by dmf19841966

Pairing: JB/OFC

Rating: R to NC-17

Author’s notes: Follows “After”, logically enough. Of course it is still a “Mary Sue”. I don’t own any of the CSI characters and am not making money from this. That’s not the point of a PWP, is it?

Beaujolais, this is your “fault”. Frickin’ plot bunnies and another bedtime story. ;-)


Unbelievable, I thought to myself.

To say that Jim had arrived horny would be a huge understatement, but then again, I was matching him stroke for stroke as it were. And here I was, on hands and knees in my own bed, just a couple of hours after picking him up at the Orlando airport, thoroughly enjoying the erotic touch of his muscular thighs on the backs of mine as he thrust into me from behind. I wasn’t sure anymore what “round” this was either; let’s just say that Captain James Brass has the stamina of a much younger man, with no chemical enhancements.

Unbelievable, I thought again, tingling from the firm grasp he had on my left hip, pressing me to him as he moved, and first deep then shallow, then deep, deep, deep. Hold. Repeat. Damn.

A moan escaped my lips, certainly not from pain or anything close to it, as his right hand moved from my nipples to an even better spot between my legs. I marveled at his reach at that moment and pushed back against him, prompting an appreciative grunt from his end.

“Unh, yeah,” he muttered, starting to breathe heavier. We were both breaking a good sweat and panting like wild animals, loving every minute of it. I moaned again into the pillow, my hips moving of their own accord as he stroked in time to his penetration. I was definitely starting to see stars, getting closer and closer to absolute bliss.

“Jim,” I gasped. “Oh, don’t stop…” He had magic fingers, magic hands, magic everything, and I was climaxing hard. His own breath hissed between his teeth when he felt my muscles contracting around his length, and he finally let go too. It was simultaneous and it was awesome. Let’s also just say that I was glad my townhouse was on the end of the building, and that my upstairs master bedroom had an exterior wall. Some of the neighbors might have been scandalized, the poor babies.

My legs gave out and I collapsed down onto the bed, lying on my stomach with Jim still inside of me. He followed me down, kissing my back as he caught his breath.

“How do you do that?” I asked, wondering how he could make me feel so good, every time.

He chuckled as he snuggled up against my back, me now lying on my side, pushing back sweaty strands of too-long-for-my-age hair as I pulled his fabulously furry forearm against my bare skin. “I was just going to ask you the same question.” Jim eased his other arm underneath my neck, cradling me while his right hand caressed my thigh.

He kissed my neck and nibbled at an earlobe, then sighed and was so completely still I was sure he’d fallen asleep. I was sleepy too; sleepy and content, wondering if I was dreaming of this wonderful man in my little old bed. We stayed like this, not quite awake and not quite asleep for quite a while. He stirred once and I could feel him tracing the tan lines on my back that had impressed him so many months ago. No bikinis on this girl, thank you very much, but Speedo x-backs do leave an interesting pattern.

“Are you hungry, Jim? We forgot to eat dinner,” I commented quietly in the dark.

He chuckled, a sound that I was really starting to love. “Oops,” he whispered back. I also found his voice extremely attractive, probably a good thing since our relationship had really taken off over the phone and Internet. “I guess we had dessert first.” I felt more than I heard his yawn; he’d left Las Vegas immediately after work on Friday and was more than exhausted, what with a lay-over in Dallas-Fort Worth.

What am I so nervous about, I thought. Shut up, Mary and enjoy, for goodness’ sakes. “Sweet dreams,” I softly told him, but he was already asleep. It didn’t take me long to follow him into dreamland: I had my very own cozy Jim-Brass blanket to cuddle.

I was up at five in the morning, as usual, and headed downstairs to check things on the computer. Jim was still sound asleep, beautiful in his repose so I touched my lips to his forehead and tried like hell not to wake him. This semester I had four “hybrid” general chemistry courses to teach: part of the work with my students was done face to face, and part was done online. It was a nice arrangement, and worked particularly well here in Orlando: why commute if you could do most of your job in the comfort of your own home? Or backyard? Or whatever. I liked the freedom, had tenure and left the daily grind of classroom stuff to the younger faculty. Seniority hath its privileges.

