Mozell strolled into the bedroom while Greg made one more rummage through the kitchen. She turned down the comforter on the bed, and ran her hand admiringly over the almond colored sheets. *Suckers must be close to 300 thread count, and it looks like he ironed them. I'm being pam-pered. Greg, how have you escaped being snagged, you little treasure? I may have to appreciate Sarah for being a short-sighted, ignorant bitch, since it means that I don't have to run her off from you.* She sat on the edge of the bed.

Greg entered, and paused in the doorway, smiling at her. "Make yourself comfortable. Take off your shoes. Take off your bra. Take off anything you care to--please."

She laughed, and patted the mattress. As he sat beside her she said, "I think I want to get you to play lady's maid in a little bit."

He handed her two tall, long stemmed glasses and began to work a cork out of the bottle. "I don't have to wear a French maid's outfit, do I?"

"Only if you really want to."

"I couldn't deal with stiletto heels," he warned.

The cork came out with a muted pop, and he poured wine into both glasses. Setting the bottle on the bedside table, he took one from Mozell. She smiled at him and kicked off her shoes, moving to sit cross-legged on the bed. "Corked instead of screw top. I'm impressed."

"Well, the Thunderbird just wasn't a good year."

They sipped, watching each other over the rims of their glasses. She said, "Hold still a minute."

"Okay."

Mozell took a mouthful of wine, leaned over, cupped the back of Greg's head, and pressed her mouth to his. When she started to let the wine into his mouth, he was a little startled, and some of it trickled down his chin. She laughed. "I've read about that in books, and I wanted to see if it was silly, or sexy."

"Survey says?"

She licked a red droplet off his chin. "Little of both, I guess." She set aside her glass and looped her other arm around his neck, leaning against him. "You know, I can claim this as research."

He drained his wine and set the glass aside also, returning her embrace. "Really?"

"Oh, yah. See, up until a couple of years ago, all the erotica I wrote was strictly from theory--no practical experience whatsoever. So now," she nuzzled his cheek, "now I have a wonderful excuse to try all sorts of marvelously kinky things, in the name of making my work authentic. 'Wait--is that position possible without one or the other participant needing a back brace? Let's find out!'"

"I really need to spend some time reading your website."

She nodded, but let one hand ghost down his chest. "You do, but somehow I don't think you need it to get 'in the mood'." Greg leaned in for a kiss. It was long, slow, and very moist. Mozell sighed. "In fact, I'm SURE you don't need the added incentive right now."

They slowly toppled over on their sides, mouths clinging together. The back seat had been fine... Hell, it had been damn near perfect, but as far as Greg was concerned it was just the beginning. After all, he hadn't seen much more skin than your average Victorian male used to manage. He intended to remedy that.

Mozell must have been a bit psychic, because as he reached for the buttons of her blouse she said sweetly, "Rip it, and replace it."

"How attached are you to this particular garment?"

"Not very." Greg jerked. Buttons popped in all directions. Mozell squealed with laughter. "Caveman!"

"Grunt." Greg buried his face in her exposed cleavage, nuzzling happily.

When Mozell felt his hands fumbling at her bra in back, she pushed him back enough to set up. "Nuh-uh, Tarzan. I'LL take care of this. Comfortable bras are just too damn hard to replace." She reached back and undid the hooks, letting the loosened straps slide down her arms. Greg reached out, hooked a finger right over the bow that decorated the space between the cups, and tugged. When it dropped free, he rested his chin in his hand, elbow on the mattress, and just gazed at her torso for a long moment. She watched him, amused. "I hope you don't expect me to pose like a centerfold. The only time I ever cup my hands under my boobs and gaze at them thoughtfully is during my monthly self-examination."

"You don't have to do that," he assured you. "I can do it for you." As if in demonstration, he shifted, reaching out, and cupped his hands under her breasts.

"That feels nice, but if you act like you're comparing the weight of a couple of tomatoes, I will hit you."

He smiled sweetly, and brushed his thumbs over her nipples, eliciting a soft, breathy sound. "The thing about tomatoes is this--you can only tell the difference between commercial produce and the home-grown, garden variety by taste." He leaned down, tongue flicking out, swiping both rapidly stiffening pink buds. He spent a few moments suckling and nibbling, switching from one side to the other, as her breathing began to deepen. Finally he leaned back a little, licking his lips thoughtfully. "Oh, yeah--just as nature intended."

"I should hope so, beautiful. The only plastic that has ever been plugged into my body is the strands they used when I got my ears pierced."

"Does that mean you never...?"

She kissed him, cutting off the question she knew was coming. She licked his smiling lips, saying, "Let's not go into that right now. There's plenty of time to discuss the kinkier aspects of sexuality."

"If ya promise." He was skimming his fingers along her calves. His hands slid up slowly, over her knees, to her thighs. He hesitated there for a moment, then let his hands move higher--up under her skirt hem--not trying to lift it.

