fandom: csi, fic fandom: csi, fic genre: het
She's not sure how it happened and she's not sure that she cares. All she knows is that at some point the camaraderie turned into confessions and confidences and they, in turn, became lowered voices and touches of an altogether different sort. Some part of her thinks that she should worry more - hell, she's got eight years and a hell of a lot of mileage on him - but she's always lived in the moment. No regrets, don't look back and view everything as an opportunity rather than a problem.
Of course, that kind of attitude is how she ended up married to Eddie.
The two of them couldn't be more different, Eddie and her new guy. Latest squeeze. Whatever the current, hip terminology is. Greg would know, but she won't ask. Doesn't want to get into it and certainly doesn't want to get into it with Sanders. 'Boyfriend' sounds so tenth grade anyway, like she should be covering her LVPD issue notepad with his name, surrounded by glittery hearts and flowers. And that's just ridiculous, not to mention pathetic.
Mind you, Grissom would pitch a fit and that almost - almost - makes the idea worthwhile.
But no. Eddie was the last 'boyfriend' she had, as opposed to the odd guy since who's scratched the itch. And, yeah, sometimes they've scratched that itch more than once but she's never let it become more complicated than a series of one night stands, just conveniently enough with the same guy, until it becomes inconvenient of course. Then it's sayonara, baby, and thanks for all the fun. Be seein' ya.
He's not Eddie. He and Eddie couldn't be more different, in attitude, looks, personality. Experience. Eddie was born old, steeped in sin. Nick? Nick's the original innocent abroad. Even at thirty-two, doing the job they do, he can be surprisingly naïve. She guesses it's appealing in a way. Must be, if the 'aw shucks' act worked on someone as cynical as her. Worked her right into the sack and she's not got any complaints so far because the one thing they do have in common - her current and her ex - is how goddamned good they are in bed, although for different reasons.
With Eddie it was all about the game - the wheeling, the dealing, the scamming. With Eddie sex was all about him, about making him look good, when it wasn't about wringing concessions from her at the same time as her orgasms. He used the same words in bed as out of them.
...Just a little more, baby. C'mon. Keep on doing what you do so well. Give it up...
He scammed her into bed and he kept right on scamming her once she was in it. And, boy, did he play her. Played everyone, all fun and games right up to the point where someone (he) lost an eye (his life).
She doubts Nick even knows there is a game. He's sweet and sincere where she sincerely doubts that Eddie would even have been able to spell the word. Soft drawl, soft eyes, soft hands. Eddie was all planes and angles, bright colours, hard blues and greys. Diamonds. He dazzled her, blinded her with lust and a love so fierce and greedy it almost consumed her. Or maybe it was just the drugs that made him seem that way. She got Lindsey, she got clean, she got out.
She got burned too, but that's par for the course, and the scars are still there, sometimes flaring into bright pain but mostly a dull ache.
It's what makes a person, she guesses.
Nick said that and Nick doesn't dazzle. Nick is blacks and browns and subdued golds, the kind that doesn't sparkle but is warm and sure. At this stage of her life that suits her just fine. She doesn't sparkle like cheap jewellery any more either. She's traded in the sequins for smart suits that say she's in control of her life and, since it's a hard won control, she's glorying in it. And she's traded in a razzle-dazzle man for a smarter one.
Oh yeah. If you look at it that way, she definitely upgraded. Eddie was all surface gloss, shiny and sparkly and slippery as hell. Nick, for all his youth and all of his good ol' Texas charm and that same borderline naiveté, has hidden depths. And right now he's buried about as deep in her as he can get.
She sighs and wraps her legs more tightly around his waist, fingers clutching at short hair as he presses another desperate kiss against her mouth. His lips are hot and wet, greedy as they slide against hers, swallowing the moan she lets out as he presses against her, just so. His fingers are just as greedy, digging into the flesh of her hips and her back as he pulls her closer.
She slips on the polished surface and slides towards him. Her fingers clutch reflexively at the short strands under her fingertips, drawing a harsh grunt from him as she tugs too hard. He retaliates, driving into her with a sharp twist of his hips that drives all coherent thought from her mind, and a soft sound of her own from her lips.
