Author's Note: Please read this before you continue! There are references to religion in this story, and it takes place in a Catholic church. And it is rated M. All this should tell you something, especially if you've read my other GSR works. This was meant to be beautiful, but if you are religious and would find sexual situations within a religious setting blasphemous or offensive, PLEASE do not read further. I do not wish to offend anyone. Grissom and Sara also sometimes work in mysterious ways. If you do read and find yourself offended, please do not flame me. I have given ample warning. For those of you who have no worries, please enjoy! This is told from Sara's POV.

Disclaimer: If they were mine, my stories would come true. Every single one. With me in the middle, or holding the camera.

I walk slowly down the unfamiliar aisle, feeling a little shaky. I gave up believing in God the day my father died, and being in a place designated by the religious as his house makes me uncomfortable. Brilliant sheets of stained glass cast faintly colored glows onto the crimson carpeted floor, the scarred oak of the pews. Only candles and moonlight illuminate the church, but it is enough for me to see him sitting on the left side of the sanctuary, four pews from the altar. His head is bowed.

"Are you praying?" I know he will hear the intimate softness of my voice, the familiar descending cadence of my questions that he swears I save almost solely for him. His head lifts, but he does not turn to me.


I pause at the edge of his pew, wondering what I should do. To genuflect seems disrespectful; in contrast with the Catholics for whom the gesture might hold meaning, I am an unbeliever who worships at the altar of science, and occasionally at the body of the man who occupies this room with me. I lower my head briefly and slide into the pew beside him.

"Then what are you doing?"


I lace my hand through his. "Couldn't you do that at home?"

He shakes his head. "I needed some time alone."

It stings, but I ignore it. "You could just ask me to leave for awhile."

"Why? It wasn't your fault."

"It's your home."

His hand tightens on mine. "It's our home."

I give up and sit beside him in silence, holding his hand. He is studying the flicker of candles on a small prayer table to the side of the room. The air is perfumed with lilies, and I absently trace the days in my head. Easter is this Sunday. That explains it.

I have no idea what he is thinking about, but I find myself distracted as I gaze around the empty room. The altar is bare, probably in preparation for the sacraments or an elegant floral display, and covered with a dark cloth. The pews are wide, spaced apart, and thickly padded with dark blue fabric. The candles and moonlight are oddly romantic, especially with the delicate play of colors from the windows. It is beautiful here.

My mind drifts of its own accord to images decidedly unholy. He is standing behind me, my body bent over a pew…I am sprawled across the empty altar, writhing beneath him…he is dripping hot wax from a candle we have lit ourselves down the length of my skin…

I am stunned to realize that I am contemplating this house of worship through the lens of a sexual playground. Before Grissom, I don't think such a thing would ever have occurred to me.


I turn to him, aware that I have been almost crushing his fingers in mine. "Yes?"

"What are you doing?"

I parrot his earlier words. "Thinking."

His thumb strokes the back of my hand. "About what?"

"Oh, a lot of things."

"Sara, how long have you known me?"

I arch an eyebrow at the unexpected question and answer flippantly. "About as long as you've known me."

He smiles faintly. "Would you say I'm observant?"

My other eyebrow arches in surprise. "Well, yes, Extremely."

"Keen senses?"

"Definitely. Why?"

"I can smell you."

My thighs clench together, and I flush hotly. He has commented before that the scent of my arousal is the most intoxicating thing he has ever encountered, but I did not think he would be able to detect it just sitting beside me. I dig my nails into my thigh, wondering if I should curse or delight in the fact that I am, in an out-of-character move, wearing a skirt tonight.

"Tell me what you were thinking about." His voice is soft, commanding.

"I can't," I protest. "This really isn't the time or the place."

"It was the time and place for you to become aroused by the thoughts."

"I'm sorry if I offended you," I say quickly. "Look, I'll go home. Just wake me up when you come in, all right? I don't want to worry about you."

"Sara." As always, his firmness stems the flow of my words. "You know how I feel about religion. This is just a quiet place for me to think. You haven't offended me."

I swallow. "If I tell you, it's just going to be that much harder to get it out of my head."

He smiles wickedly, and I catch it even in the darkness. "I can drive it from your mind, my dear."

A fresh wave of arousal courses through me. Grissom is a master of the double entendre, I have discovered, but it is always well-crafted and sophisticated, never stooping to low or crass humor. I love it about him.

"I have to go home," I murmur, pressing my legs together. "Don't be long."

His hand on my knee stops me. "If you won't tell me, I'll just have to imagine."

Thinking of him sitting alone in this church, trying to picture what I have been contemplating and being affected by it, sends a whole new set of erotic images crashing through my mind. I am actually turned on by the idea of him touching himself here, in this pew, thinking of me.

I sincerely hope hell is as fictional as I suspect it is.

His hand slides up my thigh on a familiar trajectory, pushing my skirt up with his wrist, until his fingers encounter wet satin. A soft sound escapes my lips.

"Grissom. Not here."

"Why not here?" he purrs, curving his finger against me. "You were thinking about here."

"You don't know that," I pant softly. His finger is creating delightful sensations, and I want to arch up into his hand.

"I think it's an educated guess based on the evidence at hand." He slips that errant finger beneath the fabric separating it from my skin, and I jerk away, breathing hard.

"I can't do this."

"But you can think about it." His voice is a little hard.

"It's not the same thing."

"What are you afraid of?" he asks softly. I tense.

