CSI: Feeling Beautiful
Disclaimer: If I owned the show many things would be different. If I owned Brass... I plead the 5th on that one.
A/N: For the 2007 Valentine's Day smutathon at geekfiction. I played around with my writting style a bit, let me know what you think. A huge hug for aflaminghalo for the beta'ing.
II
You’re barely thorough the front door when Lindsey breezes past, in a hurry to leave.
“Don’t forget I’m going home with Krista after school,” she reminds you.
“Call me when you get there.” You make her promise, she nods and a moment later she is gone. Always in a hurry that one; rushing to school, to dance class, to see her friends. Rushing to grow up and you know how she feels because you were the same way. That doesn’t mean you like it, though.
You watch from the window as she jogs down the front walk and around the corner. When she’s out of sight you head for the kitchen. You’re not hungry but it’s been hours since you’ve had anything to eat and if you go straight to bed your stomach will wake you too soon. Nothing looks appetizing so you pour a bowlful of Lindsey’s Frosted Mini Wheats and cover them with milk. Quick and easy.
You eat standing next to the sink, another time saving device. The sooner this day is over the better; all you want to do is go to sleep. Nothing particularly bad happened, but it was the first shift since Grissom left on sabbatical and it’s funny how the absence of such a quiet man changed the whole atmosphere at work. Tomorrow, the new guy Keppler arrives and that’ll change the dynamic again. Just the thought exhausts you.
When the doorbell rings you frown and contemplate ignoring it. At nine in the morning it’s probably a salesman, or someone claiming that their mission is to save your soul. You already have a vacuum and your soul is your own to save. The bell rings again though, and your curiosity is enough to get you to open the door. After all you are more than capable of making unwanted people leave; you’ve had enough practice.
“Jim?” Standing on your front porch with a pink bakery box in one hand he’s looking oddly out of place. “This is a surprise.”
“What can I say; I’m a man full of surprises.” He shrugs, and inelegantly shoves the box in your direction. “I just wanted to stop by and give you this.”
“What is it?” In all the years that you’ve known him, Jim’s never given you anything. His idea of a birthday or holiday celebration is to treat you to a meal, then steal half of your dessert.
“I don’t know, the woman who sold it to me called it something in French. It’s a fruit tart thing. I was going to buy you a cake but all they had was carrot cake and you don’t like that.” He’s looking self conscious, and the first word to pop into your head is cute. Cute? Brass? You push the thought aside.
“You were going to buy me a cake?” You can’t resist the temptation and lift the lid. Glazed fruit is perfectly arranged on a flakey crust. It looks delicious. Realizing that Brass is still standing outside, you motion for him to come in and use your foot to close the door. He doesn’t answer your question until you’re both in the kitchen and you’ve placed the bakery box on the counter.
“Yeah well... I know it’s only a temporary thing, but while Grissom is gone you are the head of the night shift. I figured there should be cake.”
No one else has mentioned your new temporary position except for Grissom, and that didn’t count. The fact that Brass thought it deserved notice makes you look at him carefully. He’s still looking a little out of place so you set yourself to making him comfortable. You insist on sharing your dessert with him, cutting two slices and setting each one on a pale blue plate even as he protests. When you make a comment about Lindsey being gone until tomorrow and the house being a little too quiet he shuts up and accepts both the plate and the wine glass you hand him.
“You do know that it’s not even ten in the morning, don’t you?” he asks as you take a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc out of the fridge.
“Like you never have a drink at the end of a shift, or eat breakfast as the sun is setting.” Time is just numbers on a clock, a societal norm that doesn’t apply to people who live their lives at night.
“Guilty as charged.” He says wryly, following as you leave the room; passing the dining room table in favor of the couch. After a night of standing in heels you want to be as comfortable as possible.
“This is wonderful. Where did you get it?” The sweet and tartness of the fruit coupled with the rich butteryness of the crust is a thousand times better then the cereal you just ate. It’s also just the kind of treat you would have chosen for yourself, and you wonder if he knew that or if it was just a lucky guess. And how did he know that you didn’t like carrot cake?
