A long stretch of highway, illuminated in the orange-y glow of the sun setting somewhere in the distance. A blinding white light sections the road in two. It isn't a broken line either with tick, tick, tick dashes that begs you to venture to the other side. No. This line is solid, a partition. It is a strong indication that clearly states do not pass. Do not cross.
You hate that fucking line.
You stand on one side while she's on the opposite, facing each other. Both of you glance down, staring at the silent enemy. You want to say something – ask where y'all are, what y'all are doing here – yet you can't find your voice enough to speak. She's dressed in business attire but not her usual Jeffersonian getup, even sans lab coat. Your brain registers the tight, gray pencil skirt first. It's trying to recall something you can't quite grasp. The ocean blue, silk top sets off her eyes to where they're practically radiating in the last rays of sun. The chunky jewelry reminds you that it's still her, but the three inch fuck-me-now-please heels are new. You like, oh how you like. Her hair is trapped up in a simple ballerina bun, not a wisp or curl out of place. The piece de resistance, though, is the severe, black horn rimmed glasses. The whole picture together speaks of a stern librarian that is worthy of her own series of wet dreams.
Jesus Christ, so she does remember China.
She smirks, almost as if she read your mind. It's the one she gets when a witness accidentally lets some fact slip that somehow scientifically explains that they were the murderer. Some obscure detail that any normal person wouldn't think twice about. It's the smirk that screams of I-Know-Something-You-Don't-Know. It has the equal power to infuriate and turn you on. Right now it's the latter because all you want to do is bite her plump bottom lip.
The glasses go first. She tongues one of the stems before carelessly tossing them over her shoulder. The sound of the lenses breaking into shards spikes your blood pressure. The hair is next, yanked out of place then shook to tumble down her back and across her shoulders. It's something you've imagined doing a thousand times. One, two earrings followed by a necklace are the next victims. The beads scatter against the pavement. By the time she has stretched up to slip the first tiny, white dress button from its place, you are sweating. She savors the path down her blouse, and your eyes riveted on her every movement. When all the buttons are free from their confines, the shirt gapes open to give you a tantalizing glimpse of the bra underneath. An expert on the body, her shoulders roll back and in one fluid movement the silk slides down her arms to flutter to the ground.
Hell, it's not a bra. It's a bustier… some royal blue and lace contraption that pushes her breasts up to where they are a breath away from spilling over the edge. You want to taste every inch of her skin. You want to taste, lick, suck and nip until she's panting and coming apart in your arms. Anticipation fills you as her hands move again. The sound of the zipper echoes in the deserted strip of sex highway. A slow swivel of her hips causes the skirt to pool at her feet. She steps out of the garment and flings it behind her with the back of a heel with such natural ease it's as if she's done this in front of you a hundred times before. But you aren't sure if you are still breathing, probably not. The lack of oxygen to your brain would surely produce the hallucination that has been revealed under the skirt. Miles of leg encased in thigh high stockings.
You stare at her like a fourteen year old with his first playboy. What's beyond the stockings you ask? More lace, enough skin to bring you within seconds away from exploding but hiding just enough to drive you insane. You've never given much thought to boyshorts before, but at this moment you find them sexier than anything else you could have envisioned. And you've envisioned a lot. She moves, really moves, for the first time as her heeled foot takes a step. You swear you can smell her arousal.
Her movements ooze promise until she's standing straight on top of the line and opens her legs, drawing your gaze to their apex. The position gives her a wide base of support to lean forward and wrap her fingers around your tie to pull you flush against her. Her breasts are pillowed against you. You swear that even through your clothes you can feel their tips, pronounced and delicious. There is no way she doesn't feel your hardness pressed snug against her stomach. She cocks her head to the side once… then there's that smirk again. She clasps your hand in hers to reach behind her back and settle your fingers on the clasps of the bustier.
"It's just a line," she states, plunging your mouth with hers.
Booth's pulse was racing, ragged as his eyes popped open like a shot. The clock on his nightstand said he still had ten minutes till his alarm was due to go off. He flopped back against the mattress and tried to catch his breath. He felt as if he had run a mile. Even from this angle, he could see the spectacular morning wood he was sporting.
