Author's Note: Okay, everyone, this is the first story I'm submitting that I truly think wanders into the dangerous territory of A/U/OOC. (Now, I know some of you thought "Watching Sara" went there as well, and you're probably right.) But if you can believe that Greg could convince Sara to go to a nightclub, and that Grissom has a deeply passionate and sexual nature hiding under all that admirable and frustrating self-control, then you can accept this story as a possibility. If not, then it's a little A/U/OOC, and you should enjoy it anyway, because it's yummy. GSR, with hints of tension along the Greg/Sara Nick/Sara lines.
Disclaimer: Owning nothing. Writing lots.
Sara hesitated in the parking lot of the club, her fingers clenching and unclenching nervously. She had not been to a club since college—early college—and then she had only gone two or three times, at the insistence of a party-minded, studies-avoiding roommate. The last time, she had stumbled back to her dorm room so thoroughly trashed that she had nearly slept through her advanced calculus midterm the next morning. When Jo had tried to drag her out the next weekend, she had refused in no uncertain terms, and the invitations lessened and finally died away. The following year, she moved off campus into a tiny, cramped apartment she could barely afford, and any semblance of a social life vanished, more or less to her satisfaction.
But Greg had insisted two nights ago that she looked like she needed a night out, and while a quiet beer in an off-Strip pub would have been more to her liking, Greg had bullied and nagged her until she gave in and agreed to accompany him to Trash, the latest club he had been raving about. Personally, its name reminded her of dumpster-diving into decomp, but she had wisely kept her opinions to herself. She almost wished that she and Greg had not managed to wind up with the same night off, but consoled herself with the knowledge that Nick had promised that he would join them later on, when swing shift ended.
Tapping her feet impatiently, her eyes darted around, looking for Greg. 10 pm. She should be heading in to work, not standing in line outside a nightclub. Why couldn't anyone die at convenient times in Las Vegas?
"Hey, sexy," Greg's familiar, slightly irritating voice drawled behind her. With a slight roll of her eyes, Sara turned to the younger CSI. His dark hair was twisted into a mass of spikes pointing in every direction, and he wore a tight black tee shirt, a charcoal grey blazer, and dark jeans. She found herself smiling wryly. Greg actually looked a little sexy himself.
"Glad you could finally make it," she drawled back, and watched his gaze sweep over her in reciprocation. She flushed a little and smoothed her hands over her thighs, wondering if she should regret allowing the rare appearance of a skirt. Dark red, clinging to her narrow hips and thighs, it flared out just above her knee in a few inches of pleated fabric, guiding the eye down to strappy black sandals with just a hint of heel. Above the waist, she had chosen a black tank top and a tight, silky red blouse that matched the skirt. She had no idea if this outfit was appropriate for a nightclub, but judging from Greg's expression, he approved. She cleared her throat, drawing his eyes back up to her face.
"See something you like?" she inquired innocently, her alto voice slipping into the lilt she used when she was particularly at ease. She regretted the flirtatious comment almost instantly, seeing a flare in Greg's eyes that seemed frighteningly familiar. She really should not encourage him when she had no intention of doing anything about it…but sometimes it was just so nice to be appreciated.
"I always do," he replied lightly, and joined her in line, falling into a companionable silence. Music throbbed from behind the plain, dark door that opened at random intervals, spitting out sweaty, drunken clubbers and swallowing new, eager bodies whole.
They slipped inside about twenty minutes later, Sara allowing Greg to take her hand and lead her through the mass of hot, writhing bodies. She presented an ID, received a stamp on the inside of her left wrist, and let him guide her to an empty table along the wall.
"Do you want something to drink?" he practically screamed at her, his face inches from her ear. She nodded.
"Whatever you're having," she yelled back, and watched him elbow his way through the crowd to the bar, heaving a small sigh as she sank onto one of the tall stools at the table. It was at least ten minutes before Greg made it back to her, holding two tall glasses full of crimson, sloshing liquid. She accepted it with a smile and gingerly took a sip. It tasted like berries and alcohol.