“There’s a little hole in the wall place just around the corner from the station. You think that’s good you should try their donuts.”
“A place that sells donuts, I should have figured.” You can’t help but tease him. In some ways he is such a stereotypical cop; he might not have admitted it at the time but the move from CSI back to homicide seven years ago had been the right one for him.
“You don’t think I got this physique of mine by accident, do you? I have to work to look this good.” His tone is self-deprecating and you wonder if you should ignore it. Should you tease him about being a teddy bear, or admit to him that you’ve checked out his physique more then once lately? You decided to do neither, but instead draw him into a conversation about favorite desserts, telling him about the first cake you ever tried to bake and getting him to confess about the first crime he ever committed- stealing éclairs from a next door neighbor when he was six. It’s nothing earth shattering, but it’s enough that you both relax as you finish the snack and slowly sip the light and crisp wine.
You pour yourself a second glass, and it’s just enough to ease the lingering tension from your muscles. You’re leaning against the back of the couch, eyes at half-mast, not really caring that you’re being a bad host, when Jim moves suddenly. He’s no longer sitting politely at the other end of the couch, but is right next to you, half turned so that his knee is pressing into your leg. With a firm tug he pulls the glass out of your hand and sets it on the coffee table before turning his attention back to you.
“Hey Cath?” He says, in a tone that’s full of caution and warning.
“Yes?” Your eyes are wide open now, watching him, waiting to see what he’s going to do.
“You have about five seconds to push me away, and then I’m going to kiss you.” He looks hesitant, as if he really thinks you will push him away, or maybe he just believes that you should. With a hand lightly cupped to his cheek you reassure him.
“I’m not going to push you away, Jim.” And even if he doesn’t kiss you, the smile he gives just then is enough to make your day. It spreads across his face, lighting up his eyes, and you don’t think you’ve ever seen Jim Brass glow before.
He moves closer and your eyes close of their own volition. You wait expectantly for his lips to cover yours but he’s taking too long. You wonder if he’s changed his mind when you feel his touch. It’s not on your mouth. His lips brush against the line of your jaw, his breath warm against your skin. He doesn’t stay there, but moves so you feel him against your cheek, your temple, and ever so lightly on the tip of your nose. You can’t help laughing at that one. It comes out almost as a sigh.
His hands are on you now, one resting heavily on your waist, the other cupped against your neck so hat his thumb brushes against your ear lobe. Heat radiates from them, causing you to think of romantic nights spent in front of crackling fires. It’s still morning though, and you sure as hell aren’t stopping this to start a fire, (even if only requires the press of a button to ignite the gas flames. - consider removing? ) Maybe next time, you promise yourself. And there will be a next time. You and Jim have too much invested in your friendship for this to be just a one-night stand. This is the start of something.
He’s moving too slowly, so you decide to help him out. Opening a single eye you find your target, licking your bottom lip lightly before moving just the slightest. He freezes for a moment as your lips meet his, but then his lips part and a moan escapes. You take advantage of his pliancy, tracing the slight opening of his mouth with the tip of your tongue until he opens wider and you slip inside. He tastes of fruit and wine and man. You explore his mouth leisurely, acquainting yourself with the warmth, the texture, the taste. And then your tongue brushes against his and he’s no longer a passive participant.
You lose yourself in the simplicity of kissing, in no hurry to move from where you are. It’s not about foreplay; even though you know where this is leading. It’s about being in the moment. You like this moment, like the fact that the man kissing you is someone you trust and respect. A rare combination.
His hands haven’t moved and it amazes you that it feels like he is wrapped around you with only three points of contact. The hand at your waist isn’t even touching skin, and that’s not right. You don’t want anything between you and that delicious heat. Without breaking the kiss you reach down and tug at silk of your blouse, freeing it from your pants. You can feel one of Jim’s fingers graze the skin just above your slacks and it’s better but still not good enough. Removing clothing is a skill you used to depend on, so it isn’t hard to accomplish your goal. You only have to pull away for an instant before the shirt is gone. Perfect.
