Author's note: It has been suggested that all those wet clothes at the end of The Bond in the Boot were just begging for a sex scene. So here it is.

Note two- This little one shot is dedicated to my lovely Beta, MickeyBoggs- for mentioning it and for being available to proofread so much lately. Thank you.

Jane

Plumbing for imbeciles- part 3

The stench of the pipe (not that bad) and his scent (if there's a heaven that's what it smells like) under the sink, in the closed space of the cupboard and of his arm opening the safety tap, their hands doing together (did it really matter what?) and she was already waiting for it, for the flight instinct to kick in (it always did). But the pipe had given in and she'd been soaked and still that inescapable jolt of fear had not come. His husky laughter, the warmness of his eyes (all she ever wanted was to get lost in there) and she was still not running (or putting her foot in it). And when he'd stated the obvious (though she had all but forgotten about it) that she was wet, still she did not run. Nor did she (though she couldn't even think why she would) run when he wrapped her in a deep brown bath towel and rubbed her warm again (was it the cold making her shiver?).

Was there anything else in the world but his hands on her shoulders, her back, her neck, her breasts, her face?

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He usually stopped himself in time (though it took all that he had) but somehow his hands had taken over (and they'd been biding their time for a long time now) and he felt her through the towel (desired softness bringing on hardness) and could have spent the whole day there though she wasn't even that wet. Her mascara was running but she was still adorable and he wouldn't mind spending his life at her feet (wasn't he already?). And she wasn't running (though he was expecting it) She was just looking at him through that blue of her eyes still full of that (rare) laughter and that was (probably) why he didn't even fight it and he just kissed her there sitting on his kitchen floor.

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He was a heady mixture of tenderness and demand, of soft touch and hard body (and she could have kissed forever) and her body opened to him like a flower in the summer rain. When he got up (she was at his feet) and took her hand (though she could have stayed there looking up to him) and said come with me she followed (where was the cautionary voice?) because if she'd ever known anything unscientific (and there was so much of that) it was that she wanted this. She took his hand and followed (like a dream) without knowing where she was going (she trusted him like that) but knowing that she was safe in his hands.

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It sealed it for him that trust of hers (so rare) placed on him. He opened the door of his room (where she'd never been) and showed her in (as if it was his heart). He opened the blinds (because he wanted to see her) and dropped the towel he'd draped around her (a shiver ran through his heart). His fingers searched every button and undid it (so easily) revealing her silky skin underneath (it had a perfume all of its own) and the inviting lacy white bra. His fingers played with every detail (her breath caught) and touched each of the taut little buttons underneath (she gasped a smile) and, because he needed it, held her torso (so small in his hands) and felt her skin warming to him (as her heart had before).

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His hands on her (so warm) were serenely beautiful. She liked that contrast of tan on white (oh what promises they made) and she wanted (when had she not?) to touch him under that t-shirt. It was magic (surely) that he understood what she wanted and gave her access to him. Her patient hands traced every inch of him, from his shoulders (that supported the weight of the world with her) to his chest (where the scar of shielding her still showed), she traced every muscle (what a lesson in anatomy!), her fingers (light as rain) touching tentatively at first, assertive when she was sure of the welcome stopping only at the belt buckle (such a naughty belt buckle). Her eyes, locked into his, maybe judging him, maybe judging herself and finding nothing to fear (comforted by his smile) her fingers made light work of it, of the button and the zipper (he gasped a smile) and because she needed it, she leaned in to his heart (a song in her ears).

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He closed his arms around her (how was he ever to let go of her now?) and smelled her hair, her breath, her perfume. His feet led him to the bed, his hands guided her (matter of habit) and he laid on the bed pulling her to him. He didn't have to ask if she was sure (it was written in her face). He looked down, at their skins together (one skin now) where her breasts touched his chest, where her heart mirrored his and marveled at an impossible dream coming to be impossible (to hold back) desire. He searched for her mouth and delved and tasted and took and there was only one distinct thought in his fuzzy brain: My Bones.

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She laid over him (she could feel the intensity of his desire) safe and warm in his arms, her mouth opening to him, letting him taste her (tasting him). So happy (she wasn't even sure when the last time was that she had felt this happy) she had to laugh and her hands had to hold on to him, to his shoulders, his head, his arms (just hold on).

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Laughter (her laughter) was contagious. He shared in. God, you are beautiful. And urgency took over and he rolled over her (dreams come true) and his hand caressed the hair coming lose from her pony tail and pulled the rubber band down to marvel at it (he always wanted to do that). His knee parted her legs (Moses opening the Red Sea) and her limbs wrapped around him (a balm) and then his body was inside hers (good things come to those who wait) and looking into her eyes was like staring into the Sun. He took a second of stillness to delight in her welcome.

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He filled her (to the brim): her core, her heart, her brain, her reason, her wants and her desires. He was (all) over her and there was nowhere else she'd rather be but there where his body was moving and his breathing warmed her and his touch melted her. There where she met him stroke by precious stroke, eyes open (to his) in wonder of how they fit together, of how they knew to give and take in the right measure, she filled to overflowing. (Love).

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He looked to where they joined (so perfect) because he wanted to make sure (though no dream could be this perfect) that it was real, that he was inside her body after the (longest) wait and still he'd wait some more if that's what she'd needed (if life wasn't so short for such great love). Love.

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Her hands searched for purchase on him as his hips sunk into her center. She held on to his face (no, not a dream) and he was solid and warm and she held on (as much as she could) because pleasure was overtaking her with every in and with every out of his (her body convulsed). She screamed his name Booth.

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Bones he grunted into her neck (electric current through her) and spasmed and poured himself inside her, his care and attention, his friendship and his love, his passion and his desire (every ounce of him) in that small death (that was like being born again). Love.

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She felt his essence (warming) inside her and cherished it. She was a new soul. She smiled (a brilliant smile) that was only his. Love. And as it coursed through her, that new word that fit her vocabulary so well, she laughed that husky laughter of hers.

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He laughed with her, breathless, joyous. He took her in his arms and tucked her there, spooning, looking into the same direction (the future). Love.