A fic for you Kay, for your birthday. As though you didn't know... that was the occasion.
A weathered finger beneath a taut elastic band, pushing, pulling, teasing.
Sara wasn't sure what she'd been expecting, but it hadn't been this certainly. Not a patient skimming of skin, a lethargic journey of lips against collarbone and calf. His hands were chapped and his body round and pliant in places that-on the male body-she didn't know should be pliant, she didn't know if she liked
But she liked-more than liked-him and it was enough to spur her hands to press into his hips and his biceps and hold his cheeks in place as she kissed him as he deserved to be kissed.
Of course, she was a realist, she knew that he wouldn't be laid out (so to speak) the same as any of the men she had been with previous; the utter nuance of her hand against his skin as compared to everything she had touched before, it was difficult to catalogue.
His chest wasn't hairy like she thought it would be; in her mind she'd imagined him with a hairy chest. Sara liked
him with a hairy chest. Not that she wasn't turned on by the smooth skin, it just... wasn't what she expected. Fantasy was meeting reality and it was something akin to a storm front, warm air meeting cool, creating electricity and sound and movement.
Nothing was as she expected it to be; and it was frightening to her.
But still, Sara hadn't steeled herself for the way he might look at her; his eyes, oh. In her head, during day and night dreams she had speculated on what they would look like, but something was always missing, something was always intensely... just fake, perfectly fabricated and so fake.
Now, well, there was light refracting in them, she was sure, surrounded by lashes that were longer than her own. Different. Different, everything was new and different and new
; frightening, she shivered.
And Grissom didn't stop looking, didn't stop allowing her
to look into him as the pad of his thumb slid agonizingly slow and light over her clit.
A groan was her answer (she sounded the same as she had in her fantasies, and that calmed her some), and with a roll of her hips and a shrug of her shoulders, she was flat on her back and he was hovering over her, to the side. Looking, oh, looking. He never really looked
at her in her thoughts, he just did
. Grissom moved, slid, kissed, nipped, spoke, groaned, moaned, licked but never saw her.
He was seeing her. Right then. Really just, just seeing her. Detailing every pore, it seemed, every scar, every freckle and hair.
It was unsettling. Even with his fingers sliding against her sex, she was unsettled and didn't know how to settle herself once more.
The tone in which he spoke to her-rich, deep, promising and more than a little lighthearted-wasn't something she'd been ready to hear.
He gave her pause then, when he laid two knuckles beneath her chin and lifted her face to his. "Hey," he breathed through a lazy smile, "You with me?"
She was, she really was, when he moved his hand to her lower abdomen and stroked; she was with him, learning him, doing away with fantasy in favor of a reality that she'd wanted to expect, but that was so thoroughly surprising.
"Yeah, I'm with you."