As always, thank you guys sooo much for all of your fantabulous reviews. And yes, fantabulous is a word because my Microsoft Word hasn't put a red squiggle line underneath it, and Word would never lie to me. Haha. Anyway (back on point) I love each and every one of you wonderful readers, and hopefully I managed to personally respond to everyone's reviews. If I somehow missed you, I'm sorry I didn't mean it I swear!! I love you just as much (if not more) than I love everyone else!

I now proudly present you with my next installment, Haptic Perception. According to my beloved friend Wikipedia, Haptic Perception is "the process of recognizing objects through touch."

So yeah, this installment is all about some yummy B&B touching. However, it's taking me longer than I would like to complete. It's almost done (seriously…I'm so close) but this stupid thing called my real life keeps getting in the way. Last week was crazy busy and I expect that next week will be even busier. I have no clue when I'm going to have time to finish, so I decided to break this into two parts. I'm actually quite happy with this first part, so hopefully you are too!

Hopefully I'll be able to bring Part II to you within a week, but no promises! It's much longer than Part I and it's also my first attempt ever at writing some real smut, so I suppose you could say I'm trying to find my element with it.

One last thing, Part I is rated M (for real this time haha) so if that's not your cup of tea I suggest you leave.

Enjoy!

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It was ten o'clock at night, the close of a difficult, frustrating, seemingly endless Friday. You'd spent most of it hunting down the man accused of murdering a thirteen-year-old girl, only to catch up to him by discovering his body floating in a local pond; he'd taken the coward's way out and committed suicide just one day earlier. It irked you to know that this man—a man who'd bound, starved, and beaten an innocent adolescent to death—would never get to see the inside of a prison cell. Childkillers were always hated in prison, and this man deserved the punishment of being locked up in a place where he would be taunted and abused by men much bigger and badder than himself—men who would think of their own wives, sisters, daughters, and nieces when they heard of the girl he had violated. No, death was not a good enough sentence for this man.

It had been an awful day and, in the end, you were so exhausted that all you wanted was to quickly hop in the shower and climb directly into bed. You hadn't had a date since God-knows-when and you'd probably just end up laying awake for hours trying to resurrect the memory of how good—how damn fine—Bones had looked in the pair of painted-on jeans and high heeled boots she'd been wearing that day.

Let's just say that work wasn't the only thing that had you frustrated these days; your partner had legs—long, wrap-tight-around-my-hips-while-I-fuck-you-to-insanity legs—like you wouldn't believe, and that wasn't the only part of her anatomy that you were attracted to. The more time you spent around her—that is, the more time you spent discreetly eyeing all feminine aspects of that beautifully built body while listening to her run her squinty mouth—the more you craved to effectively silence her with a hot, passionate kiss on her pretty little lips.

And tonight, instead of climbing into bed like you so desperately wanted to do, you were forced to go spend even more time with her. Murderers who committed suicide were messy, and the two of you had a mountain of paperwork to complete. Since your social life was nonexistent—and she apparently had nothing better to do—there was no night like a Friday night to get it done.

Not that you didn't enjoy every minute you spent in her company. You did. In fact, there was no one in the world that you preferred being with over her. She might be socially inept around others, but with you she was funny, interesting, smart, quirky, opinionated, and generally fun to be around. Not to mention that, whether she was conscious of it or not, she cared about you a hell of a lot more than anyone else ever had. And you cared about her just as much.

She was also sexy as all hell and, not being in the best of moods, you weren't sure how much of her absolute oblivion to the fact that you wanted her—bad—you could take tonight. Someday you were going to reach your limit. She was going to be minding her own business, doing nothing wrong but innocently wearing one of those low-cut blouses or one of those skirts that hugged her shapely bottom, and you were going to snap. You were going to grab her by the waist, pull her flush against the erection that was always standing at half-mast around her, and kiss her senseless. Someday you weren't going to be able to control yourself anymore.

During the drive to her place you'd prayed like hell that she wasn't still wearing those low-rise, hug-your-cute-ass-like-a-second-skin jeans that she'd been wearing earlier, or that day just might be today. When you knocked on the door to her apartment you told yourself that even if she was, you were a gentleman and you knew how to behave. There would be no reaching around and pinching Bones's behind no matter how alluring it looked.

Still, you wanted to yell and kick something in pure frustration when she opened the door and you realized that not only was she still wearing those jeans but she was now barefoot, which was even worse than when she was wearing boots because you could look down and catch a glimpse of her pretty plum-colored toenails. And, as if that wasn't bad enough, she had taken off the stylish-but-strictly-professional sweater she'd been wearing all day. She'd welcomed you into her apartment wearing nothing but a white, low-cut, form-fitting tank top.