"What is this?" she asked, fighting to be heard.
"My own creation," he replied proudly, his head very close to hers. "Just drink it. I promise, you'll never want to touch anything else."
She smiled hesitantly at him and took a longer drink, letting the fiery sensation of alcohol and the sweetness of—cranberry? raspberry?—linger on her tongue. It was a little exotic and surprisingly delicious, and she felt the tension tight in her shoulders begin to ease. Maybe Greg had been right. Grissom had told her once, a hundred years ago, that she needed diversions outside of work to keep from burning out. She could not promise she would become an avid clubber—graveyard shift tended to rule out late-night partying, anyway—but there were worse things to do on a night off, she supposed.
Like lying alone in bed, daydreaming about the emotionally unavailable.
Shaking her head to dispel the depressing thought, she took another drink and smiled at Greg's expectant face. "It's really good," she yelled, and his eyes lit up like lights at Christmas. It was so easy to please him, she mused. What an unusual thing.
"Want to dance?" Greg asked her loudly, and she froze. Dancing. Of course—this was a nightclub. She was supposed to dance. It was not that she couldn't, so much as she just couldn't. She had a certain amount of grace, due to slenderness and flexibility of limb, but lacked the sensuous curves that made a woman really look good when she was writhing about in the arms of a guy. Ballroom dancing—a waltz, a tango—now that, she might be able to do, but this? She just knew she would make a fool out of herself.
"I don't know," she found herself calling back. "I feel kind of stupid."
"No one will be looking at you," Greg shouted encouragingly. "You know, except for me." He grinned a youthful, shit-eating grin, and she grinned back.
"Fine," she responded, and he caught her hand and pulled her into the throng of humanity and heat.
She had not consumed enough alcohol for this. Greg placed his hands on her hips, looking both eager and shy at once, and she slipped hers around his neck. She felt like an awkward high school kid at prom, until Greg pulled her tightly against his body. That was not a high school move. She could feel his hips against hers, moving slightly, and his breath against her neck. She tried to match the movement of his body until, with another grin, he used his hands on her hips to guide her in a sensual counterpoint. And suddenly she got this dancing thing, just a little, as she watched their bodies come together and separate and brush lightly with just a hint of electricity. She glanced up into his eyes, unable to hide her delight that this was so much easier than she had imagined, and felt a flush crawl up the back of her neck at the intensity in his eyes.
"I think I'm getting it," she said a bit breathlessly, leaning forward so he could hear her over the pulse of the bass in the floor. He nodded, and with a deft gesture turned her in his arms so that her back pressed against his chest, keeping his hands on her hips and continuing to guide her rhythm. She felt the flush slip into her cheeks as her ass came into contact with his body, but he was not pressing himself against her obscenely. It was sexy, it was fun, but it was not crossing the line into vulgar, and she forced herself to relax. After a few minutes, she even tipped her head back a little to rest on his shoulder, enjoying the warmth of his breath against her face and the sensation of his hands sliding across her stomach, away from her hips, which had seemed to find a harmony to the movement of his of their own accord.
As the third song of their dance faded out, Sara came back to reality, and turned herself to face Greg. He did not quite meet her eyes, and she took his hand and led him from the floor, back to their table. They both downed the rest of their drinks rather quickly, and without a question Greg headed back to the bar for refills. Sara dropped back onto her stool and glanced at her watch. She hoped Nick would show up soon. Something was happening in this cramped, dark cavern of flickering lights and hot flesh, and she was not sure she could even define it, much less figure out what to do about it. Then again, unless Greg hooked up with another girl here, she was going to be the only woman available for him to dance with for…oh, hours. Great.
