Title: Date Night
Summary: Brennan shows Booth one of her fantasies. #2 Fantasy Series
Rating: M rated for sexual situations. Please do NOT read if that kind of thing makes you uncomfortable.
Disclaimer: Alas, I don't own the characters mentioned herein. No infringement is intended.
Author's Note: Thank-you for the kind reviews for Practising the Act and the new and old visitors to BFF. Unfortunately it seems as though our server is having issues again and we're still desperately saving to get a new one. I apologise if anyone is trying to get there to read the MA version of the story and hopefully, when the engineer-y people have a look at it, it'll be working again. I usually write all my stories in past-tense but for PtA and this story, I've been using a different style that I hope is working. Please do take the time to send me a wee review as it brightens my day significantly!
He cannot believe his eyes. When he had asked her for a date, he'd assumed the evening would be strictly casual. A few beers and a bite to eat after work. He had not expected her to emerge from her office looking as through she'd stepped right out of an Audrey Hepburn movie. She looks stunning, her dark hair pulled into an elegant roll at the back of her head, a classy black dress hanging in all the right places on her slender frame.
He feels guilty about his dishevelled appearance. He hasn't bothered to change at all – and she looks as though she's getting ready for a ball. Ducking behind the wall before she can spot him, he slaps his forehead in frustration. There she was, looking like a goddess and he looks like he's ready for a boy's night in playing poker. If he still played poker that is.
He removes his spiffy tie and buttons his top collar. It's too late to go home and change, but perhaps he has a plain black tie in his car. In his overnight bag, he's sure he has a spare. There's nothing he can do about the belt. It's starting to rain outside and as he dashes to his vehicle it dawns on him that he hasn't even booked a reservation anywhere, much less a classy enough restaurant to warrant her stunning appearance.
"All you were thinking about was sex," he curses himself aloud, rummaging frantically through his belongings until he locates the not-often-worn silk tie at the bottom of his bag. He doesn't go for traditional, even though he's been told he looks handsome when he does. Smoothing his shirt and raking his fingers through his hair he mentally prepares himself for seeing her again. God, she was breathtaking.
He hadn't been able to get her out of his head for weeks now – since they'd finally surrendered to the overwhelming surge of passion. In a cramped mobile-home of all places. Hardly the stuff romance novels were made of. Still, it had been intense – incredible.
He studies his reflection in the side-mirror. He wouldn't deserve a woman like Temperance Brennan in a million years. Stubble peppers his cheeks and he curses again. How would she think when she sees him, looking as though he'd been dragged through a hedgerow. She was wearing heels, dammit. Slender, pointed heels that made her legs long.
"Booth?" he spins, startled. The rain is heavier now and she holds a light coat over her head, protecting her hair. "You're late." He blinks at her, embarrassed at being caught in the middle of a lewd fantasy. She's smiling at him – a knowing smirk that indicates she was perfectly aware of his train of thought. "I'm wet." His eyes widen, meet hers. The innuendo firmly strikes the strings of his libido. She knows it, too. It was meant to. "I don't have an umbrella," she adds when he his suitably confounded.
She's wearing red lipstick.
"Get into the car," he says struggling to find his voice. The dress swishes against her legs, he watches her as she walks, her shoes click against the asphalt, each footsteps coincides with his arousal turning up a notch. How could he not have heard her approach? Your mind was in the gutter, Seeley he tells himself. You were imagining her legs wrapped around you. She glances at him through the glass on the other side of the SUV. "You look amazing, Bones," he tells her – as a gentleman would.
"You should see what I'm wearing underneath," she jokes lightly. He cannot contain the impish grin that spreads across his face.
"What are you wearing underneath?" he enquires with genuine curiosity. Her eyebrow rises, she wets her lips.
Luck is on his side tonight. An old buddy of his who had retired from the Bureau to open a chain of fine French restaurants is able to get him a table in one of his establishments. Various assortments of cheese are brought to them, breads, a mixture of wines for them to choose from. Brennan speaks to the native waiters in French and they are suitably impressed, enthralled by her.
He grinds his teeth as they appreciate her beauty and nudge each other approvingly. She doesn't notice, however, too busy making easy chitchat with him. She compliments his choice of restaurant and he doesn't tell her that it was a fluke – that he had no intentions of bringing her here. She sips her wine contentedly and he barely eats, fascinated by her.