God, he's good at this. No doubt about that.
His breath is hot against her ear, and his five o'clock shadow scratches against her cheek as he whispers, "God, Cath. Missed you." The words stutter forth in broken gasps as his lips trail back down over her face to capture her mouth again, his tongue slipping past her lips. The move has an element of 'mine' about it but she's not about to take that lying down - or as good as. She gives as good as she gets and swallows the whimper he lets out as she tightens the muscles of her vagina around him.
Oh yeah, she's damned good at this too. When he pulls his head back to stare at her, his eyes, always dark, are almost black with lust. There's a soft sheen of sweat adorning his upper lip and she slides her tongue out through lips swollen from his kisses, leaning forward far enough to lick it off and enjoying the shudder that runs through his body as she does so.
"Missed you so much," he gasps out again, his hands now pulling her so close to him that she can no longer tell where he ends and she begins. She moans her appreciation, so full of him it almost hurts and yet still she wants more. It's her turn for greedy fingers now, reaching out to grab his open shirt, pull him closer so that she can devour his mouth, giving no quarter and expecting none. She rocks against him, undulating so that the cloth of her panties, pushed aside to make room for him because they were both too impatient to remove them, rubs against her clitoris and sends sharp shards of pleasure through her.
He breaks the kiss this time, bowing his head to breathe heavily through his mouth as he picks up the pace. His hand leaves her hip and reaches behind her, bracing himself against the dresser's mirror as he thrusts. She wonders if he could see them reflected if he looked up. Wonders what they'd look like. Debauched, she thinks. Wild and wanton, sweaty and sexy, her smart suit skirt rucked up around her waist, his shirt torn up, buttons ripped off in her haste. The thought sends another surge of lust through her and she reaches down, grabs the belt loop of his open jeans and pulls him closer.
He takes the hint and starts rolling his hips as he enters her, knowing what she likes. Knowing that she craves the friction against her clitoris, needs it to come. And that's a kick all on its own, that he knows what she likes in bed, and out of it.
"God," he breathes again, a hitch in his voice and she opens her eyes to stare into his face. His mouth is slack and he's staring down at her with something approaching awe in his eyes. "Damn, Cath. Missed you."
She laughs, a throaty chuckle that she knows does things to him. "Yeah," she smirks. "I think you said."
He grins back and that look - the one that left her just a little uncomfortable because it's so intense and real; too real for fucking on the pine dresser in her hall because they couldn't make it to the bedroom - fades, to be replaced by those dimples and laugh lines she knows so well. His expression now is a little sheepish, as he slows his thrusts and gives her that little boy smile.
"Well, it's true," he insists.
She gives a silent protest at the change, arching her back and hooking her heel into his butt and he gets with the programme and gets moving again. "Yeah," she stutters out as he hits just the right spot that has her toes curling and happy little jolts running up and down her spine. "It's only been a week, Nick."
A soft huff of laughter against her throat as he lowers his face to kiss her there, tongue tracing over her pulse point. She tilts her head to give him access. "A week of jerking myself off in hotel rooms, just thinkin' about you."
Oh God. The image of him doing just that pops into her brain and suddenly his pace is too slow, too measured to satisfy the sharp spike of need that comes straight from her hindbrain. She pushes herself up so that only the edge of her ass is resting on the dresser and drags his face back up to hers.
"Less talking," she growls. "More of this." Her grabbing at his ass can leave him in no doubt as to what she wants. Their faces are too close together for her to see his smile but she knows it's there anyway, feels it curling against her mouth.
He's as good as his word and the next few, hard thrusts start scratching the itch nicely. Very nicely indeed and she has no complaints, meeting each one of his moves with a move of her own until he's back to gasping, his eyes tightly closed. He's goddamned beautiful when he's like this - face red, lips parted, eyes tightly closed, sweat glistening on the planes of his face. What's even more beautiful is that she put that look there. She'll never see forty again, but she can make him hard with a twist of her lips and a smouldering sidelong look. Even when she's not there, just the thought of her has him beating off in hotel rooms when he should be thinking about a conference Vegas PD paid for.
That's probably the biggest kick of all.
