into focus. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Greg, hand still on her knee, with a smug grin playing at his lips.
"Was not asleep."
"Shh. Pay attention." Greg slipped his hand away from her knee before anyone noticed. Sara turned her head slightly to look him over, keenly feeling the loss of his hand on her knee. She saw him grin as she blew out an exasperated, frustrated, bored to death sigh, and she tried to focus on whatever it was that this ridiculous woman before them was talking about.
Greg smiled to himself. At least he wasn't the one that had fallen asleep, if their roles had been reversed, she wouldn't have ever let him live it down. He had lasted twenty-seven minutes before allowing his mind to wander. That must be a record, because this woman standing before him was painfully dry and useless.
The first day of the convention wasn't terrible, despite Sara occasionally nodding off, and Greg's quest for new and interesting ways to rouse her from her sleep. The second day brought with it a psychiatrist specializing in relationships. It was when the well-intentioned doctor broke out the yoga mats, and Sara and Greg had no choice but to comply with her instructions to sit on the mat facing each other that the two of them lost it, unable to remain on task in any way shape or form.
It was the third day that things got interesting, and Greg decided he really did like conventions.
…………
The third day they spent apart from each other, Greg in one room with a talk about how to be a better student, Sara in another room, with a talk about how to be a better mentor. Greg allowed his mind to wander through about half of his discussion, the level ones around him asking boring, stupid questions, with boring, stupid answers. His thoughts wandered to Sara, who must be getting the same feeling towards her own discussion.
He was brought back to reality with thirty level ones staring expectantly at him, and the mediator of the discussion raising an eyebrow at him.
"Vegas? Care to put your two cents in?" The guy sitting at his right spoke to Greg. Greg turned to him, suddenly growing a large distaste for this loser sleazebag from Detroit, who already thought he was better than Greg, because he had reached level one at 26 and not at 31 like Greg.
"Mr. Sanders, we were discussing the limitations that are put on level ones, and how sometimes these limitations can be hindering to our development as CSIs. Would you please tell us of these limitations in the Las Vegas Crime Lab?" Greg was suddenly grateful the inquiry was lab related.
"Of course. I personally feel that I don't really have all that many limitations in the field, my mentor, Sara, she trusts me 100 to do my job, and if I have any questions or are unsure about anything, I have always felt that I could ask her, she's very approachable. She lets me carry as much of the load as she does, and we are held to the same standard by our boss." The shocked look on the other level ones faces lead Greg to believe that the conversation was really about how the mentors were holding the pupils back. Feeling a soapbox slip under his feet, he continued. "See, though, I'm only couple years younger than my mentor. I have been a level one for only ten months, but I was the senior DNA tech in the Las Vegas Lab for 8 years before my proficiencies started, and she and I have known each other since her arrival at my lab more than six years ago. I actually had seniority over her until I passed my proficiencies. We have an extremely egalitarian relationship. She and I play off of each other's strengths and weaknesses in a manner not unlike a regular CSI partnership." Greg shrugged, and returned Detroit's foot-in-mouth grin with a casual, lopsided one. He turned his attention to the mediator of the discussion.
"We never really played by the books in Vegas. I technically have seniority over my mentor." Greg settled into his seat more comfortably, enjoying the confused looks he was receiving. "She outranks me, of course. Up until ten months ago I was blazing a professional career path through the DNA lab, and at the time that I passed my proficiencies to become a CSI level one, I had taken a pay cut to become a CSI, as I'm sure none of you realize when you treat your lab techs like dirt, techs get paid roughly twice as much a level one." Greg glanced around at the level ones around him, pleased to see the distant expressions on their faces as they thought of the techs in their own labs getting paid way more money than them. "So when I took a huge pay cut to become a CSI, she knew that I was serious. I was wild and childish in the DNA lab, and no one ever took me seriously. Making a drastic change in my professional mannerisms and letting my hair dye grow out proved to her that I genuinely wanted to be a CSI. She knew I was dedicated, and she took me seriously." He saw a few heads nod, and looked at the mediator of the discussion, who signaled for him to continue.
