Author's Note: Damn, I fail. I epically fail. A lot of this epic failure centers around the demise of my beloved writing computer (Bruce) but I've recently learned that he has pulled through and once my parents get their tax refund in February, I'll have him back in my life. The living room computer (that I know the password for) is broken (its IP address has been lost in oblivion thanks to a petty dispute between my siblings) so the only viable computer (with Word on it) is the one in my parents' room which is off and encoded 90% of the time. For some reason lately, my dad's been leaving it on so I'll take advantage while the getting's good.

My SSS Project for 2011 will be starting on New Year's Day (hopefully) so I want to put all my 2010 stuff back into circulation so this sort of neglect won't happen as often. So, back to the story. Last update, I laid the foundation for GSR to lose their not-coupledom and I shall take that and run with it.

Disclaimer: "Honestly, it's not mine!"

As reflected by her previous journal entry, Sara had figured that she would be the one to take things to the next level. That she would be the one to initiate the kissing, the touching, the slamming-into-a-wall-and-not letting-go–unless-there-was- a -fire–in-the–room-ing…

Yet, looking at the man sprawled in the wreckage of her bed, feeling the way he held her so tenderly in his deep (snoring) slumber made her smile.

Gil Grissom never ceased to surprise her…

/~*~/

It had been a typical day of catch up in the lab. No active cases, no mayhem, just paperwork and Thai food in the break room. When Sara had woken up after her Pilates/Yoga thing with Catherine (another new but fun thing), she had deemed it to be just another day.

She showered, brushed her teeth, and put a couple of slices of whole wheat bread into her fixed toaster. A text message from Greg told her to bring plenty of white out and chopsticks so she factored sitting on the floor into her outfit choice of the evening.

Caring about her appearance (other than the basics) wasn't nearly as daunting as Sara had made it out to be. With patient guidance from Catherine and a 12 hour marathon of "What Not to Wear", Sara had found a happy medium between girly and her personality. As her toast finished, Sara put on a dark blue blouse and a pair of beige khaki slacks, guaranteed to "emphasize the positive", as Stacy London put it.

In the King's English, they made her ass and legs look good.

She slid into her loafers (there were just some things that couldn't be changed) and smeared some nutella on her toast. Her phone rang and she answered between bites.

"Sidle."

"Hey.", a less shy voice greeted.

"Hi, Gris. What's going on?"

"Nothing out of the ordinary. I just wanted to talk to you."

"Well, that's sweet. Yeah, so Greg's getting Thai food for tonight. Want me to save you some spring rolls?"

"Actually, I'll be with you guys. I'm still buried in an avalanche of forms and I figure that companionship will make the torture more bearable. Besides, watching Nick fail miserably at using chopsticks never gets old."

Sara's laughter echoed down the hall as she headed out…

/~*~/

Still amazed that she could, Sara gently ran her nails over the constellation of freckles on his shoulder and into his thick graying hair. A feline noise of contentment left his chest as she scooted closer and two slivers of sky blue warmed her better than the sun through the blinds.

"Hi.", she greeted softly.

His lips curved into a smile and pressed possessively against her clavicle and her brow.

"Hi.", he rasped. "What time is it?"

"A little past 8. The garbage truck woke me up."

"I hope you don't mean my snoring."

"I don't mind your snoring. Chainsaws have always been soothing to me.", she quipped.

A pinch on her hip made her squeak and poke him in the side, prompting a playful wrestling match/tickle fight for the top.

His triumphant grin as he pinned her down made a different sort of warmth blossom between her legs.

/~*~/

"Nick, maybe you should…" Greg started.

"I'm not using a fork. I'm a CSI. I can figure out how to use some frickin' chopsticks." the Texan cut off with a defiant stab to his chicken.

"Actually, I was going to suggest using your feet but hey, forks rock…"

Sara shook her head with amusement and added another cluster of sheets to her done pile. The team had been working diligently at first but as they got closer to being finished (or half finished in Grissom's case), they started relaxing. There was been banter, innuendo, and laughter. A lot of it, especially when Grissom calmly answered Ecklie's demand for an explanation of their gathering…

"We're having an orgy, Conrad. If you would just remove your socks, I'm sure we could find room for you."

Greg and Nick snorted soda out of their noses, Catherine's jaw dropped to her chest, and Warrick shook with silent, hysterical laughter as the weasel bid a hasty retreat.

Sara just looked at him incredulously and he shrugged in his Grissom-ish way before putting more sprouts into his bowl.

"A modern definition of an orgy is a group of 3 or more individuals in close proximity with no socks on."

Since she, Catherine, and Greg were barefoot…

"Cite your source!" she laughed with a fond smirk.

"Urban Dictionary. Pass the soup."

/~*~/

His lips were hot and demanding, making her feel like she was drowning sweetly. She had broken out of his grip and wrapped her arms around him, urging him closer. Her legs spread of their own accord and Grissom settled between them, his morning wood pulsing against her stomach. She shivered as she remembered the pleasure he had given her with it, his hands, his lips, his tongue…

A happy purr left her as he slid home and his eyes sparkled like sapphire.

"So pretty…"

/~*~/

"You didn't have to walk me up. I'm perfectly capable of…"

"I wanted to."

Sara blinked and then shrugged, going with it. Her car had decided that today would be a nice day to take a nap so she had bummed a ride off of Grissom. Actually, he had practically ordered her to get in the car. Ignoring the significant look that Catherine had given her (and Greg's faux whisper of "About damn time!"), she had climbed in the passenger seat and buckled up like it was a regular occurrence.

If you're lucky, it could be…, her brain oh so helpfully suggested.

Now, he was walking her to the door like they had been on a date and they kinda had been. Sure, they had been doing paperwork with everyone but he had talked to her, really talked to her and she had talked too. There were moments of over-talking but nothing that a joke from one of the guys or noodles couldn't fix.

As they climbed the stairs, she couldn't help but look at his profile. He had lost some weight and spent some time outside because there was a light tan on his skin. An open white dress shirt revealed a t-shirt and he had on jeans. Black jeans that could pass for dress pants but still…jeans!

"Thanks, Gris." she said as she got out her keys, which she promptly dropped.

"Damn it!" she hissed.

After picking them up, she turned to bid him good night and found herself pressed against the door. His eyes were almost black and she gulped quietly, watching as a slow, predatory smile curved his lips.

I'm going to kiss you. I'm going to kiss you and you're going to like it.

"Okay.", she whispered before he captured her mouth. It was everything she imagined it would be and more. Intense, frightening, loving, liberating…

They broke for air and she cupped his face, sliding shaking fingers into his hair. His lips brushed against hers over and over again, tasting and learning.

"Invite me in, Sara."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes."

"Will you stay with me?" she asked rawly.

"God, yes."

/~*~/

Even though they had only made love twice, they knew each other as if they been together for years. In a way, they had been. Despite all the fear and the frustration, Sara knew that their relationship started the day she shook his hand in San Francisco.