A/N: Sorry for the delay-enjoy!
Gil Grissom's Romance Part 2
Chapter 12
In Paris, June is a perfect month; sunny days and warm, gentle evenings. The weather opens terrace cafes and overhead conversations are about fashion, movies, politics, and love affairs.
Gil Grissom heard none of the voices as his clear, blue eyes scanned the crowd outside of the building he had just exited. He was relaxed, hands in his pockets, as he inhaled air fragrant with blooming flowers. Smiling, he thought he might have a French soul because everything around him lifted his spirits. And when his eyes found the person he sought, his smile broadened.
Sara. Readily, he admitted to himself how French she appeared. A pink and gray silky scarf was arranged around her neck in some complicated style Parisian women wore easily. Simply beautiful, he thought as he walked toward his wife. The large brown dog obediently sitting beside her added to the appearance of a woman who knew how to live in Paris.
They greeted each other as lovers, laughing, kissing each other, wrapping arms around the other, and, in the midst of their embrace, he bent to scratch Hank's ears. Then he hugged Sara again.
They walked toward the river and Sara talked about her day. They turned several corners arriving in a neighborhood that was away from tourist attractions and where merchants knew customers. They made the rounds of the shops, picking up a selection of cheeses from a small fromager and fruit and vegetables from a grocer, before arriving at the bakery.
Grissom scratched his beard as he glanced around the shelves and baskets filled with fresh, crusty bread; some of it still hot from the ovens. Inhaling the familiar smell, his head tilted as his eyes found Sara, quickly moving from her face to her chest to her backside and then back to her face.
She took his breath; her summer shirt moved in a gentle wave as she turned, catching his candidly lascivious glance, smiling at him, obviously knowing what he was thinking by the sly grin that turned the corners of her mouth upward.
Two women in line were taking their time selecting bread, talking to the baker behind the counter in rapid French. He waited at the door, holding Hank's leash, watching and listening. His French was improving but Sara's was better.
She selected a baguette, testing it with her long fingers, nodding approval, responding in French to the baker's comment as she handed him the money for the bread.
Grissom had held the door open for the other shoppers and, as he and Sara left, he placed his hand on her back; protective, he thought, and quickly realized it was more possessive. He had seen the baker's look.
They walked together, easily matching strides; both turned faces to the sun. Sara tucked a lock of hair behind her ear.
She said, "This is a wonderful life, dear. Summer in Paris, no work, getting up late, good coffee, fresh bread for every meal." Slipping her hand around his elbow, she laughed, saying, "For the first time in my life, I have nothing, no one dictating how I spend every minute!" She gave him a mock frown. "I'm in a personal limbo. Reading books I've always wanted to read. Visiting museums and galleries seeing what I want to see."
Grissom moved his hand from her back to her shoulder as they turned a corner and entered a small, unpretentious apartment building. They had looked at other places more grand, but this one had the advantage of two views—from the one bedroom window, they could see the Eiffel Tower; the living room with its small balcony and casement windows overlooked a park. The view made the furnishings, all old and undistinguished, more comfortable. And Sara had insisted they wanted to spend time in Paris with Parisians, not tourists; she had gotten her wish.
They took three flights of stairs to their apartment; an elderly elevator cage housed a small elevator but was rarely used because of its propensity to stop between floors. By the time they reached the door, both were laughing and a little breathless from a climb that never got old or easier.
Grissom retrieved an ancient key, weighing heavily in his hand, and unlocked the door. Hank headed to his water bowl as soon as his lead was removed. Sara placed the bags on a small table and managed a one foot turn to the refrigerator without taking a step.
Grissom interrupted her move with a hug and a kiss that quickly turned passionate because hunger came in more ways than appetite. Quietly, he whispered, "I like this 'limbo' you're in right now. I like sleeping with you—spending evenings with you." Still holding her, he opened the refrigerator, removing several items to prepare for dinner. "And I especially enjoy having my wife and my dog waiting after my last lecture."
A few minutes later, he opened a bottle of wine and poured two glasses.
They moved easily in the small kitchen, comfortable when they bumped each other, as they prepared a simple dinner of pasta with steamed vegetables and fresh bread. Grissom carried a tray of baguette, cheeses, and fruit to the living room, placing it on a table before large windows while Sara brought in plates of pasta.
The view from the windows of the small park was mostly obscured by leafy trees, but they could hear the sound of children playing.
As they ate, Grissom talked about the students in his classes, mostly young Americans in Paris for the summer, and the research he was doing with two others. Sara described her day, quiet hours in the library and a long walk with Hank before meeting him.
