A/N: this is something i wrote earlier tonight because i was tired of the angst and just wanted to have a little fun. i've also never written first person before, especially from a man's perspective, and it was... interesting. and i hope successful. i have to say it's extremely strange to write sentences like "my hard-on". was... a learning experience. :) xoxo mia
also... here's my little PSA. i tend to not write protected sex in my M rated fiction. often times it's mentioned, sometimes I don't bring it up. The reason for this is that it's fantasy, not reality. In reality, I work for an AIDS foundation, and i see what unsafe sex can do to people all the time. please, please, please practice safe sex. i hear every day from people that they can't believe they didn't protect themselves, that they didn't think to insist on it. fictional characters don't have to worry about STI's -- we, unfortunately, do. (stepping off my soapbox.)
Never in a Dream
a one shot.
I'm in a bad mood.
Rolling over in the tangle of sheets, I punch angrily at the pillow, my fist slamming into the soft down. It always seems to happen this way. I'll be having a dream, a fantastic fucking dream, and just before it finally happens, before I finally know what it's like to be inside her, I wake up.
I don't understand what the fucking problem is. It's not like I've never had sex before, not like my body doesn't know damn well how it feels. I've had years of wet dreams over some woman or another, years of fantasizing over teachers and cheerleaders and waitresses. My bed's been full of women, for christ's sake. And while some have definitely felt better than others, it shouldn't be such a leap for my brain to make, to just make her exponentially hotter than everyone else a few hundred times over.
So why do I always fucking wake up before it starts to get good?
I drop my head back to the pillow, clenching my eyes shut, trying to force my mind to fall back into the virtual reality of her, to try and feel her skin underneath my hands, but it's useless. She's gone -- she's disappeared, elusive as always. I'm still rock hard and more than a little pissed off, because waking up unsatisfied is far fucking worse than waking up in messed sheets.
Growling in frustration, I turn my head towards the pillow, blinking at the alarm clock. It's nearly seven-thirty. I'm late as it is, having hit snooze in half-dream, trying to hold onto her. It's time to get up and shower and get dressed, to head into the office and spend another maddening day with a maddening woman who makes me absolutely bat-shit crazy. It's not bad enough I can't sleep with her in real life because of professional ethics or whatever the hell general chickenshitedness I've used to convince myself is a good reason – what's wrong with a little fantasy? Huh? I should be allowed to do what I damn well please in my own head. There's no line in dreamland, is there?
If there is, dreamland is horseshit, because apparently I'm not even allowed such things in my unconscious state. I must have really pissed someone off up there. Maybe it's all the cursing.
The alarm goes off again, beeping in a mocking tone, and I slam my fist on top of it, harder than necessary, and for a moment the digits wink out and I think I've broken my own clock. But no, the numbers are still there, ordering me to get up and go chase down crack heads and killers and all without being distracted by my partner's ass in tight jeans or fitted little jackets or whatever the hell she dreams up to torture me with.
I could take care of my hard-on in the shower, but because I'm pissed off, I decide to do just finish it now. Closing my eyes, I wrap my hand around my frustrated cock, picturing the dress she wore yesterday, the dip of skin it displayed between her breasts. She always wears those damn necklaces, drawing my attention right to her cleavage. Sometimes I swear she's teasing me on purpose, daring me to say something, to try to touch her. Her clothes aren't outwardly revealing, just subtly provocative. And every once in a while she looks at me in a certain way -- her eyes linger or I catch her watching me like I don't know what she's up to, and I think of what I could do. I think of all those undeserving bastards who've had her naked, been between her legs, and I'm even more annoyed. They don't know her like I do, don't understand her and listen to her and see her the way I do. I bet they've never made her scream out, made her shiver with just the touch of their fingers; I bet they've never made her beg. Not the way I know I could. Because I've seen it in her eyes – it's there, between us. And it's dangerous.
My brain's barely traveled from her neckline to the way the knit had clung to her hips and ass when my doorbell rings and, furious, I throw the covers back.
The world hates me this morning.