Greg reappeared with more of his signature drink, which she accepted eagerly and drank half of in less than thirty seconds. Liquid fortitude, she mused. She should know better—and she sure as hell was not going to drive anywhere tonight—but the look in Greg's eyes drove her to the uninhibited haze of alcohol. He, too, seemed enthusiastic at the idea of getting really drunk, really fast. As they both reached the end of their second drinks, she reached over and seized his hand, and the moment. They moved seamlessly, without words, into the mass of bodies again.
She needed no guidance this time, the loosening of her body and brain allowing her to truly feel the throb and pulse of the music in the air, in her blood. Greg did not embrace her, did not move her to his rhythm, but rather matched his to hers. Somehow, all their limbs entangled and separated without a hint of clumsiness or moment of confusion—his hands caught hers and drew them in a circle around his waist, fingers laced, for a few brief seconds before releasing them; she found herself with her back to his chest again, legs almost entwined, his hands so high on her rib cage that one false move would have brought them in contact with her breasts. Her hair felt hot on the back of her neck as she trailed her fingers down his chest, relishing the thin silky feel of his tee shirt; his breath came in short pants in her ear as his palms bunched up and smoothed out the fabric of her skirt over her hips. Sara felt lightheaded. This was vertical sex.
Two more songs rose and fell as they danced, breathless, sweat forming a light sheen on exposed skin. Then Greg tugged her back to the table, where they sank against the wall next to each other, forearms brushing, fingers unconsciously tangling. Greg turned his head to face her, and Sara realized in a rush how very young he looked. She swallowed hard.
"You're better at this than you think," he panted, his voice barely carrying over the music. The corners of her lips twitched up.
"Thanks," she called back. "You're really good, too."
He hesitated, as if trying to find the right words. "I want to take you home," he said at last, his eyes falling to the floor.
She nodded slowly, unsurprised. "I know."
Greg's face was unreadable when he returned his dark eyes to hers. "Not going to happen, is it." He did not even bother phrasing it as a question.
She shook her head gently, and he forced a weak smile. "It's cool. I didn't think so, but I had to ask. You'll still keep dancing with me tonight, though, right?"
She could not tell him no, not after what must have been a pretty serious blow to his obvious hopes. "I'll dance with you anytime, Greg."
He grinned, and with a cocked eyebrow, picked up their glasses. She nodded, and he went back for round three.
"Sar!" She looked up to see Nick threading his way through the crowd. She smiled and waved, leaning into the arm Nick wrapped around her as he paused beside the table.
"Been dancing?" he shouted with a mischievous look on his face, taking in her flushed cheeks and messy hair. She smirked.
"Do you even dance, Nick?" she asked, leaning close to him. He grinned, his dimples flashing on either side of the smile.
"Line dance, sure. Bump and grind, yeah, I don't know. I have, but I think I look ridiculous." He squeezed his arm around her shoulders, hugging her closer to his chest, and Sara leaned her head against his shoulder for a minute, enjoying the warm solidity.
"Yeah, I thought I sucked too. Turns out Greg is a pretty good teacher."
"Yeah? Greg's been teaching you how to get down with your bad self?" The words sounded vaguely silly coming from Nick's mouth, which Sara assumed was kind of the point. She laughed.
"I guess so. I could teach you, if you want."
"Oh, now, I hate to take away the one thing that boy has in his life," Nick drawled. Sara punched his arm lightly.
"He knows the score, Nicky. Come on, I'm actually having fun. Dance with me."
"Okay. But I should warn you, I'm not leaving him alone at the table. We have to find him a skanky blonde before I steal you away."
"Too bad Sofia couldn't make it," Sara yelled, a bit nastily, and Nick's smile widened. He did not share the tall brunette's dislike of Ecklie's former right hand, but he sympathized with her. He, too, had caught the tension between Sofia and Grissom, and though he kept his observations strictly to himself, he knew it had to be eating away at Sara.
"You know," he mused, trying to lighten the mood, "we could always make a Sara sandwich."
