A/N: Picks up right where the last chapter left off. Short but sweet?


"Booth—" I begin, wondering if he is going to stop me again. He just pulls out into traffic and, when I don't continue, glances over at me, brows raised.

"What, Bones?"

"Oh, now it's okay to talk?"

He nods. "Yep. Now it's okay. Go ahead."

This is so frustrating! "Why it is okay to talk now when it wasn't before? Because you attacked me in the elevator?"

He doesn't try hard to hide his self-satisfaction. He slips his sunglasses on—and maybe they can hide the glint in his eye but not the smug twitch of his lips—and makes a show of checking his mirrors, adjusting. "Yep." He tries for neutral instead of smug. Fails.

Even as irritated as I am with him, the three ibuprophen and the two glasses of water are doing their work, helped along by the admittedly delicious feeling of having been kissed thoroughly by someone who really knows what he is doing. I let my curiosity drive me instead of the remnants of my aggravation.

"Okay, so I can talk now, because you kissed me."

"Yep."

"Why?"

"Because...I don't know why, Bones, it's just...better now." He trails off, but then adds. "Who is that guy anyway? He was pretty comfortable in your apartment, in your towel." His smug expression is gone now and he glances over at me.

"I believe I introduced you, Booth. Mark Gaffney."

"But who is he? To you? I haven't met him before."

"He's a friend." I can't help the hesitation before the last word and Booth picks right up on on it.

"A friend. A friend who uses your bathroom and walks around naked—"

"He wasn't naked, Booth. He had a towel on." But I can't resist needling him back. "Not that he hasn't been naked in my apartment on other occasions—"

"Stop." Booth raises his palm between us. "Just stop." And then contradicts himself immediately. Typical. "What do you mean he has been naked in your apartment before? Are you dating that jackass?"

"No, I am not dating him. And he is not a jackass. Mark and I have shared an intermittent physical relationship over the last year or so."

"Are you listening to yourself? Intermittent? He's just fine with you—you of all people—sleeping with him every once in a while? He's a jackass. And what does he do in the off months?"

"What does this have to do with me, Booth? Why would it be any better if it were someone other than me? He is a deep sea welder and is gone for long periods of time. When he comes back, he seems pleased to have a willing partner to satisfy—"

Booth makes a loud "arghhh" sound and slams the steering wheel with his fists. "Bones. Bones. It's bad that it's you because no one in his right fucking mind would sleep with you and then let you go off to do god knows with god knows who for months at a time!"

I have to admit that it takes me several seconds to process this.

"Did you just compliment me?"

He doesn't answer. "And how long ago was his last little visit?"

I am still thinking about his earlier comment. "It was almost a year ago, Booth. I don't know that I would have slept with him last night even if we hadn't had intercourse—"

Booth groans. "Why do you have to call it that?!"

"—that said, it was an arrangement that suited us both at one time. Finding someone I could trust, whose expectations were the same as mine, that has not always been as easy as I would have thought it would be."

This seems to have shut Booth up and surprisingly, I am uncomfortable and nervous that he is silent now and blurt out something that is on my mind.

"Tony would have hit him."

Booth huffs out a little breath and turns off a restricted access road for truckers. "I wanted to." I can tell he's not done but he is quiet for a minute. He glances over at me again but I can't see anything behind his glasses.

"Booth, can you take your sunglasses off, please?" He does, tucking them on the dash. He looks over at me, offering me his bare face, his uncovered eyes. He's taught me that this is a meaningful act in the culture of partnership, both levelling the field and showing vulnerability.

"You wanted to hit him." Again, the huff of breath that I have learned means a sort of gentle exasperation, followed by a rueful smile. Because I am watching him so closely I see that this smile turns a little savage. I am convinced he is letting himself think about how good it would have felt. I suspect Mark could have given as good as he got for a while but Booth always wins.

"Yes, I wanted to hit him. Where I grew up, I would have hit him. In the Army, I would have hit him. No question. Tony would have hit him. But partly that's because you would have been property. Mine to defend. Territory. And…" He slows the truck as we approach what is clearly—by the smell and the debris everywhere—the crime scene. Just as clearly, it is the site of some sort of explosion.