The amount of cleavage that woman was showing ought to have been a sin—in fact, it probably was—and it took every last ounce of your self control not to stare or, worse, get a full blown erection or, worse, reach out and touch her like you wanted to. You watched her fuss around the kitchen, grabbing you a beer and pouring herself a glass of red wine, and forced yourself to think about dead bodies. It was the only thing stopping you from taking those gorgeous breasts in your hands and caressing them, kneading them, until the woman whose anatomy they were a part of tossed her head back and let out a low, breathy moan of pure delight.

As the two of you settled down in her living room to begin working, you made sure that you were on opposite ends of her sofa with a ton of pillows in between you. You forced every single inappropriate thought out of your head and made yourself focus on the task at hand: bringing justice to the parents of a murdered child. The girl's family deserved to have you at your absolute best, not distracted by illicit thoughts about your partner's mesmerizing cleavage.

You managed to give the paperwork your undivided attention for nearly an hour. Then Bones had to go to the bathroom. You never looked up as she left the room, but on her way back in she stopped to pick up an envelope that had fallen on the floor. She bent over at the waist—all. the. way. over.—and you were afforded an unobstructed view of velvety soft breasts snug against lacy black bra.

You quickly grabbed one of the pillows and shoved it in your lap before she could look up and realize that your cock had immediately sprung to life. She fussed around with the papers on the coffee table and you tried to stare as hard as you could at the paper in front of you. But you couldn't help it; you finally broke down and snuck a glance at what was hanging practically in your face.

God, they looked so good. All nice and creamy and firm and velvety-soft and…perfect. Absolutely perfect. For years you'd been dying to take a peek at the label of one of her bras so you could know what size she was. You had yet to get up the nerve to do something so bold, but after months of careful, discreet examination of Bones's female parts, you would guess that she was a 34C. A 34C. The perfect size. Not too big, not too little. Enough for you to have something to work with, but not so much that it would overwhelm you.

She finally straightened, flashed you a smile, and sat back down. You stared at her incredulously as she immediately resumed working. She had to have known that she had just given you a spectacular view of her breasts—what kind of woman wouldn't know that? And yet, she didn't seem to think much of it. How could a woman as fucking brilliant as she was be so really, truly ignorant of the effect she had on you? Did she even know you were a man? She had to; she made fun of your alpha-male tendencies all the time. How could she not realize that she was torturing you to death here? All you wanted was to pull her down into your lap and nuzzle your face between those delicious breasts of hers, and she was oblivious. Fucking oblivious. Just sitting there, innocently filling out paperwork as though she had not just done something to turn you on like no other.

It took your body ten minutes to settle back down and fifteen minutes for Bones to get tired of the position she was sitting in.

She slid gracefully from the sofa to the floor, balancing the paperwork on top of a stack of pillows in her lap, legs outstretched. Her back rested against the base of the sofa. She continued to write whatever it was that she was writing, apparently comfortable. You would've continued to write too except…

Except the woman was now sitting on the floor, and you were not only behind her, but above her. Above her, and again, you had an unobstructed view down her tank top. You couldn't see as much lacy black bra as the last time, but still…

Why couldn't she just put on a shirt?

She was looking down, so focused on the paperwork in her lap that she couldn't even see you. You were free to stare hungrily at the smooth, silky tops of her breasts for as long as you wanted.

And stare you did. You couldn't take your eyes off of her. You watched her chest heave slowly up and down in tune to her breathing and allowed all sorts of forbidden fantasies to run through your head. If only you could touch her—just a touch—you would be the happiest man in the world. You wanted to see if she was really as soft and warm as she looked. You wanted to see if she was sensitive, if her breath would hitch at your caress. Would she moan easily at the slightest graze of your fingers across her nipples, or would you have to take them between your thumb and forefinger and rub them? You wondered what color her nipples were. Rosy pink or light brown? Would she like it better if you bit them or if you flicked your tongue over them? You wondered how loudly you could get her to cry out. Maybe, if you peeled those tight jeans off and put your tongue in the right places, you could make her scream. What would she taste like? Sweet, she had to taste sweet. She'd be thick and gooey and delicious, just like a…

"Booth?" she asked suddenly, interrupting your wild-and-only-getting-wilder fantasies. She hadn't looked up at you, but she had stopped writing. You glanced down to make sure one of her pillows was still stationed securely over your bulging erection before you answered.

"Ahh…yeah Bones?"

"What are you staring at?"

You flushed slowly. You couldn't believe it. She hadn't moved, she hadn't looked behind her, she hadn't so much as glanced at you out the corner of one eye, and yet she had somehow caught you staring at her. For four years you'd been getting away with ogling her discreetly and now, when you figured it was safe to openly stare because she wasn't even facing your direction, she'd finally caught you.

You cleared your throat and tried to play it off. There was no way she could possibly have seen you staring at her.

"Nothing. I wasn't staring at anything."

"Yes you were."

You frowned.

