This story is AU. If you're not down with that… well, quit before the angst kills you.
tkmoonnumbers, cathmarchr, sweetjamielee, lizooknumbers. You guys have no idea how much you helped shaped this. Thank you for dealing with me and my inability to write nice, fluffy little fuck pieces.
"Here. Done." He flipped the thick file onto the desk, his boss scrambling to catch it despite its being bound with a rubber band.
"Excellent work, Agent Booth," he said, but Booth's back was already turned.
"It's today." That stopped the agent. His shoulders tensed and his hand paused on the door handle.
"I know." His voice was ragged with the threat of a dark warning.
"Why don't you… take a few days. Hell, a week. You… work hard. Deserve some time off." Give your coworkers a break from your moody presence.
"Fine." Booth left and Hacker let out a heavy breath. He was worried bringing it up would earn a growl, a punch, maybe Booth's resignation. You just didn't know what he would do anymore.
Not that Hacker blamed him. Booth might still be the best criminal-catcher the FBI had, but what else did the guy have to live for?
His reason had left a long time ago.
Hours later, Booth found himself swilling JD at the skybar, waiting for his flight. If he had any pity to give, he'd feel sorry for the bartender who had attempted conversation with him.
Where'm I headed? Scene of a crime, buddy.
Worst crime in the history of Booth.
Three double whiskeys. Three years.
Three years to the day.
Boarding. Seat 2B. First class because why the fuck not. He could afford it now. She'd left him everything.
"Whiskey," he rasped, cutting off the stewardess before she finished asking what he wanted. Closed eyes, sleep it away. Sleep all the way there.
Of course, he dreamt of her.
This time it was that case back in Oregon or wherever. Bear, cannibals. Dancing, holding her. The attention of all the guys in the sleepy berg. Why not? He didn't blame them then. Or now. She was beautiful, fascinating.
An insistent buzz, a not-too-gentle rattle of the plane jarred him from the sweet forgetfulness of the dream. He wished he had a tear or two because it would have meant he still had emotions.
Long-legged brunette next to him spoke.
"Hi, there, sleeping beauty. Must've been one helluva dream. I haven't seen a man smile that big since I signed the divorce papers." She shifted her crossed legs toward him, the implicit beginnings of a sex invitation. "Hi, I'm Shelley. Business or pleasure?"
"Not pleasure." He turned to the window. Her eyes weren't the right color.
Hours, years passed. Where does it go? Hacker's forced vacation might have irritated him at the time, but he already didn't remember the interaction with his boss.
He had become so cold.
It was moments like this- when he was forced to remember how he used to be a sensitive man, how he used to give a shit- when he hated her the most. Do you see what you did? Do you see? Are you up there watching, disgusted by the man I've become? Forcing good humor only for my kid, barely disguising my rage with everyone else?
Then he saw her in his mind, her eyes blazing disapproval, and he felt a rare emotion, one he never, ever allowed unless she was in his head - deep, abyss-ful, searing pain.
No. Go away, Bones.
He turned back to Brown-eyes, regretting blowing her off. He could have fucked her in the bathroom or something to make her go away.
(You're being childish, Booth.)
Squeeze your eyes, squeeze your brain. (The brain has no skeletal muscle, Booth. Contraction and flexion of the lobes is not possible.)
"Please," he whispered. And it stopped.
"Sir? You want another drink?"
"Another whiskey, please."
Coming here was a bad idea. (Definitely not the wisest decision you've ever made.)
He hadn't been here since…
But he continued on, making stupid, robotic decisions. First Italy. Then the same hotel. Same beautiful, awe-inspiring place he had stayed last time. Same room, Signor? Why not. It had been her room, the one she had been in when-
There were no real reminders of her there. He hadn't exactly been of the right mind when he'd arrived then. Details hadn't even registered. They could've put him across the street and he wouldn't have known the difference. But being in (presumably) the same bed brought him an odd sort of peace- knowing that aside from that crazy cobblestoned street near a nondescript coffee shop, this was the last place she had laid.