She reaches up and catches hold of his face, thumbs stroking along the line of his sideburns, forcing him to look at her. When he opens his eyes again, they're dazed; soft and unfocused with lust and pleasure and things she can't read, or maybe won't acknowledge.
She loves that look on him, like he's drowning in her, held afloat solely at her whim and now she uses every trick she's ever learned, every little ploy that every pro she's ever known has told her of to sink him.
He doesn't go down without a fight. He meets every clench of her body around him, every hard, biting kiss with tricks of his own until there's no calculation in the death like grip she has on his broad shoulders, or the whimpers that escape her as she writhes against him. His fingers are digging painfully into her ass, lifting her clear of the surface as he pounds into her, only the length of her legs wrapped tightly around his waist holding her up. There's a familiar tension building in the pit of her stomach, a harsh tingling in her breasts where they're mashed against his bare chest.
His kisses are still sweet in spite of their fervour, in spite of the way their teeth click and collide and for a split second she thinks that maybe she'll drown first, lose herself in him.
She pushes the thought away and redoubles her efforts, using the hold she has on his shoulders as leverage to raise herself up and slam herself down, over and over again until he's gasping against her neck. She's merciless, her arms wrapped tightly around him, her face buried in his hair. His face is lowered and his breath huffs down over the curve of her breast, sending shivers through her and still she moves.
She thinks she's won until her ass impacts against the dresser and she realises he's moved them back again. He lets go of her, and one hand moves down to the small of her back, tilting her hips forward. His head moves down, those mobile lips tracing over the skin of her breast before wrapping themselves around one aching nub. The angle means he has to pull out, only the head of his cock in her and she makes a soft sound of protest, wriggling in his grasp, determined to increase the friction, to feel his girth fill her once more.
He resists, and she sinks her fingers into his soft hair, pulling harshly at the short strands until he finally releases her nipple and raises a face that's taut with pleasure to her gaze. She drags his face up to hers, and kisses him violently; harsh and hard and so sweet she can barely stand it.
Her breasts are full and aching, a thousand starry points of pleasure where they press against his skin. He knows what she needs as she rocks against him, and his fingers replace his mouth, sliding between their close pressed flesh to roll the tight nub between forefinger and thumb. He tugs sharply and shudders of pleasure surge throughout her body.
The hand on her back pulls her sharply forward and he's buried to the hilt in her again. She lets out a sound that's half groan and half cry of triumph as his fingers release her nipple and move south, down over the curve of her belly. They slide easily over the soft skin of her belly, which is now slick with sweat, and then up under her skirt to where he's in her, rubbing hard against her clitoris.
His fingers are rough and calloused, and the pace he sets is fast and furious and it's enough to tip her over the edge, a starburst of pleasure that explodes through her limbs and has her twisting and cursing and calling his name.
She always calls his name when she comes.
When she comes back to herself, limp and languorous, he's still moving within her, his face tense with his impending orgasm. She watches him through narrowed eyes, focusing on the lines of his face, the small crease between his eyes, the way his lips are slightly parted and the way his tongue darts out to wet them.
And he's hers, whether either of them planned it or not.
She wraps her arms around his neck, fitting her face into the hollow of his shoulders, and moves her hips lazily to the rhythm he's set. His body is thrumming with need against hers and she gives in to the Cheshire cat smile that's lurking behind her lips.
His skin is salty beneath her tongue as she traces the line of his throat, licking up over his chin and nibbling there. She wants to see him, watch as he comes, and so, reluctantly, she pulls away, leaning back against the mirror. She raises her hands above her head, knowing that it will pull her breasts up, form a smooth line that he admires, and waits for him to open his eyes.
Once again, he doesn't disappoint and meets her gaze with his own. She's now the centre of his attention and she loves it.
"C'mon, baby," she whispers, full and throaty, knowing that the honey and whiskey sound of her post-coital voice drives him wild. "Let go."
...Just a little more, baby. C'mon. Give it up...
His body tenses and he gives her what she craves, falling silently into the abyss, his lower lip caught between his teeth as he bucks against her.