As if taking the exposed skin for permission his hands begin to move, tentatively at first; from your waist to the small of your back, from your neck to the slight swell of your clavicle. When you don’t protest his left hand travels lower, the palm coving black lace, the pads of his fingers resting in the valley between your breasts. His right hand is moving in slow circles, and if you thought the wine relaxed you its nothing compared to this.
You want to return the favor, and it’s only then that you realize that he is still fully dressed. No jacket- he must have taken that off sometime between leaving work and arriving here- but the sleeves of his shirt aren’t even rolled up and the tie is still knotted around his neck.
“You don’t need to stand on formality on my account,” you remark as you pull away taking a deep breath. You’re feeling a little light headed from the lack of oxygen. He looks a little confused at your joke until you tug at the stripped cloth. You slip a single finger between his collar and the knot, pulling until the loop is big enough to take off. A flicker of thumb and forefinger take care of the top two buttons. He shivers when you run a fingernail over the exposed vee of skin. You bet he’ll do more then shiver if you trace the same patch of skin with your tongue. You’re about to try when he stops you.
“While making out on the couch like a couple of teenagers brings back some pleasant memories, the bedroom might be a little more comfortable. If this is going any farther then making out, that is.”
“Oh, this is going father, all right,” you promise. The tie is still in your hand and you drop it to the floor before turning away from him and rising to your feet. Your balance is a little off, but you try not to let him see that. Instead you wrap your fingers around his wrist and pull, a not so subtle hint. He raises a single eyebrow then acquiesces.
“Teenagers, Jim?” you tease as you lead him down the hall to the master bedroom.
“That’s the last time I remember spending an hour on a girl’s couch doing nothing but kissing. It’s also the last time I made up an excuse just to visit a girl,” he admits.
“That’s sad, Brass. Not the excuse part, because that’s flattering even though you don’t need an excuse to come here. But the first part? Sad.”
“Why, you spend a lot of time making out on the couch?”
“More time then you do, apparently.” The door to your room is closed, and you open it to reveal icy blue walls and a bed covered in blue and burgundy.
“I guess that’s something you’ll have to teach me, then.”
“It’s not something you need to learn,” you say, thinking of the taste and feel of him in your mouth. “On the other hand there’s nothing wrong with practice.”
“Practice, huh? I’m all for practice.” His eyes twinkle as he reaches for you, and at the same time he turns down the comforter on your bed revealing blue silk sheets. Bed linens are one of your weaknesses. Even when money was tight you would save up for silk or satin, or at least Egyptian cotton. You figure it’s worth the extra expense, especially since you don’t have to waste any money on pajamas.
“Glad to hear that.” Then his lips are on you again and your fingers blindly fumble for the buttons on his shirt. There are six, not counting the ones you already unfastened. It doesn’t take long at all to get them undone. The ones at his wrists are a little harder but as soon as you have them it only takes a sharp tug to have the shirt falling to the floor. His undershirt is still in the way. You’re trying to decide what goes next, the shirt or the pants, when he eliminates the decision by pulling the shirt over his head and throwing it over his shoulder. Now you’re the one a step behind, but that’s easy to take care of.
You don’t even have to think about what you’re doing when you reach behind you to undo the clasp of your bra. You shake the white lace free and feel it brush against your instep when it lands on the carpet. Your slacks take a little more work to get free from, but soon they too are on the floor. Relishing the feel of being naked you tip your head backwards and free fall onto the bed. There is nothing like the sensation of silk against skin. Well, almost nothing.
“You going to join me, Jim? This is one of those times when two is definitely better then one.”
He rolls his eyes at that, and the expression is so familiar that you have to laugh. How many times have you worked with him on a case and seen him do the same thing because of a suspect’s obvious lies or a witness’s inane comments? A thousand times, you are certain. But now his expression is changing, and this one you’re not so familiar with. Serious, not scared but... in awe?