Sara choked a little. "What?"
"You know. You could dance with both of us. Key is, you have to stay in the middle, or we're just two guys dancing together, and I don't think Greg is that comfortable in his sexuality." Nick's eyes danced with mischief, and Sara groaned.
"Yeah, I don't think so."
"You know, I think Grissom might join us later," Nick said after a moment. Sara had been craning her neck to see if she could spot Greg with their drinks, but at these words she spun, eyes wide, face a little pale.
"He heard me and Warrick talking about it in the locker room. I invited him just to be nice, but Gris actually said he might show up. Weird, huh?"
"Did you tell him I was going to be here?" Sara asked, her voice a bit frantic. She instantly regretted the words.
"I might have mentioned it," Nick said carefully. "Look, Sara, he probably won't come. This is very definitely not Grissom's scene."
"No, it isn't," Sara shouted over the music. "But haven't you noticed? Just when you think you've got Grissom figured out, he goes and does something insane." She sucked in a breath. "Well, he can't come tonight. Graveyard shift runs until at least 8 am, and the club closes at four."
"Uh—" Nick licked his lips, trying to choose his words carefully. "Gris worked a triple yesterday, finishing up the McLaughlin homicide. Sofia pulled one of the dayshift crew in to help her tonight with a routine B&E, so he could have the night off. He left about the same time I did. He was pretty fried, but there's a chance after a few hours of sleep, he might decide to come here. You know, if he's planning to do something insane." His last words were intended to inspire a smile from Sara, but she continued to look a bit panicked.
She turned wide dark eyes to him. "What?"
"Stop freaking out. It's just a club. It's just dancing. It's just Grissom."
She pressed her lips together. "There's no such thing as just Grissom," she said, then clamped her fingers over her mouth, as if she could force the words back in.
Nick smiled sympathetically. "Yeah. I'm getting that feeling."
Greg returned at last with their drinks, which Nick eyed suspiciously. Greg offered him a taste, but he shook his head. "I'll stick with beer," he shouted, and Greg curled up his lip in disgust.
"So, can I steal Sara from you?" Nick asked. Greg paused mid-sip and slowly nodded.
"Sure. Just remember, I taught her everything she knows," he joked. Nick took Sara's hand and led her out onto the floor, his hand strong and warm around hers.
Dancing with Nick was simpler and less fraught with tension than dancing with Greg, Sara mused. Nick held her very close, one hand on the small of her back and the other on her neck, under her hair, but his closeness felt familiar and safe, instead of slightly dangerous. Their hips glided against one another in slow, rhythmic circles, and Sara draped her arms around Nick's shoulders, crossing her wrists behind his neck. The insistent beat of the dance music did not drive her to the unbridled feeling of sexuality that it had with Greg, but encouraged a lazy sensuality that made her eyes drift close and her lips part slightly. When she opened them again, hooded slightly, Nick was watching her with a tender gaze that held just the slightest bit of heat.
"Line dancer, my ass," she murmured, leaning forward to let her words glide directly into his ear.
The hand on the small of her back slipped down slightly, squeezing teasingly before resuming its safer position. "What about your ass?"
"Quit flirting, Stokes," she fired back, and let her eyes drift back to the table where Greg sat, drinking his crimson beverage alone and trying very hard not to watch them. Feeling a twinge of guilt and another, unnamable emotion, she lifted one hand from around Nick's neck and gestured to him. Until they found the elusive skanky blonde to cheer him up, she supposed she was going to have to succumb to the Sara sandwich concept.
Greg set down his drink and wound his way through the moving couples and groups around them, pausing hesitantly about a foot away. Nick smiled slightly, and Sara swallowed. Okay, well, it was her night off, and whatever else this was, it was certainly diverting. Time to go for broke. She reached for Greg's wrist and pulled him close to her, drawing him into the now-familiar position behind her, his chest pressed to her back. He lightly rested his hands on her hips, leaning close, and she wrapped her arm around Nick's shoulders, her wrists crossing again in a light hold behind his neck.