"I'm not afraid, Grissom. I just think it's disrespectful."

"To whom?"

"The people who come here to worship, to pray, to connect with something bigger than themselves that grants their life meaning. They would be horrified."

"They're not here." He lifts my wrist and plants a kiss on the soft skin on the inside of it. He knows that spot makes me shiver, and he is exploiting it shamelessly.

"I know, but—"

"Let go, Sara," he says in a low voice. "Don't think, or worry, or try to get inside everyone else's heads. Just be here, now, with me." He gently bites that spot on the inside of my wrist, and I groan inadvertently, my head falling back a little.

"What do you want, love?" It is his favorite nickname for me, and I adore it. I turn heated dark eyes to him.

"You," I murmur, trailing my fingers over his cheek. "Always you."

He uses his grip on my wrist to tug me to my feet, to twist me so that when I come down again, I am facing him, straddling his lap. My skirt has slid up around my hips, and I am a bit stunned at how aroused he is against me. I rock my hips forward a little, and he bites back a moan.

Our hands fumble together to tug clothing out of the way, and within moments he is inside me, his hands gently guiding me up and down on him. I let myself move slowly, sensuously, because the thoughtful, studied movements seem more appropriate in this still and lovely place. His eyes as they trail over my body seem almost reverent, and I realize that I am perhaps the only thing he worships in this life. It is a heady revelation.

As always, he fills me completely, perfectly, and his fingers know precisely the places to seek out and the ways to touch them that will drive me insane. I was amazed the first time we were together by how skilled and attentive he was, almost seeming to know my body better than I did. He takes his hands from my hips, allowing me to continue the pace we have set, and slips one between our bodies, seeking out my clit. One finger torments me there, while his other hand closes tenderly around my breast, effectively drawing a moan from my lips as he scraps a nail across my nipple through the fabric covering it.

"Grissom," I breathe into the scented air, thick with the perfume of lilies and our arousal. His finger circles faster between my thighs, and he lowers his head to my neck, gently biting the place where my neck and shoulder meet. I start to lose my sense of rhythm as my pleasure hits a peak, and his hands smoothly cover my hips and hold me still so he can arch up into me, truly driving all other thoughts from my mind as he takes me through my orgasm. I am startled when, as I come back to the present, he gently lifts me from him and settles me back on his thighs. He is still completely hard.

"What are you doing?" I ask him breathlessly. His eyes are very dark, and I cannot resist closing my hand around him, stroking him as I wait for his response. When it comes, it is low, choked.

"Taste me, Sara."

I arch an eyebrow. I have been with him long enough to know this is a unique request, and not simply because he rarely suggests that I take him with my mouth. No, with Grissom, this particular phrasing is a specific request. He is the only man I have ever known who can climax from just the stimulation of a tongue. He, in fact, enjoys it more than I ever thought possible. He has only mentioned it twice, and asked for it once. That is, before tonight.

I slide to my knees in front of him and rest my cheek on the inside of his thigh, feeling the coarse hairs there rasp against my skin. I run my tongue along him, base to tip, and feel him shudder. He is already so close from our lovemaking that I know this will not take long. I taste the unusual combination of our bodies, sweet and salty and a little sharp, and make a small sound of contentment as I continue my ministrations. He likes it when I cover every bit of him with long strokes, my tongue flat and a little hard against him. I like to trace complicated whorls on the most sensitive part, like I am drawing the fingerprint of our passion onto his skin. I love the way he tastes, the way he feels, and that I can finish him this way. After several torturous minutes, he groans out my name in that possessive growl he uses just before orgasm, and I wrap my lips around him, making sure every drop of his climax is neatly captured by my mouth.

He breathes heavily as I lean my head against his thigh again, his fingers running through my hair. When he has recovered, we both work to adjust our clothing, and then he laces his fingers through mine and leads me from the church.

On the drive home, we are both quiet until we have almost reached our destination. Then, he reaches out and rests his hand on my leg. "Are you all right?"

"I'm wonderful," I tell him, and he can hear the honesty in my voice. I can feel some of the tension drain out of him.

"I thought you might be upset. Because—because I didn't let you leave."

"I didn't really want to," I confessed. "But I was trying to be good."

His smile lights the darkness. "I don't love you because you're good. I love you because you are very, very…good."

I pretend to be offended. "Is that all?"

He squeezes my knee. "There aren't enough words for 'all,' Sara."

Tears spring to my eyes, as they always do when he is particularly sweet or tender. I clear my throat. "And—and are you all right?"

"Of course." His voice is a little gruff.

"Well, I mean, it's your religion, not mine."

"Not mine, either," he reminds me again. "Heaven is heaven when you are beside me, and hell is the pain of your absence."

I frown, wracking my brain for the source of the quote. I give in and ask, "Who said that?"

The corners of his mouth turn up. "I did. Just now."

Everything in me heats and melts and spills over into my eyes. "Grissom."

He parks the car, turns to me in the silver glow of moonlight. "I love you," he says softly, seriously. "Everywhere you are is sacred to me. No place could be defiled or made lesser by the presence and demonstration of my love and desire for you." A touch of humor creeps into his voice. "I wasn't expecting what happened tonight to happen, there, but I am not upset or disappointed. I'll just find a new place to think."

I frown a little. "Why do you have to find a new place to think?"

He grins as he shuts off the engine. "I think I'm going to find church a little distracting from now on."