Author's Note: I have always seen Grissom as a little bit of a control freak. Absent-minded, sure; politically tone-deaf, absolutely. But while his office is filled with interesting things, it is never a haphazard mess; his home is spartan, at least prior to Sara, etc. He's not OCD, or heavy-handed, but he likes to control his own life, his own work, his own privacy. So I began toying with the idea of this spilling over into his sexuality. We saw hints of it in "Lady Heather's Box," and I asked myself--what if, when Grissom finally gave in to his desires for Sara, his fear never quite went away? What if the terror of giving in and not knowing what the future might hold combined with the powerful force of his personality made him express dominant tendencies in his sexual relationship with Sara? This little story is what came of these musings. I hope you enjoy.

Disclaimer: If they don't kiss and make up soon, I won't want them anyway. Oh, who am I kidding? If they were mine, I could mold them like Playdoh into the perfect GSR ball of happiness. Incidentally, I don't own Playdoh, either.

The air wafting in through her window is sweet, carrying on it the scent of some night-blooming flower. If she were inhaling that fresh, slightly cool air, she might be grateful for the Vegas desert giving her a night of respite from sticky and sweaty and so damn hot. She might notice the smell of growing things and green things, fighting to survive in the sand.

But she is sticky and sweaty and so damn hot, and all she can smell is him.

He is above her, like he almost always is, and her hands are pressed into the pillow by his, like they almost always are, and his weight is a delicious pressure, and his cock inside her is a familiar fullness driving her to completion. She gives herself over to him, every night he ever asks, every day he ever suggests, and whether it is a wall or a couch or a shower or a bed, she gives herself to him wherever he both takes and loses control.

Tonight, she can smell so many things: the musk of her arousal, the slightly salty scent of his; the freshness of his soap, the floral tones of hers; the mint trying to cover up the coffee in his mouth, the slight smell of latex on both their hands that seems to have made its way into their pores, forever to linger.

He likes to take her with her hands above her head, pinned down by his own or tied or cuffed to the headboard (or the shower curtain rod, or once he did something fascinating with a doorway that she is still trying to figure out). He likes her thighs parted wide for him, making her open, exposed, vulnerable. Sometimes she wonders if he is trying to make her vulnerability match his—the fear and susceptibility he feels simply by being with her. But when he gazes at her with undisguised desire, she decides she does not care what makes him do it, what makes him want it. It is enough that he does.

He almost always asks her to do things, although he never says please. He almost never tells her to do things, although he always sounds commanding, even in his requests. He has never heard her say no.

Tonight he stood at the end of the bed and stared at her, naked, her legs splayed open—wanton, not vulgar—hands gripping the bedposts, and stroked himself almost to orgasm while she pleaded for him to take her. He likes to make her say please, and I need you, and if you don't get up here now, I swear to god… Although the latter usually means he will make her wait longer, as punishment.

He never lays a hand on her in anything but care or desire. It is not his style. When she has done something to upset him, he abandons her, and it is a far worse punishment than a spanking or a mouth-fucking or a knock-down, drag-out fight could ever be. He simply walks away. If she does it while they are in bed, he simply stops what they are doing, and tells her that he needs to go. He never tells her not to finish it herself, but he knows she will not, because she wants him. If she wanted to be masturbating alone in bed, she would never have let him start this.

He is not callous or cold, but he is in control, except for the moments when he is not: the moment just before he falls asleep; the moment that he comes; the moment just after he kisses her goodbye. In these moments, something slips through, and she sees that he is falling in love with her. She is happy, and terrified, and true to form says too much or nothing at all and certainly nothing that matters.

And yes, tonight, he finally crawled up the bed to her and lifted her hips and drove into her in one smooth, fierce stroke, and she nearly died from the pleasure of finally getting what she always wanted, again. He kissed her once when he walked in the door and then it was this, her lying naked and waiting, him touching and watching and making her wait. It was enough to make her ready for him to start fucking her. She is never ready for him to stop.

She writhes beneath him, moaning his name, Grissom, Gris, and though he has mentioned it she never uses his first name, because she always forgets. It is not the name she moaned to her ceiling for eight years, and so, of course, she forgets. It does not matter, because whatever she says it is always him, it will always be him, and Grissom by any other name would still be the only man she has ever truly loved.

Something about the way he is watching her tonight is different, however, and she is amazed that they are still doing this, that he is still hard and thrusting inside her after how long he made her wait while definitely not waiting himself. She arches against him, but he is silent, and she begins to wonder if something is wrong. She was close, so close, but now she is concerned, and she stops moving beneath him, stops twisting her wrists against his grip in that way he likes, and just looks at him.

