Title: Bad Excuses

Rating: M rated here and MA rated on my website

Summary: Brennan and Booth are using work stress as an excuse to get naughty.

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters mentioned in this story. No infringement intended!

A/N: Hey guys! It's been awhile since I last posted anything here. This story also has an MA rated version which you can find on my new website for Bones fan-fiction only. Click on my profile to view the URL. May I recommend if you want to read the MA version you just go there now, so you don't have to re-read the whole thing for the explicit portion.

What they were doing was wrong.

Perhaps not wrong... but certainly not right. Morally, their actions were desperately lacking and her conscience was poking its nose in with infuriating persistence. Surprisingly, his conscience seemed to have been lulled into a deep slumber. Unlike his raging hormones.

"Are you alright?" Booth asked, running his fingertips along her side, delighted at the layer of goosebumps that rose over her smooth flesh. Despite her body's immediate reaction to his touch, Brennan kept her eyes fixed on the ceiling above their heads. She did not answer.

The bedroom smelt heady of sex, of multiple orgasms, perspiration, endorphins... pure, unending pleasure. With each inhalation, her lungs filled with their scent. He was already aroused again. Even without looking, without touching, she recognised the feral glint in his hooded eyes. Like a panther, his long limbs stretched with languid ease, his sinewy muscles rippling. It was his powerful physique that got her into this situation time and time again.

Closing her eyes she turned her head away from him, pressing her thighs together. Despite her best efforts and good intentions, her clitoris had a mind of its own. Dropping her arm over her face, hiding the blush of adolescent innocence that crept along her cheeks when she caught the scent of her growing arousal, Brennan stifled a groan.

He had said she shouldn't have worn the black dress.

Of course Brennan had chosen it because she knew exactly how he'd respond to her bare shoulders and the rare glimpse of her legs. She hadn't worn stockings, either.

Bare shoulders, bare legs and the tempting peep-toe stilettos. Black tie dinners were such a pain in the ass – and she ought to have known better than to spice up the monotony by driving Seeley Booth wild.

Games like that only ended badly. And by badly, she meant so good.

Brennan opened her eyes.

"Are we still blaming this on the 'Widow's Son' case?" Booth asked, repositioning the rumpled, sex-scented sheet over his crotch. She was glad because in the corner of her vision, try as she might to block it out, she could see his penis – hard and ready. Again.

"That's what it is," she insisted weakly, the pulse between her thighs stepping up a notch. "Everyone is feeling the pressure." Booth's eyebrows rose in sceptical disbelief. His dark hair stood on end from where her fingers had desperately tugged when his tongue had been exploring her body.

"You didn't seem very stressed at the dinner last night," he commented, stretching again. The sheet slipped and she swallowed. She'd been as equally feral the night before – if not more so. Wild and uninhibited, Brennan distinctly recalled several demands she'd made upon him – writhing beneath his thorough attentions.

"I hide it well," she snapped, sitting. "I'm starting to feel cheap."

His hand shifted over her back and she pursed her lips.

"You are cheap," he murmured, closing his mouth over her spine. She arched her back, whether in pleasure or to detach herself she wasn't entirely sure. "Three drinks and you were mine." Brennan's cheeks burned fiercely. Three drinks? She was his even when she was completely sober.

Brushing aside her hair, he knelt behind her, running the tip of his tongue along the back of her neck. Despite her best efforts, she whimpered helplessly, digging her nails into the mattress. She was already wet when his hand moved between her thighs, his fingers slipping into her with a precise stroke. This was the thing about Booth, she thought, parting her legs; he was just too good.

She was so wet – her body traitorously immersing itself in his touch. His thumb stroked her clit in slow, tender circles and a moan rose in her throat despite her best efforts to quell it. It always happened like this... Booth teasing and manipulating her body – finding the sensitive and responsive spots and driving her wild.

Two fingers flexed inside her and her walls turned to liquid, squeezing instinctively around him. Leaning over her, Booth drew her nipple into his mouth – sucking as

hard as he could, his tongue flicking over the hardened nub. She whimpered, her hips rising from the bed.

Booth was an expert at these things. She had no idea where he had acquired such an intimate and familiar knowledge of female anatomy – and how to arouse it – but she had no complaints, either.

Releasing her nipple, his tongue drew a path over her breast, along her ribs and over her navel. Fiery determination flashed in his eyes as he glanced up at her from underneath his lashes. His stubble scratched her thighs and she breathed a sound somewhere between his name and a plea. She knew what was coming... of course she did. Her fingers curled, gripping the sex-scented sheets in tight fists.

This, she knew, was the reason why she kept coming back for more.

And more. And more.

