nc-17 | sexual content

You just missed our turn.

I don't point this fact out to you. You're well aware of it, I'm sure. I don't know why you drove right past our exit, but in spite of everything, I still trust you. Fancy that.

I must be crazy.

You've hardly spoken a dozen words to me since we left CSI. I know how to do my job, and you pretty much just let me do it.

Shift's been over for two hours now, but I don't think I'll go home when we get back. There's paperwork that needs to be done. Besides, what's waiting for me at home? I don't even have a cat. I'll turn off the police scanner, but then glance up from my book every once in a while, wondering if I should turn it back on. I'll eat one of those pitiful single serving microwave dishes that's made just for sad people like me who live alone.

I think I'll just put in some overtime.

You don't question me anymore when I put in the request. You authorize the extra time, and I've started to wonder if you just want me to work myself to death.

You stop the car.

Now I turn to you.

You have an aggravated look on your face. You've been wearing it all night, even before the call came in and you pulled me off the B&E I was working with Nick.

Is it me?

You twist the keys in the ignition and pull them out with a ferocity I'm not accustomed to seeing on you.

It's not the case. The preliminary evidence seems to indicate that the wife killed her husband for the insurance money. She's not particularly smart. It was pretty damn obvious. It's not the kind of case that normally affects you, if cases even affect you at all anymore.

You fling open your door and step outside, shuffling away from me as quickly as you can.

Something's wrong.

I wait a second before exiting.

You've crossed the road and you stand on the other side. Your hands are on your hips and your face is raised up to the sky, almost as if you're in prayer. I can't tell whether your eyes are open or not.

I'm not sure where we are. The literal middle of nowhere, quite possibly.

It's late, but this is the desert, and it's balmy out here. The moon is out, illuminating our little section of the world, but a thin layer of sweat still clings to my skin. You're wearing pants and a long sleeved shirt, but the heat doesn't seem to bother you at all.

I walk over to you because I'm at a loss of what else to do.

You hear me approach and turn around, almost as if you had forgotten that I was here.

There really is a smudge of dirt on your face this time. My thumb slides over it, but it doesn't disappear.

Your fingers wrap around my wrist. Your hand is cold.

You know that expression, 'cold hands, warm heart?' I always believed it.

Until I met you.

"Sara, you don't understand."

You talk to me like I'm a child.

"Then make me understand."

You shake your head. But you don't let go. Your thumb traces some pattern on my skin. Everything seems to get blurry as I step closer to you. Your eyes dart from side to side as your mouth quavers. You look like a deer caught in the headlights.

If I could just kiss you...I could make you mine.

Arrogance, perhaps. Selfishness. Greed. I want to trap you, I guess. You own my heart, and I want to make sure that I have ownership of yours.

You're going to pull back. Push me away. Something. You won't let me get close.

When our lips meet, I think my heart may burst.

They're much warmer than your hands, which have abandoned my wrists. Your arms are around me and you're stroking my back.

I knew you wanted me. Well, I knew you found me sexually attractive.

I wasn't sure if you loved me. Now I have my answer.

You couldn't kiss someone like this if you didn't love her.

At least, that's what I'm going to tell myself.

Neither of us is paying attention as you guide me across the road. It's dangerous, I suppose. But I don't hear any traffic. Somehow, you get us back to the car. You're fumbling with your keys and eventually, you get the door open. It's only when you push me inside that I realize it's the backseat.

Your eyes are brighter than I've ever seen them.

You'll regret this.

Right now, as you pull off my shirt and unclasp my bra with an ease that surprises me, it seems like you're perfectly content with this sudden shift in our relationship. But this will change. I'm sure the sex will be spectacular. I'm sure you'll just make me fall deeper in love with you.

And I'm sure that when it's over, you'll tell me this was a mistake.

As your fingers wrap around my breast, holding it in place as you assault a taut nipple with your tongue, I don't care.