Mozell's eyebrows quirked. "Looking for anything in particular?"

She felt his fingers hook in the waistband of her panties. "Found it. Since you're opposed to unscheduled lingerie ripping, how about lifting your, if I may say so, choice ass a little?"

"You're a master of the combination polite/crude, Greg. I admire that greatly." She braced on her hands and lifted her ass a couple of inches. Her panties were whisked down, given a rather cavalier toss, and ended up... somewhere. She wasn't very worried about finding them. Since Greg had no house pets, there was little chance of them 'straying'.

He quickly grabbed her ankles and pulled. Mozell found herself lying prone, head on a pillow, feet parted, with Greg kneeling between her spread knees. "Oh, excuse me--care to get comfortable, Mozell?"

"Why, thank you, kind sir," she said wryly. "Aside from an end to world hunger, the abolition of war, and locking up Joss and Chris so someone sane can plot for Buffy, Angel, and X Files, I can't imagine how I could be more comfortable."

"Glad to hear it," he crooned. He was moving to lie prone on his belly between her legs, facing toward her.

As he urged her thighs farther apart, she said, "What do you think you're doing, she said hopefully."

"Going exploring." His head disappeared under her skirt.

She let her head drop back on the pillow, whispering, "One who doesn't have to be nagged, bribed, or coaxed. Lord, what did I do that was so right? I want to remember it for future reference." Then she felt warm, moist breath, and an even warmer, wetter touch at the crease that marked her sex, and she forgot trying to keep a coherent train of thought.

It wasn't the first time she'd had this particular type of fun, but Duane, bless his horny little heart, had been kind of hesitant in this arena. Since she was just at the beginning of her sexual explorations, Mozell hadn't considered it politic to be too insistent, so she hadn't pushed very hard after the first couple of tries. She could tell, though, that Greg was (damn the pun, full speed ahead) head-and-shoulders above the other man when it came to technique, and enthusiasm.

Greg happily burrowed into the dark, warm space under the skirt. He'd heard the old saying about 'they're all the same in the dark', and had almost gotten punched by a belligerent fellow tech when he'd stated that was the stupidest, most sexist bit of macho bull crap he'd ever heard, and if the guy really believed that, why didn't he just quit being cheap and spring for an inflatable doll, since that was obviously the most complicated relationship he was capable of?

He was lured on by a musky, undeniably feminine fragrance, and soon found his nose being tickled by silky pubic hair. He let his thumbs gently spread the pubic crease, then shifted forward for the first taste. He felt her jerk slightly, muttering something that most certainly wasn't disapproval. He was glad of that, because this was too damn much fun to give up without a load of whining.

Greg genuinely enjoyed going down on a woman, reveling in the responses he could coax from a partner. As long as the lady in question wasn't too careless about her hygiene, anyway, and he had a feeling that was a street that ran both ways. He settled in to really enjoy himself, and consequently, Mozell went not-so-quietly out of her mind. The soft licks and sucks graduated to more firm caresses. Greg had to hook his arms over her thighs to keep her from bucking him off, but at that point he would have considered a bruised nose from a strong hip-thrust to be a perfectly reasonable trade-off.

He could tell when her orgasm hit: there was a sudden increase in the slipperiness he'd been lapping at, and soft, spreading flesh seemed to tremble as Mozell moaned. He grinned secretly, and stabbed his tongue as hard and deep as he could, drawing a surprised shout and near convulsion.

Mozell lay back, limp and stunned, staring up at the ceiling. "Moh-ther-fuh-ker. And I mean that as the most sincere compliment."

Greg eased his head out from under her skirt and gave her a lazy smile, his lips slick and shiny. "Aw shucks, ma'am--'tweren't nothin'."

She held out her arms. "Get up here." He crawled up her body, half-lying on her, and she snuggled into his arms. They just stayed that way for a moment, looking at each other. Finally Mozell said, "I don't really want to break the mood, but I have to ask--have you been trying to date Sarah?"

The sexual flush had been starting to die out of his complexion, and he blushed anew. "Um... yeah. Sort of."

"Huh."

"Huh, what?"

"Huh, the woman needs another IQ test, and to visit a good gynecologist and endocrinologist. She either needs to have her hormone levels checked, or she's just plain fuckin' stupid." She kissed him again. "Greg, unless you have a KKK sheet hanging in the closet or a backyard full of former lovers, you're pretty damn near perfect, as far as I'm concerned." He blushed redder. She poked him playfully in the chest. "Confess--you're related to Gene Simmons, aren't you?"

"No, but my mother did attend a pretty wild Ray Stevens concert in 1975--complete with back stage passes, so..." He shrugged. "At least that's how she explained that streaking incident my junior year."