The cocktail dress rides on her thigh, exposing the tender skin below. He wants to drop his hand to the firm flesh, creep beneath the hem and discover whether she has opted for dinner sans underwear or not. She wears a bracelet on her slim wrist that she tells him had once belonged to her mother. The gemstones don't have the same lustre as new stones, but they are eye catching still. She proposes a toast.
"To anticipation," she says. He wonders what it implies but smiles politely and tips his glass against hers. Her eyes sparkle prettily in the muted glow of the restaurant's soft lightening. Their glasses are refilled, dinner plates removed and desserts brought. Waiters fuss over the beautiful lady under their service and he continues to hide his annoyance at their intrusion. She leans towards him, tilting her head and urging him to move closer. Her breath smells of expensive wine that he will be paying for on his credit-card. It's intoxicating. "You can stop with the macho irritation," she tells him in a ragged, earthy whisper. "I'm not interested." He blinks in surprise. Had he been so transparent?
She runs her fingertips over her neck, drawing attention to the swell of her breasts. He is a pervert, he knows it. "Bones... I haven't been able to think about anything else than... you know...?" She pulls back and reaches for her glass. Her eyes are filled with mischief and he feels a spark of excitement ignite inside. Her tongue moves across her lips, slowly. With intent.
"I know," she announces at last. "It was pretty awesome."
Awesome is not a word he would ordinarily have associated with Temperance. It was informal – not something she would have picked from her extensive vocabulary. "Have you... thought about it?" he dares himself to enquire. He so desperately hopes she will answer in the affirmative. Instead dips her finger into the pool of melted wax in the candle, careful not to burn her skin on the orange flame. It is translucent when she pulls her hand away and quickly hardens to an opaque white. He is not sure why he notices he just knows that every movement she makes is layered with erotic, sexual undertones. Brennan picks the wax off dropping it back into the flame where it dissolves immediately, like ice.
"Do you masturbate?" she asks at last. Her voice is thankfully too low for their fellow diners to hear. He wonders himself if he has heard her correctly. He frowns, she lifts her eyes to his. They are flirty, thick lashes blinking slowly.
"I masturbate," she confides, as though she is telling him a lifelong secret. "Often. A lot. Two sometimes three times a day. Sometimes in my office." His cheeks burn while she appears coolly collected. "These days I only think about one thing when I do." His throat is parched but his hands tremble too much for him to reach across the table.
"What?" he asks in a ragged, hoarse whisper. She grins and gives a one shouldered, coy shrug.
"Get the check and I'll show you."
He cannot concentrate and almost runs two red lights on the way to her apartment. Her demeanour is strictly composed as she comments on the now unrelenting rain.
"I look forward to spring," she tells him, smoothing her dress towards her knees. It's too short and really only reaches mid-thigh. "The gardens at the Jeffersonian are wonderful in spring." They've been partners for some years now. He's seen many seasons come and go at the Jeffersonian but he does not remind her of this. She seems content in her own thoughts. "Daffodils," she tells him. He frowns.
"What?" His mind is sex-addled. He thinks of her fantasising about him while she masturbates as the images make for an insane trip across DC.
"Daffodils are my favourite. Bright, sunny yellow. It's like that poem." Is she serious, he wonders? She wants to talk literature?
"What poem?" he growls, his fingers clenched around the wheel of the car. Pay attention you creep, he chastises himself. It's not all about the sex. Oh god, it is about the sex. He doesn't care about poetry or daffodils or the gardens in spring. He cares about her, naked, pleasuring herself. He cares about her nudity beneath the slinky dress. He wants her to keep her stilettos on – like she kept the red ankle boots on last time. He's a pervert, he reminds himself.
"William Wordsworth. 'I wander'd lonely as a cloud'..." She leans her head against the window, the orange street-lamps slanting against her as he drives at manic speeds. "You know it, don't you?" What is she talking about now? He glances sideways at her.
"Yeah... yeah I know it." She reaches her hand across the car and drops her palm against his thigh. He stiffens as her fingers inch towards his bulging penis. He veers dangerously into the oncoming traffic. Horns honk, he barely hears them. "Christ almighty!" he curses, his knuckles aching. She cups him, squeezing firmly. His thoughts are on fire. "Bones..." she unzips him and he begs her to stop. She doesn't.
