69 – Louder than Words, or Let’s (Not) Talk about Sex

Since everyone else has been talking about it.

On his first evening back from Peru, Grissom and Sara have a frank discussion about s-e-x.

But of course there are just some times when talk is way overrated and actions really do speak louder than words.

Second part in the Under the Influence series, a trio of stories inspired by episode 1113, “The Two Mrs. Grissoms.” Follows “Pot Shots.”


Sara Sidle: Grissom and I have great sex.


“Sometimes we make love with our eyes.

Sometimes we make love with our hands.

Sometimes we make love with our bodies.

Always we make love with our hearts,”

François-Marie Arouet, Voltaire


The two of them were curled up close, still warm and flush from lovemaking when his wife’s sleepy, yet well-satiated sigh of “Great is an understatement,” roused Grissom from his own quiet contentment.

He let out a vague, half absent hum of “Hmm?” in reply, more intent as he was at the moment in the feel of her palm sliding across his chest as she nestled ever nearer.

But while the closeness was much appreciated, it muffled her next far more asleep than awake murmurs so that all he could make out was Catherine and great sex which needless to say only inspired more queries than it answered and instantly left Grissom significantly more awake.

Much good that it did him. She didn’t even stir at his insistent inquiries of “Sara? Honey?”

For equal parts exhausted from yet another long string of doubles and soothed into somnolence by the sound of her husband’s heartbeat slipping into a slower tattoo, Sara was already for all intents and purposes dead to the world and thus unavailable for any further questioning.

For however ignorant Gil Grissom might still be as to certain aspects of interpersonal behavior, the one thing he did know was that waking his wife, particularly for matters of mere curiosity, proved problematic at best, dangerous on a good day, and practically perilous after the shifts she’d been having lately.

Besides, with this being his first afternoon back from Peru, he figured there would be plenty of opportunities for him to quiz her later; and anyway, right now he was enjoying the peace too much to be all that bothered.

Nor was he entirely immune to that inexorable pull of slumber, no matter how much he wanted to linger awake as long as he could in that first blush of their being together again. Nineteen plus hour flights were equally, if differently, wearying than the fourth double in a row Sara had just pulled. And as he’d always found her presence just as soothing as she did his, it was easy to fall asleep with her in the bed with him, particularly after so long away.

So drawing his arms tighter around her, he placed one more kiss into her now much disheveled hair before closing his eyes and surrendering to sleep in his favorite place in all the world: beside his wife.


That he woke far later to find Hank as his only sleeping companion was not a state Grissom was all that unfamiliar with. But newly home as he was, and having thoroughly enjoyed the pleasure of falling asleep with his wife only hours before, he had rather hoped and been looking forward to finding someone else in the bed with him.

Putting his momentary disappointment aside, he rose, haphazardly dressed and padded off in search of Sara, lamenting as he left the very soundly snoring boxer sprawled over the better part of the bed that Hank had obviously been spending way too much time alone with Sara.

But Grissom’s chagrin quickly turned to delight as he discovered his wife in the kitchen, busy at work — if the recently unearthed toaster and pile of fruit were any indication — in prepping his favorite breakfast.

He grinned. God, it was good to be home.

How he’d managed to forget just how arresting that was — how Sara was, he had no idea. And for the better part of a minute, he just stood there in the doorway, content to take advantage of her absorption to watch her unobserved.

Newly showered as she was, her damp hair caught up in that hurried ponytail of hers which Grissom had been secretly fond of ever since they’d first met back in San Francisco more than a decade before and coupled with her having donned that pretty, pastel pink silk kimono he’d given her for her birthday the first year they’d been together, the upsweep barely revealed that thin expanse of pale, slightly freckled skin along the curve of her neck he’d ever found enticing. With her bent as she was over her slicing exposing it just a hint more only added to the allure.

A few loose strands fell about her face as she with all her usual adroitness, swiftly succeeded in expertly sectioning the vividly scarlet flesh of a blood orange. Ever since they’d encountered the sweet, almost headily citrus fruit during their brief sojourn in Rome the April before, they’d both become rather fond and partial to it and Grissom appreciated the trouble he knew she probably had to go through to get them, particularly this late in the season.

