A/N: So. I have already proclaimed my intention over at the ABY to go on a semi-hiatus from writing until the completion of my fall wedding. The wedding for which planning has turned me from my normal, slight-neurotic self, to a hugely-neurotic mess. I still stand my intentions. My brain is tapped, ladies and gents.
The Catch-22 is that there are certain parts of writing that are a great outlet for my anxiety. Hence, this new series of oneshots. It won't require major story development like BWM. It won't require elaborate adherence to certain genres and situations, like Scenes. It will simply be a look at certain possibilities in whatever mood, style, genre, POV, etc. that I am feeling inclined towards. Is that okay? I hope that's okay.
In that vein, I present to you my entirely self-indulgent, stress-relieving new series: I Could Have.
I believe in facts. Theorizing, hypothesizing, philosophizing, exploring the possibilities…I have little room for them in my world. All that matters is the evidence at hand, actions and their logical consequences.
But it is different at night when I am by myself. When the lights are off, and I am alone, safe under the covers, my mind refuses to be tethered to the "what was," or the "what should have." My conscience shrugs. What could be the harm in "what if?" What was the harm of thinking about what I could have done, in certain situations that hover delicately in my memory like butterflies tempting me with every flutter of their wings?
If I were a different person. If the stakes were not so high. Maybe I could have…
Like that night in Las Vegas. When we were undercover, and the characters we played oozed sexuality and a not-at-all disguised attraction. When we went back to the hotel room, the one with the single king-sized bed that was completely appropriate for an "engaged to be engaged" couple but not for two work partners, we were hyper-aware of each other, uncomfortable with having acted so out-of-character even though there was a very good reason for it. That night, we faced away from one another as we slept on opposite ends of that bed, me ruminating on the case and Booth thinking about…well, about whatever Booth thinks about. Maybe about Cam, who he was dating at the time. He is the guilty sort. Even when he has little reason to be that way. We fell asleep with yards of sheets in between us. By the time he woke up in the morning, I had already showered and dressed. And we didn't talk about the time we shared a bed, ever again. The fact that we were so damn good made it easy.
But oh, the things I could have done.
I could have woken up with the memory of his arm slung around me easily by the side of that boxing ring, pulling me close, lips inches away from mine, feeling a pleasant heat stir in my tummy at the remembrance of him taking off his jacket and pounding away at that punching bag while the group of appreciative boxers looked on. And I could have done something about it.
I could have rolled over across the empty feet of soft bed, ending with my breasts pressed up against his muscled back. I could have played it innocent, continued with the acting, pretending as if I were still asleep and behaving unconsciously. My hand could have come around to rest on his hip, fingers nearly burning through the soft cotton of his pajama pants. I couldn't have known whether or not he was awake yet, but I would bet that he was. Always, we are acutely aware of each other. He would have woken at my movement, my touch. But just in case, I could have upped the ante, letting the last few fingers of my hand dangle past his hip and brush the front of him. I could almost hear the soft gasp leave his lips as my hand brushed the rapidly swelling hardness of him that grew inside the thin material of those pants. And I could almost hear his mind fight with itself. Was I awake and aware? Did I mean to be touching him this way? Could he thrust forward into my hand the way he wanted to, or would that be taking advantage? Like I said. Booth was the guilty type.
I would know that I was teasing him, and briefly, in the real world, I remind myself that in the world of possibility, teasing has no negative consequences. But I also know that I could have only enjoyed that sense of power for a moment before putting the poor man out of his misery. "I want…" I could have whispered, allowed his now fully-awake and vivid imagination fill in the blanks while my fingers flexed and closed over the length of him, hard and huge as cotton-covered steel under my hand, tugging gently so he could feel the soft material moving over him. I could imagine he would feel the hard points of my nipples pressing through both our shirts and into his back, and that the friction of my own shirt would excite me even more, although currently the primary source of my arousal was in arousing him.