He knew. He'd seen the photos.
Fuck. Now he was thinking about it.
About the time when he and Cam were enjoying lunch at the Royal Diner, she pointedly mocking him for being so grumpy in the absence of certain scientists, he telling her quite nicely to eff off.
Angela stumbling into the diner, face swollen, purple. Unable to speak; sobbing. Clinging to Booth's arm. He had wildly grabbed her, crushed her to his chest, supporting. He used to be so supportive. Horrified at the thought of something happening to Hodgins.
But then Hodgins ran in, hair all over the place, and Booth's confused eyes met Jack's wide, watery blues. For one infinitesimal fucking moment they had stared at each other.
Then Hodgins shook his head once.
Then Booth had exhaled.
And never was quite able to take another breath, ever again.
Sobbing Angela. Cam looking stricken. Everyone, fucking everyone holding onto him. Holding him down.
"It's Brennan. She's-"
God wouldn't. She was too… good. She was… He'd never…
He'd never know.
Those days, blurred. Confused, no details given about the circumstances. Not one person arguing when he immediately boarded a plane for Italy. Not surprised Max was there when he arrived. Oddly, Max spoke broken Italian, and it seemed he could scare people effectively in any language.
Identifying her body. Cold, lifeless white. No chance to see those hyper-critical eyes accuse him of being irrational for demanding all evidence be sent back to DC. "Exsanguination," they said. "Broke up a knife fight," "No witnesses," "Killer still at large."
Sure, he'd spent days tracking down the guy. Probably would've had to fight Max for the honor of killing him if he hadn't been caught by Italian police first. Just some drunken punk kid, sorry for what he'd done.
Max refusing to allow for her to be shipped back stateside, insisting the beautiful cemeteries of Rome would have appealed to her love of human history . "You know she'd call us irrational and sentimental, Booth," Max had said. The one time Booth had seen the man's cool demeanor crack. They had drunk themselves stupid that night, going over fond memories of the woman they both loved.
And that was the last time he had ever talked about her.
No one was dumb enough to say her name in his presence. He'd thrown his new flatscreen out (yeah, the last gift she bought him, too) because the media wouldn't fucking shut up about the tragic death of the brilliant and brave author slash FBI crime-solver who had tried to stop two young men from killing each other while on vacation in Italy.
Bah. Vacation. She had been a guest lecturer at some hoity-toity bone conference thing.
He almost wished she had invited him along just so he could imagine his balking at the invitation and feel like an even bigger dick for it. That he hadn't been there to protect her.
Three years passed, and he was still the same lifeless ball of rage. After the kid had been arrested, he'd finally returned home, bringing only her suitcase because he didn't know what else to do with it. Let himself into her place, smelled the sandalwood-scented organic kitchen cleaner she ordered special off the internet ("Harsh chemical cleansers are detrimental to the environment, Booth. You should learn to protect your son's future on this planet."), took in how fucking Bones it all was… and then he dropped to the floor. Buried his face between his knees and fell off the earth. Dry, wracking hiccups, light-headed, empty. His bones gone from his body.
One month later, he returned to work. Everyone shocked, everyone doing the sympathetic "You okay?" head tilt. Grim grin and bear it.
Actually, it was good remembering all of this. He felt awake for the first time in… probably three years.
Still didn't explain why he was in fucking Italy.
He went to her grave. And he chuckled the entire time.
"There'd better be a heaven, there, Bones," he said to the simple gravestone. "I hope you're there, pissed that I was right about God." He kicked at the grass and then leaned over to pat at it, closing his eyes and wondering what level of decomp she was at. Ugh, morbid.
He walked back to town, not allowing the charm of the city to get to him. Fucking romance everywhere. What a joke. The Eternal City, or was that Paris? Well, his love was certainly there for eternity.
He went into the first bar he came to because it had a gaudy neon "We serve American Beer" touristy sign on it. The last thing he needed was to get irrationally pissed at some Italian guy for not speaking English.
