02 – Two

“A kiss is a lovely trick designed by nature to stop speech

when words become superfluous,” Ingrid Bergman

*******

Gil –”

Sara caught him up just shy of the bed and at his resultant confusion mouthed Buttons, eyeing the ones of the Oxford he’d donned sans tie for their wedding.

This disparity in dress — or more apropos in this case, undress — Grissom, with none of his earlier lingering lassitude, speedily set to rectify, although apparently, not quite quickly enough for his wife.

In one of her rather rare as of late demonstrations of impatience, Sara not entirely gently worked his shirttail free from his trousers and started in on them from the bottom.

They met in the middle laughing.

And kissing.

That French blue hued button-down of his might have been her favorite — it ever heightening the brilliance of his already bright eyes — but that didn’t keep it from being hastily and haphazardly discarded. The thin white cotton undershirt beneath soon followed suit.

And her hands were on him, the heat and feel of them causing Grissom to fumble clumsily with his belt. Eventually, he managed to free it and kissing him even more long and longingly, Sara helped him work his pants over his hips until they pooled at his feet. Next and with very little ceremony and certainly no protest on either of their parts, his boxers succeeded them.

By now they were both breathless from laughing and desire. However, it was the former rather than the latter, which managed to rouse Hank, who hadn’t previously registered their initial return to the cabin, both busily and contentedly snoring as he’d been in the middle of the mattress.

After weeks of being consigned to cramped corners of cots or uncomfortably hard patches of earth, the boxer had opted to absent himself from his masters’ moonlit walk, preferring instead to indulge in the rather rare luxury of having an entire bed to himself. Accordingly, he didn’t much take to being woken; to being evicted even less. Nonetheless, while he may have fixed the two of them with a dour, disapproving glare, Hank had long ago learned that pouting and protests were pointless, and therefore, without much further prodding, he clambered down and lumbered off to find a quieter spot to resume his snooze unmolested. His humans were far too lost and preoccupied in each other much to notice.

For Grissom and Sara, once the hurried tussle of undressing was done, the anxious ardor gave way, as it so often did, to unhurried tenderness. There were just some things in life meant to be slowly savored and long lingered over. Lovemaking being the foremost amongst them.

And besides, that night they didn’t have to worry about remembering to forget to turn off the radio or to take care to be extra quiet. Hank was already fast asleep again or feigning indifference, so apart from the hum and buzz and creep of the insects and other creatures of the dark, they had the low lantern light all to themselves.

Easing her husband onto his back, Sara held him there, her hands, her breath, her mouth hot on his neck, his shoulders, eliciting those low, long, breathy moans of the sort which served more to encourage than arrest, particularly as they were one of those sounds she knew meant for her ears and her ears alone.

His wife having begun to trail feather-light kisses down his chest and even lower, Grissom luxuriated in the attention, affectionate, enervating and enticing as it was all at once, while Sara took pleasure in the feel of him and the way his body readily responded to her touch. So it wasn’t until he, somewhere between  gasp and breathlessness, pleaded, “Sara–” that she checked her ministrations and explorations.

But he wasn’t asking her to stop. No, he wanted more, more of her. He couldn’t get enough. Never could. He hoped he never would.

Feeling much the same, Sara didn’t protest when he drew her up and kissed her hard and hungrily. She did, however, give him an admonitory sigh when he over-lingered along the sensitive underside of her neck where once several years ago he’d completely inadvertently — or so he would always maintain and would always continue to maintain — given her an impossible not to notice hickey. Thankfully, it had been January and the wearing of long, thin scarves even indoors had been fashionable at the time.

But here and now in that dim lantern light, the two lost in heady open-mouthed kisses, Grissom’s fingers intertwined in her hair, jostling free the clusters of orange blossoms behind her ears. The liberated petals rained onto her shoulders, drifted onto the sheets and when crushed beneath their bodies, released an intoxicating redolence into the air.

But it was the scent and taste and touch and sound of Sara that ultimately overcame him.

Wanting her nearer, his palms ran along her still silk clad sides and while the slip – a profound departure from her usual simple cotton camisole and pajama pants sleep ensemble of the kind which Grissom had always found incredibly sexy despite its casual simplicity – may have been pretty, its soft, smooth suppleness wasn’t the sensation he was seeking. Rather, he craved the warm familiarity of the body beneath, the one he knew and loved so well.

It was Sara who was the one certainly overdressed now.

Through the thin fabric he nuzzled the slight curve of her belly before beginning to inch it upwards, lavishing attention to each bit of skin he exposed. But not solely sold on seduction, and knowing right well that his neatly cropped beard tickled in certain places, Grissom accordingly attacked them with relish. For he loved the lilt of her laughter amidst her moans almost as much as the shudders and sighs.

Once Sara had helped him work the last of the fabric over her head, Grissom paused, not for breath, as the sight of her — all of her like this, even in that faint light — more took, than inspired breath, but to admire.

And Sara might have colored at this, except now his hands were on her. They were after all the weeks of manual fieldwork, far more coarse and calloused than they’d ever been back in Vegas, but that didn’t make them any less heaven on her skin. She certainly savored his touch, his lips, his breath. The physical pleasure of it all went without saying.

Yet the two of them couldn’t be close enough; touching enough.

The part of her still rational and remembering recalled her husband insisting how sex was about human connection. And with him it was. A closeness, a connection which lay far beyond desire and passion, beyond the purely physical; one she had never known with anyone else ever and thus one she prized and cherished accordingly.

Feeling very much the same, Grissom pulled his wife to him, murmuring into her hair before she caught him up in another adamant kiss and his lips and breath were otherwise and most blissfully engaged.

Before long, nothing separated them.

*******

 Continued in Three

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