Livid, I reach down and snap up a pair of pajama pants, legging into them awkwardly as I make my way to the door. Whoever it is better be prepared for an eyeful. I hope the fucking Fed Ex delivery man or Jehovah's Witness or whoever else dares bother me right now turns bright fucking red when they see what they've interrupted. Serves them right. They don't understand what I have to put up with every day of the bloody week. If they knew my partner, knew the torture I go through on a regular basis every time she wears a knit dress or those low-slung pants, they'd turn right around without even bothering me for a stupid signature or trying to push some pamphlet on me.
The doorbell chimes again, fueling my temper, and I kick Parker's soccer ball that he left in the hallway out of the way, nearly tripping over another toy in the process. "I'm coming already!"
I'm so mad, in fact, I don't even bother seeing who it is first. And so it's just my luck that when I yank open the door, my nostrils flaring and my ears practically letting off steam that it's her standing in my doorway, looking all innocent, holding two cups of coffee.
I falter, some of my anger quickly replaced with guilt and embarrassment. I respect her, admire her, and I've been kicking shit around my apartment just because I can't fuck her when I'm asleep.
Which, I realize as her eyes drop suddenly to my crotch, is not something my body's easily forgotten.
And even though she's not a Jehovah's Witness or a Fed Ex delivery person, she reddens, her eyes flying back to my face.
"Bones," I choke out. "What are you doing here?"
Clearing her throat, she thrusts out the cup of coffee. "I woke up too early," she says, her voice laced with awkwardness.
"You and me both," I mutter, talking the offered paper cup and stepping back to allow her to come in, turning away from her and heading towards the kitchen in hopes that my erection will subside before she catches up to me. My hair's already standing on end, and I tug on it furiously as I walk swiftly down the hall.
Whatever embarrassment she had felt when she arrived and noticed the state of my crotch, she is over by the time she reaches me in the kitchen. Sadly, I am not, and when she takes a seat at the breakfast bar, her cheeks flushed from the slight chill still in the DC air and her breasts pillowing over her arm as she leans forward, my cock jumps back to life, refusing to behave.
"Why aren't you dressed? I thought you'd be up by now."
"I overslept," I mutter, yanking open the fridge and tugging out some orange juice, hoping the chill will do me some favors. "You want some toast?"
She nods, prying the lid off her coffee cup and examining its contents. "I think they put something in here – like… a flavor or something."
Her frowning at the coffee should be almost comical, but after my cruelly truncated dream this morning, it's simply painful, and I realize my bad mood has yet to subside. She jumps when I slam the carton of juice on the counter, and I see her eyes widen in my peripheral vision. I'm still trying to keep my body turned from her, but it's most likely not hiding a damn thing.
"What is with you?" she asks me, frowning. "Did something happen?"
No, damnit -- nothing happened. And that's the problem.
"No," I mutter, tossing two slices of bread into the toaster and slapping down the button. "I'm going to take a shower."
She stands up, blocking my path. "Are you mad at me?"
"No," I say through clenched teeth, my body reacting to her nearness. I can smell the coffee on her breath, the damp air from outside clinging to her hair, mixing with her shampoo. Goddammit.
It must be that my hard-on was simply surprising to her when I opened the door earlier, because she seems to be prepared for it now, and not at all awkward. No, she's amused. Glancing down at my still obvious erection, a smile flits across her face. "Is that why you're in a such a horrible mood?"
I can't believe her outrageousness. She's teased me before – has talked about sex at least once per day since meeting me and clearly loves to see me get all flustered when she does. But she's actually asking about my hard-on?? Is she kidding?
And so it's because of her audacity and my aching cock and bad fucking mood that I finally tap into my own level of inappropriateness. It's why, when I step around her and stomp off towards the shower, I say, "Well, it's your damn fault," under my breath, loud enough for her to still hear me before she can go off about how natural it is for me, as a man, to display an erection in the morning.
And there's only silence as I make my way down the hall, and my smirk is triumphant. I've shocked Temperance Brennan, shocked her into silence, and it feels pretty fucking fantastic.
But I'm a fool. I'm a fool, because in the few seconds it's taken me to flip on the shower head and pull my sleep pants down over my stubborn and persistent erection, she's had the time to walk down the hall after me and fling open the door -- she's in front of me before I can even blink.
