Title: Monsoon Season
Author: Summer Reign
Rating: M (not too M-y though. Don't get your hopes up)
Disclaimer: Do you honestly think TPTB would ever write this type of thing? So, yeah. They aren't mine but the characters did express an interest in being adopted by me. Shhh…don't tell anyone.
Spoilers: Up through season 6, I guess.
Summary: A story about emotional honesty, emotional overload and emotional acceptance (yeah, that ought to get them lining up to read it, Summer, old girl!)
It was his own fault, really.
Mid-thrust, he looked down at her and realized, not for the first time, her eyes were closed.
And, as a scientist, his curiosity got the better of him. Why were her eyes always closed as she approached orgasm? Was she lost in the sensations? Her own thoughts? Fantasies of (gulp) another man?
He slowed down. He wasn't that far gone yet. He could control himself a few more moments. She finally opened her eyes and he put his hand to the side of her face.
"Look at me," he said, and kissed her long and slow and deep. He loved the feel of the inside of her mouth. The warm, slick slide of his tongue against her soft, wet … Perhaps he wouldn't last quite as long as he hoped. When he pulled back from the kiss, her eyelids were half-opened. He repeated, "look at me," a bit more urgently this time, and she opened them fully as he started to thrust again.
He got what he wanted. He got to see the expression in her eyes as she came.
He got to see…way too much.
After a week or so, he realized he had created a monster.
Sara never closed her eyes anymore. It got to the point where he was starting to close his.
Gone were the nights when he would spend half his time watching her face for cues as to what she might really feel. Nights when he looked for signs that this, whatever they had between them, went way beyond sexual gratification and mutual comfort. After all those years of her telling him she had feelings for him, and in many cases—virtually spelling them out—he had no idea why it was so important for him to SEE it. But, it had been.
The problem was, their relationship came about after such a very long dry spell. He had dated, even had sex a few times since Sara had arrived in Vegas. Right at the beginning. Because, well, he knew she was off-limits and she got him all hot and bothered with talk of duct tape and mile high clubs. Who was he kidding? She got him hot and bothered talking about blood spatter and gun shot residue. He had just wanted to feel…close to someone. After all, just because he couldn't go after the one woman he really wanted, didn't mean the rest of the female population in Las Vegas was unavailable. And it was okay. But…just okay. And everything outside of the actual sexual encounter itself was kind of… not okay at all. Because his choice of the perfect date for each of his chosen women, apparently, was totally off-base and each one of the women didn't hesitate to tell him they were severely disappointed in his decision making process.
And the real kicker was…he knew Sara would have liked them.
He thought of her often during those dates and, if truth be told, during the sex part, too.
And that really wasn't right. Even if those encounters didn't involve love on either partner's side, it still was not right.
So, he stopped having meaningless flings.
No sex. No love. A date or two that led to nothing. A weird flirtation with a dominatrix that, also, led to nothing.
A very long dry spell, indeed.
And then this infusion of life into his life. A warm, steady rain after years of heat and sand.
That's what Sara was.
Until last week. Until he more or less coerced her into looking at him.
And the wind shifted.
And Pandora's box flew wide open.
And he mixed his metaphors because, really, was there one that could adequately describe this dilemma of his own making?
They were seated on her couch, watching a movie.
He was paying attention to the television screen, she was paying attention to him. He could feel her gaze on him. Steady, unblinking.
He refused to look at her.
For heaven's sake!
This--THIS—was a potential problem.
Relationships involved talking. They involved sharing time together without pawing each other. Without plotting the next romantic move. They involved sharing time on a couch without touching, just sitting and watching the same thing, perhaps followed by a philosophical discussion or two. Then pre-bed showers, sex and sleep.
All neat and tidy. And now, what was this? She was trying to change the status quo?
He took a deep breath. "Sara…"
What in the world could he say to her? Sara? Don't go getting any funny ideas in your head now. I've got a headache!
But even if he had the words, she wasn't listening. Not really. She had her hand halfway down his shirt, unbuttoning the buttons.
"Shhhh…let me. Just let me."
Let her what?
Her hand was down by his belt buckle and she unzipped his zipper and tucked her hand inside his shorts.
"Sara…later," he said, making one last attempt to stop this change of routine that he did not initiate.
"Oh, come on. I'm not asking anything of you, Gris. Just…sit there or lay there and let me lo…let me."
Well, he had no choice now, did he? It was better to let her just have her way with him than actually…talk about feelings or something. After all, she almost said it. It almost slipped out. And he just couldn't have that.
Besides, it's not like she had never pleasured him before. Of course she had. And she was good at it, too. And he enjoyed it. He usually reciprocated in some way, but if she felt like being the aggressor, more power to her. He'd just sit back and watch television while she…
Oh, that was kind of nice.
He glanced down. How did she manage to get his shirt opened all the way, his pants opened all the way, and how had she managed to 'Free Willy,' without him even taking much notice? He supposed it had something to do with him paying more attention to the more cerebral aspects of life than…
Oh. That was really, really nice.