And Sara was as she was often wont to do when occupied and thinking herself alone, singing to herself in that faint, more than a little off-key way that was, at least according to her husband, one of her more endearing quirks. That he didn’t recognize the tune didn’t surprise Grissom in the slightest. Eclectic was an understatement when it came to the musical preferences of the Grissom-Sidle household.

Before he realized it, a long, satisfied sigh slipped passed his lips, causing her to turn.

“You’re awake,” said Sara, slightly startled and she returned his unabashed grin with a sheepish smile of her own and an apologetic, “I was trying not to wake you. At least not yet.”

For she knew first hand how wearying traveling could be.

“You didn’t,” he assured her before leaning in to greet her with a lingering kiss on the cheek and a cheery, “Good morning.”

Which caused her to laugh, “Good evening more like. It’s nearly eight, Gil.”

“You know what I mean.”

As she held up an orange slice for him to sample, Sara took the opportunity to take in his yet a little sleepy, tousled hair appearance and the fact that he was dressed in that simple undershirt and flannel sleep pants ensemble she could never quite resist nor quite articulate what was precisely so sexy about it either.

“Been up long?” he asked.

“Half hour maybe,” she answered. For she’d lain there in bed with him a while listening to the steady ebb and flow of his breath, enjoying the peace and quiet (well, mostly quiet apart from his snoring) of his presence until the temptation to wake him grew too great and she knew she’d have to get up if Grissom was to get any more of the sleep she knew he sorely needed.

Besides however pleasing the outcome had been, having woken him once already in less than eight hours was, she thought, more than plenty.


It had been late. Well, Sara was late. Big surprise.

When did she ever get off shift on time?

She could have probably counted the number in the last ten years on one hand and still have plenty of fingers left over.

Things were as hectic as ever in Vegas and the few days a month she had with Grissom were frequently purchased at the expense of pulling doubles and even triples for much of the rest of it.

But she was even later than usual that afternoon. Good thing there had never been any question of her being able to meet her husband’s late morning flight into McCarran.

Although all in all, Sara rued she’d been lucky to get off when she did — and even luckier that her next couple of scheduled days off hadn’t been suspended. So she wasn’t about to complain.

That, of course, didn’t mean she wasn’t relieved to finally get home, especially when she entered to find dog and master dozing in earnest on the sofa, Grissom with a book still in hand and glasses perched at the tip of his nose, and Hank snoring at his side.

It was a sight Sara wouldn’t mind coming home to for the rest of her life.

For while she meant what she’d said to Betty, that this life of theirs together — however unconventional it was — did work, that didn’t mean she didn’t treasure the time they spent together. If anything, she valued it even more.

Obviously Grissom had made use of the intervening hours to shower and change, dressed as he was at his typical at home casual attire of jeans and a sweat shirt, and smelling as he often did of the same unscented soap he usually favored and used even now when he no longer had to worry about the fragrance of his personal hygiene products masking or overwhelming scents at a crime scene.

She carefully eased the spectacles from the end of his nose and replaced them on the coffee table before retrieving the book from his lap, shaking her head as she did so, having found her husband’s choice of reading material to be that rather revealing exhibit catalog of Moche sex pots he’d sent her for Valentine’s Day, the one which had caused such a ruckus at the lab. She had to choke back an actual disbelieving chuckle as in one of those strange happenstances of life, the volume had been left open to page fifty-six, the same Hodges had found so captivating.

Just precisely when and where and how and why, Grissom had perfected the art of sleeping sitting up, Sara had no idea. She certainly couldn’t imagine how it could be comfortable.

So as much as a part of her was tempted — sorely tempted — to oust Hank from his roost and assume his place on the couch with her husband, she knew that after nearly a day spent cramped and cooped up in various airplanes, Grissom had to be sore to begin with and there was no reason for him to wake up more stiff and aching than he had to. That and not entirely unselfishly, she preferred to have him back in bed with her again.

