Fandom: CSI Pairing: G/S Rating: NC-17 Summary: Sequel to Proud Flesh. Disclaimer: The characters and situations in this story belong to Alliance Atlantis, CBS, Anthony Zuicker and other entities, and I do not have permission to borrow them. No infringement is intended in any way, and this story is not for profit. Any errors are mine, all mine, no you can't have any. Spoilers: general sixth season through "Secrets and Flies". Many thanks to Cinco and Trialia, who soothed my neurosis and told me this was just fine.     ********* She told me she resented me, right off.  And I couldn’t blame her.  I’d spent years making her the victim of my insecurities; she had every right.  I admired her honesty, too.  If you want something as badly as Sara wanted me--and at that point I had no doubts left that “badly” didn’t even begin to cover it--it’s hard to come out and say something that may lose you your prize before you even have it in your hand.  But she cared about me too.  Wanted me.  I could say “as much as I wanted her”, but such comparisons are really meaningless.  Suffice it to say...she didn’t kick me out of her apartment.  I was so angry when I got there, with reason.  I don’t remember much about the actual trip there, but I do remember the first glimpse I got of the bandage on her shoulder, and then taking it off so I could see how badly she was hurt.  I’m still surprised that she let me.  Sara always seemed somehow unattainable to me.  Too big an age gap was the obvious objection, and the fact that she was my subordinate came right behind, but those I could have worked around.  The real reasons were harder to pin down.  But when you get to be almost fifty and the few successful relationships of your life are twenty years in the past...well, let’s just say a man stops thinking of possibilities and instead lives on memories.  At least that’s what I did, not that the memories were all that spectacular anyway.  Winning Sara at last, well--it was like asking for a house, and being given blueprints, supplies, and equipment.  She was not the sweet sylph of my fantasies, she was a prickly, angry, suspicious, real woman with her own agenda and a slowly healing hole in her shoulder.  And we would have to build that house together, if it was going to exist at all.  Fortunately, I found the real woman far more fascinating than my spun-sugar fantasy, and despite Sara’s natural impatience, I also found that she could be almost infinitely patient with me.  In fact, she already had been.  And our affinity worked for us, there.  I’ve never been good about communicating my personal thoughts, but a lot of the time Sara could tell what I was thinking and feeling, just as I could for her.  It was a little spooky sometimes, but given how badly I wanted to make us work, I was hardly going to turn such a gift down.  I let her take the lead, mostly.  It only seemed fair, since I had been controlling things for so long, but it also seemed to suit us both.  I said something when I thought I had to, but generally I let her set the pace of our relationship.  She surprised me there, too; I kind of expected that she’d want to rush straight into things, but she didn’t.  I think she spent about a week making sure that I meant what I had said, that I was going to stick around, and then she went ahead.  And it was...amazing.  Not that it was easy, far from it--neither of us was used to living our lives for anyone but ourselves--but I hadn’t really known, or maybe I’d just forgotten, how fulfilling it can be too.  I mean, I’d known I was lonely.  I’ve been that way all my life, really; it wasn’t a new thing.  I was used to the ache of it.  But having that loneliness relieved was a revelation.  One always thinks that the latest love is unlike anything that has come before, but in this case I think it must be true, because Sara took the loneliness away.  No one else had ever done that.  It was astounding, to walk into my townhouse and see her shoes by the door and her keys on the counter, and have my heart hiccup out of its accustomed path of  solitude and into the anticipation of seeing her, never mind that it had only been eighty minutes since we’d parted at work.  It was gratifying, to beat her to her place and to see the smile spread slowly over her face when she came in and saw me in her kitchen or on her couch.  It was an astonishment, to roll over in the middle of the day after some sad dream and bump into her warm length beside me, and realize that she wasn’t a phantom in my head after all--and that she had no objections whatsoever to being pulled into my arms and held like she were some oversized, beloved stuffed toy.  That one was a bit embarrassing, but she never said a word.  There are a thousand firsts in any relationship, from the first kiss to the first fight, and there are a thousand lasts as well, though one doesn’t see those coming.  Some firsts you savor, and some you regret, and some you never notice, and some are to be celebrated.  We’re not the sentimental types, but we did celebrate a few, very privately.  