She was leaning into his side, her hair splayed across his chest, with her hands stroking him lightly. Damn body was betraying him more and more by the second and, technically, she was barely doing anything…yet. His attention toward the television set was definitely minimal, at best. He couldn't see her face. She was too busy concentrating on the task at hand, sort of speak.
And then he really couldn't see her face, but he could feel it. Feel her nose against his skin, her warm mouth covering his flesh, her tongue tasting him…
Perversely, he kind of wanted to see her face again.
Even though he had been whining about what he saw there (only to himself, of course) for about a week now.
She increased suction and he let out a very loud moan. The movie? Was there a tv in the room? Who knew? All he knew was he was getting an incredible blow job and he was about to…
"Sara, honey. Uh…Sara, stop," he tried to pull her away from him, but she wasn't listening, and as much as he would have liked to stop himself, that was virtually impossible since she was now working him with both her mouth and her left hand. And then he did it, he looked in just the right direction at just the right moment. Her other hand was holding on to his hip for leverage, but she was making small, slow, circular strokes with her thumb, even as her other hand was working him into a frenzy and her mouth was ready to suck him dry again.
That hand on his hip was his undoing. It was such a lo…caring thing to do.
And the minute the thought entered his head, he found himself coming and coming and coming…
And when he finally stopped and opened his eyes, she caught him with more than just his pants down. She caught him with his emotions fully exposed.
And suddenly his love-life had hit the monsoon season, and he was the poor sucker who was drowning in the accompanying rain.
Oh, so what?
Big deal. It certainly was not the worst thing he had ever said to her.
And she didn't make such a big deal of it.
No, not at all. She seemed to accept it.
And, really, it was true.
After her grand performance the other evening, which was kind of bad enough, overwhelming intensity-wise, they had taken their nighttime showers. They didn't have sex (he kind of begged off, pulling the old "I'm not as young as I used to be and need more recovery time, catch you in the morning" routine), and just went to sleep. He turned his back to her, and she spooned up against him and draped her arm around his middle. Her hand was splayed on the not-so-gentle swell of his belly and the soft stroking began again. Stroking his middle-aged paunch. Like it was some stud-muffin's 6-pack abs.
He didn't catch her in the morning. He got up and basically ran like hell, after leaving a note about a fake early roll out, of course. No need to be impolite.
So, there were reasons for him to take the first opportunity presented to him to set her straight. Subtly. Important reasons. She couldn't think that she could be making those lovey-dovey gestures all the time. Kissing him and sexing him up and … wait. He actually usually initiated all those moves himself. But…those looks. The feeling in her hands as she touched him…the softness of her kiss…those big brown eyes looking at him with such…
No, he couldn't deal with that. It was exactly what he said it was…
Yes, that was better than the drowning metaphor.
He was suffocating during his own personal monsoon season.
Wait. That didn't make sense.
You'd be more likely to suffocate during a dry spell and …
Okay. He'd go back to drowning during the monsoon.
She recovered from his comment quickly, he thought. Actually, she didn't seem to have that much of a reaction, really. Actually, she seemed to even present practical options for the whole sleeping together post-sex closeness problem, which—if she was serious—was one less thing to worry about in this relationship.
Yup, she handled it well.
Except for the hurt look in her eyes, and the tiny downward turn of her mouth.
Yeah. Except for those.
It had been an honest exchange, but not a shining moment in their relationship. Not at all.
So, what does a man do after telling the woman he…has been seeing…that she's kind of suffocating him?
Take a few days to gather his thoughts? Give her some time to digest what he said? Figure out a way to come together and devise a new life plan to meet both of their respective needs?
Or invite her over and out of her clothes within five minutes of her arrival at his townhouse?
Because the second option is kind of the one he chose.
And it was good, too. Fast and hot. And no looking in each other's eyes or murmuring nonsensical words or long kisses or caresses. Just got down to business and made the (heretofore rock-steady) headboard smack against the wall several times before it was over. With just enough time for him to remove his condom, and throw it in the trash, he promptly fell asleep.
He woke up and felt kind of cold. Falling asleep without putting any clothes on will usually do that to a guy. He didn't normally like falling asleep naked. If Sara was with him, he was pretty warm, though. She had a fairly high body temperature for someone so thin…
But he was damned near freezing.
And she was nowhere to be found.
Well, crap. That was inconsiderate.
He went to the bathroom and washed up a bit. Then put on his nice, alone-time sweatpants and a tee shirt.
He could use some water before bed. Vigorous sex sure could dehydrate a man. Off to the kitchen he went.
And then he spotted her. Or spotted her legs. Long legs hanging off the end of his undersized couch. He'd been meaning to replace that thing for a while now. It was very uncomfortable for two and wasn't all that great for one, especially if one had legs that went on for a mile.
She had one of his flannel pajama tops on. Probably didn't have the bottoms, since a good expanse of bare legs was peeking out from under the blanket she swiped.(He had a serious obsession over her legs). And she was fast asleep.