But not wishing to startle him, she laid a gentle hand on his shoulder, her thumb absently tracing the inside of his neck as she whispered, “Gil –”

Except this only succeeded in earning herself a reproving glare from Hank who shuffled off the sofa in search of more undisturbed haunts.

Sara leaned in closer, murmured his name again and Grissom stirred slightly this time, more at the brush of her lips against his cheek than her voice. Left with only one last recourse, she took his face into her hands and proceeded to kiss him back into consciousness.

As that first kiss gave way to a second deeper one, she felt his fingers slide around her waist, and the two of them only broke apart when Sara laughed at his not entirely gracefully tugging her onto his lap.

“You’re home,” he murmured, thoroughly pleased at the prospect.

“Shouldn’t I be the one saying that?” she said. “I’m sorry I’m so late.”

“Nasty de-comp?” he asked, brushing the hair back from her face.

“Double de-comp. Mostly soup.”

Then her nose wrinkled. “You can smell it, can’t you?”

She’d had a shower back at the lab, two actually, lemons and all, for all the good it had apparently done her. “I’ll just go get cleaned up,” she said about to rise, only to find his grasp tightened, holding her fast to him.

“You’re fine,” he insisted and reached up to draw her in for another kiss.

“Do I want to know?” he asked after a while.

“About the case? Probably not.”

Nor was Sara all that keen on talking about it just now, not with the warmth of his hands bleeding through her blouse.

Instead, she settled further into him and sighed, “You should have gone to bed.”

“I wanted to wait.”

She beamed at him, her thumb now tracing the line of his chin, from the bare skin just below his ear to the neatly groomed scruffiness of the goatee she’d been surprised to find him sporting ever since a few weeks before he’d been originally scheduled to return to Vegas. However surprised she’d been, she’d been pleased at the gesture, knowing it to be a compromise of sorts, one that sought to satisfy her penchant for having a husband with facial hair without him having to deal with the heat of a full beard during the Peruvian summer. But then Sara was quickly finding marriage to be full of those: compromises. That didn’t keep her from appreciating the thought.

“I see you managed to catch your flight this time,” she began. “I was starting to wonder if they were ever going to let you leave.”

“That afraid I was going to stand you up again?”

“More like not looking forward to having to explain your further absence to your mother. Again.”

His brow furrowed for a moment. “I thought you two…”

“We’re fine,” she readily — and honestly — assured him. “She’s just been looking forward to dinner.”

“And you–”

“I’m more curious as to where you’re planning on taking us, since you still haven’t said.”

“You’ll see.”

You’ll see?” she echoed incredulously. “That’s all you’re going to say?”

He nodded and gave her an enigmatic grin before suggesting airily, “Bed, dear. I know you have to be tired.”

Shaking her head at yet another (equally inept) demonstration of the prototypical Grissom change the subject maneuver, Sara laughed, “Me tired? Who was snoring when I got home?”

“Hank always snores.”

“I meant you.”

“Can’t help you,” he said, “I was asleep until someone woke me up.”

She pursed her lips at his cheek. Then noting how his blue eyes had begun to both darken and brighten with desire all at once, said, “Just to sleep, Gil.”

It was his turn to chuckle. “I’m not that insatiable, Sara.”


While common sense, prudence and reason all said they should have gone straight to sleep as soon as they hit the mattress, love frequently had little to do with common sense, prudence or reason.

Especially after more than a month apart.

But as Grissom was always reminding her: L’absence diminue les médiocres passions et augmente les grandes. Absence diminishes commonplace passions and enhances the great ones.

So even if they had fully intended to go straight to bed, and Sara wasn’t so sure either of them really had, despite all her protests and pretenses, once beneath the sheets that one last good night (well, more like good afternoon) kiss turned to two, then three, until they’d long passed counting. Their quiet cuddle gave way to caresses, words to sighs and sighs to moans and moans to breathlessness.


Later that evening, back in the kitchen, the two of them were, unbeknownst to either, sharing identical mushy, sappy sorts of grins, as if they were both recalling the same thing. Which they were, though it was Sara who spoke of it first.

