Red Creeper
Rated R
She'd been very clear before leaving the house.
First with Grissom, before the other men arrived. She'd showed him the cleaning solution, pointed to the giant printed letters that said it needed to sit on a surface for at least one full day to kill 100% of bacteria. She reminded him that even wearing gloves didn't protect them fully on the job, and that with both of them sharing the master bath, their germs could multiply.
He nodded dutifully and repeated, "Germs could multiply, yes," while setting out the poker chips.
Then the men trickled in. First Warrick had to endure her speech. Then Nick and Greg arrived together (as, come to think of it, they always seemed to...) and were given the lecture together. They all promised to stay out of the master bath during the poker game. Brass, on the other hand, told Grissom he needed to 'get the little woman to relax.'
She rolled her eyes, helping Greg carry baskets of chips over to the table.
"What's that smell?" he asked, wrinkling his nose.
"Grissom spent the morning making a new batch of fingerprinting powder," she replied. "Will you guys want onion dip with this?"
"If you've got it, yeah. Is it Red Creeper?"
"The onion dip?"
Greg sighed. "The printing powder."
"Oh. Yeah, it is."
"That stuff ought to be patented. A little Red Creeper in the right spot, and it's amazing what can be revealed."
She nodded, setting an open container of dip next to the chips as the five men took their seats. "Okay, gentlemen, I'm off. I'll be back in three hours. And remember..."
"Use the guest bathroom," they all mumbled as the hands were dealt. Grissom had invested in a deluxe poker table a month ago, and it took little persuasion to keep the Tuesday games going strong. By the time Sara walked out the door that afternoon, they'd forgotten she'd even been there.
And for her part, she enjoyed her few hours to herself. Not that cohabitating with Grissom had grown old; far from it. But she liked having a set time to shop for furniture, drop off film from their trip to Spain, take her suits to the dry cleaner.
She arrived home at six, and the guys were gone. Grissom was lying on the couch, reading a magazine.
"Hey," she greeted him, dropping a kiss on his forehead. "How'd you make out?"
"Runner-up," he shrugged. "They were starting to get suspicious that I'd won every week, so I had to throw a few hands. Otherwise they'd stop giving me their money."
"Wise man," she grinned, tossing the developed photos onto his lap. "I'm gonna go get changed."
He was flipping through the photos when he heard her curse loudly.
"Gilbert Grissom."
"Yes, dear?"
"Don't you 'yes dear' me... who was in the master bathroom while I was gone?"
He froze. "Uh... no one?"
She marched back into the living room, her hands on her hips. "I told them not to go in there," she said furiously. "One of them peed on the toilet seat, and the sink's towel has been used. Why did they go in there?"
"Sara, it's fine, we'll reapply the cleanser and leave it to sit while we're at work tonight."
"It's not fine," she insisted, stomping out of the room. "I swear. Men are such damned pigs. When I find out who used that bathroom, there'll be hell to pay."
He chuckled to himself as she continued making idle threats from the bedroom. Initially, when they'd first thought about moving in together, he'd worried that her temper would cause too many arguments. Instead, he found her short fuse endearing in their shared space. She was his little spitfire.
It was when the little spitfire had been quiet too long that he started to wonder what exactly she was doing.
And that's why he peeked into the bathroom that evening, only to be greeted by a most bizarre sight. Sara, clad only in her tank top, panties, and a pair of latex gloves, was on her knees, dusting the edge of the sink. From the crimson-smudged toilet, it appeared she'd been hard at work for quite some time.
"Sara?"
She stuck the handle of the brush between her teeth as she rose to her feet, leaning over to reach the knobs. "Yes, dear?"
"You're not really using my new batch of Red Creeper to fingerprint our bathroom fixtures, are you?"
Mumbling something that sounded suspiciously like 'the evidence never lies,' she twirled the brush along the surface of the spigot.
Deep down, she wondered if she'd finally gone too far. From her hippie music to her tofu concoctions, he'd seemed to find her other quirks endearing. Sometimes, when he thought she wasn't looking, she'd even catch him gazing at her rapturously, looking for all the world like a smitten kitten.
It was when the smitten kitten had been quiet too long that it was her turn to wonder what he was doing. She turned to the doorway, and saw two things of note.
First was his face. Red and sweaty, with unfocused eyes and a slightly slack jaw. The other thing of note was several feet lower, and was quickly becoming a large issue.
Sara leaned against the sink, smirking at the bulge in his pants. "You've got to be kidding me."
He blinked, coming back to reality. "Hmm? Kid - what?" Following her pointed stare, he glanced downwards. "Oh... ah, you know. Tank top, panties. I'm only a man, after all-"
"A man who's seen me walk around like this every day for the past six months," she reminded him, thoroughly amused. "It's not the panties. You're actually turned on that I'm dusting our bathroom."
"That's not true," he started to protest, but when she twirled the brush over the sink's drain, he couldn't help the low moan that rumbled deep in his throat.
She looked back at him, licking her lips. "So, Dr. Grissom... how's my technique?"
"Not bad," he breathed, coming up behind her. "Try holding it more like this, though." He leaned over her back, reaching out to hold the top of the brush, spinning it tighter as he nestled himself in the crack of her ass. She pushed back against him, and he thrust forward in response.
"Good god, babe," she whispered, flustered at the size he'd grown to in such a short time. "It's a good thing you don't get this way when I dust at crime scenes."
He planted a sloppy kiss on the back of her neck as he pushed against her again. "Who says I don't? Ever notice that I wear my baggiest pants when I'm working with you?"
Dropping both the brush and the pretense of dusting, Sara reached out to hold onto the sides of the sink. He'd wrapped an arm around her waist for leverage, and her head was swimming.
She'd always wondered if his kink factor was being sufficiently met in their relationship. He'd been on top, she'd been on top, they'd been on the couch a few times and against the wall once. But she'd heard the rumors, and had seen an odd glint in his eyes, and often worried that his needs weren't being fulfilled. So if bathroom sink sex was what got him off-
"In- inside, Griss," she stammered, catching sight of his hungry expression in the mirror. He kept glancing from her reflection, to her body, to the dusting powder as he thrust against her.
Finally he acquiesced. He pulled down her panties, running his hands over her perfect ass, then freed his thick member from his boxers, its head swollen and red. In seconds, he was buried deep in her slick folds.
"Shit," she murmured as he entered her in one full stroke. "Jesus, gah."
It was a new level of eroticism for Grissom, being able to see her expression in the mirror. With every thrust, every twist of his fingers, every trail of his tongue, he saw her face contort in lust, in love, in outright ecstasy.
His thumb fumbled with her clit desperately, as he felt himself quickly starting to lose control. The moment her knees started to wobble, he let go, emptying himself into her over and over, biting into her shoulder and shuddering with release.
They stood there, still joined, breathing heavily. He glanced up at her in the mirror, and caught a look of insecurity crossing her pretty features. He needed to work harder, he knew, to make her understand what she meant to him. There was a ring hidden under his socks in his top drawer, but before any of that could happen, he needed to settle her fears, once and for all.
He needed to let her know that he dreamed only of her, and that even when he was left to his own devices, it was her face he pictured as he stroked himself to climax. He needed to convince her that she was his every fantasy.
But first and foremost, he needed to figure out a way to remove his fingerprints from those dusted fixtures. Red Creeper was a lifesaver at a crime scene, but in the home environment... well, some things were better left unrevealed.