Author's Note: Once, twice, 16 times a drabble. But still the shortest GSR story I've written so far! Takes place after "Fallen Idols." Obviously.

Disclaimer: If it were up to me, Sara would NEVER have been allowed to shave Grissom! But since she did, I am taking revenge upon her by writing this fiction in which she has to beg for things (oops, spoiler for my own damn story). Clearly, I don't own anything, since Grissom is allowed to parade around with a naked face. Le sigh.

"Do you trust me?"

Such simple words, so fraught with meaning and emotion. Spoken in a deceptively light tone, eyes just fractionally mischievous. He smiled slightly.

"Intimately."

She brushed the razor blade firmly, gently, over his skin, removing shaving cream and beard in practiced strokes. When she finished, she picked up a damp towel and washed away all traces of hair and flecks of white on his skin. Not a nick on his cheeks or throat. She started to rinse off the blade, stopped at the look in his eyes reflected in the mirror.

"Do you trust me?"

Her breath caught slightly in her throat. Her question had had context. His was unexpected, no kiss or conversation to indicate where this inquiry might be headed. It was a simple question, one that called for a blindly honest answer.

Her voice would not respond to the signals sent from her brain, and she noted absently that her fingers were trembling ever so slightly. She set down the razor, let the warm water rinse her hands clean. She nodded, meeting his eyes in the mirror.

Without a word, he led her out of the bathroom by one hand, into his bedroom, the dark cool space that she had become familiar with in recent months. Her eyes traced over the splashes of orange and gold, blue and violet, of butterfly wings mounted on his walls. In the corner was a small plant, a cutting grown and nurtured from his long-ago gift. The expanse of navy blue-blanketed bed took up much of the space.

"Lie down."

She obeyed slowly, feeling the trembling spread into her arms, her legs. He reached for the bedside lamp, switching it off. The room plummeted into darkness.

"Sara."

"Yes?" she whispered. She trembled on the edge of a precipice, unable to look down and see what awaited her. She was terrified, and exhilarated, and completely in love with the man beside her on the cliff.

"I need you to know that I love you."

He had never said the words before. She knew it, felt it in the way he touched her, the way he looked into her eyes, said her name. But these precious, delicate words—they were new, and her eyes burned with unshed tears.

"You're scaring me a little." It was honesty, perhaps too much; the wrong thing to say to a declaration of love. "And I love you, too."

She felt him sit on the bed beside her. "I don't want to frighten you. I want you to trust me."

"I do."

"And I want to show you exactly how much I trust you."

She nodded, forgetting he could not see her in the darkness. No moon or streetlights glared in through his blinds, and the room was really almost pitch-black, she thought, her mind rebelling a little at the cliché. She jumped a little at the feel of his hands on her hips.

"Close your eyes."

She obeyed immediately, instinctively. Then her training welled up and she could not contain the curiosity. "Why?"

"Because I asked you to."

The trembling returned, and she felt his hands slide up her body, his fingers closing on the zipper of the charcoal-grey hooded jacket she wore. They drew it down slowly, and she felt cool air whisper over every inch of her skin as it was revealed. His hands gently raised her shoulders so he could slip it off, and her nipples tightened in the chill of the room. His thumbs brushed over them, and she gasped. Her hands came up to wrap around his shoulders.

"Stay still." The faintest hint of roughness brushed his voice.

She let her arms fall to the bed again, and his fingers drifted down, delicate over her stomach, finding the button and zipper of her jeans and undoing them. And again his strong hands lifted her, this time her hips, and the worn fabric was tugged from her long legs. His thumbs hooked under the waistband of her panties, tugged the black lace down as well. She lay still in the darkness, unclothed, her skin tingling.

He kissed her throat, her shoulders, her collarbone, and she writhed a little beneath him. His palm flat on her stomach halted her movements. "I said, stay still."

"Gil—"

"Not a sound," he whispered, and his warm breath was an agonizing caress on her ear and neck. "Don't move, don't speak, don't moan."

She was trembling in earnest now, a frisson of fear slipping through her blood. He pressed his lips to her cheek, and she could feel them curve upward into a smile. "Trust me."