In the aftermath, he half slumps against her, his body slack and heavy, wrung out and panting softly with pleasure. She raises one leaden hand and strokes slowly along the line of that swollen lower lip with her thumb. His fingers, when he captures her face to steal another lingering kiss, smell and taste of her. There's banked fire in his eyes and it sparks into a brief flame as she sucks those agile digits into her mouth, swirling her tongue over the calluses and holding his gaze with her own. But while his spirit may be willing, the flesh is a whole other kettle of fish, in spite of the faint twitch of arousal she feels at her own scent. He's equally wiped, his softening length slipping out of her as she stretches, easing out muscles that ache pleasantly with the memory of taking and being taken.
He kisses her neck again, and again she tilts her head to give him access, the move slow as she luxuriates in the feel of his mouth gently roving over her skin, the scratch of his stubble as he presses closer. His hands skirt over her too, as though he can't get enough of the feel of her skin beneath his fingers. They stay gentle, though, tickling lightly as they move lower.
His mouth follows, and he drops to his knees in front of her. She stifles a laugh. He's optimistic but then he always has been. She doesn't think she'll come again, no matter how talented his tongue - and, man, it's talented - but she's willing to give it the old college try.
His mouth moves up the inside of her thigh, and his fingers push her skirt even higher. The first touch of his tongue makes her squirm away, still sensitive from her previous orgasm, and he doesn't push it, moving back to mouth gently at her thigh instead. His fingers continue to dance over her skin, and she closes her eyes with a sigh, any lingering tension draining away under his touch.
He's so damned good at this and the sigh turns into a moan as his tongue returns, flicking lightly at her opening. He gives her time to get used to it, and she slides her hand down into his hair again, letting her palm curve along the line of his scalp. She can feel his head bob beneath her touch, and his hands come up, sliding beneath her ass to tilt her pelvis up. She's spread-eagled in front of him now, laid out on the buffet like a banquet and he takes full advantage of it, his tongue now thrusting into her.
It's too much and it's her turn to bite her lip, arching up with a strangled cry as his fingers join his tongue. She turns her face to the side as her fingers clutch at him, feeling the warmth of the day against her face. Her eyes open a fraction and she watches dust motes dancing in the early afternoon sunlight through slitted lids. There's something unreal about it, about being awake during the day. About making love on the dresser during the day, there in plain sight without the dark to hide them.
And they are as close to being in plain sight as they can get without risking a citation. The glass around the front door may be frosted but anyone who ventured up her path would have no problems figuring out what they were doing, especially not with the noises she's now letting out as he picks up the pace.
The thought tickles her. She already has a rep in this neighbourhood for being a wild thing, especially once Nicky started coming calling, as her mother still calls it. A younger man and an older, first divorced then bereaved woman? She has that whole Mrs Robinson thing going on as far as they are concerned. Now, with Nick buried between her thighs in her living room, she thinks her neighbours may have a point. She also thinks she may have been wrong about that whole 'not having another orgasm' thing. Not that she's going to complain when it's building within her so deliciously slowly.
Her eyes drift shut but she can still see the swirling sparks beneath her lids. They match the ones that are shooting up into her belly as he continues to tease. He is such a tease, and she wonders why she never realised that before she let him tumble her into bed. So sweet, so sincere. So Nick. Yeah, a genuinely nice and sweet guy. Everybody says so.
Sweet like Old Nick, maybe. He definitely has a devilish streak, and he's exploiting it to the max, his tongue slowly circling around her clitoris rather than giving her the hard touch that she needs. She uses her grip on his hair to pull him closer and he huffs soft laughter against her skin, his tongue darting out to touch her where she wants him just long enough to frustrate the hell out of her when it moves away.
Definitely Old Nick.
She lets him win, for once, and lets go of his hair to reach behind her, holding onto the dark, polished wood instead of his dark hair. It's smooth and warm beneath her touch, as smooth and warm as he is, and she sinks into the sensation. Every part of her now is hyperaware; the feel of the wood beneath her, the warmth of the sun, the feel of Nick's fingers digging into her thighs as he holds them apart.
The feel of his hot breath against her, and the feel of his tongue.
She lets go, gives herself over entirely to the sensations running through her and rides the wave to another climax.
