Masterpiece

Title: Masterpiece
Author: ScullyAsTrinity
Rating: NC-17
Author's notes: This is kinda for Lauren, but she'll know why. It's also kinda for Kay, who has been giving us SUCH great smut lately.
Summary: He was Matisse, Picasso, Turner...

Read on!

He coerced color out of her.

It was beautiful.

"Touch yourself and tell me what you feel." It wasn't a question, it was an order and she was a good little kitten, reaching down to feel her sex.

He licked his lips and growled, wanting to lap her up, all of her. But this was his treat, he wanted to watch.

"Talk to me."

Her response was a cry, looking up at him through half-lidded eyes. She hated him and loved him, the pool of desire in her stomach spreading throughout her body rapidly. Heat. It was all he saw, just heat and color.

He felt like Matisse, he was Matisse. The vibrant colors applied so roughly, the artist in a hurry to view his masterpiece in whole. There was movement in the long flowing curves that were her body.

Chocolate covered cherries, he wanted to taste. He needed to taste. His brain held him back, forcing his eyes down her body to the glistening beacon between her legs. Sara spread herself for him, seeming to know exactly what to do. Open and weeping, he wanted to touch.

Matisse gave way to Rothko, subdued hues here, making him want to weep. There were hungry, bright, brash pieces of palette on her face, rendering him to ashes. Transcendence through alternating hues, amazing emotions. They made him want to burn her, but they mostly made him want to weep. He was doing it all for her.

Botticelli in the sound she made, dipping her fingers willingly inside herself. All pale skin and sumptuous form. "I want to hear you Sara. I can see you, I want to hear you."

"Griss, I..."

He was asking a lot of her, an artist begging the musician. He didn't need it, not like he needed to be inside of her, but he wanted it so badly, he yearned for it.

"I want to feel you inside of me..." But even as she moaned it, an index finger located her clit and traced over it, applying only the hint of pressure. Painting over it with a harder swipe she cried out for him, to him. "Feels so good, so, oh god, so good."

He had the eye of a critic, watching her pleasure herself. The exhibit was glorious, but it was missing something, something...

"Cuh, Grissom, don't know, my, cuh..."

And he dabbled a new color onto the palette, drawing it into the ones already there, creating an entirely new one. "Tell me honey."

"Know you want to hear..." Her eyes were open, pools of mahogany and pine, daring him to fall into them. "My cunt Griss, it's so hot. So warm, it's warm Griss."

Like an artist to a new canvas, she didn't know where to begin, but he was thrilled with her words and how she worded them for him.

Turner, cataclysmic force when she came. Lost on a sea, overboard, licking her lips, wishing to be redone, restored, rehung.

And he was there to catch her, kiss her, immerse into her masterpiece when she was finished. He was Picasso, drawing on his experience to be born anew.