Title: Folie à Trois
Timeline: pre-season 4 (late season 2 or season 3)
Summary: Was I seriously going to try and seduce both my ridiculously attractive co-workers at the same time?
This was written for the Kink in the Bones community on Livejournal (link in my profile)--a haven for lovers of smut that is just a *tad* beyond the vanilla...like threesomes ;-p. So if you're over 18 and curious, then don't be shy and apply for a membership to browse our (now well-stocked) aisles of smoking hot kinky smutty fics (nothing *too* depraved if you're worried about that).
There were several songs I played a lot while writing this, to evoke the atmosphere of sweltering, sweaty, sticky summer heat, and a steamy sexual tension. So, the following songs form an unofficial soundtrack to this story: Fever (Elvis), Black Velvet (Alannah Myles), Hungry Eyes (Eric Carmen) Sex on Fire (Kings of Leon), I'm on Fire (Bruce Springsteen), Ooh La La (Goldfrapp), Promiscuous & Say It Right (Nelly Furtado).
I feel very brave (crazy) for posting this without having a beta look at it, because it's a little on the wild side and has girl/girl stuff that is new for me, but SSJL, for whom I wrote this as a bday gift, assured me she loved it—good enough for me. As per her request, I tried to cram as much "nekkid booth and hot girl/girl action" into this story as I could. Enjoy!
Is there anything worse than being stuck in the middle of Alabama for the night after a sweltering day in mid-August?
I wish I didn't know the answer to that.
Because what's worse than that, is being stuck in the middle of Alabama for the night, along with Booth and Doctor Brennan, after a sweltering day in mid-August, when the only place to crash for the night anywhere near there, is a bed & breakfast in a Queen Anne-style farmstead, that doesn't have AC.
No AC. In Alabama. In August. Who ever heard of such a thing?
Because it's been my living hell for the last few hours. Hotter than hell actually.
You'd think that when it's past midnight, it would cool down a bit. But I'd be surprised if it was even down to eighty degrees by now.
Which is not nearly cool enough to recover from a long day of suffering a temperature of a hundred degrees and a humidity of oh about a thousand percent.
If the weather was excruciating, watching them all day – in that weather – was the worst kind of torture. It gave new depth to the expression 'hot and bothered'.
There had been no way to escape the way their eyes tangled, their ridiculously well-formed bodies constantly too close, the expanse of skin showing today, or the sexual tension coming off them in waves – especially when he took his sweet time rubbing 50 SPF sun block on her pale neck and shoulders.
The case was bad.
Hikers had found several bodies in an advanced state of decomp in a clearing, in a forested area of Little River Canyon National Reserve.
We all abandoned the usual dress code, and stripped down to tank tops, and Booth to his wifebeater, while we worked on recovery. It was simply too hot for propriety.
The stench was thick and horrid and almost unbearable. More than once we each had to step away for a few moments to catch a few breaths of fresh air. We all respected each other enough not to have to pretend that we were tougher than we were. It was just that bad.
When the putrid scent threatened to overwhelm me, I distracted myself by observing them from a small distance, as I tried to suffuse my lungs with untainted air.
I've always found that very few things were as effective to put death from your mind as appreciating life in its most vibrant, healthy, aesthetically pleasing form.
Booth's physical appeal was no surprise to me, and even though I was well and truly over him, it never let up. Especially when all that muscular flesh was highlighted by a thin sheen of glistening sweat on tanned skin. With the heat seemingly shimmering off of him, the way his body moved languidly – like a cougar – was pure sin.
I'd honestly never paid that much attention to Brennan's physique, other than noting a slender but feminine figure, a pretty face and the most intense, rich blue eyes.
But watching her work today in nothing but tight jeans and a tank, I couldn't help but admire it. She had more curves than I did but she wore them well. Oh so well. She was actually tinier than she often seemed in a lab coat, with her delicate shoulders, narrow waist and slender back. But every time she moved, it was clear that no one should underestimate her; every inch of her was toned, muscles sinewing beneath her smooth, pale flesh. All those hours of practicing martial arts really paid off.
And every time she bent over the remains, my eyes drew inexorably to the neckline of her tank top where the fabric gave to those envy-inspiring slopes. I was beginning to understand Seeley's plight. I couldn't remember ever being so aware of a woman's breasts before.
From my childhood summers, I remembered the oppressive heat in the city, radiating from the bricks of the apartment buildings.
I remembered seeking coolness in the pitiful breeze on rooftops looking out over the Bronx towards Manhattan, sticky blacktop in the streets, Motown music everywhere making the very air dance. Jumping around in cool water from hoses, fountains or an occasional friendly fire hydrant. And, when I was a little older, wearing skimpy tops and almost nonexistent hotpants, groping slick, heated skin in airless stairwells with boys who wore jeans and sneakers and nothing else. Good times.
But there was nothing good about how hot and restless I had been all evening. The air in the room was stifling and opening a window did nothing to dissipate it, except let in more humid and oppressive air. Sleep stayed tantalizingly out of reach as I tossed and twisted in the damp, constricting sheets. Kicking the thin sheet covering me to the foot of the bed helped a little, but not enough.
Since we arrived, I'd already showered twice, without the benefit of hot water, but that turned out to be a blessing in disguise. The second shower didn't offer lasting relief any more than the first one before dinner: ten minutes back in the room and I was already roasting again.
This place was an oven, under the rafters that supported the gabled slate roof. The second floor was a veritable heat trap. And just after midnight, after 2 hours of fitful tossing and frustration, I finally decided I'd had enough.
I gave up on sleep and swung my legs over the side of the bed. I hoped to find cooler air downstairs, and maybe a cold drink. I wiped the dampness from my forehead as I descended the stairs.
When I turned the corner into the kitchen, I froze.
Booth and Brennan were already there.
Is it hot in here? ;-p