She comes back down to Earth to the feel of his stubble scratching against her stomach as he kisses her there, and she pries her eyes open wide enough to peer down at him. He grins back up at her, one of those wide, cocky grins that lights up his whole face.
She opens her mouth, licks her dry lips and manages to get out an answering, throaty, "Hey."
"How you doin'?"
She chuckles, feeling it quiver through muscles already limp and leaden with too much pleasure.
"I'm doing just fine."
He grins again, and drags himself to his feet to kiss her on her lips. "Good." He tastes of her, and his mouth and chin are slick and shiny with her. She so owns him right then, and the feeling of possessiveness that thought gives her is a good one. She slides her fingers into his hair and her tongue into his mouth and lets it show.
"Man," he breathes when he pulls back far enough. "You're on fire today."
The snort of laughter she lets out is touched with just a hint of cynicism. "You're not doing so bad yourself, cowboy."
The grin this time is slightly smug. "Uh huh." He rubs his face slowly against hers, the move lazy and satiated. "You missed me."
She raises an eyebrow at the crowing tone in his voice, and he gives her his best little boy lost smile. She relents. Slightly. "Maybe. Just a little," she admits grudgingly, holding her finger and thumb microns apart.
"You missed me." There's no missing the smugness this time, but she's too wiped to call him on it and, besides, although she doesn't want to admit it, he's kind of cute when he's full of himself like this.
Instead she stretches and yawns. "What time is it?"
He shrugs, his face buried in her neck again and she's beginning to think he has a fetish about that particular part of her anatomy. "Early," he murmurs. "One, maybe?"
One pm. If she's lucky she might get an hour or two of sleep before she has to pick Lindsey up. Soccer tonight, and she's already shifted from 'lover' to 'mother' as she pulls away from him, pushing gently against his shoulders. He moves away with a reluctant little noise, the look in his eyes as sleepy as she feels and she wonders if he's slept at all today or whether he stayed up, waiting for her to return from court. She wonders if he's had the same thrumming in the pit of his belly since he got off the plane as she's had all day while she kicked her heels, waiting to be called. Not need. No, not that. Horny maybe - a week's a long time to go without when she's been getting some as regularly as she has been recently.
Or maybe she did miss him. Just a little.
"I need my bed," she says and it's probably a sign of how much she's worn him out that he doesn't make the obvious comeback.
Yeah, she's still got it.
He wraps one arm around her waist as she moves past him, feeling every single one of the eight years in age between them. She's stiff and she's sore and she feels damned good about it.
He nuzzles briefly at her neck. "Can I stay?"
She's too tired to object and isn't really sure she wants to. "Sure. Just don't steal all the damned covers this time."
He laughs gently and squeezes her close for an instant before letting her go. "You did miss me." There's no crowing this time, just a kind of quiet awe and those eight years between them and the world of experience they contain suddenly hurt.
There's nothing she can say to that, but she leans back against him briefly, telling herself that it's exhaustion and the fact that her legs are still a little wobbly. She knows damned well who she's fooling.
Nobody. Not even Nick.
"Sleep," she mutters, and he chuckles again, guiding her towards the bedroom, his arms still wrapped around her.
She lets him, just like she lets him curl up around her when they've finally stripped down and crawled between her crisp white sheets. He's warm and comfortable and comforting, and, in spite of her bitching about him stealing the covers, she sleeps as well when he's there as she does on her own. Better even.
She strokes the arm he's thrown over her hip as he presses up against her back. He's surprisingly tactile and she's grown used to it. "Love you," he whispers on the cusp of sleep. He knows better than to expect an answer, but she squeezes his hand anyway as his breathing evens out.
She closes her eyes and listens to him breathing, feeling her own breaths slowing in response. Sleep is but a hairsbreadth away and it's oh, so easy to slide into it with the weight of his arm pressing her into the mattress and his breath warm against her ear. She knows that in two hours she'll wake up and he'll be on his back with her curled up against him for a change. When that happens there will be no pretending to herself that it's all down to him.
She lives with it. She's not sure if it's love, and she's not sure how it happened but she's damned sure she's going to enjoy it while it lasts.