“This afternoon was –”

“Nice,” Grissom finished, his hand slipping about her waist to ease her to face him.

She was about to slide her arms around his neck to kiss him in reply when she suddenly realized and blurted out, “I’m all sticky.”

“I don’t care,” he said, first pressing a kiss into her palm, the taste of orange even sweeter on her skin, before kissing her in earnest.

When they broke apart, Sara hugged him hard and said more out of sheer joy and pleasure than the usual relieved weariness, “I’m glad you’re home.”

“Me too,” he agreed. “The excavations were amazing. But…”

Except he didn’t have the words for it, for how good it was to be back with her again.

Although while he had her here, perhaps she could clear up that one niggling little point of curiosity from earlier that day.

“There is just one thing,” he began. “Just before you fell asleep you were saying something about ‘great was an understatement’ and then mentioned Catherine and ‘great sex.’ Care to fill me in, dear?”

But instead of answering right away, Sara blanched, gently disengaged herself from his grasp and abruptly set to return to work on her fruit.

And was, Grissom would swear if he didn’t know the impossibility of such a thing, blushing, which only served to further pique his curiosity.


“It’s a long story.”

“Tea, then?” he suggested, retrieving the empty kettle from the cooktop.

“Please,” she said, hoping this might hope against hope serve to distract him.

It didn’t.

Having filled the pot and replaced it on the burner he returned his ever-intent gaze to her. “So?”

“So what?”

Sensing she wasn’t just going to spit it out, Grissom tried a different tack.

“So Catherine playing twenty questions again?”

Sara let out an uneasy, yet amused laugh. “I think she only plays that one with you. And she didn’t have to ask. I blurted it out all on my own. I was a little flustered,” she reluctantly admitted.

Although flustered was underplaying her reaction a little, actually a lot. Hodges’ seemingly endless comments had left her so discombobulated that her doggedly insistent reply of “Grissom and I have great sex” had escaped before she could catch herself.  Catherine’s barely contained mirth hadn’t helped much either.

So that ultimately while Sara supposed the subject of her and Grissom’s sex life was bound to occur at some point, and perhaps she had been lucky to have avoided the topic thus far, that conversation was a perfect reminder of why she and Grissom had been so tightlipped about their relationship for so long.

Of course if Grissom had been there, she doubted that he would have found the situation half as amusing as his chuckle of “That seems to be happening a lot lately,” seemed to suggest. Though when he further added, “And what did Catherine say?” there was a hint of perhaps he really didn’t want to know in his voice.

“Something like ‘I’m sure you do,’” replied Sara. “But I think she was too busy trying not to laugh.”

Nor had that been the first time. While their affair de coeur had apparently come as quite the surprise to everyone, that it had grown into un mariage d’amour still seemed even after all of Sara’s months back in Vegas, to continue to serve as a source of amusement and bemusement for their friends and colleagues. Most of the time she and Grissom both thought, Let them. They had the last laugh.

On this occasion however, Grissom looked more perplexed than anything.

After a confused sort of pause he said, “I still don’t see how the subject came up.”

Sara started in on a grapefruit. “It was related to a case.”

“And how,” he asked, retrieving a pair of mugs from under the island, “is our sex life related to a case?”

“Not ours,” she amended as the two of them slipped into that customary quiet ease that came from more than a decade of working together. “Yours.”


She nodded. “And it wasn’t Catherine. Hodges.”

Instantly, any and all last vestiges of disinterested mystification left her husband’s face. He just stood there in the midst of placing tea bags into mugs apparently having serious trouble processing what his wife was telling him.

Then very slowly, very carefully, he stammered, “Hodges? Dave Hodges?”

Sara had to admit it while it hadn’t been funny at the time, she could sort of see the humor in Hodges continuing to dig himself deeper and deeper into a hole there was no way he could have extracted himself from on his own. No wonder Catherine had been having a tough time containing her mirth. For her part, Sara had been far too stunned. Still, it was a good thing Catherine had stepped in, otherwise who knows what else would have come out of his mouth.