"Perhaps you have a few tips for some of us who are a bit newer to work in a Crime Lab, then, Mr. Sanders." Greg nodded at the mediator.
"Yeah, ok, I have one." At her encouraging smile, Greg started spilling his secrets. "Never go to bed angry. Talk to your mentor, but listen when they respond. Never let your head hit the pillow after a shift with something on your mind. Resolve your differences."
…………
Not fifty yards away, in the next room, Sara was having the same conversation as Greg.
"Is there anything you would like to add, or share with your colleagues, Miss Sidle?" Sara snapped her gaze up to the mediator of the discussion, thirty pairs of eyes looking her way. She had done it again. Dozed off. She really needed to pay attention. Greg wasn't beside her to wake her up.
"Sorry, what?"
"Las Vegas Crime Lab, yes?"
"That's right. We don't actually abide by such rigid guidelines, however."
"Elaborate."
"Well, I seem to be the only mentor CSI in the room that actually trusts my student to do his job."
"But they're green. They don't know what they're doing." The guy next to her, some middle-aged, balding whiner from Detroit, interrupted Sara.
"They passed their proficiencies, didn't they? The only way they will learn is if they do. All we have to do is catch their backs so they won't fall."
"Vegas. That's the number two Lab in the country."
"Yes."
"Alright then." The Detroit guy sat back in his chair, challenging Sara. "How do you guys do it then?" Sara settled into her chair, crossing one leg over the other, getting the green light from the mediator.
"We work together. I recognize my level one's abilities, I know what he can do, I have made myself aware of what he needs to learn. On his behalf, he's a studious, serious, dedicated level one, and after ten months is four cases away from being my professional equal and no longer my student. Not only is he on his way to breaking the Lab record for fastest promotion from level one to level two, he has started catching my mistakes, finding evidence that I and my team missed. On his behalf, he's a brilliant CSI."
"So you've got a kid who's easy to teach."
"He's not a kid, he's only a few years younger than myself. He technically has seniority over me, even though I outrank him. He was the best DNA tech our lab ever had, but he always wanted to be out in the field. When the position opened up, he got a haircut, started matching his clothes, brought all his Manson CD's home, and took a huge pay cut to train to pass his proficiencies. He was lying in wait for the moment to become an investigator. He's been an employee of the Las Vegas Crime Lab for eight years now, which is more than my six." She glanced back at the guy from Detroit, and he seemed to be taking in her words.
"You and your student, then, it seems, already communicate well." Jeez this mediator didn't miss a thing. "Care to share your methods?"
Sara swallowed, suddenly feeling like she had backed herself into a corner. Methods. Yeah. Sleep with your student. Turn evaluation day into a stripping game. Cuddle up to him every night. Listen to him breathe, watch his chest rise and fall. Kiss him awake, kiss him asleep.
"I have a few general rules I go by. Always tell them where you are. Bring them coffee every once in a while." Sara took a deep breath. "And my golden rule is never let anger or discontentment stew. Always address it directly."
"You get results with that touchy feely bullshit?" Sara turned her gaze away from the mediator, towards Mr. Bald Detroit.
"Our shift has the highest solve rate in Vegas, and myself and my student have the highest solve rate on the shift." Sara grinned cheekily. "And the informal education of the best level one I've ever seen. The coffee really helps."
…………
Back in their room, six floors above the function rooms they had spent the day in, Sara flopped onto one of the neatly made beds, curling up on her side, leaving room for Greg. They had an hour and a half to be back down in the lobby for the formal dinner. She watched him as he pulled off his shoes, and unfastened the buttons of his oxford shirt, revealing a Black Sabbath tee shirt underneath. He shed the shirt, and stood against the opposite side of the bed, hands on his hips, weight on one foot, head cocked to the side.
"We only have ninety minutes to relax after the massacre downstairs and get ready for the formal dinner." Greg smiled at her.