The first time we made love, though, wasn’t a celebration so much as a...confirmation, in a way.  It was funny; we’d spent years dancing around the sexual tension between us, but once we had finally--once I had finally gotten my head out of my ass, it seemed to simmer down somewhat.  As though now that we were expressing our feelings for one another in other ways, the pressure was off.  Not that it went away.  After that first week there were times when we would neck pretty heavily, but it was never something we couldn’t step back from.  Neither of us was ready for that next level just yet, and as Sara said, there was no reason to rush.  I kind of savored it, myself.  This was the first time in a very long time that I wanted a relationship to last forever, and I saw no need to skip any steps.  I wanted to make the most of it.  After the first time I came to my senses to realize that I had Sara half on top of me and my hand way up her shirt, it took an effort to pull back, but I told her that going any further would be her decision entirely.  It wasn’t just courtesy.  I knew what I wanted from our relationship, but at that stage I wasn’t entirely sure that she knew what she wanted.  It only made sense to let her set the pace.  Even if a large part of me wanted to keep exploring the softness under my fingertips, and to hell with waiting.  I remember she gave me a long, thoughtful look, and then agreed.  And so for a while we had fun behaving like teenagers, but going no further than a lot of kissing and a few caresses.  When my body got impatient, I reminded it that it was getting a lot more now than it had in years, and took another cold shower, or relieved the pressure myself.  When she did decide, there was no catalyst, or none that I ever knew about.  We just were having a quiet morning after work, with the weekend to look forward to, and we were reading journals on my couch.  We started off on opposite ends, but eventually I had her snuggled up against my side, sort of perpendicular; we could both keep reading, but I could also bend down and kiss her when I felt like it.  Or put a hand on her shoulder and rub; her bullet wound was healed, by then, but she said it still ached from time to time, and that I seemed to know just how to rub it to make the ache go away.  What could I say?  It was my pleasure.  After a while we were doing more kissing than reading, really.  Sara had turned around in my arms, and eventually we’d dropped the journals and she was across my lap.  I was aroused--there was no hiding that--and I could tell from the scent of her that she was aroused too.  But I didn’t really expect anything to be different this time.  She caught my wrist to stop my hand, and opened her eyes, and just looked at me for a moment; and then she smiled.  I’d never seen her smile quite like that before; it did things to my hormones that are pretty indescribable.  Then she wiggled off my lap and stood up, and held out a hand.  “Bed?”  We’d spent a few days in each other’s beds already, mostly because we both fell asleep on the couch and woke too woozy to drive.  But it was obvious she had something else in mind this time, and I let her pull me to my feet.  I’d had this happen before, at work, going into a sort of focused state that let me concentrate on evidence to the exclusion of all else.  But this was the second time it had happened with a person; the first, of course, was when I invaded her apartment that night weeks before.  This time, though, there was no anger involved.  I stopped her halfway down the hall, despite the pull of her fingers around my wrist.  “Birth control?” I asked; Sara had said when we’d agreed to wait that she would handle it when the time came, but she hadn’t offered any details.  She gave me that smile again, and slid my hand into the waistband of her jeans, down the small of her back.  I felt the roughness of a patch under my fingertips, and nodded, and used my hand on her ass to pull her closer.  The thing about testosterone is that it makes one very possessive, despite whatever the intellect says.  But when I cupped Sara’s head in my other hand and slipped my tongue into her mouth, she didn’t object in the least; in fact, I was quickly wound around with those long arms and legs.  It suited me just fine.  It was an easy matter to lift her off her feet; she was only standing on one at that point anyway, and she wasn’t heavy.  Another instance of possessiveness, but the feel of her lips under my ear as I carried her into my bedroom told me she had no objections there either.  I set her down beside my bed and put my hands on her shoulders so I could take a look at her--partly to make sure that this was really what she wanted, and partly just because I wanted to.  She was flushed, her hair was mussed, her breathing was rapid; I could see the outline of her nipples through her shirt, even though I knew she was wearing a bra.  Mine, said the back of my head, and it wasn’t just the possessive.  Mine to take, mine to please, mine to touch and taste and absorb and love.  I let out a long breath, and Sara gave me a mischievous grin and reached up to take off my glasses.  