"It's such a beautiful city," Sara said. "Narrow streets, the old buildings—it truly is like walking in a theme park—except it's a living, gracious city." She told him of hearing young girls singing, lyrics to a rap song with English curse words. "They had no idea what the words mean!"
Placing his fork on his plate, he spread a soft cheese on a chuck of bread and chuckled. They considered this time as an extended honeymoon; only a few people knew where they were which meant they depended on each other for conversation and companionship. Occasionally, Grissom thought about Sara's isolation but she seemed happy exploring the city with Hank and reading a book a day.
He knew she quietly worried—about her mother, about their condo in Vegas, about the absence of a certain expectation. His hand reached out to touch her thigh.
"The best thing about being here is you," he said softly.
Her smile was genuine as she leaned to his face and kissed him on his cheek. "How are your butterflies—chrysalis—doing?" She asked. "Shouldn't they be becoming butterflies soon?"
His research—not his alone—he was an 'added researcher' to an on-going project and the primary reason they were in Paris.
Nodding, he finished his pasta and spread cheese on another piece of bread, handing it to Sara before answering her questions.
"We think tomorrow or the next day." His eyebrows lifted as he asked, "Do you want to help? We can rotate the watch—you and I can take the night shift."
"It'll be like Vegas," Sara said, laughing as she swallowed the last of her wine and gathered plates. "Sometimes I miss the night shift."
He heard a note of sadness in her voice before she said, "I'm not sure they will ever forgive me for leaving like I did—without a word."
"We'll be back—and they still love you," he said. "I'm sure they've figured out we are together—and they understand the stress you were under." Following her to the kitchen, he added, "What they will never forgive is you getting married! I know at least two guys who always had hopes about you."
His teasing was not new and Sara had learned to protest and playfully argue with his supposition.
Tonight, she stopped him with, "I've only had eyes for you, dear, from the first time my eyes met yours." She leaned over stacked plates and kissed him, turning his tease into a suggestion of things to come.
After a quick clean-up, they headed outside into the evening. The streets were clogged with couples, families, and groups of young people who all seemed to be in a reveling celebration. They watched a juggler in the park as he threw cups into the air. In the next block, three old men played instruments while another sang the lyrics of "La Mer", a song about the beauty of the ocean and couples danced on the sidewalk.
Their walk finally brought them back to their apartment where open windows had cooled the rooms and street lights provided a twilight glow of luminosity. It was true—Paris was for lovers and neither was immune to this.
Eventually, they got their clothes off, showered in the small bathroom, and came together in their bed only slightly larger than one Sara had in her first apartment in Vegas. Slowly, sensually, they did everything they liked to do, quietly accompanied by soft sighs that seemed to recharge Grissom. He told her he loved her body; she said she loved the way he touched her.
Words faded as he kissed her, feeling the heat and desire rise. He held her, stroked her, felt her tremble under his touch as a flood of passion overwhelmed her. Instead of fitting himself between her legs, he slid the length of her body, gently easing her legs apart, and put his mouth on her.
Sara moaned at his gentle caress, gripping the sheets with one hand, his hair with the other. A few seconds later, release came as she seemed to soar off the bed.
Grissom moved, suddenly on top of her, pushing himself into her, groaning as she contracted around him. He moved within her, sinking deeper with each thrust. As quickly as she had climaxed, his back arched as he poured himself into her.
A short while later, Grissom opened his eyes, feeling a warm hand on his chest. As he covered Sara's hand with his own, he whispered, "Thank you, Sara."
When she giggled and raised her head so she could look at him with a perplexed expression on her face, he added, "Thank you for coming to Paris with me—for putting things on hold for a few months while I chase a dream."
She dropped her head to his chest, kissed him, and snuggled closer. A few minutes later, his breathing slowed into the restful rhythm of sleep.
They had just made very passionate love, enjoyable love. Sara's eyes closed but she did not sleep, not yet. She loved this reprieve from what she considered "real life" yet she knew it would end soon. After so many years, her beloved Gil had opened his heart and found his dreams. She knew he would find another project, another venture—somewhere.
Slipping her hand to his shoulder, she raised her thumb and caressed his jaw. She loved him so much it made her ache deep inside her chest. One thought came to her mind—a quote she'd heard years ago and had no idea why she thought of it now-"Life takes care of itself"—she sighed.
For now, she was with him, in Paris, loving him, being loved by him. For now.
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