The moonlight turns his eyes and hair and skin silvery, and she feels the need to touch him, although she almost never gets to, not really. It is hard to caress someone when your hands are restrained most of the time. She is unsure of how to pull her hands from his grasp without a struggle, something he playfully and willingly initiated a few weeks before, forcing her to give in to him with so much passion and desire that she was never afraid, not even for a moment. So she simply lies there, and looks at him, and waits to find out what is different tonight.

His thrusts have slowed, and abruptly they come to a stop, with him buried completely inside her, her legs wrapped around his waist. His breath is harsh in his chest, but she thinks back and realizes that he has not made a sound, not even moaned her name, for several minutes now.

"Grissom," she says quietly, because someone has to say something.

He stares at her, and she feels something cold tighten in her chest. Oh. Perhaps this is the end, then. Maybe he has realized, at one of the worst possible times, that this is not what he wants, or more than he can give, or it is him or her or someone else but certainly no one is to blame. He just needs time or space or pick an excuse, but he's gone.

"Why?" he whispers, and her eyes widen. He sounds—pained. Frightened. Confused. A lot of things she has not heard him sound like in a long time, and never in bed. She finally tugs on her wrists, and he lets them slide away, continuing to brace himself beside her head, but allowing her hands to be free. Tentatively, she slides them down his back, relishing in the firmness and warmth of his skin.

"Why what?"

And then he is sliding out of her, moving away from her, and the next words out of his mouth will be that he has to go, and she will be left wondering what she did wrong this time. He almost always talks about it with her, later, but it does not help in the moment. She grabs for his wrist.

"No," she says pleadingly, and she hardly recognizes her own voice. It is raw and urgent and needy, something she usually only allows out when it is a part of whatever game it is they play when they have sex. Only it is not a game, it is just the way things are, and that has never bothered her before. Until tonight.

"Please," she whispers, and he turns to her, and there is something broken in his eyes. "Tell me. Why what?"

"Why do you let me come to you?" he asks, and his eyes are haunted. "Why do you let me do what I do to you?"

"What are you talking about?" she asks. "What do you do to me?"

"The control," he murmurs with a catch in his voice. "The leaving."

She shrugs, and it is not careless, but maybe helpless, or simply matter-of-fact. "I never thought too much about it," she admits. "It is just the way it is. And I hate it when you leave, but I understand. I'm good at leaving, too. When you let me."

The corner of his mouth twitches briefly, but he does not smile. She glances down, see that despite the emotion of the moment, he is still aroused. She leans forward and starts to wrap her hand around him, to bring them back to the pleasure and away from the pain, but he stills her. Not, as he normally would, with a hand around her wrist, but with his eyes. They are tight and mostly grey and very strange.

"It's so much easier," he says softly, and she wonders if he is talking to her or to himself. "So much easier to be in control, even in this, when I'm really not."

She nods slowly, because she understands this about him, has understood it since the first time he came to her, soaked through with rain and with a haunted hunger on his face. Adam Trent released her from his grasp and Grissom picked her up, holding her just as tightly with completely different intentions. She is content with the restraints he places upon her, flesh or otherwise, because one of them must be restrained when he cannot be. She is satisfied with the control he exacts, insists upon, because the illusion is necessary.

"I don't mind," she starts to say, but he stops her with the flare in his gaze.

"What if I do?" he asks sharply, and she winces slightly at his tone. "What if this all feels wrong to me now?"

"Why now?" she asks, her voice starting to quaver.

"I don't know," he mutters honestly, and starts to get up.

And she cannot stand it again, the leaving and the confusion and the silent abandonment, even though she has claimed to understand. If controlling the situation, controlling her, is feeling wrong to him, then it is time for things to change. She is trembling, but she is not afraid.

She pushes herself off the bed, around him, coming to stand in front of him. Her hands connect with his shoulders and she pushes him backward, forcefully enough that he tumbles to his back on the bed, his eyes wide and his breath surging out of his chest. He looks startled and ready to react, but she places her knees squarely on either side of his hips and narrows her dark eyes.

"Enough," she whispers, and it is almost a hiss. "You can't leave."