I'll worry about that later.

I must be crazy to be letting you do this.

One of your hands is between my legs now. There's no hesitation as you rub my crotch. I'm moaning now, making noises that I've never made before. I sound like a porn star or something, the way I'm calling out your name and begging for more.

I don't care.

I must be crazy.

I got your shirt off at some point. I'm caressing your chest, your belly, your back. I don't want to remove your pants. I want you to do that. I want you to be in charge. I want you to make the final decision to go ahead with this. I don't want you to be able to tell yourself later that I seduced you.

I want this on your head, not mine.

I want to kiss you.

But you're in the process of removing my pants now. I'm wishing I had worn my silky blue panties instead of my plain pink cotton ones.

You don't seem to mind.

You rub my core over the fabric and my hips buck up without consulting me first. I'm finding it hard to breathe. You manage to find my clit. The cloth is soaked now. Your fingers apply gentle pressure at first, but I need more, and you can tell. As you press more forcefully, I see you looking at me, almost as if this was an experiment.

Is that what this is?

Maybe you're just testing the waters. Seeing how the sex might be before you commit yourself.

I must be crazy.

It's just that I've wanted this - wanted you - for so long.

Who knows? This may be the only time I get to touch you like this.

You're wiggling out of your pants and boxers now.

Maybe it's just the angle that I'm viewing it from, but you seem awfully big.

I wonder if this will hurt.

I'm slumped in the seat, the door handle digging into my back. You crawl over me, cupping my face so tenderly that I think I might cry. Slipping off my underwear, you probe between my lower lips, even though you know that I'm wet already.


If you're surprised by the use of your first name, you don't show it. You lick your lips like I've seen you do a million times, and for a moment I entertain the thought that you want to taste me.

I would love to feel your head between my legs. Your tongue, sampling me. Tasting me.

But right now, I just want you in me.

You know this without me having to spell it out for you.

It's awkward, having sex in the backseat of a car. I've never done this before. I want to ask you if you ever have, even though it's irrelevant.

You maneuver our hips so that you can enter me. You haven't said anything about birth control. I'm on the Pill, so I'm not worried.

Are you?

What would happen, if your seed grew inside me?

My train of thought derails as you slip the head of your erection into me.

You are big. Thick. I can feel my muscles stretching to accommodate you.

I never let Hank make love to me.

I want to tell you that, although I don't know as it will make a difference. Or if you care.

I want to know if you made love to her.

We have to shift some in the seat so that you can slide all the way into me. Your weight is heavy on top of me, but I don't care. I'm panting and writhing. I'm moaning your name and pleading for more.

You're silent.

Your eyes are fastened on me. You watch me intently, as if cataloguing my groans. You're caressing my face with the hand that isn't being used to hold your body up. Your touch is so gentle, and you almost have me convinced that this means something to you. That this isn't just sex. Not just a fucking.

I must be crazy.

You still don't say anything. I'm not even sure you're breathing. I can feel every ridge of your member as it slides in and out of me. I'm so wet that I can hear the slippery sounds that our bodies are making. You're grinding your hips against me expertly, hitting my little bundle of pleasure with each thrust.

I've had three lovers in my life, including you. Maybe that's sad.

I want to know how many you've had. I want to know if you slept with her.

You do this so well. You're obviously very practiced.

I hate every woman you've had before me.

As stimulating as your lovemaking is, it isn't until you lean down and kiss the tip of my nose that I lose control. That tender gesture, the little bit of pressure your lips apply to my nose, and I'm lost.

I try to call out your name, but my throat seems to close up.

I generate some incoherent grunt.

You bring your lips to my ear. You whisper, "I love you, Sara Marie Sidle."

I feel your climax empty into me.

I feel empty.

Your body is settled on top of mine. Your organ is still in me, and it's still thick, even though you came. Your seed is in me; your cock is in me, but still I feel empty.

You're going to regret this.

I must be crazy.