And they danced this way for longer than Sara could keep track of, her body occasionally being turned between her two friends to allow her long moments of comparison between pairs of dark eyes. Nick's smile was easy, open, and his touch was comfortable, if occasionally sensual—fingers trailing down the length of her spine when she was turned to face Greg, lightly playing with her hair when she was face-to-face with him. Greg, on the other hand, was clearly a little nervous and slightly more drunk, careful to keep from brushing against Nick, his thumbs rubbing against Sara's abdomen when his hands were on her hips, even gently touching her neck with his lips when she had her back to him, her head fallen back on his shoulder. The music had shifted some time ago from fierce and almost violent to slower trance, and Sara felt as though she were in a play in which she was playing a version of herself with which she was unfamiliar.
The delirious strangeness of the night shifted on its ear when, as Nick gently guided her around to face him again, Greg's hand—inadvertently?—sliding along the curve of her ass, she caught sight of a familiar and completely out-of-place figure wending his way through the crush of dancers. Black button-down, black slacks, dark beard—Grissom was in a nightclub, and she was trapped between the lean, muscular bodies of two of her coworkers. Her breath caught in her chest, and she began to pray to someone, anyone, that he would not spot them.
She felt Nick's hand tighten on her wrist, and she knew he had seen Grissom as well. Of all those she worked with who could suspect her true feelings for their supervisor, Nick was the only one she knew was absolutely certain what went on under the surface of her attempts at professionalism. He tugged until she turned her eyes to his, knowing that they were wide and strained with panic, and he smiled, his eyes creasing at the corners and his cheeks dimpling. He would not let her run away.
"Just dance," he murmured in her ear. "Let me take care of this."
"Greg," she whispered back, hoping the younger man behind her would not hear her breathing his name.
"Believe it or not, his ignorance might just help," Nick replied, and with a deliberate look in his deep brown eyes, he trailed his fingers down her neck, on the side of her body facing Grissom. She inhaled, shocked at the heat his touch left behind. Was no one safe tonight?
Allowing herself to trust her friend more than she normally would—chalking it up to three drinks with an unknown alcohol content—she gave in to the music, the men on either side of her, and tried to forget Grissom. She would not turn to look at him, would not give him the satisfaction of realizing that she knew he was there. And despite the fear tightening cold in her belly, she discovered that moving and touching and being touched by Greg and Nick in his presence was oddly arousing. It had clearly been way, way too long since Hank, she thought, a bit hysterically.
Nick had leaned forward a little, not holding her tightly to him since that would inhibit Greg's participation, but close enough that she could really smell his cologne and the clean scent of his sweat. His hands were on her ribcage, just below her breasts, and his hips were very, very close to hers. Greg's hands were actually moving, gliding from her shoulders down her arms to her elbows, then drifting to her hips and moving restlessly there, his thumbs now brushing the swell of her ass, his fingers now tightening just above her pelvis. She closed her eyes and felt one hand come up and brush her hair away from her neck, and realized abruptly that she had no idea whose hand it was, or whose lips pressed against the heated skin of her throat.
Her eyes flew open at the kiss, and it was Nick, of course, upping the stakes in this crazy game of—what? Show-Grissom-what-he's-missing? She was appalled and turned on, and rashly she leaned forward and kissed Nick full on the lips, not moving her own against his or trying even for a second to deepen the kiss; she just rested her mouth against his and luxuriated in the heat. He, too, did not move into the kiss, but lingered there for a moment before slowly turning her in his arms to face Greg. His lips brushed her ear as he whispered, "Kiss him."
Intoxicated on alcohol and pheromones, Sara obeyed, keeping this kiss just as chaste as the one she had shared with Nick. Greg tasted like berries, and she smiled gently against his lips, feeling them part in a little gasp. She could have taken advantage of his open mouth, but this was a display, not an attempt to torture Greg more than she already had. She pulled back, her timing impeccable as a song faded to silence.