"This," she tells him, emphasising her subject point by giving him an additional squeeze, "doesn't begin to tell you what has been tinder for my fantasies."
Tinder for my fantasies...
The words implied combustion, heat, fire. He hardens a little more beneath her fingers. The sensation is painful. He could pull over now and hike up her little dress – fuck her by the roadside. It would be risky, highly illegal but undoubtedly satisfying. Her thumb strokes the sensitive round tip and he winces.
"I could tell you..." she reasons as though she is discussing a skeleton in one of her labs. "Or I could show you." He eases his foot off the gas, afraid that might drive them into a ditch. He's breaking the speed limit.
"You could wait until we get to your place," he informs her.
"I could..." she agrees. He knows she has absolutely no intention of waiting, however. Taking a deep breath, he prepares for whatever torture she plans to inflict upon him. She leans forward, her lips part and her mouth his upon him. Her tongue strokes him from base to tip, suckling and licking as though he is a particularly delicious confection. He gasps, the sensation of her hot, wet mouth around his penis is unbearable. She runs her lips across him, a butterfly touch that drives him wild. He shouldn't allow her to do this – for their own safety, but instead of insisting she stop he sinks his fingers into her hair, ruining the artful up-do she had been wearing it in.
He encourages her, his moans filling the car. Pull over because you kill us both, he thinks. On the highway, cars speed by with their occupants unaware of the gorgeous woman whose head is beneath the steering wheel of the government issue SUV, his penis in her mouth. How could she be this good? Her hand pumps his shaft with each upward stroke of her tongue. If she keeps doing this, it won't take long. He can already feel the tightening in his groin. Her movements are sensual, each flick of her tongue sends tremors through his body – down his legs, a warmth creeps upwards from his stomach to his chest. Prickles of sweat pepper his forehead and his self-control begins to unravel.
The one hand still on the steering wheel physically aches at the joints of his fingers. If he grips any firmer, his knuckles might pop from beneath the skin that is stretched tight. She pulls her cheeks in, completely surrounding him in the soft, wet flesh of her mouth. "Bones... I'm gonna..." he catches the scent of her own heady arousal, her fingers stroke his balls. He cannot control the rising pleasure within him.
The dam bursts. He grunts, presses hard against the back of her head, his hips rise and he's as far inside her mouth as he can be, his tip touches the back of her throat. She doesn't relent or try to pull away. His body sags and she swallows, pulling away with an audible and distinctly satisfied 'pop' of her lips as his penis lies, semi-erect against his thigh. Her eyes are as dark as black sapphires as she leans back against her seat again. She exhales slowly, her chest deflating with some kind of contented satisfaction.
"Bones..." he says gruffly. She smoothes her dress. "That was... that..." Insane! he thinks. She could have caused a highway pile-up. Explain that one to the EMTs. "Amazing," he breathes instead. "Is that what you... you know... to?" Her long lashes sweep her cheekbones as she blinks slowly. She mystifies him and he knows it's not just his sex-addled brain that thinks it.
"Masturbate to?" she asks unabashed. "That's certainly one of the things." She licks her lips and he wonders if she can still taste him in her mouth.
"Do you have a whole... catalogue of fantasies or something?" he asks, desperately hoping that she does. The twinkle in her eye indicates the affirmative. "Oh God..." he murmurs, certain that this spells the beginning of frequent but not unwelcome torture for him. He pulls up outside her home, his legs still weak from the intensity of his orgasm as he presses his foot to the brake.
"Goodnight Booth, thanks for dinner." Her eyes drop to his crotch. He hurries to tuck his penis back into his pants. Someone might see him for God's sake and he's exposing himself like a sick pervert.
"What do you mean 'goodnight'? Aren't you going to invite me in? Don't I get to return the... you know... favour?" He throws her a naughty grin and she smiles back.
"Soon," she promises. He doesn't want to press her or rush the new-found intimacy.
"Want to come to a hockey game tomorrow?" he asks casually. "You can bring the guys from work too, if you like." She tucks an errant strand of hair behind her ear.
"That sounds like fun. I'll ask them tomorrow."
She waves goodnight, her long legs entrancing him as she walks up the path to her building. Her back is partially exposed in the dress she wears – her shoulder blades sit out, startlingly elegant. He knows he's in love, but it's too soon to say.
Taking a deep breath and one last look at her, he drives away, lost in his thoughts.
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