She stroked his even-spikier-than-usual hair. "I'm going to say something to you that I've never said to another man--I'd like to meet your mother." She tapped his nose. "But that can wait for awhile. I haven't finished debauching you yet." She started unbuttoning his shirt.

He didn't make a move to stop her, but said, "We can wait a little while, if you want."

She'd gotten the shirt open, and now paused. She reached down, palm settling over his fly, and squeezed experimentally. "Well, we could--if you were tired. But judging from this--" she squeezed again, and Greg bit his lip. "No, it would be a crime to let this go to waste when there are so many lonely, celibate single women out there."

"I just don't want to rush you..." She laughed, and he smiled at her. "Yeah, that does sound a little silly."

She looped her arms loosely about his neck and touched her forehead to his. "Look, Greg, unless you sincerely want to wait--the engine is already well oiled and warmed up."

"I thought it was just guys who used cars as a metaphor for sex?"

She was opening his fly. "So I'm getting in touch with my inner male by letting your outer male get in touch with my inner female. Did that make sense?"

"Not really, but who the fuck cares?"

She pushed his shirt off his shoulders, beginning to slide it down. Greg blinked in surprise when, instead of removing it completely, she tightly tied the tails over his belly, effectively trapping his arms. "Hey?"

"Relax. Butt up." He obliged, and she skinned down his pants and underwear. "Hi, I'm Scribe, and I'll be your molester for this evening. Oo! Look at that."

He found himself blushing again. "I've seen it. So have you."

"Yes, but under hurried circumstances, and not with a good light. Wow." She delicately ran the tip of one finger up the underside of Greg's erect cock, catching a dribble of clear pre-ejaculate and beginning to slowly spread it around his glans. "Besides being a great guy, Greg, you're physically beautiful." Her tone was so blunt and matter-of-fact that Greg, feeling a little dazed, couldn't help but believe that she meant it.

She had straddled his naked legs, her skirt flaring over the lightly tanned skin of his thighs. "I think I just noticed something about you. Do you have a thing for doing it partially clothed?"

"Does it bother you?"

"Fuck no!"

"I'll admit that sometimes I think the added touch of mystery is pretty sexy. Where do you keep your condoms?"

"Bedside table. Lubricant's there, too."

Her eyebrows went up, and she smirked a little. "Greg, are you that most precious of commodities--a good looking bi male?"

"What?" He blushed. "No! Not that there's anything wrong with that. Why would you think...?"

"Hello? Lube?"

"Well, some women... uh... need a little extra..."

She leaned forward as she reached for the drawer, kissing him. "Suuuch a thoughtful baby. But they need extra preparation with you? What sort of icebergs have you been hanging with, Greg?"

Greg watched as Mozell withdrew a wrapped condom from the drawer, tore it open, and removed the little latex circle. He sighed quietly as she pressed it to the tip of his hard-on and carefully rolled it down, with a gentle, stroking squeeze. Then he gaped as she reached up under her skirt, and withdrew her hand with moist fingers, then used them to slick the rubber. "See? I don't think we're going to have a problem here."

She knee-walked up till she was hovering over his crotch. Again she reached under, and Greg felt himself grasped. "Now, don't move, sweetie--not yet." She got an intent look on her face as he felt himself minutely adjusted, directed. At last she made a sound of satisfaction, and began to lower herself.

"Oooh, man," Greg breathed. He was gradually swallowed in the most incredible soft, hot, wetness. She moved slowly, but steadily. Finally she stopped. Greg was entirely engulfed. He couldn't help reaching out and gripping her thighs, feeling the tension in the muscles. Her eyes were very wide, focused on something in the middle distance. "Mozell?" He stroked her thighs. "You okay?"

She looked down at him. Her voice bemused, she said, "My, you're a BIG boy, Greg." He felt the muscles under his palms flex. She rose a couple of inches, then sank down again, and he groaned at the sensation. She smiled, and began to post, sliding smoothly up and down in a slow rhythm, which quickened gradually.

Greg lay back and enjoyed it for as long as he was able, but there came a time when he had to move. He easily worked loose from the binding shirt, reached farther up her body, grabbing at her hips, and began to lift up to meet her. She made a crooning noise that told him she was perfectly all right with this new development. That was good, because he was pretty much past the point of stopping for anything less than a heavy blow to the head.

With a growl, he shifted and turned, using his grip on her hips to turn her under him, moving into the missionary position. She didn't protest, but hooked her feet over his lower legs and met every thrust with joyous enthusiasm. He peppered her face and torso with kisses and licks as he continued to thrust into her. As his orgasm neared, he rested most of his weight on her, bracing up only on one elbow. With the other hand he gripped her hair, firmly but gently, holding her in place as he kissed her, thrusting his tongue into her mouth as demandingly as his cock pierced the soft core of her body.