Nick took her hand and guided her back to the table, her steps slightly uncertain as she tried to recover from the warmth of the dance floor, the fear and eroticism of the dance, the sweet tingle of alcohol in her blood. Greg followed just behind them, his face dazed, his lips still parted. When they reached the table, she rested her hands against it and let her gaze sweep the room carelessly, hoping not to be too obvious. She spotted Grissom almost instantly, two tables down, staring straight at her. She looked away immediately, flushing.
"I'm going to get a beer," Nick said suddenly. He reached out and caught Greg's arm. "Come on, Greggo. Let's see if we can meet some girls at the bar."
Still a little dazed, Greg nodded slowly and let Nick tug him away, eyes still trailing over Sara. When they were out of sight, Sara deliberately turned her back to Grissom, to hide the hectic rise and fall of her chest. She had never believed he would really come. The music alone should have kept him away—it was hardly Pavarotti and Mozart. Her skin felt hot, tight, and she swiftly unbuttoned the red silk blouse she wore over her black tank top, sliding it off and revealing the pale, freckled skin of her shoulders. She wondered at herself then, undressing in front of him. Was she still providing a display?
She could feel his eyes trained on her, and she wound her hands together nervously, refusing to turn, to meet his gaze. She had not done anything wrong. Unusual, perhaps; out of character, almost certainly; but not wrong.
As the night had grown later, the music had gentled further, still driven by a throbbing bass line, but becoming more erotic and less deafening. A song she vaguely recognized began, its soothing electronic sounds and beautiful female vocalist making her eyes drift closed as she fought to understand the lyrics. She lifted her hands and ran them through her hair, the night of dancing encouraging her hips to begin moving of their own accord. A few hours before, she had been terrified at the thought of trying to dance; now, she almost could not still her own body. She drifted away from the table and into the outskirts of the dancing crowd, hands still lifting her hair from her neck, hips slowly undulating to the enticing rhythm. She could dance alone.
Arms encircled her body, strong hands lying flat against the front of her hips. Her back was pressed to a warm, solid chest, slightly wider than either Greg's or Nick's, and the faint scratch of beard against her bared neck made her tense with disbelief and desire. She would not turn, she would not open her eyes or even breathe, for fear that this was just a very wonderful end to a very strange dream. He did not move very much behind her, his feet almost still, his hips almost motionless, but the little bit he did move was almost too much for her to stand. She let her hands fall from her hair to drape behind her, over his shoulders, behind his neck, knowing that her body was arched wantonly against his and not caring. Her hips circled under his hands, and she fought the urge to really press herself into him, to let all of the sexual frustration her friends had stirred up release itself in a purely physical writhing against his body.
His breath was hot against her neck, and she swore she felt just the faintest brush of his full lips on her skin. Without meaning to, she moaned aloud, instantly hoping the music had been loud enough to cover the sound. But that hope vanished when she felt, without a doubt, his kiss against her neck again. She gasped and turned in his arms, keeping her own wound around his neck, feeling his hands settle in the small of her back.
Dark eyes collided with blue, and the tension was so thick she could taste it in the back of her throat. He was staring at her with a look so intense that it weakened her knees. She had never seen him look so serious and certain before, not at her. In that moment, no one else was in the room, nothing else existed. Grissom enveloped her with his eyes, and she fell into them.
As the song shifted into another, he leaned forward and said quietly into her ear, "I have to go." She tensed her fingers on his shoulders without meaning to, and the corner of his mouth twitched. He leaned close to her again. "Come with me."