“Brass?”
“God, you’re beautiful Cath.” He doesn’t move, doesn’t even turn his head, but his eyes are devouring you. It should remind you of the men who used to sit at the edge of the stage, waiting for you to get close enough to slip a few stained bills into your g-string, but it doesn’t. This is something akin to worship.
“I’m nothing special, I’m just me. Catherine Willows, CSI, mother of one rebellious teenager.”
“Beautiful,” he repeats, finally joining you on the bed. He sits on the edge, next to your thigh but not touching you. “You know, I still remember the first time I saw you.”
“Ten years, give or take.” You remember too. Has it really taken you that long to get to this point?
“Grissom and I were having a drink in his office to celebrate my first week on the job. I was turned away from the door, and didn’t notice you until Grissom called you into the room. You know what my first thought was?”
“What?” you can’t help asking.
“I thought that you were everything good I had heard about Las Vegas wrapped up in one package. Elegance, glamour, refined sex. Beauty, not the cheap kind that I saw a hundred times that first week alone, but the classic kind that is the reason Vegas exists. If I had to put it into a single word I’d have to say you have class.”
No one’s ever said anything like that to you before. The fact that he means every word is enough to have you melting in a pile of emotion right where you are. His hand is next to yours and you pull on it with all your strength. It’s enough to upset his balance and he’s on top of you, which is just where you wanted him. You’d much rather show him how his words made you feel then show him.
He tries to roll off you, muttering something about being too heavy, but you wrap your legs around him and it’s enough to keep him in place. It’s only been minutes since you last kissed him but you’re eager for the taste again. You could raise your head up from the bed but it seems easier to make him come to you. Your hand snakes to the back of his head as you intend to pull him down to your level. The short hairs are so soft, though, that you can’t resist a few strokes against the grain of his hair. There is no feel in the world quite like a man’s hair when it’s just the right length. You could be content to do this for hours. The weight pressing against your pelvis tells you that Jim might disagree.
His mouth is still a little too far away, but his neck is right here and you take advantage of the fact with tongue and lips and teeth. You wonder what he’ll think when he looks in the mirror later and realizes that you’ve left a mark. Maybe before the day is through he’ll leave one on you too. The thought amuses you, and spend a moment thinking about which shirts in your closet have high necks. You don’t really care, though. Let the world know that this man has claimed you. And speaking of claiming...
“I know patience is supposed to be a virtue, but screw it. I want you now.” Your hand finds its way between bodies and quickly takes care of the zipper, pushing away the last layer of fabric that separates the two of you. It takes a little dexterity to free him completely, but nothing you can’t manage.
“You sure about this?”
“Do I seem anything less then sure?” You’re inches away from what you want and it seems ironic that he’d need to ask anything right now. Then again, that’s just Brass for you. He tries to hide it from most people but the man was a knight in shining armor in a past life.
He takes you at your word, capturing your mouth with his at the same time he thrusts inside you. He moves slowly at first, long even strokes that make every nerve in your body react. You’re vibrating, and if you didn’t know that it was against scientific principles you would think the energy was enough to make you float. You feel like you could fly. And then you are.
You fly faster and faster, your vision clouded by a rainbow of colors. The vibration builds, coiling tighter and tighter until you think you might snap in half from the feeling. Or maybe you’ll explode. Maybe you want to; you’re riding that razor sharp edge between pleasure and pain, almost to where you want to be but not quite.
“Please,” you hear yourself moan as you wrap yourself around him, grasping onto him as tightly as you can. Almost, almost.
There. Oh, God.
You see stars. Lights. Beauty.
You feel amazing, relaxed, beautiful. You feel like you never have before. It shouldn’t be like this. Touch, sex, orgasm, you’ve done this a thousand times. And then Jim drops a kiss on your lips and twines his fingers through yours and you know why it’s so different. You may be experienced in the art of sex but it’s been years since you’ve made love.