I’d forgotten I was wearing them, and I watched as she lifted them away, watched as she folded them carefully and turned to put them on the little chest of drawers by my bed; and then I pulled her back into my arms and started tasting the skin of her throat.  Sara gasped a little, but she tilted her head to offer me more, and I felt her hands reaching back to my hips.  I slipped my hands under her shirt and ran them up to pull it off and away; as she shook her hair back into place I leaned over her shoulder and watched my own hands close on her breasts.  I think we groaned together.  I’ve heard women say that they don’t understand the fascination men have for their breasts, but given that they’re an erogenous zone, I’m not sure understanding matters.  We like touching them, women in general like having them touched.  It’s a win-win situation.  And hers were well worth touching.  They were warm and heavy and soft beneath the thin fabric, and the perfect size to fit in my palms; I felt the prod of her nipples as I lifted gently, and that just made me all the more focused.  It’s an ego thing, knowing how to please a woman, and it can turn into a feedback loop--the more pleased she is, the better you feel, and the more you want to please her.  Sara’s hands were fumbling against mine, and I couldn’t figure out why, except she didn’t seem to want me to stop.  Then I realized that the bra had a front catch.  It came loose under her fingers, and I lost no time in brushing the fabric aside.  Creamy translucent skin, with that fascinating faint tracery of veins beneath the surface--I made a mental note to follow them with my tongue later--and puckered nipples darker than I expected.  I touched them lightly, I couldn’t resist, and Sara gasped again and her hips pushed back against mine.  That was fun, so I did it again and again, flicking gently to feel her press up against my erection.  The sweet achy pressure, the little grind of her ass were all delicious, and I turned my mouth in towards her throat again, knowing because she’d told me that the scrape of my whiskers was a great stimulant, as long as I didn’t overdo it.  I’d just worked my tongue in behind her earlobe when she pulled away, surprising me.  Before I could ask what the matter was, Sara had my shirt halfway up my chest, so I let her pull it off and away.  And before I could get back to what I was doing, her hands were on my abdomen and her lips were finding my own nipples.  All my thoughts scattered for a little while.  I’ve heard it argued that male nipples are proof against intelligent design, because they serve no purpose, but honestly, as far as I’m concerned they do have a purpose--that of turning a man on further.  The nip of Sara’s teeth was enough to make me put one hand in her hair and the other back on her ass, and pull her closer still, and I felt her laugh against my chest.  Her mouth on me was lighting fires under my skin, and I knew I had to shift the focus soon or lose control altogether.  “My turn,” I muttered, and managed to pull her away long enough to sit her down on the bed.   “We’re taking turns?” she asked, leaning back--on purpose, I could tell--and giving me a sultry look.  I gave her a haughty one right back, and reached for the button of her jeans.   “Maybe next time.”  Her eyes widened, but before she could swat me I knelt on the floor and finally tasted the skin of her tummy.  I’d been wanting to do that for years.  She smelled faintly sweet and very aroused, and at last I could dip my finger into her navel and lick the small swell of her belly.  For one so slender Sara has an adorable little roundness that can only be seen from exactly the right angle, and I rubbed my cheek against it to hear her gasp again.  The beard was coming in more handy than I’d thought.  I undid the button, and Sara kicked her jeans off as she slid further up the bed.  I followed; I had a goal in mind and I wasn’t about to be deterred.  And judging from the whimpering sound she made when I closed my mouth on her nipple, Sara again had no objections.  So damn sweet.  I couldn’t believe I had gone this long without knowing this taste, this texture.  I took my time exploring each soft mound, indulging the curiosity I’d carried for years; I found out that the undersides of her breasts were ticklish, and that the left one was just a fraction smaller than the right one, and that a tiny squeeze of my teeth on her nipple would make her hips buck up and her fingers tighten in my hair.   “Gillllll,” she finally complained, tugging at my head, and I lifted it enough to detour to the scar on her shoulder and give it the kisses it deserved.  Then she ducked in some lithe way and started kissing me again.  That alone I could do for hours, savoring the press of her mouth on mine and the slickness of her tongue, but we were both beyond such patience at this point.  She rolled, taking me with her, until she was on top and her hands were tugging at my fly.  It was a sight I knew I’d never forget: Sara Sidle looming over me in nothing but panties, eyes alight.  