A/N: Definitely getting into M territory here… Thanks to those of you who reviewed so far and added my story to your alerts. Please – I need more reviews! I hate begging, but I will if I have to. Let me know what you think! Love it? Hate it?
Thanks again to Carrie for her wonderful editing and guidance.
Let's go on dreaming
A mouth, hot, burning circles on the skin of her neck. A tongue, soft and rough, lathing her breasts. Hands exploring, everywhere at once and yet so focused on the most sensitive parts of her flesh.
"Bones…" he mutters, the word nearly lost in the nape of her neck.
"Booth…" a whisper back.
She awoke with a start!
She was breathing heavily…panting, really – her heart racing.
Where had that come from? Her dream had been so real! She could still feel his skin on her skin, his lips on her lips.
She put a hand to her chest, thump, thump, thump, and glanced at the clock. 5:47. She was never going back to sleep now. She felt restless and hot and unsatisfied. An ache had begun between her legs, but she refused to address it. Not to fantasies of Booth. He was her partner, her best friend, and yes, sometimes, when he looked at her, she felt her stomach flutter as it had with her first crush. And sometimes, when he put his hand on her back to guide her, the spot remained warm long after he let go.
But she was not going there. She was not going to relive the kiss that still caused her to go all warm inside. It was two weeks ago and she couldn't get it out of her mind.
She climbed out of bed and pulled on a pair of sweats to join her camisole. She drifted into the kitchen and put on coffee to brew. It was still dark out, and she sighed. What a way to start a Saturday.
While the coffee percolated, she perused her bookshelves, pulling down a journal, fresh and blank and new. By the time she found a pen, the coffee was done, and she curled herself into the sofa.
She didn't often put pen to paper any more, preferring the ease and efficiency of her laptop, but every now and again it just felt good. She loved the sound of the pen scratching, loved the feel of paper beneath her fingers, seeing the white space transformed by words – her words.
This time, though, the space glared up at her like a white black hole, swallowing her creativity before it could even travel from her brain to her fingertips.
She closed her eyes and her mind instantly returned to her dream, flashing scenes of Booth above her. Booth inside her. Booth all over her.
She groaned and opened her eyes. She began to write.
"Why must I dream
the secrets kept
in the locked curve
of my mind?
Why must these thoughts
burst forth, unbidden,
and permeate
my conscience?
The sweetest ecstasy of night
becomes torture in the day."
"Well, that was helpful," she thought, looking at the scribbled lines of poetry. "Useless," she said aloud.
She threw the journal aside and headed to the kitchen. When all else fails, organize.
She sat on the living room floor, books, notebooks, journals, magazines strewn about her. She startled at the knock on the door, then assessed the mess around her. She shrugged.
"Who is it?" She yelled.
She heard no response other than the sound of metal on metal. She kept her eyes on the door as it opened.
"You know, if I was a serial killer, you'd be dead by now."
"A serial killer wouldn't have a key to my apartment, Booth," she replied. She turned her gaze away, feeling a blush in her cheeks at the mere sight of him. This was bad.
He stepped over the detritus on the floor, stopping behind her to hand over a paper bag. His hand brushed her shoulder and she shivered. Damn. She should have just given in this morning. Then she wouldn't be so sensitive.
Booth plopped down on the couch, his charm smile brightening his face as he looked her up and down. "Are you cold?" he asked, and she heard the levity in his voice. Something amused him. She glanced down and discovered the source, showing plainly through her thin top.
She crossed her arms and flushed. "Why are you here?" she asked, sounding rather aggravated.
Booth feigned hurt. "I brought you breakfast."
She eyed the bag, but refused to uncross her arms. She stood and disappeared into the bedroom, returning moments later in a sweatshirt.
Booth chuckled, assessing her new outfit. She poured him a cup of coffee and handed it to him. His brow furrowed. "Are those my sweats?"
Brennan looked down, seeing the letters "FBI" printed on the leg. She nearly screamed in frustration. He was everywhere!
"Want them back?" she growled, hooking her thumbs in the waistband.
Booth's eyes went wide and dark. Dangerously dark. When he spoke, his voice was low. "Well, if you want. After all, you saw mine." He didn't think he'd ever seen her so red. She flounced down on the carpet, angrily stacking books.
"What's with you today?" he asked, attempting to diffuse her anger.
"I didn't sleep well."
"Bad dream?"
She looked at him sharply. "No! Just… I didn't sleep well."
He nodded, deciding not to press, and sipped his coffee. He shifted on the couch, feeling something hard digging into his back. He reached around and pulled out a notebook of some sort. It appeared empty except for a few lines on the first page. He glanced at Brennan, who was stacking books on the shelves. He took a chance and read the words.
It was unlike anything of hers he'd read before. It was brief, but somehow exciting. What secrets? Ecstasy of night? This must have something to do with the bad night's sleep. He lowered the journal to see two wide but oh-so-beautiful eyes looking at him in horror.
"That's private!" she nearly shrieked.
"C'mon, Bones, it's just a poem. Besides, we're best friends. Best friends share everything."
"Not everything!" She saw a fleeting look of hurt cross his features, but it barely registered in the wake of her mortification. She grabbed the journal out of his hands and stormed into her bedroom, slamming shut the door behind her.
Over-react much? she thought, as she flopped onto her bed. She lay there for several minutes and was beginning to doze when she heard a faint knock on the door. "Bones?"