A/N: For the 2007 Valentine's Day smutathon at geekfiction. I played around with my writting style a bit, let me know what you think. A huge hug for aflaminghalo for the beta'ing.
II
You’re barely thorough the front door when Lindsey breezes past, in a hurry to leave.
“Don’t forget I’m going home with Krista after school,” she reminds you.
“Call me when you get there.” You make her promise, she nods and a moment later she is gone. Always in a hurry that one; rushing to school, to dance class, to see her friends. Rushing to grow up and you know how she feels because you were the same way. That doesn’t mean you like it, though.
You watch from the window as she jogs down the front walk and around the corner. When she’s out of sight you head for the kitchen. You’re not hungry but it’s been hours since you’ve had anything to eat and if you go straight to bed your stomach will wake you too soon. Nothing looks appetizing so you pour a bowlful of Lindsey’s Frosted Mini Wheats and cover them with milk. Quick and easy.
You eat standing next to the sink, another time saving device. The sooner this day is over the better; all you want to do is go to sleep. Nothing particularly bad happened, but it was the first shift since Grissom left on sabbatical and it’s funny how the absence of such a quiet man changed the whole atmosphere at work. Tomorrow, the new guy Keppler arrives and that’ll change the dynamic again. Just the thought exhausts you.
When the doorbell rings you frown and contemplate ignoring it. At nine in the morning it’s probably a salesman, or someone claiming that their mission is to save your soul. You already have a vacuum and your soul is your own to save. The bell rings again though, and your curiosity is enough to get you to open the door. After all you are more than capable of making unwanted people leave; you’ve had enough practice.
“Jim?” Standing on your front porch with a pink bakery box in one hand he’s looking oddly out of place. “This is a surprise.”
“What can I say; I’m a man full of surprises.” He shrugs, and inelegantly shoves the box in your direction. “I just wanted to stop by and give you this.”
“What is it?” In all the years that you’ve known him, Jim’s never given you anything. His idea of a birthday or holiday celebration is to treat you to a meal, then steal half of your dessert.
“I don’t know, the woman who sold it to me called it something in French. It’s a fruit tart thing. I was going to buy you a cake but all they had was carrot cake and you don’t like that.” He’s looking self conscious, and the first word to pop into your head is cute. Cute? Brass? You push the thought aside.
“You were going to buy me a cake?” You can’t resist the temptation and lift the lid. Glazed fruit is perfectly arranged on a flakey crust. It looks delicious. Realizing that Brass is still standing outside, you motion for him to come in and use your foot to close the door. He doesn’t answer your question until you’re both in the kitchen and you’ve placed the bakery box on the counter.
“Yeah well... I know it’s only a temporary thing, but while Grissom is gone you are the head of the night shift. I figured there should be cake.”
No one else has mentioned your new temporary position except for Grissom, and that didn’t count. The fact that Brass thought it deserved notice makes you look at him carefully. He’s still looking a little out of place so you set yourself to making him comfortable. You insist on sharing your dessert with him, cutting two slices and setting each one on a pale blue plate even as he protests. When you make a comment about Lindsey being gone until tomorrow and the house being a little too quiet he shuts up and accepts both the plate and the wine glass you hand him.
“You do know that it’s not even ten in the morning, don’t you?” he asks as you take a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc out of the fridge.
“Like you never have a drink at the end of a shift, or eat breakfast as the sun is setting.” Time is just numbers on a clock, a societal norm that doesn’t apply to people who live their lives at night.
“Guilty as charged.” He says wryly, following as you leave the room; passing the dining room table in favor of the couch. After a night of standing in heels you want to be as comfortable as possible.
“This is wonderful. Where did you get it?” The sweet and tartness of the fruit coupled with the rich butteryness of the crust is a thousand times better then the cereal you just ate. It’s also just the kind of treat you would have chosen for yourself, and you wonder if he knew that or if it was just a lucky guess. And how did he know that you didn’t like carrot cake?