"Did you play nice with the other kids?" Sara kicked her shoes off, and pushed them off the bed.
"Absolutely. How was the PTA meeting?" The bed dipped under Greg's weight, and he lay beside her, facing the ceiling, on his back, eyes closed.
"They all moaned about how their students suck."
"I only do that when you do that thing with- oof." He felt her fist playfully come in contact with his arm. "Abuse, woman."
"How was it, seriously?"
"Everyone moaned about being held back. Complained about how their mentors never let them do anything but run samples to the useless lab techs, how they never got their hands on the evidence before their mentors had already processed it."
"What did you say?"
"I told them that the easiest way to get to process the evidence first is to just sleep with their mentor." She sat up and smacked him fully, but the expression of mock horror of her face made a grin spread broadly over his own. "Ouch. Honestly woman. I may look a fool, but you know as well as I that looks are deceiving."
"I had my own brush with spilling our beans in with the other mothers."
"Do tell."
"I only closed my eyes for a moment, and no one woke me up before anyone noticed. The mediator asked me if I had anything to contribute to the discussion, so I told all those overbearing, impatient pains in everyone's asses that there is no reason not to let level ones do anything a level two or three would do."
"It's because I've wooed you into a daze, you're so enamored with me you let me do whatever I want."
"No." She propped herself up on her elbow, facing him, laying an arm on his stomach. "It's because you are well on your way to being a better CSI than any of us." Greg was caught off guard by this odd surfacing of praise, and was contented to roll on top of her, pressing her into the mattress, dropping a slow, tender kiss to her lips.
The soft moan below him told him that he had already caused that whisper of damp in her panties. His chuckle had a low, throaty quality that barreled through her body, settling below her belly. She ran her fingers from his shoulders to his waist, searching out the button of his jeans.
Sara grinned widely as she realized her favorite kind of Greg was hovering above her. The side of Greg no one ever saw at work. The sweet, compassionate, attentive, gentle Greg she only saw every once in a while. She lay on her back against the bedspread, bringing her hands to cup his face as he left a feather light trail of kisses along her law. She felt his fingers fumbling lazily with the buttons of her own shirt, brushing the soft skin of her breasts. He dropped well placed, loving kisses at seemingly random places on her exposed skin, his attention devoted to exploring the plains of her stomach in a painstakingly ritualistic manner that brought a lazy grin to her lips. She loved when he got like this. He treated her as if she was a sacred treasure to be handled with the most delicate of care with his gentle kisses.
In the three months that their relationship had become physical in this manner, Greg had only gone through the motions of this particular form of foreplay twice before. She watched him as he reached the waistband of her pants, and, unfastening the button and tugging the zipper, he folded back the material, and placed a lingering kiss on her hipbone before making his way back to her neck in a slow, leisurely path. She ruffled his hair, letting her fingers remain tangled in his hair at the base of his neck. She tried to remember the circumstances of the other two occasions for this worship she was receiving. That time after the police award ceremony, when Warrick had received an acknowledgement for above and beyond for being the central figure in a huge high profile sting operation, and then again after Thanksgiving at Catherine's house. He had slipped her out of that black dress expertly, not even wrinkling it- oh. Greg had made his way back to her neck, and nibbled gently on her ear. She rolled him off her, and sat up abruptly.
"I'm on to you Sanders."
"What?" He boyishly squinted up at her, completely confused. She straddled him, and he pulled her body to him without question or inquiry. "I wasn't up to anything, Sidle. I have no hidden agenda." She pressed a kiss to his lips, and he accepted it, propping his head up with a pillow.
"No I get it now."
"What in the world are you on about?" His brow crinkled in confusion, but an amused smile played at his lips.
"You only do that when I wear the dress." She smiled back confidently, arching a brow at him. He grinned in realization.
"I love that dress."
"I haven't worn it yet."
"Yeah but by the time you bothered to put it on we would have to be downstairs for dinner."
"So that there was what, exactly?"
