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Chapter 6: The Townhouse
We spent Saturday night and all day Sunday going back and forth between sightseeing and making love in his bedroom—his bed was bigger than mine, and more comfortable, and so even when we weren't making love, it was my favorite place to be in the townhouse.
I didn't call it his townhouse, because for some reason it didn't feel like I was staying in someone else's home… I didn't feel like a guest, I felt like I was walking into a life that had been laid out specifically for me, and all I had to do was decide if I wanted it and it was mine. But I didn't call it my or our townhouse either… just 'the townhouse'.
The townhouse was clean, but cluttered… that seemed to be his general style. He didn't leave plates in the sink or laundry on the floor, but the desk in his office was strewn with papers, the bookshelves completely disorganized. Plates were always put away in cupboards, if not in any consistent order or fashion, and finding ingredients for French Toast the first morning I was there felt like going on a scavenger hunt.
I'm sure it wasn't as good as he could have made, but he was surprised, and happy, and even took seconds, so that reassured me, at least.
Monday, two large file boxes were delivered and he hauled them into his office, spending nearly a half an hour trying to clear some of his papers out of the way so that he had a clear work space on his desk. While he sat in the desk chair, I reclined on the black leather chaise in his office, paging through his copy of Of Mice and Men—still a favorite, even now.
When he was finished clearing his things, he simply placed the boxes on the desk and turned around in his chair, watching me. I pretended not to notice—to be engrossed in the book—and after a moment he moved to the bottom of the chaise, capturing a bare ankle—me being clad in one of his t-shirts and underwear—brushing his thumb over the flower tattoo there, and kissing slowly up from it, keeping his eyes on me.
I pretend not to notice, still scanning the lines of text with my eyes, but no longer taking any of it in. The flush in my cheeks gives me away. He chuckles as he moves to my right leg, kissing his way slowly up again. Goose bumps trail over my body, and yet I stare at the book—forgetting to make my eyes move as if I'm reading, and I feel the smile against his lips as they trail over my thighs.
His hands circle my ankles and tug me down gently, so that I'm lying instead of half-sitting, and his lips find my thighs again. I tremble, and my breathing is heavier, and yet I keep my eyes glued to the book—it would feel wrong to break my ruse now, even if he's seen through it from the beginning.
It's when I feel his hot breath against my underwear and I moan involuntarily, my hips jerking slightly forward before I can restrain them, that he laughs out loud, looking up at my closed eyes, the book still held open above me.
"Okay, Sara… if you're involved in your book, I'll just go start my paperwork…" and in an instant he's back in his chair, his back to me.
I let out a frustrated whine, the book finally falling to the floor, and he laughs again.
"What's wrong Sara? A moment ago you were happily reading…" He turns around in the chair again, sliding off and moving to the edge of the chaise again, and I scooted my body down a little, to be closer to him.
"You're a damn tease is what's wrong…"
"Oh, I don't want to be a tease, honey. Tell me, what do you want me to do?" His voice is like dark velvet—deep and soft and seductive, and I quiver as I feel it against my thighs again.
"Gil…" I whine, and his fingertips trail from my knees to the lace lining the legs of the boy-bottom panties I'm wearing.
His voice is all sugar, but it's taunting too. "Yes, sweet? Anything you want, just tell me, and I'll do it…"
But I'm shy now—I've never been very good at dirty-talking, and it's harder when this dignified, professional, intelligent doctor of a man is listening for it… I stutter. "I, uh… Gil, I… you… Please…" I beg him to take mercy on me, but he senses my reluctance, and I think he enjoys it.
"Please what, Sara? I want to give you what you want…" His teeth gently nip my inner thigh. "You just have to ask for it…"
I groan impatiently, my hips pushing up, trying to tell him without words what I want. He stifles another laugh, trying to keep calmly confused and seductive, and I grin despite myself. "You're so mean."
