Title: Late, perhaps... (1/1)
Rating: MA/NC-17
Pairing: Booth/Cam
Spoilers: nothing specific, set after "The Man in the Cell"
Summary: He should have been here at the appointed time and he certainly should have waited for the scheduled beers.
Author's Note: This fic was inspired by Ember Swift's "Disarming"
I like those who crave to engage
strip-down, who don't fuss with protective
Word of Warning: This is consensual. But it sure doesn't feel like it at times. So, if that's not your thing, turn around now.
Late, perhaps… (1/1)
He says he got tied up in traffic, but something tells me that's not the half of it: His jacket's a little wrinkled and his eyes have that hazy-tipsy look that won't let him focus on anything, even when I'm trying to make my point. He tosses me a grin and steps up into my space, towering, meant to be disarming. I've got new for him because I'm not buying it. Not tonight.
There'll be no charming me out of this feeling.
He's already had his beer and driven himself here. I could see him at the bar, stripping off his coat and tossing it onto the seat, carelessly flopping down on the discarded article. He'd order with his elbows on the table, taking up enough space for two, and drink them fast. Two, maybe three empty bottles sitting in front of him as he held his face in his hands. I bet the waitress smiled at his full-bodied pout.
A time was set and we're rolling on an hour past now, both refusing to back down. He should have been here at the appointed time and he certainly should have waited for the scheduled beers. More over, he never should have driven over here after breaking the two previous deviations. But he's got a grin that's part arrogance, part innocence and I've got to keep my eyes away from the glint in his eyes to keep myself from believing.
He could have called.
I would have come. Joined him. Erased the need to occupy the space of two people. Called us a cab to bring us back here.
But instead we're toe-to-toe and I'm breathing my anger against his charm, knowing in the end only one of them's going to stick. I've got to go on the offense. I step forward until he's backing down, straight into a wall with a thunk. His body goes taut as he warns me off. Back down, he says, his eyes flicking down to find my lips. I've got no smile for him right now and I see it deaden the attempts at cheer that he's had hanging in his eyes since he arrived.
His hands are taking hold of my shoulders but no amount of force is going to push me back. I hold steady, anchoring my frame against his: hips connected with slanting hips, thighs sliding over tense thighs, breasts to chest. It was once like this, but the context was different. He wasn't late and it wasn't over. It was active.
More than his tardiness, that's what's got me lining my body against his to keep him restrained against the wall.
He tries to maneuvers himself fully upright, tries to propel my body from his but I catch him. I kick his feet outward until his legs are spread and my thigh is wedged in the space between to keep him from regaining his center of gravity. Now, I smile.
I like keeping him off balance like this.
This close I can smell the beer on his breath and the sweat on his skin, but the movement of his hands on my shoulders warns me that he's preparing for another bout. My hands close down on his wrists and before he can breath another beer scented breath I've got them pinned up against the wall and if somehow he were able to find his balance, I'd be screwed because all of my weight is relying on his frame for support. All I can see is short dark hair and a muscular shoulder where my face is pressed against his shoulder and that's where the dirty tricks came in. That hot, sticky breath finds the place where my shoulder meets my neck and lingers, warming the skin there before letting his lips lock on.
He wins a quiet moan, but loses when my thigh finds clarity and grinds slowly aganst his increasingly swollen cock through his slacks. Emitting a husky cry, his hips move against mine and I refocus my resolve, fingers closing down more tightly upon his wrists and my thigh shifting to press more directly against the evidence that it's not entirely as over as he proclaims.
I know he could easily wrest himself from my grasp, but he doesn't so I don't release.
He's still warning me, even as I bring my lips to his. I let it be violent, the way he'd never liked it, my teeth grabbing at his lip in urgent tugs that mirror the tangling that's occurring below our waists with his hips grinding heavily down on my thigh. If he wants, he can stop it but instead he's meeting my ferocious assault with one of his own, easing his arms down, peeling away my hands and pushing us both away from the wall.
I'm traveling backwards and all that towering height is bent down and crushing me until my knees hit the seat of the couch and bend on impact. I crumple, losing contact with his heated lips, but reach up to grab the front of his shirt, dragging him back to me until our teeth collide and I taste a bit of his blood on my lips.
His fucking line's going to have to be a crater to stop me tonight.