She rolled over onto her stomach and groaned.
"I might come into your apartment uninvited, but I won't come into your bedroom."
He could be so stupidly sweet sometimes.
She turned her head and called out "come in" over her shoulder.
He dropped to the bed beside her, laying on his back so their faces were turned to each other. "I'm sorry. I just pulled the book out from under me…"
"I know," she interrupted. "I'm sorry, too. I over-reacted. It's just… that was… personal." She felt ridiculous saying it, seeing as Booth was in her bedroom, on her bed, his face inches from hers. She fought the impulse to touch his cheek.
"You know I'd never intentionally invade your privacy," he continued, adding silently, not counting doing background checks on any man you date.
She smiled. "I know."
He reached for her. "What are you doing?" she exclaimed, inching away.
"Guy hug."
"Booth, holding me, in my bedroom, on my bed, does not constitute a guy hug."
"Yeah, I guess you're right," he responded as his eyes darkened again, refusing to lose contact with hers.
He reached over again, this time brushing a strand of hair out of her face. He could feel the heat radiating from her. Her eyes were dusky, pupils dilated, and he was reminded of the poem.
"What secrets reside in the curve of your mind?" he asked, softly, tracing a line from the middle of her hairline to loop around her ear. Brennan was breathless, speechless. Booth moved closer. "I want to know your secrets."
"I don't have any," she whispered.
"Liar," he grinned. His expression changed instantly when he felt something wet and rough on his hand. "Whoa!" he said, snapping upright.
A mass of something furry darted under the bed. Brennan scooted forward, head hanging off the mattress so she could look under the bed. "You scared him off."
"Scared who off?"
"My cat."
"You have a cat? Since when?"
"Since yesterday. Angela and I were out and saw this shelter that was in serious need of help so… She convinced me--Angela did--that I needed the company.
She emerged with the animal in hand. He was about five pounds with short gray fur and the pinkest nose Booth had ever seen.
"He's cute!" Booth took the cat from Brennan. He snuggled into Booth's chest and licked his chin. "Friendly little guy."
"Yeah," Brennan smiled, and scratched the cat's ears. "He has a great personality. Lots of fun to watch."
"What's his name?"
"Effie."
"Effie? It's a he, isn't it?"
"Yes, he is." She paused to dig again under the bed. "Angela named him because he quickly made it known that this was his favorite possession." She reappeared displaying an FBI t-shirt that, after a day of love, was already scratched and holey.
Booth frowned. "That was my favorite, too." He held the cat up to his face, and Effie reached out and licked Booth's nose. "Now how could I stay mad after that? You and your mommy both know how to get to me."
"I doubt I'll be licking your nose, Booth."
"Okay, then Effie can lick my nose, and you," he turned to Brennan and her stomach clenched in anticipation, "can kiss my lips, instead."
She vaulted off the bed. "Don't." Why did he have to bring that up again? Some things were better left unsaid. Better left undone.
"Don't what? We've flirted before."
"But not like that." She sounded almost weary, and refused to meet his gaze. Booth struggled to figure out what was going on with her. Yes, his kissing comment was more direct than most of his flirtatious comments, but it wasn't like he asked her to sleep with him. He again recalled the poem. Secrets… ecstasy… torture… She hadn't been herself since the minute he walked into her apartment. Had she been dreaming of him? Of… making love to him?
"You know, Bones, it's perfectly normal to have fantasies about people of the opposite sex. Especially if you work closely with them."
Her head snapped around and she stared, mouth agape. "I never said…"
"Not with words, no." He set the cat on the bed. "If it makes you feel any better, I've dreamt about you."
"You have?" He nodded. "I feel like I'm in the twinkle zone." She sat on the bed and scratched Effie's back.
"Twinkle zone?"
"You know, where everything seems off? In reverse?"
"Twilight zone," Booth grinned.
"Whatever."
"What do you mean?"
"Usually you're the one uncomfortable talking about sex, and here I am completely bent out of shape because of one little dream." One intense, amazing, make you want to sleep forever, dream.
And he had been okay with the conversation until that word came out of her mouth – sex – and she basically admitted she had been dreaming about him. And her. Having sex. Suddenly, his mouth went dry as he recalled a few dreams of his own. "Yeah, well, it happens," he stuttered.
"Right. It's a perfectly normal biological response, most likely brought on by the intensity of our last case and the fact that it's been some time since I…"
"Okay, stop there." Booth held up his hands in protest.
"Now you're uncomfortable."
"I just don't need to know the specifics of your sex life, okay?"
Brennan was about to protest, but then she realized she didn't really want to know about Booth's sex life, either. She found herself unreasonably angry at the thought of Booth with another woman. Not that he'd ever been with her. She just… didn't want to think about it. Oh, God.
Her eyes flicked up to meet his, and she quickly recognized the fire in his eyes mirrored her own. She remembered when she didn't even know what that expression of his meant. This was getting dangerous.
"Maybe… maybe I should go. You should try and take a nap. You're tired."
"Right." She breathed a sigh of relief, more than willing to let him make his exit. "Thank you for the breakfast." Although food was the last thing on her mind right now…
"Welcome. Congratulations on the cat."
She nodded. Booth exited her bedroom awkwardly and she heard the door shut and the lock click a few moments later. She fell back onto the bed and Effie jumped onto her chest. She was certain she would never fall asleep, but before long, the rhythmic purring of the cat had lulled her mind to rest.
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