Chapter Eight

"Grissom," he grumbled, glancing down at Sara.

"Hey! How's it going?" Catherine's voice came over the phone. "Anything come up, yet?"

"How is "what" going? And what do you mean, has anything "come up" yet?"

He looked back at Sara again, seeing how her face seemed to turn crimson. She dropped her gaze from his and started looking around the room as if looking for a means of escape, but he didn't want her to escape just yet, so he stayed where he was, lying firmly embedded within her as his weight held her down.

"Well, I'd think that's rather obvious, Gil! How's the case going? And have you found anything worth sending us yet?"

"Uh—yeah—yeah. I Fed-Exed some samples to you—I would've thought you'd have received them by now."

"It could be the storm. They say some roads are flooded—maybe they couldn't get through as planned."

"Let me up," Sara whispered to him.

"What?" Catherine asked.

"Um—nothing."

"Was that Sara? Is she in your room with you?"

"I said, let me up," Sara whispered again.

"That "is" Sara. I'm actually amazed that you're both capable of being in the same room without attacking each other."

"I beg your pardon?" He asked. "Attacking each other?"

"Well, yeah. The way you two have been getting along lately. . .frankly, I'm surprised you didn't call Sophia in when you knew you'd be spending time away from the lab with another CSI. You and Sara have been sending each other such dirty looks lately that I'm surprised either of you can walk by now."

"Walk?"

"Yes, Grissom, walk. Jesus Christ, are you gonna repeat everything I say? Walk—as in it's a wonder Sara hasn't beaten the hell out of you by now. You evidently didn't do anything to piss her off yet."

"I wouldn't exactly say that."

"Ah, so you "are" fighting."

"We'll get over it."

"I suspect that you'd better. Otherwise it's going to be a few days from hell. Have you eaten yet?"

"No," Grissom told her as he looked back at Sara who was now trying to slip out from beneath him. "Not yet, but soon."

"Really? They actually have a restaurant open all night there? I would've thought they pulled up the sidewalks by nightfall."

"Yeah—well, I'm sure I'll find something to eat. Fava beans and Chianti are coming to mind." His eyes crinkled with humor as Sara's crimson face turned fire engine red and she started pushing at him in a manner that reminded him very much of the cat trying to push herself out of Pepe Le Pew's embrace.

"Fava beans? That's Sara's influence, isn't it? She's got you on her vegetarian kick. Jeez, I don't know how fulfilling that will be."

"Um," Grissom swallowed with difficulty as Sara finally maneuvered herself so that he was, at least, not inside of her anymore. When she tried to slide her thighs out from beneath his, he moved his legs until they were entwined with hers. "I'm sure it'll be very appetizing; everything I need."

"Please!" Sara insisted with a bit more determination. "Let me get up!"

"What did she say?" Catherine asked. "To please let her up? Where is she?"

"She said, please, give me my cup. We're drinking coffee." He had to keep himself from laughing when he looked at how Sara was staring at him with a raised brow. "And going over more evidence we've come across. Um, look, Catherine, I—uh—really think we need to get back to work here. Let me know when you get that shipment I sent. It should've been there by now."

"Like I said, it's probably the weather that's delaying it."

"Yeah, okay," he said without paying attention to her anymore as his interest was on the woman lying beneath him. "I've gotta go now."

"Wait—Grissom!"

"What?" he asked irritably.

"Tell Sara to get her phone out of her room. She hasn't been answering and there are people trying to get through to her."

"I'll let her know that."

"She probably left it over in her own room."

"I'll see that she gets it." He closed his phone and tossed it back onto the nightstand, then looked at Sara again. She seemed to be quite attractively flushed as she looked back at him and he wasn't sure if it was embarrassment or anger. "Your phone must be in the truck. Evidently someone told Catherine they've been trying to get hold of you. Are you expecting anything important?"

"Important?" She looked at him blankly, then he could almost see when a thought occurred to her, but instead of going into an explanation, she avoided it completely. "Oh. No—no. Not really."

He eyed her a moment, then moved onto his side and pulled her with him. His hands held onto her waist with his lower one holding her against him as his upper hand took pleasure in feeling the texture of the skin covering her back—and backside.

"Another triple-feature at the Nostalgia Complex with Greg?"

"What?"

"Did you miss another trip to the theater with Greg. Is that why he's calling you?"

She chuckled as she looked at him. "You know about Greg's and my "dates" to the Nostalgia Complex?"

"Who doesn't?" he smiled at her, enjoying her touch as her fingers stroked the hair at the nape of his neck. "He doesn't mind letting everyone know that he managed to take the departmental "hottie" out to see. . .what was it last time? Charles Bronson?"

"No, that was last month. Last weekend we went to see Audie Murphy. Greg seemed to be in awe of his war record to the point of hero worship."

"Audie Murphy?"

"We watched "To Hell and Back," "the Unforgiven," and "the Wild and the Innocent."

"Really? So? Were you in awe of his military record, too?"

"No. . .," she said slowly as she glanced down at his shoulder, then back to him. "I was more in awe of his. . .well, he was rather handsome. He had a certain. . .charisma about him."