“You know any other Hodges?”

“No, the one is plenty,” he replied, his rue mixed with what Sara knew was real fondness.

“And it was more observation than question.”

There was no mistaking the conflict between Grissom’s not wanting and yet needing to know in his reluctant, “And he said what exactly?”

Sara put down her knife. “Apparently you have a ‘yen for sexually adventurous women whose voracious appetites can only be sated by dangerous and unbridled passion.’”

“He said what?”

“You have a yen –”

Grissom held up a hand, his previous question evidently more out of sheer disbelief than a need to have it repeated.

Then he simply goggled at her for a moment, far longer than a moment, until he finally found his voice enough to say, “Whatever gave him that idea?”

It was Sara’s turn to stop. Suddenly, the whole thing seemed a lot less funny.

Yes, it was true she didn’t know everything about her husband. Knew she didn’t. Not even close to everything, even if everyone else seemed to think she should.

Normally this didn’t bother or worry her in the slightest. She genuinely enjoyed the discovery process that went along with the two of them sharing a life together.

But as she was recounting Hodges’ comments once more in her head, she found herself unwittingly beginning to side with the garrulous Trace tech. Perhaps he did have a point.

And the laughter abruptly left her face. Sara shrugged. “Thought he was just following the evidence.”

“What evidence?” Grissom was starting to weary of talking in questions.

She shot him a look that plainly said, You really aren’t going to make me say their names are you?

In the intervening weeks, she hadn’t spoken of either the Lambert case in general or Julia Holden in particular. The subject had honestly not come up, both of them with far too many other — and better — things to talk about during their all too brief daily chats.

But that faint itch of worry was unexpectedly back. That same sort of precipitate, almost irrational unease Sara had felt after Julia had sprung that disquieting little tidbit that she and Grissom had once had a history and a very intimate one, the knowledge of which Sara had not been privy to.

“Look, Gil, I’m not that naïve. I knew there were others. There had to be. I mean you were what forty when we first met –”

“Forty-one,” he corrected, not entirely sure where the conversation was going.

She shook off his amendment. That her eyes narrowed, brow furrowed and her lips tightened into a thin taut line, didn’t escape Grissom’s attention.

He said gently, “The omission wasn’t intentional, dear.”

Sara shot off a cavalier, “I hadn’t thought so,” before admitting with a bit more truth, “Okay, I did for a little while.”

“Julia was 20, almost 30 years ago and –”

“Ancient history?” she offered. “Yeah, Nick said as much.”

Nick? Slow crime month in Vegas?”

“Not particularly.”

Under his breath Grissom muttered something about how they’d obviously had too much free time on their hands at the lab lately.

His wife didn’t look amused.

Grissom took advantage of the shrieking kettle to carefully consider his next words. The truth was he hadn’t mentioned Julia because he just wasn’t all that keen on dissecting his past, particularly the distant past. It was over and done, long over and done. And when it came to Sara, he was far more interested in his present and future with her. He loved her, married her. And didn’t regret either for a minute.

In the end, all he could do was apologize. And he was sorry. He didn’t like to hurt her, however unintentionally. So he did, and knowing he meant it, Sara nodded weakly. Which was when Grissom realized there was more to it than just Julia.

“Sara?” he prompted.

Sara didn’t immediately answer, unable as she was to brush the worry that easily away. Nor hide the slight tremor of uncertainty in her uncompleted question of “Is that what you –?”

Want? Grissom finished mentally. Sexually adventurous women? Dangerous and unbridled passions?

No, he wasn’t all that keen on playing with fire. He knew all too well that violent delights have violent ends / And in their triumph die, like fire and powder, / Which as they kiss consume and that like thermite, the fleeting flash of such passions didn’t last long.

He’d meant, too, what he’d told Sara that day out at the Sugar Cane Ranch. Sex without love was pointless. And there was already enough sadness in the world as it was.