"That was me promising you that you would have help taking that dress off tonight." He flashed her a suggestive smile, and rolled her off of him, climbing off the bed, and standing on his feet. "Shower?" He laughed as she finished shedding her clothes, and followed him into the bathroom, letting her hair fall around her shoulders.
They were only fifteen minutes late for dinner downstairs.
………
Greg flashed his mentor a lopsided grin as the elevator doors closed and they began their dissent to the ground floor for the dinner.
"We're late."
"Psst. Only a few minutes."
"Fifteen minutes, Greg." He retreated at her halfway irritated tone, leaning against the wall, shoving his hands in his pockets, inwardly enjoying that little black dress. He loved how it only casually embraced her curves, leaving a hefty amount to the imagination, not that he needed it anyway, but showed just enough skin to contrast her pale complexion with the dark black fabric. The soft swell of her chest was held in a sophisticated manner that brought a smile to his lips. His eyes wandered lower, to the hemline of the skirt. It flared just right, falling in soft waves around her calves, and silently swirled around her when she moved. The shoes she wore hurt her feet something terrible, but as far a Greg was concerned, nothing was sexier than a girl in a little black dress with little black heels. His girl.
"Don't look at me like that, Greg." He watched the hem of the skirt swivel around her legs as she turned to face him, and the doors opened. "We have to behave." He followed her out of the elevator, quickly catching up to walk beside her.
"Then you shouldn't have brought that dress." He whispered in her ear, pleased at the pink tinge in her cheeks.
"I like this dress."
"So do I. That's the trouble with it, isn't it?" He grinned cheekily at her and opened the door to the function room for her. He could make it. He was, after all, a fairly patient man. He had waited six years to kiss her, hadn't he? He could last an hour, hour and a half. Greg settled with touching the small of Sara's back, following her to a pair of seats empty at one of the tables where between the two plates there was a card that read "Las Vegas." He was glad to see they weren't the only ones late, as a few empty seats were being taken, and people were still filtering in through the doors.
"Vegas." Greg turned away from Sara, and smiled, taking the extended hand of the middle aged man beside him and shaking it. "I've heard all about you people. Tony Somerville, Philadelphia."
"Greg Sanders."
"We've heard about your lab out on the east coast."
"Yeah? Good things I hope."
"You guys have an amazing entomologist. Went to his last seminar in New York a few months back. Guy's a genius." Greg nodded, accepting the praise of Grissom's behalf. Tony's eyes set on Sara, who was talking to the mentor from San Fransisco, whom he vaguely remembered as a level one when he interned in their crime lab as an undergrad, but whom Sara seemed to know much better, from her years there after he had graduated. "Your mentor had some good things to say about you this afternoon."
"Yeah she said."
"It always amazes me when such pretty women are drawn to forensics."
"Looks are deceiving. She holds a Magna Cum Laude from Harvard in Physics. She's as much of a science geek as the rest of us." Greg leaned forward, blocking the view of Sara's curves from Mr. Philadelphia's eyesight. "So what's your specialty?"
………
Twenty minutes later, the coordinator of the convention was wrapping up a speech about the hope of learning partnerships and other such nonsense, that had followed a welcome by the director of the Wichita Crime Lab. Greg had laid his arm across the back of Sara's chair, turning slightly to pay polite attention to the formalities. He was content to sit back and pick at his food, occasionally stealing something from Sara's plate when she casually reached over and stabbed his broccoli, one by one. He was sure that this was somewhat less than professional, but this was the routine that he and Sara had fallen into years ago, and he had trouble remembering that they were at a convention with people who didn't know them.
Tony from Philly had tried to catch her into a conversation about mentoring, which he was sure would result in a pick up line. Greg sat politely at dinner, minding his own business, participating in conversation when talked to. What kept him somewhat more quiet than usual was the familiar foot that had snaked its way up the bottom of his pantleg, and was curling around his calf.