“There’s a little hole in the wall place just around the corner from the station. You think that’s good you should try their donuts.”
“A place that sells donuts, I should have figured.” You can’t help but tease him. In some ways he is such a stereotypical cop; he might not have admitted it at the time but the move from CSI back to homicide seven years ago had been the right one for him.
“You don’t think I got this physique of mine by accident, do you? I have to work to look this good.” His tone is self-deprecating and you wonder if you should ignore it. Should you tease him about being a teddy bear, or admit to him that you’ve checked out his physique more then once lately? You decided to do neither, but instead draw him into a conversation about favorite desserts, telling him about the first cake you ever tried to bake and getting him to confess about the first crime he ever committed- stealing éclairs from a next door neighbor when he was six. It’s nothing earth shattering, but it’s enough that you both relax as you finish the snack and slowly sip the light and crisp wine.
You pour yourself a second glass, and it’s just enough to ease the lingering tension from your muscles. You’re leaning against the back of the couch, eyes at half-mast, not really caring that you’re being a bad host, when Jim moves suddenly. He’s no longer sitting politely at the other end of the couch, but is right next to you, half turned so that his knee is pressing into your leg. With a firm tug he pulls the glass out of your hand and sets it on the coffee table before turning his attention back to you.
“Hey Cath?” He says, in a tone that’s full of caution and warning.
“Yes?” Your eyes are wide open now, watching him, waiting to see what he’s going to do.
“You have about five seconds to push me away, and then I’m going to kiss you.” He looks hesitant, as if he really thinks you will push him away, or maybe he just believes that you should. With a hand lightly cupped to his cheek you reassure him.
“I’m not going to push you away, Jim.” And even if he doesn’t kiss you, the smile he gives just then is enough to make your day. It spreads across his face, lighting up his eyes, and you don’t think you’ve ever seen Jim Brass glow before.
He moves closer and your eyes close of their own volition. You wait expectantly for his lips to cover yours but he’s taking too long. You wonder if he’s changed his mind when you feel his touch. It’s not on your mouth. His lips brush against the line of your jaw, his breath warm against your skin. He doesn’t stay there, but moves so you feel him against your cheek, your temple, and ever so lightly on the tip of your nose. You can’t help laughing at that one. It comes out almost as a sigh.
His hands are on you now, one resting heavily on your waist, the other cupped against your neck so hat his thumb brushes against your ear lobe. Heat radiates from them, causing you to think of romantic nights spent in front of crackling fires. It’s still morning though, and you sure as hell aren’t stopping this to start a fire, (even if only requires the press of a button to ignite the gas flames. - consider removing? ) Maybe next time, you promise yourself. And there will be a next time. You and Jim have too much invested in your friendship for this to be just a one-night stand. This is the start of something.
He’s moving too slowly, so you decide to help him out. Opening a single eye you find your target, licking your bottom lip lightly before moving just the slightest. He freezes for a moment as your lips meet his, but then his lips part and a moan escapes. You take advantage of his pliancy, tracing the slight opening of his mouth with the tip of your tongue until he opens wider and you slip inside. He tastes of fruit and wine and man. You explore his mouth leisurely, acquainting yourself with the warmth, the texture, the taste. And then your tongue brushes against his and he’s no longer a passive participant.
You lose yourself in the simplicity of kissing, in no hurry to move from where you are. It’s not about foreplay; even though you know where this is leading. It’s about being in the moment. You like this moment, like the fact that the man kissing you is someone you trust and respect. A rare combination.
His hands haven’t moved and it amazes you that it feels like he is wrapped around you with only three points of contact. The hand at your waist isn’t even touching skin, and that’s not right. You don’t want anything between you and that delicious heat. Without breaking the kiss you reach down and tug at silk of your blouse, freeing it from your pants. You can feel one of Jim’s fingers graze the skin just above your slacks and it’s better but still not good enough. Removing clothing is a skill you used to depend on, so it isn’t hard to accomplish your goal. You only have to pull away for an instant before the shirt is gone. Perfect.
