by November Tuesday

“Nick and Warrick, DB at the Bellaggio. Catherine, B and E on Broad Street. Sara, meet me in my office in ten and bring your coat.”

Sara sat there for a minute, glassy eyed, as the other CSI’s left.

“Sara?”

The brunette started upon hearing her name. “Coming.”

.

Grissom was strangely unoccupied when she entered the office a few minutes later. She was carrying her coat and bag. It was the first time she had seen him at his desk without having his head buried in work.

“Is something wrong?” Her words were thick and slow.

“Sara, when was the last time you slept?”

“Dunno.”

He stood up and grabbed his jacket. “Come on.”

.

Sara was quiet in the Tahoe. The city lights bled into each other and hurt her eyes but she couldn’t look away. It didn’t occur to her for quite a while to ask where they were going.

“I’m taking you home.” he said.

She glanced at him momentarily, his handsome profile caught in the silvery light, eyes bright and alert. She allowed herself to fantasize about those words for a second, but, like all her other thoughts, that one dissolved into the mix.

“Why are you taking me home?” she asked. She opened her eyes and saw that they were in front of her apartment building, and only then did she realize that the car had stopped. She realized that she was really slipping.

“Because you’re incapacitated.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay.” She fumbled with the door handle as he got out and came to her side. She glanced at him as he opened the door. His jaw was dark with stubble. She loved it like that, wanted to touch it.

“I’m sorry,” she repeated. “I tried to sleep.”

“It’s okay.”

“Thanks,” she said.

“Come on. I’m walking you in.”

Sara walked inside, aware only of trying not to trip on the steps leading to her building.

“Give me your keys.” he said, and she blinked. She didn’t understand why he wanted them. Didn’t she normally open her door?

She fished the keys from her pocket and held them up. “Thank you,” he said quietly, and opened the door.

Inside, he glanced around the apartment. Everything was immaculate, and it smelled of cleansers. He knew what she’d been doing all day for the last three days.

He went to her stove, and began filling the kettle with water. She watched him, aimless, with fascination. She loved the way he moved.

Grissom turned on the stove and put the tea kettle on. When he turned she was still standing there in the open door.

“Sara, shut and lock your door.”

“Oh.” She did this, and then looked dumbly at him. She slipped out of her coat but despite the meticulous order of the apartment, she didn’t seem to know where to put it.

Grissom walked over and took the coat from her limp fingers.

“Go put on your pajamas and get in bed.”

Hearing the word “bed” from his sensual lips made her momentarily aware, cognizant of nothing but the fissure of desire beginning inside her. She stupidly looked at him.

“Go,” he said gently. His hand was on her ear, pushing her hair back. She closed her eyes and teetered for a second toward his touch, then she went.

She felt the exhaustion in her body as she stripped out of her clothes and let them fall to the floor. She slipped into an oversized Harvard tee shirt and stared at the wall. What else had he told her to do? Her brows wrinkled in an effort to remember. There were two things. Get into pajamas, and...

Oh, get into bed. She could do that. The bed was neatly made with a pale violet comforter, a quilt folded neatly at the foot.

She laid down and the sudden change of position made it seem as if the room were spinning. Vestibular disorientation, she thought idly and closed her eyes. She heard him rummaging through her cabinets, the shutting of a cabinet door, the clink of a mug on the counter, the wheezing that signified the beginning of the kettle’s whistle.

She closed her eyes and saw pictures in her head. Most involved the triple murder they had just finished. The show went on and on.

We got him, she had to keep reminding herself, because every time she forgot. He was in jail, but still the mother and two babies were dead. Would always be dead.

Someone was in the room with her. She startled, eyes wide open.

“It’s okay,” he whispered. “It’s just me.”

She nodded without speaking.

“Sit up.” She did so, and he propped her pillows behind her back.

“Smells like Sleepytime,” she mumbled.

“It is. With milk and sugar.” He handed her the steaming mug.

She drank. It was hot.

“What happens when you try to sleep?” She felt the world shift under her and she realized that he was sitting on her bed, looking at her intently.

She sipped again, then spoke. “If you took every crime scene photo you ever saw and put it into a slide projector.”

“How long has this been going on?”

“Just this case. Usually I can eventually trick myself into sleeping.”

“Why doesn’t it work now?”

“Dunno.”

He was quiet and regarded her as she closed her eyes. The hollows under her eyes worried him.

“Have you ever seen a specialist?”

“I have an appointment on the eighteenth.”

“Good.”

She was quiet, eyes again closed, and if he didn’t know better he would think she was sleeping. His eyes darted to the low V-neck of her nightgown, the valley of cleavage that showed. He wanted her; he had wanted her for years. Lately things had been … escalating. Sexual tension, flirtation. He was teetering on the edge of breaking all the rules he’d set after she had come to Vegas.

“Drink some more tea.” he whispered, and she did.

“Good,” she whispered, and set it on the nightstand.

“Done?”

“Yeah.”

“Lie down.” he said, and she did. When she was fully reclining she opened her eyes and looked at him. He just stared at her.

