Author's Note: What's that? Something other than a one-shot from Bella? *readers faint at their computer screens* But seriously, this one needed more. I know it did. So here is chapter two...and yes, the ending means I will have to write at least one more chapter. I know this. I am prepared...
This chapter is from Sara's point of view, and revisits the events in the second half of the first chapter. And you're thinking, "WHY?!? I already know what happened!" Because I wanted Sara to be able to give her reasons for doing something that may have seemed a little (or entirely) out of character. Will it make you say, oh, yeah, that's why all nice girls touch themselves in their boss's cars? Probably not. But I hope you enjoy it anyway.
Disclaimer: The usual. And by that, I mean, the endless weeping into my pillow over lack of ownership rights.
He thinks I am asleep. Years in foster care teach you how to pretend a lot of things. Years as an adult woman teach you how to fake things, too, but I am ashamed and terrified and just a tiny bit exhilarated to admit that I have not faked anything besides sleep in the last twenty minutes.
I would love to say that touching myself in front of my boss in his SUV on the way to breakfast was inspired by alcohol, or a dare from Greg, or genetically-inescapable insanity. I suppose it could be the latter, but I think it is much simpler than that.
I am so unbelievably, desperately frustrated.
Grissom thinks he is subtle. He imagines I am oblivious most of the time to his long studies of me. But the truth is that I feel his eyes on me every single time. I have attuned myself to the nuances of his voice, the micro-expressions of tightening eyes, slightly pursing lips, twitching eyebrows. But more than that, I am completely attuned to what it feels like when his eyes are roaming my body, dancing over my hair, flitting over my face.
When he watches me when we are alone, this one particular chill starts at the base of my spine and crawls its slow and erotic way along the energy channels of my body, setting them spinning and whirling out of control. My body heats from the tingling awareness, and I usually have to fight to control my breathing before turning to toss him a questioning glance, or a wry smile, or no expression at all.
When he watches me when we're with other people, it is even more affecting, and even harder to control myself. Why? Because I know that he knows better, and he cannot resist anyway. If we are at a crime scene with Greg and Warrick and he still can't keep himself from raking those criminally blue eyes over my body, I certainly can't be blamed for having a hard time not launching myself across the room and finding the nearest closet…or couch…or tile floor.
Something happens to you when you desire someone desperately for years upon unrequited years. Actually, a lot of things happen to you, sometimes one at a time, sometimes all at once, in a frightening rush.
Mind-numbing depression: this comes unexpectedly, like right after he turns you down for dinner.
The frantic search for a replacement: someone, anyone, to fuck him out of your head. This comes at all the wrong times and in all the wrong places and never works, not even a little bit.
The bitter, all-consuming anger: this makes you say things like fine and see you around and that's a stupid reason. If you're lucky, he realizes you're angry and tries to make everything better. If you're me, he doesn't.
The aching loneliness: this happens every time you go to bed alone, every time you wake up alone, every time you orgasm alone. For me, that would be about every goddamn day.
And then there is the crazy. This happens when you realize that the object of your desire is watching you, watches you every day, at every crime scene, in every lab of your workplace, in every interrogation room, at every meal you share together. This happens when you know, not just suspect, that he desires you just as badly as you want him, and he would rather stare at you from a distance than touch you.
So, my actions were not alcohol-induced or Greg-inspired. I was just tired of being watched and being left alone. Two could play at his game. I thought I could really give him something to look at.
I expected him to stop me, I really did. I was simply trying to push his buttons. However, when he did absolutely nothing as I started undoing mine, I realized something unbelievable was happening. I was unbuttoning my shirt on this hot, arid day in the middle of nowhere in his SUV while we went to breakfast together after work and he really was not going to stop me.
So I started watching him.
His face as I trace circles on my thigh: slightly flushed, trying to ignore me. His face when he sees that I have unbuttoned my shirt: completely flushed, shocked, and if I were going to guess, aroused. And that is even more erotic than I had ever imagined it could be.
"What are you doing?" he asks me finally. His voice sounds a little hoarse, as if he is having trouble breathing. I focus my eyes out the windshield, out into the desert, because if I look at him, I will stop. I will come back to reality and how completely insane this all is, and I am not ready for reality again. I force a little laugh.
"Letting you watch," I say in a low voice, trying to hide the tremble bubbling up. "It's what you like to do, isn't it?"
And then I am undoing my pants beside Gil Grissom in his company-issued Denali. I slide my right hand into my panties and cover my breast with the left one because, frankly, if I don't give them both something to do right now, they are just going to start shaking uncontrollably. I am so terrified, and so aroused. Who knew that doing something no normal person would ever do could be so erotic?
His face as he whips the vehicle over to the side of the road and slams it into park: a little pale, jaw clenched, eyes very, very tight. He could chew me out within an inch of my life or throw me in the backseat and take me. I imagine the two choices are running about neck and neck for him right now, but another one is probably winning out: do absolutely nothing. Thinking about him taking me right here on the side of the road, however, is what has my hips rocking up into my fingers and my nipples tightening under my bra.
I want him to touch me. I know he never will.
So I forget how absolutely inappropriate and crazy this is and lose myself in the fantasy of Grissom, made so much more intense by the fact that I can smell him, feel his body heat, hear the quickened rasp of his breathing. I keep my gaze averted from him, even close my eyes at one point as the sensations I am creating become overwhelming, but just as my body tightens on the brink of orgasm, he surges across the seat and yanks my sunglasses from my face. His fingers curl under my chin and draw my eyes to him.
I am watching him watching me.
And oh, god, his eyes are so dark blue and so intense and I had no idea this would actually arouse him so much because he was supposed to stop me and he is looking at me as if I am the only person he has ever really seen and oh god, oh god, oh god…
When I finally come back to myself, I pull away from his hand. Everything is a little too raw and exposed right now. But…but. His face as I came in front of him for the first time (only time, only time, only time): priceless.
There is only one thing to do. I calmly, steadily redress myself, putting everything in order, careful to control the face I know he is watching. I hide my fear, my embarrassment, and my shock at my own completely unexpected actions. I feel amazing, and completely terrified.
"God, I'm starved," I offer. "Where is this place, anyway?"
He tells me we are almost there and starts driving again. I lean my head back against the seat, relaxing into it, slowing and evening out my breathing. Within minutes, it sounds like I am asleep. I'm not.
My eyes are ever so slightly slitted, and in my excellent periphery I am watching him. My heart skips about twelve beats when I see that he is, in fact, visibly aroused. Part of me wants to jump around like a kid and point proudly: I did that! Part of me wonder what, exactly, the repercussions are of turning on Grissom in the middle of the desert while he is driving. And part of me, the same crazy, desperate, unbelievably frustrated part that inspired me to masturbate in his car, wants to lean over and take care of that arousal in every delightful way that has ever flitted through my brain on lonely, heated nights.
I do nothing. I lay back, and pretend to sleep, and watch him.
However unexpected my actions, however paralyzed he might feel by them, the next move is his.
To be continued...