He settled into a dark corner; he didn't need no stimulating conversation, thank you, and he certainly wouldn't be trolling for dark-haired, blue-eyed beauties in the city where…
Drink. Good ole American beer. Drink after drink. Lots of dark-haired eyes of blue here.
He gestured for another and gulped it down quickly. Too much. She looked too much like her.
He had to stop this. It was probably killing whatever soul he had left. But Jesus, she looked exactly like her.
It was the way she was looking at some guy that did it. Fixed him with a cool, appraising glare, the corner of her mouth revealing her even teeth. He heard a low, lusty laugh and didn't know if it was real or in his head.
When the two left, he couldn't help himself. He tossed a wad of euros on the table and followed, but they had vanished into a cab.
He was unsurprised to see her at a different bar the following night. This time, it was the laugh that he recognized first. Like hers, only more resonant; his mind playing tricks, maybe.
He looked behind him and saw legs- creamy and unlined; dress short but not indecently so. Sexy and simple. Deep V revealing curves that were meant to be ogled. Definitely not her. This woman was comfortable with her body, only she obviously enjoyed showing it off. Not like her at all.
Her eyes flashed at him and he looked away, both embarrassed and confused. The eyes were darker than hers, almost navy blue. She would have been a perfect-
Not here. Not in this city.
But when she left hours later, he followed again, determined to- he didn't know what. Occupy his time, maybe. He followed at a discreet distance, watching the sway of the full skirt swish around her thighs, the exaggerated walk of a woman in heels who was comfortable in her own shoes. Shoulders swaying with a near-predatory confidence, hair bouncing, the shine catching in the passing glow from street lights. She rounded a corner and when he turned, she was gone.
The next night, he walked into a different bar and of course, she was there, again. Sitting still and looking bored with the conversation she was having. Booth sat a couple stools down and watched with amusement as she flicked her wrist, dismissing the poor guy; he seemed stunned and then grabbed his drink and scampered off. Booth had to stifle the urge to laugh; that was definitely like her.
A moment later, she slowly turned to face him.
"I know you." He looked confused, then he looked guilty, like she'd caught him staring. He probably had been. He was male.
"Me? No. I don't think so." His voice- it was rough, like cigarettes or gravel had grated against his trachea. And it was so familiar; maddeningly so. He was well-built, American, like she knew that she was. Italian men weren't often that rugged-looking; this one spent a fair amount of time toning and conditioning his musculature. Proud of his own body and physically capable. He had a harsh, saddened angles in his handsome face, a line across his forehead indicating worry or anger or both.
"Can I, ah- freshen your drink?" he murmured, and there- that feeling again, like she knew him. The same she'd been feeling every night once she connected him to each of the bars. He lifted the right corner of his mouth and she felt a flush, a tingle of attraction; an amazing feeling of recognition fired her blood. She was certain she knew this man. Perhaps…
"Certainly." He tapped on her glass, the tip of his nail clinking with a faint echo only she could discern. She noted that he had perfect half-moon cuticles, but the skin on his hands was rough, callused; a man who performed hard labor but still took pride in his body. Just as she preferred.
"Oh, red. I like red," she said, answering his implied query of what she drank. She didn't drink much, but she had observed that people were uncomfortable with a woman who sat in a bar and did not consume alcohol. Besides, she rather enjoyed the warmth provided by the excellent red wines that were a large part of the local culture.
They sat in a comfortable silence, her curiosity of this particular man growing. He continued drinking, passing furtive looks that were not hostile but also not the lewd, lust-driven leering she so often encountered. No, this man seemed to be as curious about her as she was of him.
Taking a large sip of the local wine, she put her glass down and turned in her seat.
"So," she said, adding an inflection to her voice, keeping it low yet clear; musical, one might say. "What brings you to Italy?"