Booth parks the car and turns to me. "I climbed out of that hole, that world. I'm not about to go back. And another thing, Bones—" And now, he hesitates. I can see it, suddenly, in his forced stillness. He is holding himself back I am almost certain. While he decides, I wait, observing, hoping I can gain evidence for what I believe I have perceived. I miscalculate, however, and start by looking into his eyes. Caught.

His brown eyes are dark and serious, and while I can see his hand swim through my peripheral vision, feel the warmth of it cupping my chin and resting on my cheek, I cannot look away. It has always been a source of frustration that Booth can command my attention, but now...now, I just want to succumb to it, to him. His voice, when it comes, is as dark and serious as his eyes, but also husky with emotion, so much emotion that an electric warmth floods my body.

"You are not property."

My breasts, my lips, my belly...they all feel as though he has stroked them with his words. My body sways closer to his. His eyes narrow and he must be as caught as I am because I know he wants to look at my lips. He doesn't—can't—but I do feel his thumb stroke and pluck at my bottom lip.

"I...Bones…I just...you—"

There is no one near, everyone is clustered quite some way away around the remains of an outhouse and an 18 wheeler, so no one sees when I kiss him. I lean in and touch his lips with mine, the edge of his thumb caught between us briefly, but then our mouths are joined and I gasp at the spark of attraction and the heat that arcs between us. My hands reach out to slip under the edges of his coat, press against the warmth of his shirt. His chest is firm beneath my palms as they move up to rest at the back of his neck.

The small bit of satisfaction I feel at having kissed him this time grows into an even bigger feeling of satisfaction as he responds to me. His arms and hands convulse around me. His mouth against mine is so sweet and strong and arousing that I am not sure I can stop. I don't want to stop and I indulge for long moments, the sharp masculine tang of his mouth, the hot sweep of his tongue against mine, and the rasp of his lips and light beard against my lips. I want to kiss him all over; I want to bite him and I am vaguely surprised by my own bloodthirsty thought. Not enough to stop me from kissing down the slope of his cheek to nip at his chin. He moans helplessly and I press harder against him with my body, thrilled with his response.

Somehow, I slow and finally stop the kiss, but cannot move away from him. The pleasure of being in Booth's orbit, breathing his air, brushing my face against his—that doesn't count as a kiss does it?—is so great that I cannot move away and we stay that way for a long minute, inches apart, breathing hard, lips reddened, eyes soft.

I don't know what happens next, but Booth doesn't seem to be in a hurry. He bends and nuzzles my cheek and ear, small movements that I think might be light kisses but I am beyond caring. My head falls back a little and he presses his open mouth to the sweet spot behind my jaw, the soft skin below, and finally against the cartilage of my neck. His lips move almost imperceptibly, just opening a little more to allow his tongue to slip out to taste my skin. I hear a moan, but it is higher, breathier than Booth's and when I hear his own approving rumble, I realize that I made that sound. His hand finally moves from its place in the hollow of my back and he cups my face. Something softens further inside of me when I feel his lips kissing my eyelids sweetly.

"Bones." His voice travels through me in a wave of desire. Deep and a little hoarse and full of emotion. I don't know what kind other than tenderness. He sounds just like Booth. What a nonsensical thought. His thumb rubs gentle circles on my jaw. I breathe in deeply and force myself to move away, inch by inch, finally pausing long enough to take a shuddering breath in and out and push backwards, away from him—even though every cell in my body objects, reports that it is wrong to move away from him, his warmth, his scent—exit the car, make my way in a trance to the FBI van for a pair of coveralls.

I am aware of Booth walking behind me. Booth getting an update from an agent. Booth, in profile, sunglasses firmly in place again, taking notes. Only once does he catch me watching him, although I suspect that he had been aware all along, given the deliberate way he lifts his chin, turns to meet my eyes even as he pulls his glasses off his face. He raises his voice from where he stands.

"What do you need, Bones?"

"Nothing, Booth. I think I'm done here."

"Back to the Jeffersonian?" He gestures around us.

"Back to the Jeffersonian." I smile a little and he smiles back. From the look on Charlie's face when he finally gets Booth's attention, we must have been standing like that for a long time.