Her, walking away, silk and champagne, he felt like she was leaving him forever. He couldn't stop the hollow despair that stole the breath from his body. He'd let her go too many times, too many.
It was the first time that someone else's body had provided him comfort in a time of need. But holding Sara hadn't been need, it had been born of sheer want. When he had let her go, when she had drifted from his arms, that's when the need had settled in.
He needed her back in his arms; it ached to let her go. It ached in that all too cliché way. Melancholy had settled between his bones and skin and flitted about his body before he acknowledged the problem. It was all too easy to let it slip away, just filter through his fingers, finer than grains of sand, softer. But instead he had clutched it and ran, held it in his heart and took off after her.
"I have no excuse to be here," and he'd pushed his way inside, carrying a bit of winter with him. Christmas had a tendency to do that, linger about one's body. "I don't have a reason."
There was still glitter and tinsel about him and for some reason that sated part of her soul. But the soul was big and always hungry and didn't relieve her of the burden of what she assumed to be unrequited love. He didn't come there without a reason, though, and she decided to hear him out. "There must be a reason," she stated a bit petulantly. "You always have a reason, never do anything without one."
Grissom nodded, well aware of the truth of that statement. He took a moment to look at his surroundings, never having had a chance to when he had been there before. The walls felt more oppressive, living, breathing around them.
"There is," he sighed, defeated. "You already know it. You know it better than I do."
Sara shook her head and moved to stand right in front of him, arms crossed over her chest. "I'm not sure I do, Grissom." Her words were slow and sure and her voice was caring, not demanding.
"That there's something here that won't go away." Another sigh accompanied his next sentence. "And I don't want to ignore it anymore."
She smiled. He smiled. "It's very tiring," he quipped and she laughed a little. They both settled into silence and it was then that Grissom's ears attuned themselves to the song filtering out of her computer speakers. "This is…"
A flush of embarrassment crept up over her chest; he wanted to taste it, wanted to feel the heat rising up her body to settle along her cheeks. "Yeah, I just wanted it… as a memento, I guess."
An understanding nod was his response. Sara smiled to herself, shook her head at her frivolity, then she hung her head; the weight of the moment was a bit too much. She didn't see Grissom take a step forward. She didn't know how close he was until an index finger drew a slow line over her collarbone. "There's more," he said, voice dropping just a fraction, just enough to let her know that something was changing.
"What?" Last chance, her posture said. Last, very last chance.
"I do, want you… that is to say." He stuttered, just a bit and Sara fought the rush of affection in her chest. "I want all of you," and he drew his finger back again.
"No," her voice quivered on the monosyllabalic response. She'd been there on the precipice before and she wasn't quite sure she'd be able to balance there again. Though her voice was soft, there was a tinge of remorse to it. "You couldn't have felt this way, no, not all this time and been like this."
Grissom swallowed, and she was closed enough to hear the sound of the saliva slipping down his throat. "You'd be surprised."
"No," she whispered, not wanting to believe, already knowing, from the tone of his voice that the words he spoke were true. The ball of nerves that had settled itself in her stomach was beginning to unknot.
His fingers took up residence at the sides of her neck, softly stroking, tickling against the hair at the base of her skull. Her head lolled. "No one's watching now, either," she whispered and he chuckled, fingers becoming bolder, shifting to pass over her arms, falling to twine with her hands.
She'd never wanted to be small, small and cold in anyone's arms. That was how she felt, ready to submit fully to him because there was that trust and that love that taunted. It was that, that hurt her; the love, it was so strong, foreign and unabashedly frightening, pulling in her breast, it made her second guess.
His palms, at her hips, pulled her to the right and then to the left and before she knew it, her head was resting on his shoulder and they were swaying as the song somehow repeated itself once more.
"Let me take you to bed," he said, nearly a whisper, just bordering on. He pressed forward, pelvis to pelvis, allowing his hands to pull away from her and just graze the sides of her breasts. "Let me take you to bed." That bedroom voice, eyes and his skin still clothed in that suit.
True, he was the one who reached out to her, but she was the one who had allowed him to touch her. "Is that really wise?" she asked, voice betraying the fragility that lay just beneath sure exterior.
His lips fell to her neck and began dropping tiny kisses there, pushing her towards the place where logic and reality faded to a blur.
"I don't care anymore," he said fiercely, harshly, definitely.
So she walked towards the bedroom and he followed her.
She could stop it all if she wanted to; that was her final lie.