Still facing forward, he didn't answer right away. He stirred his drink with his little finger a few revolutions then absent-mindedly put it into his mouth, sucking away the liquid. Her breath caught and she moistened her lip with a small flash of her tongue, slowing down his action in her mind, observing how his lips wrapped around the flesh of his finger, how he had the stubble of a day's worth of vacation. Her eyes traced the planes of his face. Hard, angular lines across the zygomatic arches, skin olive like so many men of the Mediterranean region. This man, however, lacked the joy evident in the Italians. He did not enjoy living. The set of his mandible and the flexed corrugator muscle indicated anger; reserve. He had a bone to pick with someone. Anyone. He was fairly vibrating with it. She suddenly got the distinct impression that he was angry with her, and a low thrum began somewhere in the vessels of her thighs and radiated up, through her pelvic inlet, around and through the peritoneal cavity, across her diaphragm, into her thoracic cavity and expelling up and out of her mouth, quickened breathing, throbbing and exciting. Like the blood in her body was a hound, this man the fox on the run.
She wanted to catch him. To lean in and inhale his anger, taste its smoky, coppery rust. Mostly, she wanted to scrape her bottom teeth up the angry set of his jaw, to feel the prickle of his stubble scratch her soft lips.
He brought the glass to his mouth and she detected the bittersweet tang of Tennessee whiskey (an errant, faded memory correctly identifying the whiskey's origin- a conversation, perhaps). His lips parted, and before taking a small sip, he said quietly, "A girl."
Her nostrils flared, her blood boiled. What girl? She had seen no girl. This man who had been showing up at her haunts had been alone every time. She knew. As soon as she had first seen him, she had felt the need to sit next to him, to ask him why waves of hurt and stifling anger exuded from his body. He had talked to no one, made eye contact with no one. And he had watched her.
Hadn't he? An old feeling of uncertainty crept up her spine. She had thought he was watching her, protecting her. She didn't know why she thought that, but she knew it was true as she knew that they were already somehow connected.
"Must be some girl." She set her lips in a thin line, angry with herself for letting this stranger (?) affect her in this way. She should just get it over with.
He chuckled. "Yeah. Some girl." He finished his drink in one gulp and swiped at his mouth with the back of his hand. "Wanna get out of here?"
She smiled. Oh, interesting. Love scorned. No wonder he was so hard, so angry. She licked her lips; anticipating. His passion would probably be a revelation.
"Sure." She slid off the stool and strode ahead of him, feeling an odd combination of irritation at his presumption and fond warmth as he pressed his fingers lightly to her back.
The Mediterranean air was lovely, humid. Shouts of revelry echoed along the ancient yet new streets, the city glowing with the light of a town that just didn't know how to say "when". They walked in silence for a block or so until a rough clearing of his throat broke the quiet.
"So, what's your name?" he asked. He seemed nervous, like he hadn't done this before. His body mechanics told a different story. He walked with the confidence of a man who knew his body well, was strong; she would delight in overpowering him. She always did, but this man had something she had been wanting for some time now. She wasn't sure what that was, however, and that irked her- the not knowing.
"Brenna. It's Irish." The name her maker had given her. She felt him falter; glancing over her shoulder, she saw a look of shock on his face. He cocked his head to the side and opened his mouth twice. A quizzical grin slowly unfurling, he said, "You can call me Booth."
Yes. Booth. She had a recollection of a faceless man from her past, from her other life- pressed against her, holding her- his strong embrace making her feel safe, feel cared for. Something she no longer needed- the protection of a human- but until just then, something she hadn't realized she'd been missing.
"Booth," she said, her lips wrapping around the familiarity of the word, like a long-forgotten term of endearment. Again, he seemed startled, and she stopped walking to face him. Looking up at his face, mere inches away, she said in the low, husky voice she reserved for moments such as these, "A pleasure."
His arm shot out and wrapped around her, his hand pressing into her back. Unprepared and enjoying his ability to take her by surprise, she steadied herself, placing her hands at each of his shoulders. Oh yes, she would enjoy having this man.