"What are you doing?" I hiss, reaching for a towel that's hanging from the bar by the sink.
She beats me to it, snapping it up and out of my grasp, leaving me standing there in front of her.
"What did you say to me back there?" she asks, her eyes challenging, her gaze coolly infuriating. "Did you say it was my fault?"
Oh, god. I should have known, should have known it was better than to play games with her. She's too competitive, too willing to try and win, and she's not going to be happy until I back down. How the fuck do I get out of this one with any dignity still intact?
She looks at my crotch again before raising her eyes to me pointedly. If nothing else, I'm at least awarded with the fact that I catch a slight widening in her eyes when she looks at me.
"Bones, you have to be kidding me," I argue, caught between feeling helpless and incredibly annoyed. "We're going to be late for work."
Stubbornly, she tilts her head towards crotch again. "You had that when you answered the door."
I set my jaw, holding out my hand. "Give me the damn towel."
She ignores me, and I start to bend down to grab my abandoned pants and she moves lightning-fast, shocking the hell out of me in that even though she'd been only a few feet away, we both come up with fistfuls of the cotton.
I tug at the fabric, and just as I'm about to really yank, she releases it, her hand instead dropping between us to wrap around me boldly. She touches me – actually puts her hand around me and holds my hard-on in her small fist like we're merely shaking hands or patting each other on the shoulder or something else that would be appropriate for two partners.
I suck in a breath, my eyes nearly rolling back in my head, but I'm also angry, angry she's got me trapped like this, and so I grab her wrist tightly, my breath coming out in harsh bursts.
"I did this to you?" she asks quietly, stepping closer. "Me? Before I even got here?"
I grip her wrist more tightly, but I don't pull her back. Her fingers feel amazing, and my poor cock's been throbbing without release for at least fifteen minutes now. It screams at me to let her go, to let her continue, but I can't quite seem to follow through all the way. Instead I focus on my breath, my eyes fixed on a spot on the wall behind her head.
"So you were dreaming about me?" she continues, her voice slow, mesmerizing. "Is that it?"
I stubbornly keep my eyes on the wall by the now open door, my jaw clenching as I swallow. There are days, over the three years of our partnership, that I seriously war between kissing her and strangling her. This is one of those times.
She drags her fingers over me, and I close my eyes, breathing through my mouth. This is insane.
"Yes," I hiss. "Yes, okay? I was dreaming about you, damnit. You win."
I wait for her to let me go, to step away, but she doesn't. She keeps touching me, lightly stroking, and my heart hammers and my breath quickens. This has to stop.
"What was I doing?" she whispers.
Oh, what?? My eyes fly open, and I finally meet hers, my breath coming in slight pants. "Are you kidding me?" I gasp. "Bones –"
"Was I doing this?" Her hands stroke more firmly, her voice husky.
"No," I gasp. "No."
"No?" she says quietly. "What was I doing? Was I doing this?"
Her mouth is suddenly open against my chest, and I sway slightly at the hot contact of her tongue, swelling further in her hand. "Oh, god…"
She trails across to my shoulder, nipping at my skin, her other hand curving around my hip to grab my ass, and I grab a fistful of her hair without thinking.
"This?" she murmurs, trailing back to my nipple and sucking on it, making my hair all over my body stand on end.
"No," I choke.
"Was my mouth on you?" she asks against the skin of my throat, her thumb brushing over the tip of my cock, finding the wetness there.
I'm practically beside myself, my ears ringing, my throat constricting, caught between the memories of my dream, of my face between her legs, and her new suggestions.
I want to touch her, but I'm frozen; want to pull her from the tangle of her own clothing, stripping her naked so I can find out that my dreams are nothing compared to the real thing. But I can't, because if I touch her then I'm not stopping, not unless she tells me otherwise. The rush of the shower and my heavy breathing are the only sounds in the room.
But then she screws it all up, ruins everything. Because her mouth is suddenly near my ear, her breath hot as she speaks, and the words do something to me I can't explain.
"Were you inside me?"