She slept much better than she claimed. Most of the time. Sometimes, though, she liked to wander around at night. That was another thing he didn't particularly like. He was more of a 'lights out and to bed' type of guy.
But, she had things to do, and her mind wouldn't shut down quite as fast. Although, if she were fully sated…
He smiled and walked over to her. Sat on the coffee table across from her head and watched her for a while.
This is the woman he was afraid of for so long?
Afraid that she'd use him for his body and then just toss him aside (which made him laugh, even as he seriously considered it, because…well….the girl could just be kinky, couldn't she?).
Afraid that she'd leave him for a younger man.
Afraid…really and truly afraid…that she might….
Open her eyes at that very second.
"What are you doing here?" he asked, and immediately cursed himself. "Out here," he meant. Really, he did. What are you doing OUT here.
But he didn't correct himself.
"Letting you breathe," she stated.
"I…never said I was talking about me."
"Well, I learned that 2 plus 2 equals 4 at a very young age, Grissom. Do you want me to leave? I can sleep in my own apartment. I was just kind of tired but I can be out of here before you get up, if that would make you feel better."
"I am…uh…" What? Was he sorry? Not really. He didn't want to hurt her, but he felt what he felt.
"I don't know, Sara. This…this is fine. I just don't want you to be uncomfortable."
"I'm not fussy about beds. I slept in a whole bunch of weird fold-a-way things when I was little. This is actually quite luxurious for me."
"Oh, come on," she said, sitting up. "Don't look at me that way. I was just stating a fact, not throwing a pity party and issuing you a royal invitation. You've never slept on a futon or a couch that had a bar digging in your back?"
"I have," he said quietly and, just like that, her anger was gone.
"The thing is…you and I both kind of know what happened the other day, don't we?"
It was really time to go back to sleep. Perhaps if he stretched and yawned, she'd get the hint.
"I mean, not on my couch, but back in your bed, last week…."
Rain falling too fast to drain. Water tables rising. Surrounding him. Air supply diminishing….
"I was keeping my eyes closed for quite a while. It just took you a long time to notice. I didn't necessarily want you to see, what you saw, you know."
And breathe…for a second. Because, really, curiosity was better at clearing the airways than mouth to mouth resuscitation, sometimes.
"I was scared."
"About what I'd see reflected back. And I wasn't wrong, you know. Because I saw surprise. And it doesn't exactly make me feel wonderful knowing you were expecting…less of me than what I thought I found in your eyes the other night."
"I…uh…" Grissom's air supply was gone again. "I'm not comfortable discussing this, Sara."
She pushed herself back onto the couch and threw her head back and looked at the ceiling for a moment.
"It's okay. Go back to sleep. I'm just going to sit here for a while and I'll go back to my place."
"You don't have to do that."
"I know. We've been over this part. It's fine. You can call the shots again. I know you're more comfortable that way."
"But are you?" Grissom asked.
She looked at him. "You don't really get it, do you?"
"I guess not," he said.
"I don't know why, but I'm different with you than I am with anyone else. And this—this thing between us—is not some passing fancy, no matter what you might think. So, if I have to give up some of my precious control…and, believe me, I know I'm a control freak…and control is precious to me…well, if I have to give it up to have this…I don't have a problem with it."
And the wind suddenly changed direction again.
And he could breathe.
He had control. He was in control. Not her. No. Not her. He would say when they would make love…uh…have sex, and when….no, IF, the "l" word would ever be used (he already was kind of leaning toward a "never" with that one) and she could now go back to closing her eyes and …
He was an idiot.
And a coward.
And idiotic coward, really.
Because he knew the truth, even if he tried to avoid it.
There had been love in her eyes. Pure, unadulterated love. Scared the hell out of him. Because, with that love, which he fully returned, by the way, came a responsibility toward another human being. Toward the only human being, really, who he cared enough to want to please. And he just couldn't figure out how he, Gilbert Grissom, could possibly do it. Could possibly be worthy of the love he saw.
But, worthy or not, what he saw shining in her eyes was not something that was going to go away.
So…he could spend the rest of his life trying to protect his heart, while breaking hers, or he could just look at this woman who was so tough on the outside, and so tender with him, who was willing to sacrifice anything for him….and just….live.
He leaned forward and put his hand on her cheek, "Look at me, Sara," he said and she opened her eyes.
And he tried, very hard, to show her just what he was feeling. He had given her a preview the other night, but—if she was anything like him—she might try to talk herself into believing it was a byproduct of mind-blowing sex. But there was no sex now. Just the two of them, in a room, being totally quiet. And totally in love.
She let a slow, dreamy kind of a smile float across her face.
And he returned it, but he was somewhat convinced that his must have looked a little on the goofy side of dreamy.
It didn't matter. She seemed to like him--no, she LOVED him, as is.
"Come back to bed?" he asked.
He nodded. "Yeah."
He took her hand and walked her into the bedroom. And they spent a good ten minutes just staring into each other's eyes, hoping to catch glimpses into each other's hearts.
And both of them had no problem breathing.
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