Moving her head centimeters further, she leaned up, brushing her lips at the corner of his mouth. His breathing hitched and his body tensed; oh my, the musculature. She began a slow massage of his pectorals by rubbing her thumbs up and down and he turned his head, lips meeting hers but not touching; waiting. Too patiently. She stood on her tiptoes, the heels of the shoes clacking on the cobblestone. Lips pressing lips, the fire, nerve impulses from her mouth meeting those from her pelvis in an electric clash of tension. She could taste the whiskey, taste his fury; reveled in his hand at the nape of her neck, his fingers grasping, pulling; tendrils of delicious pain as she felt every single pore in her head strain with the strength of his grasp on her hair.
His mouth was warm, both inviting and insolent. He was pressing, kissing; excellent. Pulling her bottom lip between his teeth and exerting a not-too-light pressure. Oh. Yes.
She pulled back, laughing low and husky. "Why, Mr. Booth. You bit me." Looking into his eyes, she felt her pulse quicken, her body responding to the darkening intensity she saw there. "Be careful. I bite back." The corner of his mouth lifted, more seductive than amused, and she felt a warm stab of possession at the simple expression. That look is for me, for me alone. I will allow him to possess me.
Suddenly breaking contact, she pulled away and stepped to the curb, hailing a nearing cab. Turning, she caught him adjusting his groin and she smiled wickedly, appreciating and anticipating what lay underneath his large palm. She noted that she, too, was aroused, enjoying the smooth, fluid way the skin on her legs moved as she stepped into the cab.
He got in and called to the driver the name of a hotel; frowning and unsure why, she noted that he was staying in an expensive part of town, touristy. A place she was certain she had been to but could not quite recall. A dark, foreboding gloom came over her, one she hadn't felt since…
Shaking her head to rid herself of thinking about him, about the night she had awakened more frightened and in more excruciating pain than she cared to recall, she calmed immediately when he placed his hand on her leg. She leaned into him, bringing her hand to rest at the small hairs on his neck. She took an unneeded breath, smelling his masculine warmth, expelling her cool air at his neck. His slight shiver delighted her, and she kissed the skin right below his ear.
"I'm not gentle," she whispered. A promise; the truth.
"Yeah?" His voice an octave lower, gritty and thrilling. She took his earlobe between her teeth and nipped; not enough to draw blood, however. He hissed softly, his fingers clenching at her thigh.
"Yeah." Soft; only he could hear it.
"Buddy, there's an extra twenty if you speed the hell up." She wasn't sure the driver understood the words, but he got the gist. The man raced through the dark night, hurrying toward her growing anticipation.
Arriving, still too much noise considering the hour. She swung her legs out after Booth and was again both annoyed and touched when he held his hand out, helping her from the car. And he didn't let go, his palm warming her ever-cold skin. She twisted her hand around to rub his inner wrist, feeling the tension of his veins, pressing and feeling his radial pulse, the beats of his heart insistent, bounding, full of life and rhythm, making her own blood thrum in response.
They walked, not in a hurry, building the anticipation. In the elevator, he traced a finger from her hand to her wrist and up her forearm, following the line of her limb. Pressing his lips to her shoulder, expelling warm breath. He tilted his head, kissing just below her ear as she had done to him. Traced his nose along her jaw, her head tilting to the side, grinning as he kissed that spot, the vulnerable one; one slash and death would occur; one flick of a tongue and heat would pool in delicious places. Of course, he chose his tongue. She clenched, she sighed. The elevator door opened.
"Our stop," he whispered into her ear. Nodding, she followed him, the plush carpet making her unsteady in her shoes. She admired his form, purposeful and strong. He unlocked the door; she closed it behind her.
And was immediately pressed into it, the darkness not making it difficult to see. She noted his intensity again, was almost surprised at his hands pressed into door, his arms locking her in, his face looking down into hers. She liked it. She knew he would be strong, but he was so- restrained. There was passion, roiling just beneath the surface. She could practically taste it as he leaned in. Breath hot on her face, quick and pulsing around her. Mouth open, kissing, fierce against her lips, and then tongue, gently- why gently- brushing, asking. Her answering moan was soft and breathy and yes, more. So good.