As for Hodges, Grissom might not be an expert by any definition of the word (and admittedly Grissom knew he mostly ineptly blundered about), but Hodges sure didn’t know the first thing about women or sex or love and definitely not Sara. Sara was plenty passionate, earlier that afternoon a perfect case in point. She was smart, beautiful and sexy as hell. Not that he had any intention of enlightening Hodges or anyone else for that matter about the former and certainly not the latter.

“I think Hodges needs to stick to Trace Analysis,” he said simply.

“I’m serious.”

And she looked it, having set down her knife and turned to give him her full attention.

“So am I.”

As for her question, the answer was obvious, at least to him. Except his obvious didn’t seem to be obvious to her.

And his subsequent bewildered “You have to ask?” echoed some of his wife’s disquiet.

“You’re avoiding the question, Gil.”

Taking a deep breath, Grissom launched in with, “First off, it wasn’t like that. It was never like that. But more importantly, have I ever given you any indication –”

“No, but –”

“Have you ever heard me complain?”

Quite the contrary, Sara thought, if this afternoon was any indication.

“No, but –”

“But what, Sara?” he asked. Although before she could reply he said, “Honey, I know I still have a lot to learn, maybe really even too much, but I do know what I want.”

It might have taken him a long time to admit it, if only to himself, but he had known, even if he hadn’t known what to do about it.

“And I thought I’ve made it fairly clear,” he continued and stepped to narrow the space between them. “Maybe I don’t say the words, maybe I don’t say them enough, but I thought you knew.”

But then maybe this was one of those times when words were as overrated as they were inadequate, an occasion not for poetry or prose or talk of any kind.

And with a hint of a grin he recalled his wife’s perennial advice whenever he found it hard to express his heart rather than his head: show me.

It was good advice. And Grissom wasn’t the sort to pass up good advice.

So without another word, he kissed her. Tenderly at first, but that gentle tenderness of his soon gave way to a more fervent display of desire until there could be absolutely no further doubt as to his feelings.

Perhaps it wasn’t dangerous and unbridled passion, but it was passion plenty all the same.

What had she been thinking? Sara wondered, closing her eyes and relaxing into him, letting the touch and taste and smell and sound of him surround her.

Stupid, silly, irrational insecurities. Although insecurities she knew were always irrational.

Except after all that had happened, she should have known better than to give in once again to that foolish flash of fear she thought she’d finally outgrown. But old habits and hurts died hard, if they ever did.

Grissom was right; Hodges should really stick to Trace. He didn’t know what the hell else he was talking about. That and he was so getting yuck the next time they went out on a trash call.

By the time she and Grissom broke apart they were both a little breathless, so it was in an almost husky sort of whisper that he intoned in his usually flawless French, “Vous et nul autre.” You and no other.

To which Sara grinned and was about to tease that he couldn’t just sweet talk his way out of this one, en français or no, but from the way her husband was looking at her, his eyes both bright and dark again; how he was touching her in that way that was both gentle and insistent all at once, she knew Grissom had no such intentions and the taunt died unvoiced.

In fact, she was having trouble finding words at all at the moment, so that when he asked, “Does that answer your question?” all she could do was mutely nod.

Enjoying the closeness, neither was in a hurry to let go and they just stood there for a while, until Hank stumbled into the kitchen and nudged them apart, enviously insisting that they give him some attention now that he was awake –and hungry.

Grissom reluctantly obliged. He was in the middle of refilling the boxer’s food dish when Sara said, the laughter having returned to her voice once more, “Just tell me I’m not going to run into any more of your exes at crime scenes, Gil.”

“It’s highly unlikely, dear.”


They were both sipping on steaming cups of tea, Sara having taken a break from her breakfast preparations, when Grissom said, “Did Hodges say any thing else I should be aware of?”

“Why? You’re not planning on using any of this against him are you?”

His Would I do that? look didn’t fool her in the least.

Still, she put down her mug, before saying, “It actually went downhill from there. You know how I over talk when I’m nervous? He’s worse. A lot worse. The highlights were something about how you realized that sexual satisfaction didn’t hold a candle to… What was it precisely? Yeah, um spirited intellectual stimulation.”