"Hmmm. So, just how difficult will it be to break up this weekly ritual of taking in old movies?"

"It isn't weekly—only when it features actors we enjoy. We hadn't been there for about two months before the Charles Bronson films. That was when we went to see Franchot Tone and Deanna Durbin."

"And how did you talk Greg into going to see Franchot Tone."

"What makes you think "I" had to talk "Greg" into going? Maybe "he's" the one who wanted to go and see Deanna Durbin."

"Did he?"

"He didn't even know who she was. But, after watching them, he did walk away with a crush on her."

"Not surprising. He's into beautiful brunettes." He rolled onto his back and pulled her more tightly against his side, then reached down and pulled her leg up over his thighs. "And, I can't say I blame him."

"Greg's into anything that can smile and do mathematical equations at the same time," Sara said then yawned as she snuggled closer to him. "He's a good kid."

"Mmm-hmm." Grissom brushed a strand of hair off her face and kissed her forehead as he allowed her to relax against him. "Tired?"

"A little."

Her voice told him that she was a tad bit more than "a little" tired, and within moments her even breathing told him that she was asleep. He remained on his back as he watched the ceiling above them. Up until this moment, he hadn't had a second to stop and consider what had happened to him this night. Now, as he lay with a beautiful woman curled up against his side, he felt things he didn't think he could feel. He felt comfortable.

He thought of the last few times he had been with a woman and realized they were few and far between. His last encounter was with another beautiful brunette, but his post-coital relaxation was anything, but. . . It wasn't that he hadn't tried. He wanted it to be the greatest sex he had ever had in his life. He wanted the experience to wash away any thoughts of the dark-haired vixen he had hired to work on his crew. He wanted the expertise of Heather Kessler to erase Sara Sidle from his mind completely. But the fact was, it simply didn't work. Sara was firmly implanted in his mind and any attempts to get over her was only a joke. So, he chose to ignore Sara and when that didn't work, he turned his attention to the newest addition to their crew. Sophia Curtis showed no signs of finding his extra attention disagreeable. In fact, her reaction to him had quickly become something that he lost enthusiasm for. Her biggest flaw was that she simply wasn't Sara. He clearly wasn't showing any signs of preference to the blonde anymore.

Terri Miller had been a flirtation that never really amounted to anything. And before Terri. . . He had to smile to himself, thinking about how easy life would have been if he had only finished what had been started in San Francisco. But the fact was that he had fallen in love with her so quickly that it scared the shit out of him. He watched her walk into his lecture and couldn't seem to take his eyes off of her. She was his set of "kind eyes" as he spoke, always returning to her to focus on so he wasn't necessarily focusing on the other fifty people listening to him. When she approached him after the lecture, he felt a surge of excitement flow through him, and when her questions mounted, his excitement turned into eagerness. She stayed longer than everyone else and when she finally asked him to dinner, how could he refuse. At forty-one, he found the twenty-six-year-old completely refreshing, and he was still young enough that he actually convinced himself nothing harmful could come from spending the next four days with her and allowing her to be his tour guide. It was at forty-one that he soon realized that the most harmful thing he was facing was the way he was losing himself within her. She made him laugh as no one else had ever done before. She made him see beauty in things he had only glanced at before. She made him think about things that he had taken for granted before. And he made him feel things he had ignored before. But, at forty-one, he was sure he knew what was best for everyone. He was, after all, not only fifteen years older than Sara, but he was a well established criminologist. He was sure that his sojourn into bliss for those four days was something he would soon get past and forget about. He was wrong.

Sara stretched in her sleep and turned away from him until she was lying on her stomach with her arm lying over the edge of the mattress. Grissom turned toward her and looked at the curve of her back as it joined with her perfect bottom. He thought about how many times he had watched her walk out of his office and he would fantasize about reaching out and grabbing onto the perfect globes. Or how often he would either walk by, or enter, the locker room and see her bent over, retrieving something from the floor or bottom of her locker, and he would instantly see himself walking up behind her and grabbing onto her hips so he could press himself to the wonders before him. It wasn't that he was actually an "ass-man." He found different things attractive about different women. But with Sara, it had always been the entire package. So, for every time he fantasized of caressing or being stimulated by her bottom, he was equally attracted to her breasts. Her tight tee-shirts were a constant struggle for him. But, a struggle, that he usually would surrender and stand near her, staring at her breasts as if he were a horny teenager looking at a centerfold.

Without hesitation, he reached for the small of her back, lightly running his fingers over the indentation along her spine, then moving toward the rounded cheeks that beckoned him. It started as a simple touch, then a stroke, and soon, his memories of all the times he sat in his office with half a boner just from watching her sent him into overdrive again. He glanced down at the erection that was standing at half-mast again. Christ, he hadn't gotten it up three times in one night since. . . Never! In college he would sometimes go at it twice in a night, but ever since then, once was quite enough. He knew he was in dire need of her attention, otherwise he was going to either disgrace himself lying next to her, or stay awake the rest of the night because his hard-on wouldn't let him fall asleep. He had no choice in the matter really. He had made the leap tonight and he knew he was trapped; but he also knew he was trapped in paradise.