He pressed his body to hers, her arms wrapping around him, her hands smoothing up his back, feeling the oblique muscles coiled beneath- he was so strong, so controlled. Let go, Booth.
She lifted her foot, wiggled out of her shoe. Caressed his leg, curling her knee and rubbing her foot along the inside of his calf. One of his hands came down, lightly brushing her arm, briefly grasping her waist, then kept going. Following the curve of her hip, across the fabric of her dress. Coming to rest under her thigh, hitching her leg up. Yes. His skin felt hot, his hand gripping her, not letting go. Don't let go of me again.
Soft silent sighs, mouths moving with and against each other, burning flesh tingling and mingling with her own synaptic firing. She brought her hands to cup his face, pressing her fingertips to his flesh, curling in and scratching down, the rasp of his stubble pricking deliciously on her warming flesh. Down to the mandible, lower; her intake of breath sharp as she came to the bounding beat of his jugular. So strong and so vulnerable, this particular spot. She felt the burn in her mouth, her parotids tingling, saliva stinging with the venom. Not yet.
His hands were playing with the hem of her skirt, under, smoothing out across the expanse of her skin. "Mm." Thumb rubbing, dipping down, meeting the edge of her undergarment. She bucked a bit, pleased at how forward he was while still remaining in control. But it was time.
With a sudden gasp she pulled back, pushing his hands away, dropping her leg. He looked confused, shocked; ridiculously handsome and suddenly uncertain. Her half grin brought a look of disbelief as she shoved at his chest.
"Bed," she ordered. He smiled at that, giving his own half-grin. Oh, but that gleam in your eye, Mr. Booth. Stupid is the lady you used to save that smile for, for letting you go.
His knees hit the bed and she pushed again, lightly. He sat-fell back, leaning on his arms for support. One smooth motion and she brought her dress over her head, enjoying his gasp of appreciation at her body.
"Allow me to divest you of your clothing," she said, her voice rough, purposefully alluring. She wasn't using her voice yet; didn't have to. He watched her lift his shirt from the waist, emitting her own moan of approval at his excellent abdominals. Well-defined V leading to the crux, the pelvis. She lifted up, his arms following as she removed the shirt, tossing it aside.
"Move back," she whispered, more request than demand. Before he was settled, she had climbed up, settling herself onto his groin, nestling down, delighting in the tingling friction caused by rubbing against his hardness. His hips surged and with an animalistic growl she lunged, face in the curve of his neck, teeth out, merely scraping across his skin, his hiss accompanied by hot hands at her hips, grasping; bruising strength that didn't leave marks.
She sat up, ground down. Looked into his face, his intensity marred by a look of wonder. What was that?
"You-" he began, squeezing her flesh again, softly this time. He swallowed before finishing, whispered, "You remind me of… her."
And you remind me of…
But then he was up, face between her breasts, open-mouth kissing her skin, nipping at the thin material of her bra, his own teeth scraping at her sensitive spots of flesh. She gasped, head thrown back, eyes closed, reveling in all of it, never this good, always the way she'd wanted, she'd imagined.
She knew he'd be like this.
"Booth," she moaned, and she was ready, ready to be taken, needing to do something, to-
"Bones," he moaned, and like that- that ridiculously familiar-yet-not word-
And her eyes opened, not seeing him but seeing him in her mind's eye, a man with his face, a confusing jumble of impressions, of memories of her human life, the man she must have loved, who must have loved her, only she couldn't (was beginning to) remember. Him. Booth. Oh God, Booth.
Here, beneath her and around her. Her Booth. Three years of not remembering, of existing, of not living and of living without him and he was here.
"No." Too much. It was too much. She- she couldn't. Not now. Damn him. Damn her. Damn her sire and fucking dammit.
"I'm sorry," he murmured. She finally saw him, saw him there underneath her, the contrite look in his face matching one from her human memories, which were now forcefully invading her consciousness. "I just- you really look like-"
"It's okay," she breathed. She needed to think. She hated confusion, hated confronting truth.