Brennan squirmed as his lips caressed her inner thigh, his tongue darting out to taste her arousal. Her legs parted and she uncurled one hand from the sheet to sink into his sleep-tousled hair. Temperance Brennan was not afraid to ask for – or demand – what she wanted.

But then, neither was he.

The thing about her 'relationship' with Booth was that they were so sexually compatible. He knew how to pleasure her and, judging by the way he came the night before, she was equally able.

His tongue rolled over her and as he flicked her gently, Brennan sighed, her hips rising again as she prayed he'd put her out of her blissful misery and suck. The teasing, the torture, were all part of the delicious game he played. Tugging on his hair, she drew him away from her.

"I want you inside," she commanded with a kitten-like purr. But there was nothing cute and cuddly about her and he knew better than to disobey. Although he didn't see any harm in prolonging her agony – and his.

His mouth danced slowly over her skin, across the belly, pausing to draw a moist circle around her bellybutton. Lavishing attention upon her breasts, his arousal increased at the way in which her blue eyes had darkened to a smoky navy. Brennan wrapped her legs around him, pressing her heels, urging him to thrust inside her.

She was so wet against him, her flesh malleable to his penis. Her passage opened easily, permitting him access and as always, Booth didn't quite want the moment to end. Her back arched and their fingers entwined.

Once completely sheathed by her, his body stiffened but he did not move. A prickle of perspiration slid along his spine, and the scent of sex was stronger now. He breathed it in, an aphrodisiac on its own.

"Move, Booth," Brennan begged, squeezing her walls around him. His thrusts were slow at first as he revelled in the sensation of having her so tightly around him. With each whimper that fell from her lips, his movements increased. Her nails dug crescents into his back – his shoulders – anywhere that her hands fell upon. She matched him, thrust for thrust.

He reminded himself that it was Saturday and that later, he was going to try to take things slowly – tenderly.

Burying himself as deeply as he could, he felt her fingers slide between their bodies to touch her clitoris. She pressed hard upon the bud, her body stiffening as her muscles tightened around his penis. Her mouth opened in a silent cry. He watched as she shuddered beneath him, her womb flooding with hot wetness.

"Christ," he sighed, astounded at the intensity of her orgasm. Her body continued to tremble, long after her the waves of pleasure had subsided. With each thrust she still whimpered in helpless delight. His own orgasm started in his groin, hot and tingling. Looking at her, lying beneath him, damp and sated, he came inside her, closing his eyes against the force of it.

At first he did not move.

His arms barely supported his weight over her and yet, he was unable to convince his limbs to shift. Beneath him, she wriggled and he slipped out of her body.

"Where are you going?" he asked as she began searching on the floor for her underwear.

"I'm getting dressed. It's getting late."

The coldness had returned and he loathed it.

"Bones... don't." Sitting on the edge of the bed, she stiffened somewhat. Her breathing still ragged. "Why are we doing this? And don't lie."

She clipped her bra – a lacy black one – in place, adjusting the cups over her breasts. On the floor, the black dress that had been his undoing, lay in a pile of crumpled

chiffon. "I don't know," she sighed guiltily. "It should stop." As she began to rise, he snatched her wrist.

"No it shouldn't," he replied harshly, angered by her indifference. "We should stop referring to it as 'just sex', Brennan." Pulling on his own clothes, tried to curb his anger – his infuriation at her. She looked at him from behind her tousled locks, her eyes hiding the truth in her emotions. She was getting too good at that.

"What is it, Booth? What is this if it isn't just sex? You come to me after a tough day, fuck me and then leave in the morning. It is just sex. And frankly, I'm nothing but an underpaid hooker." As though she had slapped him, his eyes went wide and his lips parted.

"How can you?" he hissed. "I thought... I always thought you knew." Understanding the pointlessness in his argument, he shrugged his shoulders. "I guess you didn't." Since they'd started sharing a bed, his feelings for her had increased immeasurably. He thought of her in ways he hadn't allowed himself to think of a woman since Rebecca. "An underpaid hooker?" he echoed, shaking his head.

"Booth..." she began, riddled with guilt.

"No!" he snapped, buckling his pants. "I get it, Bones."

All this time her reluctance wasn't in giving him her emotions – it was because she felt dirty.

"I'll see you on Monday," he added, snatching his keys from where they had landed on the floor the night before.

She tried to stop him. She opened her mouth but the words that formed were trite and what she had said earlier was inexcusable – unforgivable. Covering her legs with her sheet, she waited several seconds, half expecting him to return – that feral, bedroom look in his eyes.

The front door slammed and she realised she was alone.

Several seconds later, she realised she'd misjudged the entire situation.

"Fuck," she murmured.


Does anyone want to see Brennan and Booth reconcile?