Defying Gravity

Title: Defying Gravity
Author: ScullyAsTrinity
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Griss/Sara
Summary: Defying gravity just makes everything crumble.
Dedz: For my LA ladies who I'll be with in ONE WEEK in NYC!
You come two times and sit stare at the water escaping the drain. Fingers, your own, were rough inside of you and you pumped faster and harder than any man ever could. That's why you like it. You tried for a third but you were too busy being pissed at all the nothing to let the last shred of tension go.

Your body weeps with residual passion that you emitted just moments ago and you let the water wash it from your body. Shampoo and conditioner are administered while you're sitting in your tub, and the slick formula gathers around your ass on the porcelain as it rinses from your hair.

Your wrist hurts and you feel so tired and drawn out that you pull yourself from the tub with your last shred of energy. The towel around your torso is blue and you hate it, just because you want to. Opening the door, steam rolls out and kisses the floor with condensation; you nearly slip, but catch yourself.

Minutes later you're in pajama pants and a beater and you're in your kitchen making an english muffin; it's the only moderately healthy food you have and you slather it with marmalade.

Your feast is interrupted by knocks at the door, the cadence and temperance identifying them as Grissom's. No matter what he wants, it can't be important enough for you to really care tonight. There's a file in his hand and rational words coming from his mouth but you don't really listen to them. Cordially, politely, you invite him in, expecting him to say no so you can return to your pseudo dinner.

When he steps over the threshold, you're stunned. You offer him a drink and he takes a water and sits with it on your couch. You stare at him from the kitchen; he looks at his water glass, attempting to unravel its mysteries.

There's something in you that you can't seem to handle anymore and with the taste of marmalade and coffee on your tongue, you ask him why he's here. No, he doesn't answer, why would he? If he doesn't answer then he's in control.

You know you shouldn't do it, it's too impulsive to turn out well but you walk towards him and pull off your pants when you stand in front of him. What really stuns you is when his eyes go wide but he says nothing. You're disrobing before him and he's silent.

Your top is next and something in his gaze softens at the sight of your delicate breasts. You're not naked to the world or him yet. Your panties are still in place, but they're ready to go too.

A minute passes before you lean forward and free him from the confines of his slacks. Still, he says nothing; either you're dreaming or he's gone completely insane.

"Don't kiss me," you say and move over to straddle his thighs. "You kiss me and you can't ignore any of this tomorrow." It's an ultimatum, a pretty damned fair one if you really think about it; you're not asking anything of him, just taking a bit, taking because you want.

He's on the couch, head back, cock out and you sit on him, gripping him with your body tightly. He feels amazing, thick and hot and wonderful. You want to tell him so, but they would be wasted words, of that you're sure.

His hands are cold and scratchy on your hips. They're there because he thinks they should be and you grot your teeth and scream inside your head to keep from batting his hands away. You're fucking him, and he should know that, he needs to know that. You're the one in control and you're taking all of this because you want it; because you can.

He doesn't kiss you and you're simultaneously grateful and resentful of him. If he kisses you, well then it's all shot to shit.

You rotate your hips as you slam down on him and he begins to groan, begins to tell you things.

No, no. You speak, but not to urge on his passion; "Shut up, shut up, shut the fuck up," you mutter as you ride him as hard as you find possible. Your thighs cramp up at one point and you have to stand up and punch it out; he keens with pain as the cold air licks his skin like your tongue might, but you just tell him to shut up again.

It's long moments before you feel the amazing tingling in your clit and when you tighten, his hand grips your hair hard and brings your face down to his for a kiss. You can't help it, your mouth falls open and tongues are stroking over one another as he comes into you, hot and thick and amazing.

"I had to," he reasons, as if that explains away all the things he's done to you over the years. Maybe it was enough to wipe the slate clean but you can't decide right now.

You entertain incredibly fickle thoughts of him taking you to your own bed and loving you over for the rest of the evening. But it's a fantastic notion; he's too old and you're too tired.

You'll sleep and so will he but he won't hold you and you're fine with that. He won't fit in your modest queen sized bed; he'll fall over the edge in the middle of the night.

But at least he would have fallen for something.

And no Karen, this isn't a 'Wicked' thing. ;-)