"What are you talking about, Bones? I'm just sitting here trying to copy over my damn field notes."

"Are you?" she asked disbelievingly. She put the papers and pillows that were in her lap on the floor and turned to face you.

"You weren't even looking at me, Bones!" you exclaimed, exasperated, "How would you know I was staring at something?"

"Well, first of all, the sound of your pen scratching against the paper stopped a long time ago," she explained. Her gaze swept over you from head to foot, giving you a once-over, "Secondly, your indignant reaction leads me to conclude that I'm correct; you were, in fact, staring at something."

"No I wasn't…I mean, at the wall, maybe. I was just thinking about Parker," you lied, the first thing you could think of coming out of your mouth. She smirked.

"Parker, huh?" she asked. You watched as her eyes slid down your body once again and lingered for a moment on the pillows that hid your manhood from her. When her eyes met yours again, that snotty little smirk of hers seemed to increase tenfold. She leaned forward just a little, "What about him?"

She was doing it on purpose…well, maybe not before, but this time? Definitely. She knew, she. knew., that when she leaned forward you could see even further down her shirt. She knew you could see a hell of a lot of black lace. There was no way she couldn't know. What was she doing? Teasing you? Punishing you for staring by dangling them right in your face? Maybe, but there was something else. You'd seen that look in her eyes before, many times. Challenging you. She was challenging you. She was daring you to break eye contact, to look down—however briefly—at her exposed cleavage.

Why?

You didn't know, and you didn't want to find out. She was probably just looking for a little proof before she came to a conclusion. Of course. Your Bones would need to see the evidence before she determined that she needed to kick your ass. Well, you weren't going to give it to her.

You weren't going to break eye contact.

That's what you told yourself, anyway, but you were so busy trying to not look at your partner's cleavage that you forgot that you were supposed to be answering her question—What about him? A few moments passed in silence, and then she reached up slowly and traced the outline of her tank top with one finger, just over her breasts.

That was what did it. You glanced down, only for a fraction of a second, but it didn't matter. She saw you. When you met her eyes again, they were shimmering triumphantly. She knew she had won. You just wondered how long it was going to take for her to send a karate chop in your direction, or for her to launch into a squinty anthropological tirade about objectifying and demeaning and alpha male blah, blah, blah…

But, much to your absolute, utter surprise, she didn't do any of that. Instead, she smiled—smiled?—and slowly stood up. And, before you knew what was happening and before you could utter a word of protest, she came to stand directly in front of you—so close that your legs were touching—and leaned over, giving you a full, up close and personal view of her breasts.

What the hell is she doing?

It took everything you had in you not to reach out and grab her, but you managed it. You kept your hands by your sides as she leaned even closer…closer…until her lips were mere centimeters away from your ear. God, you could hear her light breathing and smell her perfume. Your cock tightened and twitched painfully, and you clenched your hands into fists.

"Agent Booth…" she whispered seductively, her hot breath feathering your ear. You flinched in surprise when you felt her tongue flick softly over your earlobe. Her hands reached up to cup her breasts and she began to knead them gently, exactly the way you'd been longing to do just seconds before.

What. The. Hell. Was. She. Doing? For the moment, you were too stunned to open your mouth. You were too stunned to do anything but stare at her, but watch her hands as she opened her mouth again.

"Agent Booth…" still a seductive whisper, "What were you staring at just now? Be honest this time…"

"Bones, what the hell are you doing?" you finally demanded. She was right there, in your face, so close that you could easily grab her and mold her body to yours. And, God, you wanted to. You really wanted to. But you couldn't. She was your partner, she was your best friend, and no matter how badly you wanted her—no matter how fucking unbelievably sexy she looked in a pair of skintight jeans and a tank top—you couldn't have her. There were lines that the two of you couldn't cross, and this was definitely one of them.

"I'm…asking a question," she murmured, so close—so close—to your ear, "Were you staring at my breasts just now? And earlier, when I was leaning over the coffee table? And earlier, when I was in the kitchen getting you a beer? And Booth, this afternoon when I was talking to Angela…were you staring at my ass?"

"What? You knew?" you asked, astounded. Never, ever before now had she ever given you any indication that she knew. She had acted so innocent and so thoroughly oblivious to what was going on. You should have known—a part of you had suspected, but never really had any verification—that it was an act. Of course it was an act. No woman could be as goddamn physically attractive as she was and not know it.

"That you salivated over my feminine attributes every time my back was turned?" she asked, her breath still hot in your ear, "I wasn't certain at first, Booth, but just now…you were fairly obvious…"

To be continued...

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Aaaaand that's it for Part I, folks. I hope that was a good stopping point. I picked it because I like the way Part II will open. Like I said, I hope to have Part II up within a week, but I do have a lot going on and I've got to prioritize. You have no idea how sad it makes me that writing is not on the top of my list of priorities.