Sara had turned to Greg after politely deflecting Mr. Philly's after hours invite, taking a sip from her glass, settling against the back of the chair. He turned to her, and flashed her a grin.
"What?"
"What nothing."
"You're looking at me like that."
"Like what? I'm not looking at you like anything." A smile turned the corner of her mouth as he leaned in a few inches closer.
"I said I would behave." His voice dropped to a barely audible whisper.
"You're good on your word."
"You aren't."
"You failed to specify that I needed to be." She flashed him a grin, and set her glass down on the table. Greg rolled his eyes, slipping his arm away from the back of her chair. Women. She was going to be the death of them. Of him, especially.
"So, Vegas, how is it working with that wicked smaht bug guy?" Greg focused his attention on the question from the Boston level one, a quick witted blonde across the table. He grinned at Sara, asking permission with a look, and then proceeded to have the entire table in stitches with humorous anecdotes from his days in the lab, about Grissom.
The rest of the dinner passed quickly after that, and soon he was picking bites from Sara's dessert, as Sara talked about their most recent all nighter with a pig carcass, a topic that would have grossed out anyone but a CSI. Long after the dished had been cleared and the coffee had been finished, Sara and Greg bid their goodbyes, and made their way to the elevator.
Sara pressed the button, and wandered a few feet away, as Greg leaned against the wall near to elevator door. He was mesmorized by the gentle flow of her skirt, and was content to watch it.
"You're a wicked woman, Sidle." Greg shoved his hands in his pockets, watching his girlfriend smile innocently at him.
"Get in the elevator, Sanders."
The surveillance tape from the elevator would show nothing out of the ordinary, just a single kiss from a wavy haired, lanky man to his curly haired companion in one very sexy black dress.
Greg grinned boyishly as he felt Sara's hand slip into his own as they closed the distance to the hotel room door. He dug into his pocket, and handed her the card, which she swiped, and pushed the door open silently. He followed her in, shrugging off his jacket and kicking off his converses as she tossed her heels into her duffel bag, and ran a hand through her hair. He silently unclasped her necklace for her, and pulled off his socks, coming to stand in front of her so that his bare toes were inches from hers.
Her arms slid around his waist gently, pulled his body flush with hers. He dipped his head and captured her lips with his own, laying a palm to her cheek to hold her against him. He felt her fingers along the small of his back, and settled his other palm against the nape of her neck, while his tongue asked permission for entrance. Her fingers had found their way to the front of his trousers, and were fumbling with the buckle of his belt lazily. He smiled against her kisses, and pulled away just enough to touch his forehead to hers.
"Let's dance." His whisper had caught her off guard, and she pulled back, eyebrow arched.
"What?" He cocked his head to the side, grinning at her.
"You know, dance." He snaked an arm around her waist, and took her left hand with his right. Sara pressed a gentle kiss to his cheek, and draped her free arm around his shoulders. He pulled her hips against his own, and soon they were swaying to the silence of their darkened hotel room. He led her casually through a handful of twirls, always pulling her back flush against his body.
"There's no music, Gregory." Sara whispered after a few minutes, from against his chest. His soft chuckle resonated through her body, settling in a warm familiar heat below her belly.
"It's ok to pretend, Sara, even if you are an adult." He pressed a kiss to the top of her head.
"I can sing if you want." He offered after a few more moments. It was her laughter, that ran through his body like a phenomena something akin to being electrified, this time. She stood on the balls of her feet, and caught him in a searing kiss. As her fingers found the soft hair of the back of his neck, his fingers found the zipper to her dress, and for the third time, he managed to remove it and dispose of it on the floor, without wrinkling it.
Her fingers found the tie that he had loosened when they had stepped into the elevator earlier. She made quick work of the offending article of clothing from beneath his weight, and flung it across the room, watching it land on the floor, atop her little black dress. He sat up, straddling her, and began to unbutton the front of his shirt.
"I never wrinkle your fancy dress up clothes, Sara." She smiled at the hint of childish whining in his voice.
"Black ties are better on the floor, Gregory."