nc-17 | sexual content
She always tastes too sweet, like the homemade ice cream Patty's mother used to make. Always, always, too sweet on her tongue.
You catch her watching you, as you pull Chapstick out of your pocket, glide it over your lips. Perhaps there's someway to do this more seductively, but you suddenly feel clumsy, like every date you ever had in high school, too long legs and frizzy hair, somewhere in the back of your mind, always thinking that this was a joke, somehow, a trick. That was before you became more comfortable in your skin, before you grew into your lanky frame. Before you discovered anti-frizz shampoo and the fact that some people found the gap in your teeth attractive.
"Third one in as many weeks," she says unnecessarily. As if you haven't been keeping track. "Can't imagine who would have it out for convicted sex offenders."
It's one of those pointless comments that doesn't warrant a response, so you just pop your Chapstick back in your pocket, sliding your hand down your thigh as you do. Catherine's taking pictures, and for some reason, the flash hurts your eyes.
Nick puts his hand on the small of your back for the briefest of moments, as he passes by to grab an evidence bag out of your kit. You flinch, for no good reason, and your gaze flits to her again. She's not even looking. Your heart is pounding. There's this irrational thought that he could smell her on you.
This is why you're wary of office relationships.
Well, one reason.
And her skin, salty, too salty, like the odd salt-and-vinegar chip that makes your eyes water and close.
Grissom is in the lab, rewinding some tape over and over. He purses his lips, taps his finger on them as if he's lost in deep thought. You were impressed by that once, but now it just seems like an affectation. You stop short, spin on your heel, but it's too late; he's seen you.
"Uh ... Sara."
You know your smile is a bit too forced, too thin, but you can't manage to fix it. He invades your personal space, elbow brushing your breast as he shows you lab results. You're sure it's intentional.
He still uses that tone when he talks to you, touch of condescension with a heavy dose of arrogance. He's still the teacher, you're still the student, in his mind, anyway. You've evolved; he can't see it. Won't see it.
She interrupts him, file folder in her hand, glint in her eye, smile on her face, and you know that although he thinks he's the one who's broken the case, she's the one who has actually put her hands on the evidence that will nail the bastard. She hands him the file, careful to avoid physical contact with you.
Her arm is inches away from your chest, but your nipples harden in response anyway. You're sure he notices. He notices everything.
And you're sure he thinks it's his doing.
Everything here is bitter, as if every wrong that she's suffered is distilled, purified, amplified, and poured into her essence. You dig your nails into her thighs.
You dream, sometimes, of arrests where everything runs smooth, just like on TV. The perp confesses, slumps down in the chair, reveals every bit of the evil plan. No guns, no fighting, no silly professions of innocence.
Because this, this is ridiculous.
"Let's not get anyone else hurt," you hear her saying.
You can't see her. Warrick has you pressed against the Tahoe, and you find yourself realizing that if the guy somehow took the perfect shot, he could pierce his heart and yours, two birds with one stone. You don't like being sandwiched here. It reminds you too much of a night three weeks ago, smiling against her lips, your hips pushing into hers, cold metal on skin, causing gooseflesh to rise.
"Fuck you, you fuckin' whore," is his response. Two more shots, then you hear, "He's down."
She stands up too quickly, gun in hand, and you almost blurt out an admonishment. He's down, yes, but as you peer over the hood, you can see that he's still moving, gun in hand.
"Be careful," you whisper. Warrick thinks you're talking to him.
Like lemons, when you lick her off your fingers. You try not to make a face. You're sure you don't taste much better.
You feel cornered, like he's pinning you to the floor with his eyes, like you might get shot through the heart if you try to flee. The conversation is pointless, banal, and you can see where he's going. Subtle attempts to detour him have failed.
You're really not big on confrontations. Or at least, you're not big on confrontations with your boss on this particular topic.
"I'm busy," you reply when he makes a fumbling attempt to ask you to dinner. "I don't think so," when he offers a rain check.
"Is it too late?" You hate him. "Did I ... did I wait too long?" You hate him for that voice, that pitiful, nearly broken voice.
It's as if she's psychic, knocking on his door and barging in before you get a chance to respond. Her blue shirt has three buttons undone, hinting at the ample breasts beneath. Her fingers are curled around the edge of a knife, wrapped in an evidence bag. The smile on her face tells you that the lab discovered something. Your knowledge of the case tells you this collar won't be any easier than the last.
You worry for her, even as the thought of her wielding her gun turns you on.
"Good work," he says. She smiles as she leaves; it's directed at you.
Long pause, almost awkward. Almost.
"I've moved on," you whisper. He'll probably think your tone is colored by regret.
Blood on your tongue, as you bite your lip, as she eases her fingers out of you, as your cell phone goes off.