As if taking the exposed skin for permission his hands begin to move, tentatively at first; from your waist to the small of your back, from your neck to the slight swell of your clavicle. When you don’t protest his left hand travels lower, the palm coving black lace, the pads of his fingers resting in the valley between your breasts. His right hand is moving in slow circles, and if you thought the wine relaxed you its nothing compared to this.
You want to return the favor, and it’s only then that you realize that he is still fully dressed. No jacket- he must have taken that off sometime between leaving work and arriving here- but the sleeves of his shirt aren’t even rolled up and the tie is still knotted around his neck.
“You don’t need to stand on formality on my account,” you remark as you pull away taking a deep breath. You’re feeling a little light headed from the lack of oxygen. He looks a little confused at your joke until you tug at the stripped cloth. You slip a single finger between his collar and the knot, pulling until the loop is big enough to take off. A flicker of thumb and forefinger take care of the top two buttons. He shivers when you run a fingernail over the exposed vee of skin. You bet he’ll do more then shiver if you trace the same patch of skin with your tongue. You’re about to try when he stops you.
“While making out on the couch like a couple of teenagers brings back some pleasant memories, the bedroom might be a little more comfortable. If this is going any farther then making out, that is.”
“Oh, this is going father, all right,” you promise. The tie is still in your hand and you drop it to the floor before turning away from him and rising to your feet. Your balance is a little off, but you try not to let him see that. Instead you wrap your fingers around his wrist and pull, a not so subtle hint. He raises a single eyebrow then acquiesces.
“Teenagers, Jim?” you tease as you lead him down the hall to the master bedroom.
“That’s the last time I remember spending an hour on a girl’s couch doing nothing but kissing. It’s also the last time I made up an excuse just to visit a girl,” he admits.
“That’s sad, Brass. Not the excuse part, because that’s flattering even though you don’t need an excuse to come here. But the first part? Sad.”
“Why, you spend a lot of time making out on the couch?”
“More time then you do, apparently.” The door to your room is closed, and you open it to reveal icy blue walls and a bed covered in blue and burgundy.
“I guess that’s something you’ll have to teach me, then.”
“It’s not something you need to learn,” you say, thinking of the taste and feel of him in your mouth. “On the other hand there’s nothing wrong with practice.”
“Practice, huh? I’m all for practice.” His eyes twinkle as he reaches for you, and at the same time he turns down the comforter on your bed revealing blue silk sheets. Bed linens are one of your weaknesses. Even when money was tight you would save up for silk or satin, or at least Egyptian cotton. You figure it’s worth the extra expense, especially since you don’t have to waste any money on pajamas.
“Glad to hear that.” Then his lips are on you again and your fingers blindly fumble for the buttons on his shirt. There are six, not counting the ones you already unfastened. It doesn’t take long at all to get them undone. The ones at his wrists are a little harder but as soon as you have them it only takes a sharp tug to have the shirt falling to the floor. His undershirt is still in the way. You’re trying to decide what goes next, the shirt or the pants, when he eliminates the decision by pulling the shirt over his head and throwing it over his shoulder. Now you’re the one a step behind, but that’s easy to take care of.
You don’t even have to think about what you’re doing when you reach behind you to undo the clasp of your bra. You shake the white lace free and feel it brush against your instep when it lands on the carpet. Your slacks take a little more work to get free from, but soon they too are on the floor. Relishing the feel of being naked you tip your head backwards and free fall onto the bed. There is nothing like the sensation of silk against skin. Well, almost nothing.
“You going to join me, Jim? This is one of those times when two is definitely better then one.”
He rolls his eyes at that, and the expression is so familiar that you have to laugh. How many times have you worked with him on a case and seen him do the same thing because of a suspect’s obvious lies or a witness’s inane comments? A thousand times, you are certain. But now his expression is changing, and this one you’re not so familiar with. Serious, not scared but... in awe?
