Cream, No Sugar

Rated R

It was Sara's fault, he decided sullenly.

She'd worn that red number out to dinner, the one that hugged her curves and gave a teasing glimpse of her cleavage. She'd been the one to invite him up to her apartment afterwards, and she'd certainly been the one to unbuckle his pants on only their second date.

He wasn't a young man anymore. And just the sight of Sara dropping to her knees, her lipstick-stained lips closing around the tip of his-

There was no time to warn her before he erupted. A veritable Mount Vesuvius sized wad, running down her chin. It was beyond humiliating. "I am so, so sorry," he said, leaning over to grab a towel.

"For what?" she asked, dabbing her face delicately.

"For, you know. That."

"Nothing to be sorry about." She ran her hands up his thighs tantalizingly. "Now, where were we?"

"No, see... I'm a once-a-day kind of guy, Sara," he said sadly, looking deflated - both in the face and the peen.

"Oh... well, that's okay," she said soothingly.

"It's not," he groaned.

"I went years without having sex, Grissom. I can wait another day."

The next day, Sara followed him home from work. He made his mother's pasta primavera, and blueberry pie for dessert.

"Oh my," she laughed, digging into a slice of pie. "Doctor Grissom, are you trying to seduce me?"

He just winked at her. The evening was going well. She hadn't seemed overly traumatized by how he had blown yesterday's opportunity (literally). Instead, she was watching him appreciatively, doing terribly inappropriate things with a forkful of whipped cream.

They made out on his couch, moaning involuntarily every time their tongues touched. He worked her out of her shirt, then her bra. She sighed deeply, reaching down to give a firm stroke to the bulge in his jeans. She cupped him through the fabric, squeezing-

"Damn it," he swore, as a wet spot appeared in his crotch. "Sara, I told you not to touch it like that."

"I'm sorry," she said, looking mortified. "I got carried away, I forgot."

"I'll be right back," he sighed, leaving to change out of the splooged jeans.

Things were tense at work that night. Grissom would have preferred to pair her with one of the other CSI's, but they all had active caseloads. So it was Sara who silently joined him in the car ride to the Bellagio.

"Hey," Brass greeted them, checking his watch as they walked in. "Boy did you come quick."

Grissom glanced at Sara balefully, but she didn't show any reaction. "Okay, we'll take it from here, Jism - I mean, Jim."

On their next date, she was careful not to touch his package. In fact, she avoided the lower half of him altogether. But when she sucked his index finger into her mouth, running her tongue along the length of it, he shuddered violently.

She wondered if she should take it as a compliment. He was clearly getting something out of it. She, on the other hand, wasn't getting any. Unless you counted vibrator calluses as "any."

Sara Sidle, Professional Jizz-Inducer. She should have business cards printed up.

"What do you think about, when you're trying to hold off an ejaculation?" she asked one day, after he'd come on her thigh.

"The Periodic Table, usually," he sighed, toweling off her leg. "I try reciting all the elements in order."

A quick internet search found what she needed, and she beamed for the next two days. On their next date, Sara told Grissom she had a surprise for him. He waited in bed, condom-sheathed and nervous.

"Close your eyes," she called, and he obliged tensely.

She slunk into the room, clad only in a tee shirt, and straddled his waist. "Ready?"

"Um-hm," he whispered, clenching his eyes shut tight.

She lowered herself down on him slowly, grinning when he held it together. "Okay, open your eyes."

Cracking a lid, he was faced with the sight of her tight shirt, which had the Periodic Table of Elements printed on it. Groaning hard, he grabbed her by the waist and emptied himself into the condom.

Her face fell as he threw his head back, catching his breath. "What happened?"

He wiped his forehead. "Sara, I recite the Periodic Table, there's a difference. I mean, hell, with you wearing it, it's like I'm making love to science itself. Now that's a turn-on."

The day after that, they were working on a case with two mummified bodies found in an abandoned building. She gathered up evidence bags, squeezed his shoulder to tell him she was finished, and he gooed his shorts.

Really, it was getting to be ri-goddamn-diculous at this point.

She watched mournfully as he stomped off, then turned back to the mummified bodies. At least something was staying stiff around her.

It seemed like nothing could fix the problem, but in the end, the solution was simple enough. A trip to the doctor, some blood tests, and a plastic bottle filled with little blue pills.

Their first Viagra-fueled night was incredible. There was real passion and true ecstasy, and Sara actually came first. Same with the second night, and the third. Things were easier now. He was more relaxed at work, less distracted. So when a quadruple homicide had him working three straight shifts, he barely batted an eye.

"I'm exhausted," Catherine groaned, falling into a chair in the conference room. Greg was already there, his head slumped over the table. "At least we've got the guy in custody. You going home soon?"

"Mmph," Greg groaned. "I better be."

Grissom breezed into the room, holding up a pad of paper. "We got a confession!"

"Fantastic," Catherine intoned. "Can we go now?"

"Sure," Grissom nodded.

"What about you?" she asked, as she and Greg stood groggily. "Are you getting off soon?"

"No, I'm sure not!" he said proudly, turning and strutting down the hallway.

THE END