"Fuck," he breathed, "that was intense."
Geez, he was getting too old for this. He had barely even touched her – even fantasy her – and he was more amped up than most of the satisfying experiences in life. But, damn. Staring in a series in wet dreams had more than hit the mark. Firm and erotic biblio-Bones had been showing up in various settings at the Booth nightly theater for months now. There was something about that quietly restrained power that called to him. He never knew if he wanted to have that subtle control turned solely on him or if he wanted to possess her until she was tumbling wildly out of control. As long as she was under, over, all around him to where all that was left of them was a tangle of sweaty limbs everything else was frosting on the pie.
Mmm, Bones and pie. Okay you're not helping things, Seel.
Flipping off the alarm, Booth slid out of bed. Catching sight of himself in the mirror, he resisted the urge to laugh. Four decades old and his libido dying down had no end in sight… thank God. But, yes, he was forty years old today. He didn't know how he felt about being "middle aged" yet. Last year's birthday had been such a clusterfuck that he had been silent about the big four oh. Which was why he was doubly surprised when Bones had sprung a birthday dinner invitation on him last week.
Moving into his bathroom, he recalled their ride in the SUV on the way back to the lab from a witness' home. He knew even before he shucked his boxers and turned on the shower that thinking about their conversation while in his current state was a bad idea. However, it was his birthday and even he wasn't a masochist enough to deny himself on his birthday.
As his hand came up to turn the shower knob to hot, his mind remembered how her slender fingers had spun the dial on the radio so the music hushed to a whisper. "Your birthday is Wednesday." She stated in her ever present factual tone.
He stole a side long glance at her. "Yes, it is."
A feeling had climbed up his neck then. He could feel that something was hovering on the precipice. Well, that was an understatement. Something, everything was hovering between them lately. But, Bones had the habit of springing bombshells on him leading with that I-Could-Be-Talking-About-The-Weather manner.
Like when she told him out of professional courtesy that she was going to kiss him
Like when she announced that she wanted a baby during Sweets stupid psychology game
"You haven't mentioned celebrating." She said with a slight frown.
It had been a fight to keep his eyes on the road instead of stopping to figure out what she was thinking. "I have Parker the night before and we'll go to dinner. Then in the morning I'll pretend like I don't know he's making a mess of my kitchen as he makes his old man a chocolate pancake breakfast." Speaking of, Booth wondered when he'd hear the clank of pans colliding against each other and the distinct smack of egg on the floor.
Scrubbing a hand down his face, Booth stepped under the warm spray and let Bones' next words wash over him. "Booth, it's your fortieth birthday. Don't you think you need some adult stimuli?"
Then his hand traveled lower, and he let out a moan that was thankfully muffled by the rushing water. This time, he didn't need a fantasy, setting, or costume. He indulged himself, thrusting into his hand, as he remembered the way her eyes had softened. She looked out the window of the SUV for a moment before turning back to him, almost as if she were nervous. Bones was never nervous. "I wish to cook you dinner." Her statement had been sure, but he could detect the smallest trace of vulnerability.
God, she had only asked him to dinner but his hand pumped faster as if she had said she wanted to suck him dry. He groaned and his head fell forward to rest on the tile wall.
"Really?" He replied, swallowing. Even then he had hardened.
She nodded once. "Yes, for your birthday. I believe last year I made you a promise."
His hand was flying now, tugging. She had made him a promise. She sprouted a bunch of squity, anthropological babble about baubles and plumage that would make any sane person think of peacocks. Two, three more passes over himself and his orgasm took over. He came fast and endless, making him feel a little lightheaded. Yes, everyone may have not have understood her words but he heard them loud and clear. She was going to look at him, only him.
And being the single target of Temperance Brennan's focus, man what a heady combination.
Is it a teensy bit hot in here? Depending on how everyone feels about my first foray into true M, this may turn into a three or four shot piece. The whole line/highway image took hold of my brain last night. Like I said, this is my first time to go beyond innuendo and implication so do please lemme know what you think. Much appreciated.
Oh, and because it's an obligation to state pride…. SAINTS GOIN TO THE SUPERBOWL! WHO DAT!