He sat up, reaching out to hold her face. Rubbed gentle thumbs across her cheeks, across her lips. She remembered now, how soothing his touch had always been, her body remembering how aroused his touch had made her. She involuntarily ground into him again, making him close his eyes and growl low in his throat, his thumb at her lips, in her mouth, touching her teeth-
And she did it. Allowed the predator to take over her actions. She wrapped her lips around him and bit down, hard.
He hissed. "Hey now," he said playfully, drawing his hand away. No. The blood.
She had drawn blood. With a swift movement, she kept his hand at her mouth, drawing unnecessary breath for control- and sucked the small drop away.
The break in his skin was minimal- not even enough for a smear, but oh. Sweet ecstasy. The blood of a fighter, strong and coppery and perfect. Savory and spicy, she felt the drop on her tongue, the answering venom pooling at the back of her mouth.
And the killing instinct was there. It's Booth, she told it. Blood, it insisted.
Her old life no longer mattered.
She shoved him against the mattress.
Crawled down, a predator with purpose.
He settled in, watching, waiting. Trusting.
He was always so trusting of her. It's what she had loved most about him.
She loved him.
Leaning in, pausing to listen to his heart; the heart that she wanted to beat for her. Kissed the skin, moved to midline, breathing, moving down. Hands across muscles, tickling his sides with curled fingers, nails against flesh, his muscles bunching underneath her. Tongue swirling briefly around his navel, his soft laugh giving her a pang. Too trusting.
Her chin hit his belt and with a sinking feeling she faced it, faced the now-familiar red logo. Take it off, do not let it deter you. Red like blood.
Buckle undone, button undone. Zzzzzip. Pants wiggled down, boxers with an amusing print. She couldn't help it, she laughed at the memory that he wore such eccentric underclothes and felt possessive of that memory. Booth, how I missed you. She was saddened that she only remembered him now.
Focus. Focus on the large erection, straining inches away from the pulsing vasculature of the femoral artery; both were calling to her. Her nails grazed above his waistline, tracing a path along the V of his obliques. Hooking underneath the waistband, she leaned in, mouth on the planes of his muscles, inching down, lowering material. His sharp intake of breath, abdominals straining, his palm warm against her head, pushing down.
Boxers down, removed, he was so large, just as she knew he would be. She smiled, showing teeth; they felt longer, sharper as she ran her tongue across her lip.
And then she was there, breathing the salty flesh of his groin, mouth open on his skin. He gasped at the contact, her chin on his flesh, nose grazing the valley of thigh and pelvis. Artery below, follow the path. His blood, his life, soon to be hers. She opened her mouth, jaw dropping low, bottom teeth digging into his flesh. He hissed, thrust toward her. Dazed, glazed over, lust in her eyes. She looked at him through a veil of lush lashes and with a smile pressed a soft kiss to his beautiful erection. His answering groan vibrated through his skin, humming against her lips, traveling down to her own wet arousal. Soft now, no teeth, a long languorous lick up, taste the flesh, so Booth, encircle the head and swirl. Mouth around him, down, as much as you can take; it's too much, too big; I can't take it anymore.
Her hands were on his thighs, bracing, fighting to prolong her increasing need, her body's insistence to go faster, to take him. More, taste him more, feel him more. He pulled back, took a deep breath, fighting his own losing battle with control.
She released him, missing his taste immediately. Taste him again.
"Shh." She traced lightly down the length of him, a soft hiss escaping her lips. What was she doing?
She leaned again, other side, other artery. Could feel it pulsing beneath her, tracing down to his thigh.
Just one taste.
She licked his inner thigh, heard his moan. Sucked at the flesh, his quads tensing as she sucked harder, leaving a mark, imagining his pleasured pain. Capillaries breaking with increased suction, just one little bite. Light crunch, discernable only to her, thousands of epithelial cells bursting as she broke the surface of his skin, sank her teeth in, oh God the blood. Oh God.