He starts to protest, and she leans forward, pressing a slim hand tightly over his mouth. "No, Gil," she says quietly, and now she is remembering. She will put his name to good use. Tables are turned and now he will not be Grissom and she will not be Sara, but something else and something more. She feels his exhale, hot and heavy, against her palm as she says his first name, and a dark sweetness uncoils in her belly. She reaches for calm and strength that she has never used with him before, and unleashes it.

Slowly, steadily, she crawls up his body, sliding his arms up until they are above his head and she is pinning them down. Wetness pools anew between her thighs at the sight of him, all shades of silver and blue in the ghostly moonlight, trapped beneath her body. She presses her heat down against his stomach, just above his cock, and he groans.

"You need this," she murmurs, uncertain from where the words or the surety behind them is coming. "You need to let go, Gil."

He shakes his head. "Sara…"

"No," she whispers, and bends over him. Her hair tickles his chest just before she bites down over the pulse point in his neck, relishing the taste of his flesh in her mouth. He arches upward, and she can feel the slide of his cock against her ass. She will do what it takes to make this right, and if he needs her to seize his very desperately clung-to control from him by force, she will.

When he arches again, she takes both of his wrists in one hand and reaches behind her with the other to press hard against his hip. Dimly, she is aware that with his strength, he could dislodge her, but she remains content when he does not. "Don't move," she orders, and his eyes darken.

"This isn't what I want," he starts to say, and she is startled by the harsh voice that emerges from her mouth.

"Don't care what you want," she says firmly. "This is what you need."

He opens his mouth to argue and she presses her palm against it again. "Stop talking or I'll make you," she says sharply, and watches with a strange delight as his eyes fly open wide. This is very unlike her. It is not even very like him.

She lifts her palm with the slightest touch of trepidation, allowing his quickened breathing to spill into the quiet air. "How?" he demands, but she hears a quiver behind the words. He is frightened but aroused. She smiles as an answer dances across her brain.

She creeps further up his body until her knees are on either side of his face and her hand is tangled in his thick curls. She cannot see his eyes anymore, and prays that she is as good at interpreting his voice as she thinks she is. She gives no reply to his question, just hovers over his face and sinks her fingers into his hair.

"Sara," he chokes out beneath her, and oh, yes, he is very aroused. Gently, very gently, she tugs his head upward and feels his tongue slide out to taste her. She moans.

"Promise to be quiet?" she asks roughly.

"Never," comes his answering growl, and she cannot help but wonder if he is still resisting so that she can force him to pleasure her, so that she can exhibit the control she has taken over him. No matter; she will play this game until he begs her to stop.

She lowers her hips slightly, moving them in a slow circle as she feels the deliciously wet slide of his tongue dance along her. He has always been good at pleasuring her with his mouth, but she has never felt it like this. It has always been on her back, legs parted, begging him.

And then his hands are sliding free from her grasp, coming up to her hips to pull her down onto his face. She wants to give in so badly, let him use that wonderful tongue on her until she is boneless and shaking, but he is breaking the new rules. With a strength he has underestimated, she yanks away and lifts one leg so she can roll away from him, onto her back beside him. His face is priceless.

"You're not in charge anymore, Gil," she growls, and when he parts his lips to protest again, she loses it.

"Up," she commands, pointing to the head of the bed. He stares at her, and she elaborates, slowly, as if speaking to a child. "Lie on your back on the bed with your head on the pillow." He continues to stare. "Now."

"I can't," he says finally, and she sags, her temporary anger lessening at the smallness of his voice.

"Why not?"

"This isn't how it works," he tells her slowly. "This isn't—I've never done this."


"So, why are you doing this?"

"Why did you do it?" If he cannot obey her, he can at least explain himself to her.

"I—I don't know."

"Yes, you do."


"Just answer me."

"I like feeling in control," he says roughly. He is sitting up now, legs dangling off the edge of the bed, and she tucks her own underneath her in a cross-legged position, deciding to ignore the fact that for this very important and potentially life-changing discussion, they are both naked.

She smiles slightly. "Well, so do I."

"I need it," he adds defensively, and she cocks her head slightly.


"Because I'm terrified!" he spits out, and she flinches back.

"Why?" she asks again, shifting so she can come closer to him, her hands reaching out for his.

He grabs her hands as if he is drowning, and perhaps he is. His eyes are wide and his breath is coming fast as he drags her to him, across him, into his lap. They are all awkward limbs and sliding skin as he says hoarsely, "Because I want this so badly and you are so beautiful and if you leave me I might die and I love you, Sara, I love you."

Everything in the world stops and tilts slightly to the left.