She did not think twice. Without looking up for Nick or Greg, she followed him silently from the nightclub and into the now-deserted street. He did not pause once they were enveloped in the relative quiet of the Vegas night, but led the way to his SUV, parked at the curb a few blocks away. She walked slightly behind him, not beside him, too uncertain of what precisely was happening to feel comfortable. When they reached the midnight blue vehicle, he stopped and turned to her, almost abruptly. She paused, her back nearly against the side of the SUV.
With two certain strides, he was pressed up against her, her spine tight against the cold steel. One hand caressed her cheek, his thumb lightly running along her jaw; the other curved around her hip. He leaned forward and claimed her mouth with his, almost bruising in the intensity of his desire, immediately parting her lips beneath his and sliding his tongue in to taste her. She slumped against him, shocked and utterly aroused, and he kissed her until she swore she could come just from the feel of his mouth on hers.
Stepping back, Grissom opened his passenger door for her, and she slipped into the SUV, her breath harsh in her chest and her legs almost giving out under her. He closed the door gently and made his way around the vehicle, sliding into the driver's seat and starting the engine. He pulled away from the curb and began driving, and Sara was in too much turmoil to even consider asking where he was taking her. Lights flickered past, bright and garish, and she closed her eyes and leaned her forehead against the cool glass of her window, trying to breathe normally again.
The ride was silent, but the air was thick with unnamable emotions. At one point, his right hand came down to rest on her thigh, sliding the dark red fabric of her skirt up a few inches to caress her bare skin. Sara wanted to slip down in her seat a little, part her thighs for him, beg him to touch her, but she stayed very still instead, her fingers white-knuckled, gripping the edge of her seat.
They pulled into his driveway, the soft glow of lights seeping past the blinds in his townhouse. He turned off the engine, got out of the SUV. She could not move. When he came around to her side again and opened the door, she just lifted her eyes to his, searching his face for some explanation, an answer to what was going on. She received no response. Grissom took her hand and helped her from the car, and then he was leading her inside, still holding her hand in his, lacing his fingers with hers.
She recognized the white walls, the cases of butterflies, the impossibly small brown leather couch. She did not recognize the heat in his eyes, the restlessness in his hands as he pulled her into his arms and kissed her again, a little more gently but just as passionately. Sara gripped his arms and after a long moment, managed to pull back, gasping for air.
"Grissom," she whispered. He was breathing hard, his hands moving up and down her arms, over her back, thumbs dragging along her sides. She lifted a hand to the roughness of his bearded cheek. "What are you doing?"
"I wasn't going to come to the club," he said roughly. "I came to see you. And you—" She waited for some words of criticism, accusation, even anger. Instead, his eyes were fiercely aroused as he pulled her tightly against his body. "Do you know what you look like when you move like that?"
She shook her head, wordless, and he surprised her with a soft growl in the back of his throat as he kissed her again, tasting her, his palms leaving safer territory to slide over her breasts, making her moan into his mouth. He pulled back, panting softly. "You look like sex."
Sara inhaled sharply. Grissom had said a lot of things to her over the years—some thought-provoking, some flirtatious, some absurdly hurtful. But this—these were by far the most unexpected words he had ever uttered to her. She placed a palm against his chest, holding him back from kissing her again by sheer force of will.
"I look like sex?" she repeated breathlessly. He groaned a little, his thumbs pressing lightly against her nipples. Her head fell back as she moaned.
"I should have been pissed," he murmured huskily, his thumbs circling over her breasts and making her a little crazy. "You ask me to dinner, you tell me you've 'chosen' me, emotionally unavailable though I have been—and then there you are, with their hands all over you, looking wanton and unbelievably beautiful. And all I can think is, god, I have to convince her to come home with me, because I don't think I can live another day like this." His mouth pressed to her neck, nipping lightly, and she whimpered. "Some part of me is screaming that this is wrong, that we can't do this, and if I could find it, I swear to god, Sara, I would beat it unconscious." He slid his fingers under her chin to hold her gaze to his. "When this is done, don't let me be stupid. Make me let you stay."