Her hand wrapped around his length, moved slowly in time with the light pulls of her mouth, tongue basking in the gush of blood spilled; wait, stop. She broke the tension; bit her tongue and licked the wound, her own fluid temporarily staunching the flow of his blood.
She looked up, saw that his eyes were closed, his jaw tense, concentrating. How amusing. Before thinking she asked, "Saints?"
His eyes flew open. "How could you possibly know that?" Dark, intense, questioning gaze. Furious, almost. Her own eyes darkened in response.
"Merely an educated guess. You strike me as… devout," she finished lamely. Was she trying to give herself away?
"Nothin' devout about this," he murmured, apparently appeased by her explanation, the truth never even occurring to him. He reached for her, his light touch searing her skin, making her blood sing with divine fervor. With a sudden need to fill herself with him, she pounced, up his body, to his face, perching, just above him, poised to sink in, just so, right there and oh. Yes. He was there, tight fit, all the way. She sighed, sat back. Adjust to his size, let him in. His head fell back, low growl in his throat. His throat…
Grasping her hips, he moved her along the length of him, their bodies together, rhythmic. Stroke up, eyes meeting, she leaned in to press her lips to his. She felt every ridge of him, every clench of his muscles. She ran her nose along the side of his face, feeling the tension, the damned ecstasy of pressure building, building- the call of his blood, his building orgasm, the gasps of him and the gasp of her relentless driving, faster now- nibble his ear, her lips at his neck, down to his clavicle-
"Bones," he whispered again, tortured and thrilled, little death approaching, exquisite agony- for her, too. Sad at what was to come. Why so sad? She didn't know, didn't know what it meant.
"I don't know what it means," she whispered.
His body tensed beneath her, his head turning to face her. She had to end it, had to end the feeling. She turned his face with her hand, increased the thrust of her pelvis, allowed the tension, the rush of orgasm, her thumb in his mouth, his biting cry as the ecstasy overtook him.
She lunged. Bit his neck. His gasp and surge, surge of blood, surge of liquid heat into her. She drank deeply, the steady pulsing of liquid filling her mouth as she slowed her hips.
"Brennan… Bones, I-" Drink, suck. Suck his life away.
He moaned, softer now. She felt herself stirring again, the orgasmic thrill of the impending kill approaching, stimulating.
No. Not this man. She couldn't.
She pulled away. Swiped at her mouth with her inner wrist. Looked in horror at the two puncture wounds in his neck.
His eyes opened, looking at her with a mix of amazement and uncertainty.
"Is it-" His soft breath brushed her skin, a slight decrease in its temperature indicating that she had taken more than she thought, that she would have to finish the job.
His eyes shut briefly, then fluttered open again.
"You're so beautiful," he whispered. He weakly lifted a hand and stroked her disheveled hair. "I knew I'd see you here." He coughed; a trickle of blood seeped from his neck. A stab of sorrow wrenched through her gut. She closed her eyes, inhaled the coppery scent dancing through the air. Leaning in, she lightly lapped the line of blood.
"I'm sorry," she whispered, because she didn't know what else to say. She had to finish. She couldn't leave him this way. But she could…
"I'll make it better." She kissed him once, lips lingering, breathing in his increasingly gasping breath. She could hear his slowing heart rate, could feel the involuntary tensing of his muscles. She would end this. He was too good to suffer this way.
Now that she remembered who he was, who she was, she felt a sense of renewal, of purpose. She may not believe in fate, but she certainly believed in cause and effect. Booth had come back to her, back for her; she would not take that lightly.
She palpated her wrist lightly, feeling the surge of warmth. She closed her eyes for one brief moment, but the decision was made before passing through her head. Before he brought her back to his room, really.
She leaned into his neck again, to his blood.
You okay? I'm still recovering from that.
And for those of you wondering… keep in mind that I am, after all, with the vamps of course.
Feel free to pick this apart, or to ask me any questions.