He felt her second orgasm strike her, a sudden jerk, and a swift, rippling squeeze along his buried prick. At the same moment she grabbed his heaving ass with both hands, tugging at him hard, nails pricking his skin. He came hard, his head dropping till his forehead rested on the pillow beside her. His hips jerked four--five times as he filled the condom, a harsh, triumphant cry breaking from his lips. It was answered by soft, pleased laughter, and her hands moved up from the slight sting on his buttocks to smooth lazily over his back and sides.

Finally Greg managed to prop himself up again and gazed down at her. Her curly hair was scrubbed about her head in wild disarray. Her skin was damp and flushed, lips swollen from kisses, and her pupils were so dilated that instead of being bright blue, her eyes looked almost navy blue. He muttered, "You are so fucking beautiful."

She smiled softly, stroking his cheek. "Am I to believe a man when the blood has not yet returned to his brain?" When he started to protest, she stopped him with a kiss. "I know, sweetheart. And you're gorgeous, too."

He sighed, and rolled off of her limply. "And very, very tired."

She snuggled against him, nuzzling his shoulder. "Then take a nap. Lord knows you earned it, hon."

He sounded drowsy. "You don't wanna stay awake and talk?"

She snorted. "Men. That's not an issue with me unless a guy doesn't talk to me except to get me into bed. You're a terrific conversationalist, Greggy. Sleep--we can talk later. We have plenty of time."

They settled down together. Before she dozed off, Mozell reflected on the fact that she used to be considered a 'touch me not' in bed, insisting that anyone she shared a bed with stay on THEIR side, with nothing touching. *I suppose the big difference is tha fact that they were all female relatives at family reunions,* she thought as she started to drop off to sleep. *Someone who's a friend and has just given you great sex is a whole 'nother ballpark.*

She slept peacefully for several hours. Greg wasn't quite snoring when she woke up, though his breath rasped slightly in the back of his throat. She smiled at the sound, thinking that he sounded a little like her mother's elderly weenie dog when she was just about to have a dream--something probably involving chasing rabbits.

She gently scratched at his chest, enjoying the crisp feel of the chest hairs. When he didn't awaken, she decided it was safe to move. His grip wasn't tight, and she managed to get out of bed without disturbing him. Once out of bed, she slipped off her crumpled skirt--her last remaining garment--and padded into the bathroom.

After a long, satisfying potty break, she slipped into Greg's shower and enjoyed a hot shower. As much as she was coming to care about Greg, she wasn't about to carry his DNA around any longer than strictly necessary. As she dried off, she thought, *And if that thought doesn't mark me as working for CSI, I don't know what would.*

She put back on her panties and blouse, then thought of something. Going into the living room, she dug in her purse, found the disk of birth control pills, and popped one out into her palm, muttering, "Better safe than sorry." She could dry swallow pills when necessary, but she remembered that there was still most of a bottle of wine in the bedroom. As she started to shut her purse, she noticed the memo Grissom had given her before they left work. She plucked it out and took it with her.

In the bedroom, she poured herself a half-glass of wine, then went to sit at the computer station. Greg had rolled over, burying his face in his pillow, and she took a moment to admire the long sweep of his back, terminating in that beautiful, sculpted ass. *The ass that has a couple of nail marks in it. I'm gonna have to apologize for that.*

Sure that Greg wouldn't mind if she just checked her email, she booted up the computer. While it quietly whirred to life, she popped the pill into her mouth and washed it down. She made the net connection, and opened her Inbox. She blinked. There were at least a dozen more emails--all from ardentadmirer. The subject line of the last one was WHY ARE YOU IGNORING ME?

Not wanting to deal with that at the moment, she opened the memo. *I'll just get this out of the way before I deal with what seems to be turning into The Fan From Hell.*

She started to read the memo. Her eyes grew larger, and her rosy complexion paled. Her hand began to tremble ever so slightly as she read the particulars of the case. Linking characteristics--women, writers of erotic, published on the Internet, increasingly obsessed fan who became more and more personal, seemed to believe that they shared an intimate relationship, multiple emails which became abusive as the victim became more and more alarmed, trying to sever contact, finally murder by strangulation or beating. There was a short list of net names associated with the stalker emails. Literaryluver, oneandonly, yourdestiny... Her eyes turned toward the screen, and she whispered, "Ardentadmirer."

She sat for a long moment. There was a rustling sound, and she blinked, realizing that the paper had slipped from her numb fingers. She slowly bent and picked it up. After a moment she got up, went, and sat on the bed. Reaching out, she stroked Greg's cheek. "Greg, sweetie?"

"Mmph?"

"Greg, wake up."

He opened his eyes and smiled at her sleepily. "Ready to talk now?"

She drew a shaky breath. "Yeah, I need to talk."

He sat up quickly, frowning, able to tell from her tone of voice, and her drawn expression, that there was something wrong. "What is it?"

She handed him the paper and whispered, "I think I may have a problem."