I rip my lips from his and pull myself back up to my feet, my hand still using his shirt as a hold, and the force of me colliding with him sends him down. Now he's the one laid out, his brown eyes flashing with answering anger as I descend upon him. My legs straddle his hips like it's something they've never done, clumsily and with force, my knees slamming painfully against the hardwood floors. I land heavily against his stiff cock and he voices his complain with a frustrated growl.
I rip his buttons, peeling his shirt back from his chest and he tries to apologize.
And I slap him. Cold and hard across the cheek, leaving my mark on all that apologetic charm.
Bitch. Cunt. Such rare language from him as his hands peel my shirt up from my chest and I raise my arms to let him. He nearly breaks the snaps as his impatient fingers strip away my bra. There'll be nothing left but scraps tonight.
The hands that meet my breasts don't know how to be kind and they angle roughly for the sensitive peaks, pinching and twisting. No caresses. Sweetness is lost here, except in the taste of his blood on his lips and sweat on his skin as I rise, ripping away my pants then dropping back down on my knees. I jerk each foot from the ground, yanking off his shoes and hurling them away. His socks I rip from him, stupid multi-colored things. Foolish boy. He makes short work of his pants and boxers and tries to sit up.
Not tonight.
My hands meet his shoulders, slamming him back down on the ground as I climb a top him, letting my wet cunt slide over his hard cock to tease. I grin when he wails. Does he really want there to be a line, I wonder as his hands find my knees, spreading me wider. His hips buck upwards in answer but I know even that is a lie.
I feel my chest constrict abruptly when he brings his hand to help guide his cock inside me. First the head enters me, then I take hold of his wrist, pushing it down above his head as I sink down fast. He fills me. Our hips rock roughly with the grace of little kids trying to bump each other off a teeter-totter.
He meets my eyes and holds them as his cock slams into the deepest part of me repeatedly, battering me inside. But I'm contributing to this attack, my hips ensuring that they fall with each rise of his, encouraging fast, abrupt impact. At one point, he tells me I'm beautiful. Fuck him. Fuck him.
In what feels like a matter of moments, I'm breathless and cursing him with each thrust of his cock. I can feel my cunt clenching in protest because I can't remember feeling this used. He's stretching me and breaking me, each impact creating a few more fissures through which my heat escapes. I release his wrist, allowing my weight to rest more heavily against him, his hips still pistoning into me, unrelenting.
For a moment, he's confused.
Then he's flipping me, laying me out on the floor flat and then coming back. He folds me up, bending my legs up to my chest and presses into me once more. I ache as he drives in, resuming his previous relentless rhythm renewed fervor. Each thrust is pushing me across the floor on my back until I end up propped half-upright against the couch as he fucks me.
I bring my hands impassively to his back, seeking only to pull him deeper. My nails dig into his flesh and once more his lips are upon mine. I can feel the crusted blood from our earlier collision rasping across my swollen lips as his tongue slips between my teeth to taste the roof of my mouth. It was never like this.
I can taste his unscheduled beer; it's bitter in my mouth. My face twists to frown, even as his lips slant to find a new angle to probe. His fingers dig into my flesh, grabbing with the intent to brace him to drive harder. I gauge his rasping breath and the tension that is building beneath my fingers in his back, knowing he's close even as I'm already spilling over, my cunt clenching down around him, threatening to trap his cock in its vice. My mouth falls open in a silent cry and his lips finally relent, withdrawing to bring his teeth to my collarbone as he roughly finished inside of me. His cries are audible and they shatter my anger like glass that I can feel with each quiver of my muscles as I slowly come down from my orgasm.
My hands come to his shoulders and shove him off.
I can still feel out mingling juices dripping as I stand. He's still sitting there dumbly staring while I gather his clothes. I toss each discarded piece at him until they're scattered around him in a haphazard circle.
Towering over his floor-bound form, I cross my arms and wait for him to dress. My instructions are clear: Get out.
He shoves his socks in his pockets and slides his shoes on barefoot. His shirt he doesn't bother to button, his pants hang low without his belt, and he redraws the line we'd just obliterated. I take note and nod, dismissing him.
A last little ooze of charm escapes him as he tries to leave, joking with me as he says goodbye. Pursing my lips, I shake my head, remind him of his line and mine. Get out, I say and he listens.