Now that’s not to say that I didn’t drive in to campus on a regular basis. I love teaching and interacting with my colleagues; it’s administrators that I don’t care for too much. Meetings, meetings, meetings. Boring. And probably why I never became a dean at the college.

So, coffee in cup, computer fired up and getting in some quiet work-time. Musically, I was going through a vocal jazz phase, so “” was tuned to my Norah Jones radio station. Good stuff. And did I mention, kind of romantic sometimes?

I had just posted some lab report grades and was carefully rotating my head to relax a crick in my neck when a warm pair of hands dropped onto my shoulders, massaging gently and I felt a kiss on my ear. I had heard the stair at the bottom creak. Sleeping Beauty…

“What’s up, doc?” he asked me, and I heard the smile in his voice. His beard wasn’t too scratchy this morning. I had to admit that I liked him clean-shaven though.

“Mm, lab reports. Polyatomic ions are your friends,” I replied. “Would you like some coffee?” I asked, starting to get up.

He rubbed my upper arms and made his way to the counter. “You sit tight. I got it.” I shut down the laptop and turned to watch him in my kitchen. He wore a white t-shirt and plain blue pajama bottoms, looking extremely cute in their bagginess, although I had to fight down a frisson of disappointment that he wasn’t naked. Stop it, perv…Barefooted too, which meant he was comfortable (and no undies that I could tell, hooray).

Jim had gotten his coffee, doctored it up, and refilled mine all without pause. He seemed instinctively to know what was where, and if he needed to search, it seemed effortless. I rather liked it, especially since he’d only been in it now for about five or ten minutes. He acted like he’d known the arrangement for years.

“Feel like going out for breakfast, hon?” The kitchen buzzer went off before I could answer him. He grinned and opened the oven, now realizing what he’d smelled wasn’t just the coffee pot and the air freshener.

“You didn’t hang about long enough for me to get you breakfast in bed, Jim,” I told him with a grin of my own. I joined him at the counter and removed two cut-fruit cups from the refrigerator. Two spots were already set at the island; two barstools already in place.

“Mary, you are seriously going to spoil me rotten,” he said, taking in my almost matching outfit of tank top and pajama bottoms. He leaned over for a proper kiss, and we accidentally (on purpose) deepened it for a few heartbeats before his stomach started to growl loudly. “Whew, we’ll have to finish that in the shower.”

“Ditto, sir,” I said with a smile. I just had to shake my head at him. He certainly had a way that made my knees weak.

We dished up the veggie/cheese frittata and took our plates to the bar. I went back for the Tabasco sauce but we soon got tucked in. For a few minutes, the only sounds in the kitchen were plates and cutlery. I had to giggle that we both were so ravenous this morning (But sex-starved? Um, no). After several bites, Jim slowed down to appreciate the flavors.

“This is wonderful. My compliments to the chef,” he said, toasting me with his coffee cup.

“Thank you, and thank the Food Network. I’m a cooking show junkie.”

He laughed, nodding his agreement. “You think we can still get a tee time? I didn’t forget about that challenge you threw down a few weeks ago.”

I paused to recall it. I’d forgotten (Ohhhhh, yeah). “Ah, yes, that challenge. Sure. Shouldn’t be a problem. You want to try for two or three this afternoon?”

“Perfect. How many strokes you gonna give me?” He said it innocently enough, but the look Jim gave me over his coffee was positively pornographic.

At least I didn’t blush. “Nassau, five a side.” This meant that I would have to win by five on the front nine holes, and five on the back to win the bet. “You’re going down, buddy,” I said with a smirk and not resisting the chance to talk some smack.

He had to grin back, and he wasn’t making this easy. “Winner gets to be on top.”

Oh, I was so going to throw this golf match later today.

Go to Part 3

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