"Oh," she says softly, and then again, "Oh," a bit louder and more wondering. "Oh…"

She kisses him, hard and sweetly, and wraps her arms around his neck. It takes him a moment to realize what she is doing, but when he does, he returns her kiss hesitantly, then with growing fervor. She pulls away at last to suck in one deep, determined breath, and speaks from her heart directly into his.

"Gil, you don't have to tie me down to get me to stay."

Something in his eyes shatters, and she swears he whimpers softly before he kisses her again, really kisses her, with everything she only now realizes he has been holding back. And she waits for him to seize her wrists, to push her backward with his weight heavy and warm against her body, but he never does.

Somehow, the power has shifted, and it is no longer about who is controlling whom, but about who can give the most of themselves the fastest. She is the first to open her mouth; he is the first to break the kiss to trail his tongue down her neck. He brushes his thumb across her intimately in that perfect way that always makes her dizzy; she wraps her hand around him and does the little twist with her wrist as she strokes him that makes him curse. She is not giving in, and he is not taking, and they are both a little overcome with a level of desire previously unreached.

When he lifts her hips to settle her onto his cock, still sitting upright with her tumbled in his lap, she closes her eyes and waits for the delicious sensation that comes every time he fills her. Seconds pass, his hands still warm and slightly calloused against her skin, and she opens her eyes again. He is watching her, and the expression on his face is one she has never seen before.

"I want to be inside you, Sara," he whispers, and she realizes he has been waiting for her to look at him again before saying this. She is about to respond when he adds, softly, pleadingly, "Please."

And now she is the one breaking, and she grabs his shoulders with both hands and drags him to her for a kiss as she moans, "Yes, yes, yes," and he devours her mouth as he thrusts up into her and joins them again.

She cannot hold back the swell of a thousand different emotions as he wraps his arms around her waist and slowly, carefully leans back until she is above him, and he is on his back. She stares down into the most beautiful blue eyes she has ever seen, and begins to cry through her moans, and moan through her tears. She closes her eyes tightly and moves on him, rocking her body slowly until she feels his hands on her hips and gives in to his help, to his upward thrusts, circling her hips against his. When her orgasm overtakes her, her eyes fly open, and he is watching her with the most certain expression of love she has ever seen on another person's face.

It is the most powerful orgasm of her life.

When she comes back to herself, he is still moving inside her, slowly, his face flushed. She leans over his body, pressing a kiss to his lips, and he groans into her mouth.

"Come for me," she whispers, and he groans again. "Please, love."

His thrusts become faster, more erratic, and his breath, hot and sweet, stirs her hair. She presses her lips to his neck, his cheek, moving her hips in slow, sensual circles again. His breath catches, and she takes the role he has given up and assumes it again, just for a moment. He has said please, and now she will give him something back.

She lifts herself up just enough to look into his eyes, still welcoming his hard, shallow thrusts. This is not something to be whispered into his ear, but declared to his face.

"Gil," she murmurs, and his eyes go a little wide.

"Sara," he pants out, hips bucking up into hers.

"You're mine."

His head arches back, strong throat exposed to her mouth, and groans out his climax, eyes clenched shut as he growls her name over and over. Her own eyes drift shut at the pleasure of feeling him give himself up to her, releasing every bit of desire and pleasure and—now, she knows—love for her.

He rolls them over until she is beneath him again, the most familiar of positions, but his hands do not press hers to the bed. She luxuriates in wrapping them around him, in tracing circles and other shapes on his back as his breathing slows.

"Sara," he whispers, and she gazes up into his face.


"No one—" He sucks in a needy breath. "No one has ever said that to me before."

She smiles, wickedly, lovingly. "It's never been true for anyone else."

He exhales sharply, and for a moment she wonders if she is going to inspire him to take her again from the lust-darkening of his eyes. But he simply leans over and kisses her, thoroughly and slowly, before declaring, "You're mine, too, you know."

Pleasure still shudders through her at the possessiveness of his tone. Were he not so covetous of control, he would not be the man she has pined for most of her adult life. His careful adherence to self-discipline is what makes him so beautiful when it is torn away, and she knows now that she is perhaps the only one who can do so.

"I do know," she replies seriously. He smiles and lifts himself from her, pulling her into his arms. This, too, is familiar, for he has always been affectionate with her. The warmth of his body lends her a new sense of security, and she presses her lips to his chest. "And I love you too."

The tightening of his embrace around her is the only response to her words, but it is enough. She drifts off to sleep in his arms.