He laughs openly then, slipping his hands up the sides of the boy bottoms and yanking them down and off my legs. I gasp out loud, and he grins, brushing his fingers softly over me. "Mean? How am I mean, my sweet, sweet Sara?"
And then his fingers are inside me, but much, much too slow and soft. My hips lift up in agitation, and he chuckles again. Continuing the torturous rhythm, he speaks—again his hot breath on my thighs doing ridiculous things to my senses. "Tell me what you want Sara. Tell me and I'll do it. What do you want?"
His gentle fingers speed up for a moment, and then slow, and I groan in frustration again, my face bright red, my whole body aching. "Ohhh, god, Gil… please… please…"
"Please what?" he whispers, his fingers speeding up again, and I moan loudly, gasping for breath.
"Please… please stop teasing me… stop… please… put your mouth on me, Gil, make me come, please, I… I can't take it…"
And then his tongue is pressing insistently against me, his fingers rocking hard, and I'm shuddering and moaning and nearing an orgasm faster than I thought I ever had. My muscles clench around his fingers as my climax grips me violently, throwing me over and into an abyss that seems to have no bottom—it goes and goes, and I'm delirious and exhausted when I finally reach the end, my face flushed, hair curling with sweat, my breathing heavy in my chest.
Gil grins brightly, like he's thoroughly proud of himself, and with another chuckle, sets Of Mice and Men on my chest and turns back to his work.
When I regain a little composure, and slip the underwear back up my legs, I move behind him, resting my chin on his shoulder. "What exactly will I be distracting you from, Dr. Grissom, when I exact your much-deserved punishment?"
He grins again, like a little boy at Christmas. "We have a CSI retiring and a CSI transferring, both sometime during the summer, so we're hiring. One of the negative things about being the seventh ranked lab in the country is that positions are in high demand… which means lots of applications to sort through. I'm just figuring out a system, right now, to rule out most of them… we can't interview thousands of applicants."
I bite on my bottom lip, thoughts of revenge pushed from my mind momentarily. I wonder why he hadn't told me they were hiring… maybe he didn't want me in Vegas… maybe I was deluding myself in thinking that it could be 'our' townhouse.
I draw in a deep breath, glancing at the criteria he was carefully writing out on a notepad. Beautiful writing—something about it tugs at my memory, like déjà vu, but it's gone in a moment.
-Graduated from a top school—pref. Ivy League
-Masters degree or two or more years experience at a top lab
He only has two right now, and I tilt my head. "That's not going to narrow your search down very far…"
He smiles. "I know… but I'm reluctant to be too stringent with my criteria. I mean, it's the logical way to evaluate the selection, but… none of that means you're a good CSI, you know? Take Catherine, for instance, the woman I told you about who I work with, with the five year old, Lindsey?
"She was a stripper with a dead-end husband and a newborn. She put herself through night-school, working to pay for school and supporting her husband, who was not consistently employed. She applied to the lab with a bachelor's of science from UNLV and no experience, but she's one of the best I've ever seen. …Under just the two guidelines here, heck, even under just one of them… we never would have met with her."
"…I dunno if I'm allowed, but… I could help you look through them. There's bound to be some obvious throw-outs…"
He smiles softly. "Thanks honey, but I think something like that might cost me my job…"
As he turns back to his papers, the corners of my mouth turn down. I fit the criteria he was placing, and yet he said nothing. …Maybe he just thought I was committed to the lab in Frisco. I was… but, when it came to him, I didn't think there was anything I wouldn't do—plus, anyone with a brain would assume I'd take Vegas in a heartbeat… Frisco's lab was rated in the eighties…
I put it from my mind, thinking that perhaps he was just distracted, and that the thought would certainly occur to him eventually. I move between him and the desk then, sliding down to the floor, and proceed to torture him as he did me, only giving in and granting him release when he had begged me in a constant, flooding stream for a good twenty minutes.
Needless to say, he'd been punished.