While they certainly did have that, always had really, and it had been a highly satisfying part of their relationship —

“You can’t have both?” asked Grissom.

“Apparently not. Oh, and you and I are obviously not having enough sex.”

At this he sounded more curious than disbelieving. “Really?”

“Can’t be, since we don’t live in the same city and spend so much time apart. That made him and your mother in the same week. You sure Hodges doesn’t have her number?”

“He shouldn’t.”

Of course that didn’t guarantee Hodges didn’t and they both knew it. Nick had been fawning and supercilious enough when it came to Betty. Introduce her to Hodges and Sara didn’t even want to begin to imagine the potential ass kissing involved.

“So let me get this straight,” Grissom said after a moment. “The general consensus is that you and I aren’t…”

“Getting enough? Yeah.”

“And according to you?”

“About us having enough sex? Have you heard me complain?” she asked, intentionally echoing his earlier query. “While I’d like you home more often, Gil, and you do look cute in that green apron of yours, I still can’t imagine you a househusband. Why? Are you worried?”

“Not even concerned.”

Sara grinned into her mug. “Besides,” she said, then repeated what he’d told her right before she’d left to return to Vegas the first time, “Ça ne changera pas entre toi et moi.” You and me, it doesn’t change.

And they were quietly content for a while, simply enjoying that uncomplicated ease and hard-earned happiness. Well, Sara was. Grissom apparently had something on his mind.

She had finished her tea and returned to her expert citrus dismemberment when Grissom leaning over her shoulder under the pretense of snagging an orange slice, said, “Well, there is a simple enough solution.”

“To our not having enough sex non-problem? Just have more sex?” she laughed. “While I’m not objecting, we both know you don’t kiss and tell.”

“And you only do so when flustered.”

“I’d like to see you handle it better,” came her challenging retort. “Yeah, I can just see you discussing our sex life at the table the next time the team goes out to Frank’s. Or you reporting back to your mother. She merely mentions the subject and you practically race to get off the phone.”

Grissom did look a little green at the prospect. “I think I’ll pass, thanks.”

“Thought so,” she smirked.

“That’s so not sexy.”

“What isn’t?”

“Your gloating.”

But they were both enjoying the ready bantering too much to be the least bit vexed.  Grissom certainly wasn’t the least deterred.

“Of course,” he added, very much continuing to occupy her personal space, “we’d know.”

“There is that.”

Intellectual stimulation was something. And highly satisfying. Definitely satisfying. But that didn’t mean that other things weren’t equally, if differently gratifying.

“You don’t have to go in tonight,” Grissom said, more statement than query, already knowing she didn’t from her choice of shampoo. For when he leaned in closer and breathed in deep, he was surrounded by the heady hint of lavender, something Sara never wore when working.

“Not unless I get called in,” she agreed.

“And while I appreciate the breakfast, it’ll keep?”

“Yeah, why?” she asked, even if she was certain where this was going.

“Bed,” he murmured into her neck.

“You just got out of bed.”

Grissom decided to spell it out for her. “You in bed. With me.”

“I see.”

As ever, her protests were merely pretense. There was no way she was going to turn down any time with him. Over the last nearly year and a half they’d been apart, there had been plenty of times when she would have readily volunteered for dreaded dung duty yet again if it meant she got to share it with him. So she wasn’t going to pass this up, particularly with sex being the proposed activity.

Especially as sex was never just sex with Grissom, great sex or no.

That and even if she had been in a denying mood that evening (and she wasn’t), it was hard to refuse him anything when he was lavishing attention to the back of her neck.

“Mother knows best?” she chuckled.

“It was good advice.”

“The more sex or your being home more often?”

“Both,” he replied.

And Sara couldn’t quite dispute that, nor was she going to complain, particularly not at the feel of his fingers, slightly more calloused from his weeks of field work but just as warm as ever, beginning to trace their way down the neckline of her robe. There was the heat of his breath and lips along her ear.

With a sigh she settled further into him before saying, “Then come back to bed.”


When sometime later, Sara murmured, “Definitely an understatement,” they both laughed.


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