She nodded hazily, and all conversation died when his hands returned to her breasts, and his lips to hers. She had left her blouse in his car, and only thin layers of black cotton and lace separated his fingers from her skin. He slipped the strap of her tank top from her shoulders and kissed the skin there, tongue darting out to trace along her collarbone. Sara sank her hands into his thick hair and tried to stay upright.
They stumbled their way to his bedroom, pausing every few steps to kiss, touch, unbutton, moan. She lost her shirt in his living room; he lost his somewhere in the hall. He pressed her against a wall the first time his fingers encountered the wet heat between her thighs, and she wondered if they would even make it to a horizontal surface this first time. But they did, somehow, and her skirt was bunched up around her hips as he knelt in front of her and kissed every inch of each of her long legs. She could not help the fingers that strayed to her own breasts as he kissed behind her left knee, and when he finally looked up and saw what she was doing, his mouth hovering over the crease between her right thigh and hip, he groaned and pressed his lips to her as intimately as he could.
She could feel the softness of his lips, the wetness of his tongue, the rough rasp of his beard against her inner thighs. She arched against him, crying out, and he pressed his palm over her stomach to hold her down under his delightfully torturous ministrations. He did not stop until she came, moaning his name fitfully, her head tossing back and forth and her fingers clutching his sheets. As she panted breathlessly, trying to regain some sense of reality, he rose above her and guided her back on the bed, kneeling again between her legs, this time on the mattress.
She watched through heavy-lidded eyes as he unbuttoned and unzipped his pants, his fingers hooking under the waistband of both them and his boxers, lowering them together. She only had the briefest moment to take in his body, his arousal, before he took her mouth in a bruising kiss and guided himself into her. She craved him filling her, longing for complete, intense thrusts, but he teased them both as he slid into her slowly, taking nearly a full minute to bury himself inside her completely. By the time their hips were pressed together, she was clutching his shoulders, begging him nearly incoherently to take her. With a soft curse, he obliged.
She lost all sense of time and space as he moved, her mind only capable of cataloguing thrusts and moans and the heat of his fingers and lips. He gently assaulted her neck, licking and biting at the porcelain skin. She raked her nails down his back, watching his eyes darken as he responded with a particularly urgent thrust. Minutes, maybe hours, and then she was contracting around him once more, her face buried in his shoulder as he groaned her name into her hair and followed her into sweet oblivion.
When the world returned, Sara shifted and moaned a little at the ache in her thighs, the boneless sensation of her limbs where they lay, sprawled, across his bed and his body. Grissom had tumbled beside her at some point, and lay on his side, eyes half-closed, watching her. She let a smile cross her lips.
"I always thought I was a bad dancer."
He chuckled softly. "Not exactly."
She rolled over to her stomach, turning her head to face him, her dark hair falling into her face a little. He tenderly tucked a strand behind her ear as she said softly, "You have to let me stay."
His eyes tightened a little. "Are you sure that's a good idea?"
She winced, but pushed on. "You told me to make you let me stay. So I am."
He moved closer, wrapped his arms around her.
"This is all a little unexpected," he said roughly. "And not very like me."
"You're scared," she whispered.
"Terrified," he replied, his voice muffled into her hair.
"That's okay," she replied, stroking his hip. "Me too."
He held her then, letting her stay, until they both fell asleep.
(Author's Note 2: I see this story taking place between "Nesting Dolls"--reference to the 'choosing emotionally unavailable men' line--and "Committed," because if Grissom and Sara had started some sort of relationship just before "Committed," it would be a lovely explanation for why he is so obviously terrified when Sara is attacked. He was upset with her at the end of season 1 when she wanted to be bait for the Strip Strangler, but the intensity of his words in "Committed"--"Please open the door"--could be interpreted lots of ways, including that he is far more afraid of losing Sara now that he finally has her. It's just one of many interpretations, like this story, of the whole GSR phenom. Hope you enjoyed!)