Roxanne, you don't have to wear that dress tonight - The Police
She kept the dress. The dress—the black one he bought her when they were in Las Vegas. Though she hasn't worn it since then, she likes to pull it out of the back of her closet sometimes and look at it. Look at it and remember.
Remember the frank appreciation in Booth's dark eyes when she stepped out of the bathroom. "That's hot," he'd said as he zipped up the dress. She'd been on the phone with Cam at the time, so she'd hastened to cover up by making an inane comment about the weather. But she'd known what he really meant—and a small, secret part of her had thrilled to hear him verbalize what had been so patently obvious in his eyes—even to her. She isn't nearly as oblivious as people think she is. After all, she's a woman, and she knows that when Booth glanced at her that day, he saw her as a woman, not as his colleague.
She told him once that she had former partners she could call when she was in need of release. And that's true. But she hasn't called any of them in a long time—not since Sully left. Which doesn't mean that she hasn't needed release since then. There are many nights when she does. Many nights when she lies awake, restless and aching for something she can't have. On those nights, she doesn't hesitate to masturbate. Invariably, she recalls the stunned expression on his face, and the way it made her feel. As she touches herself, she recalls the easy way he touched her that day, wrapping a well-muscled arm around her as if it was the most natural thing in the world.
It was easy and natural. For Tony and Roxie, caught in the glitter and illusion of Las Vegas.
Unfortunately, he isn't Tony, she isn't Roxie, and they are no longer in Vegas. No, he is Special Agent Seeley Booth, and she is Dr. Temperance Brennan, and no matter how much she might wish it were otherwise, he drew a line in the sand. Out of respect for him, she won't cross it.
Here in her bedroom, though, the line is hazy and indistinct, shifting like a desert mirage. So if she imagines that the hands playing over her breasts are his, there is no one to object. If she pretends each stroke that brings her one heartbeat closer comes from his deft fingers, there is no one to tell her otherwise.
And if it is his name that falls from her lips when her body shudders with release, there is no one to hear it but her.
She kept the dress, but she won't wear it again...Unless he asks her to wear it for him. Which he never will—because she'll never admit that she kept it.
To be continued...