"No!" I gasp, yanking on her hair, pulling her head back to look at me. Suddenly everything's tumbling out, and I can't stop myself as I say, "No, god no. I always wake up first, I never get to feel you, get to –"
And her eyes go wide, and dark with something else – passion. She's turned on. And so I grab the back of her head, and I kiss her like I've been wanting to for three years. My tongue thrusts past her lips and teeth, raking through her mouth, and she gasps, and I feel her slip slightly, as if her knees can't support her, and suddenly she's not the only one calling all the shots anymore.
She tastes like coffee and woman. As I struggle with the buttons on her shirt, she tangles her tongue with mine, moaning, pressing into me, my cock straining against her skirt. I've lost all common sense at this point, and I don't, for example, consider that we both have to go to work when I grab both halves of her shirt and yank. The buttons fly around the bathroom, pinging into the sink and scattering over the tiled floor, and she gasps, her eyes widening.
Before she can speak, I'm kissing her again, my hands scrambling for the clasp of her bra. It snaps back from my hand, slinging apart, and I drag it down her arms, my mouth struggling to stay attached to hers. She's with me though, all the way, tipping up on her toes, slinging an arm around my neck. Her breasts press into my chest, the nipples pebbled in her excitement, her skin flushed and hot, but I want my mouth on her, I want to taste everything, touch everything, and so I pull back from her, sucking at the skin of her throat before grabbing her under the armpits and lifting her up against the wall, holding her up to finally tug the tip of her breast into my mouth. I groan against her skin, rolling my tongue around the peak, and when I finally let her sink back down, to let her feet reach the floor, my hands come up to cup her fully, to hold the weight of her breast in my palm. Each movement I make rolls from one to the next, no time for thought, almost as if it's been rehearsed. I've dreamed of her for so long, thought of this moment so many times that my hands both know her and discover her at the same time.
She's moaning and gasping, even saying my name, and her hands tangle in my hair. When I lift my head finally, hoping to again claim her mouth with my own, she again tries to dominate and shoves me, pressing me up against the wall next to the rushing water of the shower, steam filling the room, making it both harder to see and the temperature higher.
Her hands slide down my hips, again slipping to wind her fingers around me, pulling up with a stroke, and I suddenly strap an arm around her waist, lifting her up and over the edge of the tub and dumping her into the spray, pressing her back against the tile wall.
She kicks off her shoes, her bare feet standing in a puddle of water. I grasp the hem of her skirt, hauling the soaked fabric up over her hips. It's like peeling bark off a tree, finding a naked woman inside.
She steps up on the back edge of my tub, knocking bottles to the floor, climbing up around me like a monkey on a pole. My cock's pressed against her, the only thing separating us the soaked cotton of her panties. I feel like I might shatter I'm so hard, my open mouth gasping against her shoulder as she rolls her hips against me. Her head falls back against the tile sharply, her eyes fluttering closed as she says my name again.
"Do you want me inside you?" I gasp. "Is that why you asked, is that what you want?"
She just moans, her head rolling, bucking against me again. Heat's pooling between her legs, burning against me, and I slide my hand between us. Hooking a finger into the crotch of her panties, I yank them to the side, and it's at this moment that I finally pause, my chest heaving. Her eyes meet mine, blurry and hazy with passion, and I look into them.
"This is what you want?" I pant. "Tell me, Temperance. I need to hear you say it."
She yanks a handful of my hair, her thighs clenching despite the fact that I have her firmly against the wall, and I slide a finger over her clit, and she shudders.
"Yes, I want you, want you inside me," she begs, her voice trembling, and my whole body responds to that sentence more than any sentence I've ever heard muttered by anyone. "God, yes."
When I enter her, I lose the ability to collect memories of how my body feels, to save it, to keep it with me always. Because I'm too busy looking at her face, at the way her eyelids flutter and the way a blush spreads up her body in a pink wave. And her eyes open, the blue blazing into my own, and I realize that being inside her feels just like knowing her all these years does, like loving her does. It's complex and beautiful and maddening and leaves me breathless, and as I bring us both to the brink, my dream is only a distant memory.
fun? yes? no? should i never write first person again?? :)