Title:  Toy

Author:  Harper

Email: Xfjnky2@yahoo.com

Rating: PG

Fandom:  CSI

Pairing:  Catherine/Sara

Archiving:  It’ll be at www.realmoftheshadow.com/harper.htm with the rest of my drivel.

Disclaimer:  It’s infringement, because they aren’t mine.  But, I don’t do it maliciously, and I don’t make a profit.

A/N:  It’s a short bit of nothing, un-beta’d as usual.  If you’d like to comment, I’d love to hear from you.  I’ll be at Xfjnky2@yahoo.com.

She’s a tease.

She’s beautiful and she knows it.  She looks at you out of hooded eyes, promising things you don’t dare imagine.  Her lips curl on knowing smiles, each slowly upturned millimeter melting away any foolish lingering hint of resistance.

She revels in her power.  You’re transparent before her, all want and desire and longing and near pathetic yearning.  You don’t have the skill to hide it, not like she does.  She veils everything behind the sweep of long lashes, the artfully coquettish dip of a not quite sharp chin.  Your face reads like an open book.

You feel subjugated to her capriciousness, some part of you constantly wondering just when you managed to become so thoroughly ensnared.  It’s hard to remember, because now you can’t envision a time when you didn’t fall asleep with the memory of those full and deliciously lush lips teasing you.  Haunting you, actually, always out of reach, always on the edge of a lazy, self-indulgent smirk.  Always on the verge of laughing at you, a dizzying trill of satisfied possession.

You think it’s probably not good that you indulge your new obsession.  Not healthy, says a voice in your head, the one that sounds suspiciously like your mother or your therapist or any number of people who imagine they know more about what’s good for you than you do.  You don’t listen to it and you don’t listen to them, content somehow with the masochistic self-torture of wanting what you’re fairly certain you’ll never have.

Not something you’re sure you’ll never have, because just when you feel yourself start to pull away, when you feel that first lingering trace of sanity, she senses it.  Senses it and bares razor sharp teeth in a smile that leaves you helpless and begging for mercy.

You think there’s no part of you she doesn’t know.  Knows and uses to pull you back in to her sticky web, trapping you as effectively the fifth and fifteenth and fiftieth time as she did the first… black widow to your willing prey.

You hope that maybe this time, she’ll devour you.

The End