And she did, releasing the tension in her body with a soft sigh. His fingers pressed against her lips, slid down to the hollow of her throat, curved around her breast. She fought the urge to moan, biting her lip. The fingers found their way back to her lips, brushing over satiny softness caught between her teeth. He laughed, a low sound in his throat. "Good."

For what felt like hours he touched her, lips and tongue and fingers and palms sliding over her skin, kissing and licking and caressing. When his hands parted her thighs, ever so slightly rough, she nearly cried out with the effort not to arch her hips upward. When his tongue danced over her nipples, her fingers dug into the sheets to avoid moaning out his name. His mouth brushed over her intimately, and he had to place his palm flat on her stomach again to hold her still, chuckling slightly. "Stay still, Sara."

And he drove her mad with that mouth and with his fingers, until she thought her lips would bleed from biting them, and her body would go numb from the effort to remain nearly motionless. The tension wound more tightly in her body than it ever had before from the suppression of her sighs and moans and writhing limbs, so natural to fucking and love-making that she had never given them a second thought. With a few particularly well-placed strokes of his tongue, she shook violently under his controlling hands, ready to fall to pieces in his bed.

And he stopped, moving away so completely that she was instantly cold, and almost crazed. She started to speak, stopped, started again.

"Ask me."

Her eyes widened in the blackness. She could barely make out his shadowy shape. He was sitting at the edge of the bed, presumably watching her. His hand came out, covered her again, and one finger danced perfectly over her clit. She clenched her mouth shut around the moan.

"Ask me."

"How?" she whispered breathlessly, the sound of her voice at last strange in the still room, filled completely with his presence and his scent and his touch.

She could feel rather than see the humor that curved up his lips. "Politely."

She knew now what he wanted, and it was almost a relief to give voice again to her desire, though she still remained still. "Please."

He made no movement towards her, and she fought against the arching of her hips, the bowing of her back, upward and in the direction of his perfect mouth and hands. "God, please."

"Ask me." Still a trace of humor, thickly overlaid with want.

"Gil." His name was still a prayer. "Gil, please, please."

And his hands and mouth were there again, so quickly, so hot and fast and everything was a blur and she started to—

He pulled back, and she could just barely make out him tugging off the sky-blue tee shirt he had been wearing. Her body clenched.

"Please."

"Please what?" he asked quietly, and she thought she could hear him stand, to slide his pants and anything else to the floor. Her mind conjured up a hundred images of Grissom unclothed and she turned her next word into a moan.

"Please—" It was hard to say. "Please make me come."

"Make you?" He was hovering over her now, placing tiny kisses on her temple.

She hesitated, tried again. The fire was so close. "Please let me."

She felt him smile again against her skin. "No." His teeth closed so gently, so lightly over a nipple, causing a tiny stab of pain before soothing it away with his lips and tongue. Without thinking, she let her hand slip down between her own legs, desperate to ease the throbbing that was making her blood boil. His fingers caught at her wrist.

"No, Sara." So tender, so commanding. She whimpered.

With agonizing slowness, she felt him slide his hands over her hips, raising them a little. He pressed against her, hard and thick, and she tried to keep from grasping him and pulling him into her. So slowly…so slowly.

"Please." It was a breath, a sob.

He surged into her suddenly, filling her so completely that her head swam. The suddenness combined with her overwhelming arousal sent her tumbling into ecstasy, panting his name. He pulled out and drove into her again, over and over, until stars danced before her closed eyes and her nails skidded down his back. With a low groan of her name, he sank into her one last time and let himself go, his weight coming down deliciously on her hot skin.

She lay beneath him for a long time, feeling his breath slow, their bodies cool. His hands slid gently down her arms, stopping at her wrists, lazily tugging them upward, pinning them together against the pillow, above her head. She moved a little beneath him, a soft sound of contentment and ongoing arousal slipping past her lips.

"Do you trust me?" His voice was filled with satisfaction, affection, and the deep, abiding love that she had craved for so long.

Her lips curved into a smile, and she gently freed one hand to rest against his smooth cheek. "Oh, yes, my love. I trust you. Intimately."

FIN