He would have probably started to question me, even as his hips jerked in my hand and his breathing increased in volume and pace. "Bones…why…?" His voice would have been lost in the groan that left his throat as I released him, slid my hand down the elastic waistband of his pajamas, and came into contact with his bare skin.
"Because we can." I could have run my fingertips up and down his now-throbbing cock, feeling the pulsing that was arising from excitement and surprise and the sheer naughtiness of his ultra-professional partner feeling him up in this strange room while we played house undercover. I could have tested his thickness, fisting him in my hand and delighting when my fingers did not quite wrap the whole way around him. He would be gasping softly as I began pulling on his cock excruciatingly slowly, and my thumb could have swiped the silky head of him and spread the pearl-drop of liquid I found there down and over to lubricate my strokes. My own sex would have throbbed and moistened sympathetically, wishing to be my fist, wishing to hold his cock inside of it.
I could have quickened my strokes, not entirely sure where I wanted this to go, where I wanted to take this, but knowing that I could not get enough of the noises he was making out of desire for me. I could have ground my hips against his ass, trying to find some measure of relief from the tension growing inside of me, and to control the things that I myself was feeling, I could have talked to him, continued to tease.
"Is this what you wanted? When you saw me in that tight dress half-unzipped with my breasts spilling out earlier? When you smacked my ass in that gym and put your arm around me? When you climbed in bed with me tonight, was there part of you that hoped for this??" Those taunts could have continued to make me feel powerful while I felt my control slip through my fingertips.
But I would know that my words would frustrate him, my actions drive him crazy, because I am not the only one in this partnership who likes to be in control. And I could have done it anyway, not being entirely surprised, but being entirely thrilled when in a second, I found myself flipped onto my back in the center of the bed, his body covering me, holding my wrists with one hand above our heads. "You trying to make me lose it?" he would ask, pushing the nearly obscene evidence of his arousal into my belly, maybe trying to intimidate me a little bit.
And I could have been completely honest. I didn't want any more foreplay. I didn't want softness and gentleness. I wanted him. "Yes."
There wouldn't have been any more talking then…not with us in that state. I could have helped him tear at the clothes that were separating us, a task interrupted a few times by the very wet, open-mouthed kisses he was pressing down on my lips, ones that I could have returned greedily. And even with the interruptions, it could have only been a matter of seconds before the head of him pressed firmly into my welcoming body, sliding into me like a hot knife into butter while we both whimpered our relief.
I couldn't have held back. I could have thrust up to him demandingly, giving no mind to his ability to last, only concerned with being filled up as completely as I could be, the delicious friction sparking in me. I could have communicated my need for hard and fast with every movement of my body, every sound that came from me, every kiss that I pushed upwards onto him to muffle the little screams that started rising from my throat. I could have grabbed onto his ass and forced him into me at the pace I wanted.
I would have wanted to feel him come inside of me, because in this world there were no consequences, and the thought of him exploding at my hand, in my body drove me wild beyond words, so I squeezed him inside of me, knowing I was tight, knowing that feeling my excitement would spark his. I would imagine that a string of curses would leave his lips, and could imagine that his incoherency combined with the hugeness of him pummeling me, again and again and again, would be exactly the push I needed to reach my own explosion, crying out against his lips. I could have felt starbursts appearing behind my eyelids as I squeezed my eyes shut hard while the feelings of both our orgasms spread through my whole body. I could have come like I never had before.
I could have. But I didn't. Instead, I played the possibilities to myself alone tonight while my fingers strummed my clit to the biological release I craved.
In the real world, I had played it exactly like I should have. I did exactly the right thing. This other possibility…it would have been a Titanic-level disaster. And this is exactly why, in the light of day, I adhere to the true. The logical. The real. The way it should be.
Which made it even harder to explain why the right thing…completely subjectively, of course…seemed to pale in comparison to the unexplored possibilities.
A/N: Thank you for indulging me.