“Brass?”
“God, you’re beautiful Cath.” He doesn’t move, doesn’t even turn his head, but his eyes are devouring you. It should remind you of the men who used to sit at the edge of the stage, waiting for you to get close enough to slip a few stained bills into your g-string, but it doesn’t. This is something akin to worship.
“I’m nothing special, I’m just me. Catherine Willows, CSI, mother of one rebellious teenager.”
“Beautiful,” he repeats, finally joining you on the bed. He sits on the edge, next to your thigh but not touching you. “You know, I still remember the first time I saw you.”
“Ten years, give or take.” You remember too. Has it really taken you that long to get to this point?
“Grissom and I were having a drink in his office to celebrate my first week on the job. I was turned away from the door, and didn’t notice you until Grissom called you into the room. You know what my first thought was?”
“What?” you can’t help asking.
“I thought that you were everything good I had heard about Las Vegas wrapped up in one package. Elegance, glamour, refined sex. Beauty, not the cheap kind that I saw a hundred times that first week alone, but the classic kind that is the reason Vegas exists. If I had to put it into a single word I’d have to say you have class.”
No one’s ever said anything like that to you before. The fact that he means every word is enough to have you melting in a pile of emotion right where you are. His hand is next to yours and you pull on it with all your strength. It’s enough to upset his balance and he’s on top of you, which is just where you wanted him. You’d much rather show him how his words made you feel then show him.
He tries to roll off you, muttering something about being too heavy, but you wrap your legs around him and it’s enough to keep him in place. It’s only been minutes since you last kissed him but you’re eager for the taste again. You could raise your head up from the bed but it seems easier to make him come to you. Your hand snakes to the back of his head as you intend to pull him down to your level. The short hairs are so soft, though, that you can’t resist a few strokes against the grain of his hair. There is no feel in the world quite like a man’s hair when it’s just the right length. You could be content to do this for hours. The weight pressing against your pelvis tells you that Jim might disagree.
His mouth is still a little too far away, but his neck is right here and you take advantage of the fact with tongue and lips and teeth. You wonder what he’ll think when he looks in the mirror later and realizes that you’ve left a mark. Maybe before the day is through he’ll leave one on you too. The thought amuses you, and spend a moment thinking about which shirts in your closet have high necks. You don’t really care, though. Let the world know that this man has claimed you. And speaking of claiming...
“I know patience is supposed to be a virtue, but screw it. I want you now.” Your hand finds its way between bodies and quickly takes care of the zipper, pushing away the last layer of fabric that separates the two of you. It takes a little dexterity to free him completely, but nothing you can’t manage.
“You sure about this?”
“Do I seem anything less then sure?” You’re inches away from what you want and it seems ironic that he’d need to ask anything right now. Then again, that’s just Brass for you. He tries to hide it from most people but the man was a knight in shining armor in a past life.
He takes you at your word, capturing your mouth with his at the same time he thrusts inside you. He moves slowly at first, long even strokes that make every nerve in your body react. You’re vibrating, and if you didn’t know that it was against scientific principles you would think the energy was enough to make you float. You feel like you could fly. And then you are.
You fly faster and faster, your vision clouded by a rainbow of colors. The vibration builds, coiling tighter and tighter until you think you might snap in half from the feeling. Or maybe you’ll explode. Maybe you want to; you’re riding that razor sharp edge between pleasure and pain, almost to where you want to be but not quite.
“Please,” you hear yourself moan as you wrap yourself around him, grasping onto him as tightly as you can. Almost, almost.
There. Oh, God.
You see stars. Lights. Beauty.
You feel amazing, relaxed, beautiful. You feel like you never have before. It shouldn’t be like this. Touch, sex, orgasm, you’ve done this a thousand times. And then Jim drops a kiss on your lips and twines his fingers through yours and you know why it’s so different. You may be experienced in the art of sex but it’s been years since you’ve made love.