DISCLAIMER: CSI and its characters are the property of Jerry Bruckheimer and CBS.
ARCHIVING: Only with the permission of the author.
SPOILERS: Season 3 Crash and Burn.
I wait for you. Always waiting. A thin smile crosses your face like the blade of a knife.
I know you're hurt, Sara, and I want to hold you so much. You're taller than I am, so it's less than feasible, but I want to cradle you in my arms, comfort you, tell you everything will be fine; to kiss your hair and rock you to sleep. Maybe that's a maternal feeling, but I know there is so much more to this than that.
I know you love someone else, and I understand why you love him. But I don't understand what you ever saw in Hank, aside from the physical, and I think he's an asshole for seeing any other woman while you thought he was with you. I can't imagine why anyone would want that. I'm sure Gil loves you; I just don't know if you will ever get what you want, and I want to make you happy. I want to see you smile that 'Sara smile'; the look on your face that first day we met. I remember, through all my worry about Holly, my determination to find the guy who shot her, your captivating grin, your gorgeous hair lying round your face in a halo of curls. I was hostile to you, then, wanting to push you away, to stop myself thinking those thoughts at that time, the time where it wasn't right, wasn't an opportunity. The next time I had the chance, I talked to you and realised you'd already lost your heart. And my newest addiction had kicked in.
I'll never have your love, but it doesn't mean I won't take what I can get.
Alcohol-fuelled and crazy, my hands sliding over your soft skin, fingers trailing down your neck, into your shirt. I don't have enough control to stop, and I briefly send a thankful prayer to God that Lindsey is elsewhere tonight. I want to take you home.
"Sara?" I murmur, my voice sounding husky, affected, even to my own ears.
You respond by turning to me and pulling me close, biting my left earlobe gently, your eyes clouded, lids heavy. "Come home with me? Please?"
The last thing I expected you to say. But this is so close to what I want. One thing of so many. As I've already said, sweetheart... I'll take what I can get. And that's what I tell you, in a whispered affirmation as I grab my coat with one hand and your arm with the other; neither of us can drive, so I call the cab company on my cell, just coherent enough to make all the safe arrangements. I drag you out to wait, or you drag me - I have no sense of direction now; all I can think of is how much I want you. And God, do I ever want you. I have never wanted the perfect encounter with you to be this way, horny and drunk; but I know I'll never have you any other way. You have too much restraint and you're too much in love with him. I'm not doing this to hurt you.
I need you. I'm too close to being in love with you, and that bothers me. If this will get you out of my system... then maybe I should take what I can.
You shudder against me as I touch you, and pull me close with one arm round my waist before crushing your lips to mine. God, you taste good. I don't know if you've ever been with a woman before, but right now it doesn't matter, one hand tangled in the wild, curling hair at the back of your head and the other stroking your clit hard through the wilder hair between your thighs has become all my world contains; your moan of abandon only serves to encourage me further. When I slip two fingers inside you, pressing against hardness of pubic bone through sensitive skin, you arch your back and as you do, I gasp your own name against your mouth, stumbling feverishly to your bedroom.
This is what I've waited for. It is. You are. This moment.
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