It was hot in the apartment with the air conditioning out. The middle of July, and he was stuck without air conditioning in a townhouse that trapped heat. Sara was over with casefiles, all the windows were open, and he was still miserable. He had his token fan on the table, had all the case papers held down with paperweights, and it wasn't enough. And to top it off, his mind wasn't on the heat or the cases. It was on Sara.
The sweltering temperature had hit her immediately, and she'd shrugged off the lightweight over-shirt she wore. The undershirt was a stretchy white cotton small enough to hug her curves and thin enough that he could see the color change where her bra ended and her flesh began. He wondered if the bra was thick enough to hide her nipples when they peaked from pleasure.
The shirt was soaked through, a musky, sweaty smell emanating from her as she tried to pretend obliviousness to the stifling air. The cotton had turned translucent, and he kept imagining how it would feel to cup one breast in his palm, to weigh it and measure it using only his sense of touch. Dragging his eyes away from the small mounds did nothing to alleviate his tension. There was a quiet happiness in her eyes, despite the heat, that he wondered about. And her gaze kept skimming downwards briefly. For a strangled moment, he wondered if she could see the bulge in his lap and shifted so that he was hidden by the table.
The heat fogged his brain, made everything seem slow and slightly surreal. He kept dreaming waking dreams of caressing her breast, of bringing the nipple to a rock-hard torment before suckling it. They'd discussed their relationship once, before Las Vegas, before the plant, before everything, and had decided that mutual sexual attraction was not enough for either of them. He'd been such a fool . . .
He dreamt of her sigh as his fingertips explored the edge of her bra through the shirt. Was this all just fantasy for him? The strange thought echoed in his head until he looked up at her and read the same thoughts in her brain. He rose suddenly, his chair clattering unheeded to the floor, and she reached out, touching his hip. He looked down at the hand, saw the tented fabric beside it, and flushed deeply. But he didn't pull away, didn't stop her. He wanted this, wanted her touching him, wanted to touch her in return.
"I dream about you," she offered. He hushed her immediately, savagely. He might lose his nerve if they talked it out, and he didn't want that to happen. Too many nights of laying awake, trying to capture what his imagination supplied using his own touch and his knowledge of her, too many nights of dreaming of her. Such a fool . . .
He reached down, taking the slender hand that still rested on his hip and drawing it to his member. Her eyes were huge, questioning pools he longed to drown in. He touched the top of her bra and was pleased when her audible sigh matched the one in his imagination. He knew her so well already, what would this change, really? He already saw the radiance that was her soul. All that was left was to explore the beauty her body offered.
She rose abruptly, her hand leaving his body as she walked away from him. He nearly cried out in pain. How could he be so ready to make love to her when he'd been fighting the knowledge for so long, when he'd barely even begun to truly pleasure her? He expected her to demand to know what was in his head, expected her to leave. But she didn't. Instead, he heard water running in the bathroom, and then she was back, holding a wet washcloth.
The case papers were swept aside, fluttering all over the floor. They'd have to pick them up later, have to organize them before returning the case files to his office. Organization was the last thing on his mind. She lay the washcloth on the table, then touched the buttons of his shirt, undoing them one after another. Air hit his chest, cooling the sweat there and drying it to a sticky film that made him uncomfortable. As she worked, he touched her breasts, trying to make the nipple visible with gentle caresses. It worked.
He said nothing of love, and she accepted the silence, aware that he was too afraid of where it might lead to tell her his true feelings. For gentle, clueless Grissom, she could handle this once without the words. Because she understood, she also didn't offer any compliments or loving phrases. Silence was the course of the day.
He reached under her shirt, undoing her brassiere with surprising ease and drawing it from her without ever removing the thin cotton. Her aureolas were dusky, wrinkled with her passion. He bent down, capturing one in his mouth and sucking it through her t-shirt. The fabric was salty with her sweat, and he loved the taste. In his mouth, her nipple hardened further, a little knot of pleasure his tongue explored while she panted.
His hand found the juncture of her thighs, rubbing it through her jeans. She thrust against him, moving with his hand as she found greater pleasure. How could he ever have imagined that she wouldn't welcome his touch? She seemed to revel in it. Did he love her? The question popped unbidden into his mind, the intrusion as unwelcome as her earlier statement. He waved it away, well aware that a small part of his brain was already answering the question affirmatively.
Finally free of his shirt obsession, he swept it off of her, grabbing the wet washcloth and smoothing it over her breasts and belly. She was streamline curvaceous, no spare flesh or muscle yet still soft to the touch. Her abdomen quivered as the cool cloth lowered the heat briefly. It was too hot for touching, and yet he was having to hold himself back.
Her jeans and underwear followed her shirt, and his remaining clothes were discarded just as quickly. He wanted it to last, wanted suddenly for this whole situation to never have existed so that he could take her out, could do things right, could be romantic. But they were both too far gone for that, too wanting. One touch at her center revealed her readiness. She was slick with needing him.
He met her eyes as his hands slid around to cup her rear, drawing her up and apart. He slid into her, impaling her as he whispered in her ear. "I'm sorry," he breathed, apologizing for not speaking the words she wanted to hear, for not being romantic, for doing things all wrong.
Their chests were pressed together, their cheeks touching as he made slow, silent love to her. Her body responded easily, almost as though to emphasize how perfect they were together. When they came, it was a simultaneous explosion of light and feeling. Still they were silent, only their harsh breathing audible. He held her against him, cradling the most important person to him as he tried to summon up the words to explain exactly how he felt about her. 'I love you' suddenly seemed far too trite.
She pulled away before he could say anything, and she smiled miserably at him before gathering her clothes and pulling them on hurriedly. He followed her example numbly, not comprehending enough to stop her. When she walked to his door, he followed like a good host. She turned, her eyes flickering over the scattered papers and then the table, still holding the washcloth. Her eyes bright with unshed tears when she finally looked at him. "I'm sorry, too, Grissom." And then she was gone.