He touched her hair, caressing the place where it met her forehead, and her eyes fluttered shut. He kept doing this, and she let out a low moan in her throat. He didn’t know if she was aware of even making the sound, but it made him instantly hard.

He swallowed, but didn’t stop stroking her hair.

Her breathing was becoming more slow and even, but he sensed she was still awake. As if she could hear his thoughts her eyes opened.

She licked her lips and opened them slightly, as if she were going to speak, but she didn’t. She felt his thumb move slowly from her forehead to her temple.

She began to moan but then bit it back. He stared at the lip she was biting. And in that second, he made his decision.

He moved his fingers down the length of her cheek, and ghosted over her lips. He could feel her surprised exhalation on the backs of his fingers, and it made him want to touch her again. She sucked the tip of his index finger into her mouth ever so slightly, and it was his turn to moan.

Her eyes opened and she didn’t move her gaze from his lips, as he moved down to her collarbone, tracing each hollow, then down lower to the valley shadowed by her breasts. He hesitated for only a second, then moved his hand underneath the fabric to touch her.

She writhed once and moaned as he rubbed his thumb over her nipple. He drank in the way she looked, eyes half-closed, mouth open, breath audible in the air. She nearly stopped breathing as his hand moved to her other breast, slowly, and circled its nipple. They were hard for him and he felt a corresponding surge in his pants.

He removed his hand and moved it over her nightgown, down her waist, down her belly. When she realized where he was heading her eyes went wide and she met his eyes, suddenly utterly, acutely awake. He didn’t see any censure there, though, so he kept moving, peeling the covers back, moving down over her hip. He stopped and flirted at the line where the hem of her nightgown met skin, then his fingers slipped under and he gently ran his nails up her thigh.

She made another noise that almost sounded pained, but he saw her eyes fluttering and knew better. He wasn’t sure if she was ready for him to continue. He wasn’t sure if he was ready for it. Then the moment passed.

He reached up under, marveling at how long her legs were. Her skin was silky warm but he focused on her chest that rose and fell, the sound of her breath.

He reached the juncture of her legs and could feel the damp warmth there. No panties, he noticed. He lifted her nightgown up and watched her as he touched, first around her inner thighs, then closer to the cleft. His fingers ghosted around her flesh. His heart pounded like a trip hammer as he watched her toss her head back and forth.

“Grissom,” she whispered roughly.

“Stop?”

“No!”

“Is this okay?” She met his eyes briefly, wide open and baby blue, for a fleeting second before closing them again.

“Godyes. I need … don’t stop.”

“No?”

“No!” With his second and fourth fingers he spread her, and with the middle he pressed her clit. He moved his finger very slowly back and forth, closing his eyes at the gorgeous sounds she was making.

“Ohgod. I wanted...”

“Yeah?”

“I wanted--”

“It’s okay, sweetheart, what do you want?”

“Oooh, don’t stop.”

He turned his hand over and sank two fingers into her. For a second he just sat there stupefied at the heat and wetness there. He curled his fingers up toward the thumb that was now on her clit, rubbing and rubbing. She arched and wove like a sidewinder, grinding herself down onto his hand.

He watched her parted lips as she whimpered something unintelligible. He realized that having done this, he would never, ever be able to stop. He was on the other side. Everything would change.

For the time being, however, he focused on Sara. She was moving and moaning and making delicate little whimpering sounds that made the head of his cock ooze.

“Grissom!”

“Yeah?”

“Oh, fuck, what are you doing to me?”

He opened his mouth to ask if she was complaining but she began to shake and spasm.

“I’m making you come. I want to make you come so hard, Sara. Let go, honey, come for me.”

Her hand clasped down on the hand that wasn’t ministering to her and her nails dug in. She began keening. He never dreamed she would be so loud.

“Oh, god, you’re killing me! Just a little more! Dontstop!”

“I won’t, I promise.”

He pressed harder with his thumb and began to rub faster. The effect was immediate. He watched in wonder as she began to shake from head to toe, legs quivering and spasming. He could feel her tighten, and tighten, and then she let out a piercing shriek and came around his fingers, muscles tensing and releasing in a crescendo of joy, them whimpering and whispering things he couldn’t understand and he doubted she did either.

He had never been so turned on in his life.

Slowly, lovingly, he withdrew his hand. Her eyes were fluttering shut, breasts heaving with her breath. His hand was slick and he brought it to his mouth. He inhaled her, his own eyes closing at her scent. Then he licked his fingers clean.

He was suddenly aware that she was watching. She seemed to be having trouble keeping her eyes open. He blushed scarlet as could be. She smiled.

He kissed her forehead gently, but didn’t move from there for a long time. He nuzzled her skin with his own, then pulled the covers back up over her.

“Sleep,” she whispered, reaching a hand up toward him, as if in explanation, or apology.

“Sleep,” he agreed, squeezing her hand, stroking the hair back from her face, touching that area between ear and temple where the hairs wanted to curl, the spot that he’d long ago decided was his favorite part of her.

She was quiet, her breathing deep and even. He stood up slowly, satisfied that the shifting of the bed didn’t wake her.

“Sara?” he whispered. When she didn’t answer, he was satisfied that she was asleep, and he turned and left her apartment.