I reached out to touch her again, but she pinned my hands down at my sides and went back to my pants.  I cooperated for the moment, but it wasn’t fair; she slid off both my jeans and my shorts at the same time, leaving me nude, while she wasn’t, quite.  She made a sort of purring noise and ran her hand over my belly, which made me hiss; then she ran one finger down the length of my erection.  I grunted, twitching, but I was transfixed by her.  No dream ever compared to this moment, this stunning reality of the woman of my obsession, my heart, wrapping her hand around me and squeezing gently, and grinning happily as my eyes rolled back in my head.  Well, it was good to know that she liked what she saw, but there were limits, and as her other hand cupped my balls I was rapidly approaching mine.  “Sara...”  She pouted as I took hold of her wrists, but I knew she was teasing, and I pulled her down on top of me and kissed her deeply, running my tongue along the insides of her lips as I worked her panties off.  It was delightful torture to feel her wriggling as she kicked them away; her belly was velvet against my erection and I couldn’t resist wrapping my arms around her hips and rocking against her a few times.  She chuckled into my mouth and said something I couldn’t make out.  I slid one hand down over her ass and between her legs, and oh she was so soft, so slick; and the miracle of it was that I had made her that way.  I explored a little, keeping my touch gentle, and Sara bit my lip and rocked again, making that whimpering noise that sent such a thrill up my spine.  I moved my fingers a little higher and pressed...there...and she let my lip go and tossed her head back.  “Gil!”  I laughed, I couldn’t help it.  Sara gave me a glare with no force at all, and reached back, and after a moment of fumbling--  Firsts.  The first time of pressing slowly into her, feeling her flesh give way to mine, feeling the heat enveloping me, watching her face; the first time of lifting my hips, just a little, to slide deeper; the first time of seeing her mouth open on a silent exclamation, seeing her expression hovering between pleasure and pain.  She was so tight that I didn’t realize how hard I was clenching my teeth until my jaw began to ache.  The first time of looking down and seeing us completely joined.  The first time of sliding out, the incredible friction, the clasp of her as I pushed back in.  Slowly at first, because we both had to get used to it, but when her mouth fell hungrily on mine I wrapped my arms around her and rolled us both back over.  I couldn’t have explained it; I wanted her spread out and welcoming under me, I wanted to cover her with my own body this time, make her mine this way.  We took our time, this time.  You’d think after years of tension that the urgency would be too great, but for some reason it wasn’t, and we had plenty of time to move slowly together, to kiss and nibble and watch each other, and smile and whisper nonsense.  Time to savor every push and tug, to feel sweat gathering on our skin, to realize that we were together at last...at first...for always.  I’d meant to keep it slow as long as possible, to draw the pleasure out as long as I could, but when Sara hooked her ankles together behind my back, things kind of got out of control.  She started moaning, and the sound just drove me crazy; I started pounding into her, harder and harder, and any worry I might have had about hurting her was washed away when her hips were moving in time with mine, and when she started begging me not to stop.  As if I could.  She was so tight, so slick, so perfect, and I found myself growling her name into her shoulder, louder and louder, until I felt her go stiff in my arms, her voice scaling up on a squeak that would have been funny under any other circumstances.  I lifted my head to see hers thrown back, and then I felt her pulsing around me, shudders running through her body, and I buried my face in her neck again and rode her ecstasy.  A few more strokes and I splintered into a million pieces of fire-edged bliss--       It took a while to collect ourselves, after that.  When I opened my eyes, I had to blink them free of Sara’s hair, and I could feel her pulse thudding against my cheek and her hand stroking the nape of my neck.  When I managed to lift my head, there was moisture leaking from the corners of her eyes, but before I could become worried she smiled at me.  It was the sort of smile I wanted to always see on her face.  I kissed her, very gently, and she soothed her tongue over my lip, and then I rolled us back over again.  “You okay?” we both asked at the same time, and laughed, and Sara put her head on my shoulder.  We held each other for a long time.  Neither of us wanted to let go, and we didn’t have to.  That wasn’t the beginning, but it was a beginning.  An expression of trust.  And sometimes I think that’s what a relationship is, or should be; a long series of such expressions.  It’s an odd-looking house we’re building.  But it’s sound, and it’s ours.  And in the end, that’s all that matters.    End. 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