Author's Note: Chapter three! Once again from Grissom's point of view; thus, it picks up where chapter one left off, since chapter two was a summation of events from chapter one from Sara's point of view. Please don't hate me when you reach the end...chapter four (again from Sara's POV) is in the works right now. And to all those who have mused that this is one of my (hopefully rare) OOC stories...I'm not sure if I should apologize or just go with it. I had hoped chapter two would explain why Sara went a little wacko and did the bad touch in a Denali, but if not, then let it be OOC. I can live with that...right? (I'll write something spot on soon...when I start watching season eight on DVD and remind myself what WP sounds like without an Irish brogue.)
Disclaimers: You know they belong to someone else. I know they belong to someone else. We all wish they had jillions of clones, so we could share.
I continue to drive.
My mind is whirling. All thoughts of Sara up to this point—thick curls, wide dark eyes, endless legs, brilliant mind—vanish in the wake of what I have witnessed. Who is this passionate, unpredictable woman beside me? How many years have I been watching Sara without truly seeing her?
I cannot stand it any longer. I yank the wheel of the SUV sharply to the left and head back in the opposite direction, toward the city. The violence of our redirection makes Sara's eyes fly open, and I can feel her gaze on me.
"Grissom?"
"Hmm?" I dare not form more than a few syllables, or I might find myself saying entirely too much.
"Is there a reason we're no longer heading for pancakes?"
"Not hungry." I press my foot to the accelerator. God, I'm a liar. I glance at my speedometer, deciding that I can live with ten miles over the limit. If a police officer even bothers to pull us over, I'm fairly certain I can convince him that this is an emergency. I have to reach the safety of my own home before I do something I'll regret.
The gentle touch of Sara's hand on my knee nearly elicits a groan as I try to keep my focus on the road instead of on the length of her body stretched out in the seat beside me, or the lovely turquoise of the lingerie she revealed to me moments ago. I have dated and been intimate with many women in my life, but the heat spreading from the slightest touch of her hand is unfamiliar and almost frightening. I have touched her a hundred times. When did her skin become my craving?
Cars, streets, houses fly by, and Sara's hand creeps slowly and suggestively up my thigh. She cannot be missing the effects of her performance or her touch on me, but in stark contrast with her bold actions moments ago, she has yet to do anything that irrevocably crosses again that invisible line I established—when? When I first turned her down for a dinner date? When I spent the night with Heather? When I told her that it did not matter that she was seeing Hank? Somewhere, sometime, I put down the first brick in the wall she is slowly but surely scaling, and I find myself fearing and anticipating in equal measure the consequences of us finally being on the same side of it.
"Grissom." Her soft voice interrupts my delirious thoughts, my futile attempts to distract myself from the fingers now trailing in circles over my thigh.
"Yes?" Monosyllables are good.
"Where are you taking me?"
Everywhere. "I thought it might be best if I took you home."
"I can't make pancakes."
I swallow as her fingers inch higher. "Neither can I. Maybe I'll take a rain check on breakfast?"
"Not a problem." Her voice is so cool, I almost find myself wondering if I imagined her shirt unbuttoned, her fingers beneath the dark fabric of her pants, the arch of her hips, the look in her eyes as she—
I pull onto her street, breathless.
"Come in for a moment," Sara says easily, as I slide the gearshift into park. I turn to her for the first time since watching her climax beside me, and our eyes collide, crash and burn. I suck in some much needed air.
"Sara…" Why is it all of our most difficult conversations begin with my hesitant declaration of her name? I try again. "I really think it would be best to try this again. Some other time."
"And what 'this' would you be referring to?" she inquires, lazily brushing the side of her hand against the one part of my body that is opposed to my attempts to leave. I stifle a groan and the urge to slam my eyes shut and arch into that hand. "Breakfast? Or everything else?"
"Sara, please." I can't decide what it is I am begging for.
"Come in," she commands, and I give in and obey.
I don't remember there being this many stairs, or the hallway being this long. The door is familiar, as is the yellow leather couch and the scent of lavender lingering like a ghost in the air. Sara lets me close the door, allows me to cross hesitantly to her couch and stand in front of it, my hands shoved deep in my jacket pockets and my face betraying the dichotomy of desire I am currently experiencing. She hovers near the kitchen, leaning casually against the counter, her dark eyes gazing at the floor.
"Why?" I murmur finally, desperate for an answer—something to explain the strange behavior she has been exhibiting all morning. She lifts her face, a faint smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.
"I've always been a bit of an exhibitionist," she says softly, her fingers playing with the hem of her blouse. My body tightens, and I sink onto the couch behind me. "Besides," she adds, a playful tone creeping into her voice, "I wasn't really interested in sharing a meal."
"Just breakfast, or does that go for any meal?" I know our conversation is drifting toward the inane, but I am terrified for the talking to stop.
She laughs lightly. "When I asked you to dinner two years ago, I wasn't really interested in the meal then, either." She crosses the room and curls up in the corner of the couch, beside me but not really next to me, close enough to touch, but not touching. I angle my body to face her and lean back, trying to relax. I can do this. I can talk about our—complicated relationship.
"I know you were upset by my decision," I begin, but she lifts a slender hand to stem the flow of what are sure to be awkward words.
"I was," she agrees gently. "But it's okay. That was a long time ago."
I sigh, unable to help myself. "My feelings haven't changed, Sara."
She grins, her smile so full and beautiful that I am almost stunned. "I know."
She leans forward and kisses me.
Everything becomes a little hazy and very warm as Sara's lips brush against mine, gently at first, then a little more eagerly as she shifts closer to me. I start to pull back, but her hand slides around my neck to pull me closer, and I find myself lost in the way her kiss commandeers all of my senses at once: the softness of her mouth, the taste of mint and coffee on her tongue, the scent of lavender and honeysuckle on her hair and skin, the faint sound of her stifling back a moan, the sight of her eyelashes caressing her cheeks as she urges my lips apart with hers. Watching Sara is intoxicating; experiencing her is overwhelming.
I draw back at last, gasping for breath, my hands rough on her shoulders, torn between pushing her away and pulling her closer into my body. Her cheeks are beautifully flushed, and the hand not wound around my neck is once again tracing circles on my thigh. I catch her wrist to pull her hand away and find myself lifting it to my lips. Her eyes flutter closed as I kiss the back of her hand, and then the palm.
"I always knew you felt like this," she murmurs, and I let her hand fall.
"Like what?" I can feel my chest tightening. Everything is moving quickly and tumbling rapidly out of my control. The certainty in her eyes is coupled with a desire that I am desperately trying to quash within myself, and I am afraid that whatever line it is we have crossed may be destroying everything.
"Grissom." Sara's voice is chiding and laced with a tremble of insecurity. I pull further away from her, beginning to rise to my feet. As a flash of anger crosses her face, I brace myself. But it is as if she is unwilling to fight me on this any longer. Her hands drop limply to her sides, and she shrugs.
"Rain check, then?" I ask, cursing the tremble in my voice, and she nods silently. I shove my hands back into my jacket and hurry from the apartment.
TBC...promise.