A/N: Happy Birthday to Laffers! One of my favorite Brits, she ranks right up there with the Beatles and JK Rowling! Because we share the same fetishes, this one was very easy to write. So easy, in fact, that I wrote it a week early! And we can't let smutty fic rest in a folder for an entire week! That would be a travesty! I hope that you have a fantastic birthday and an even better holiday. :D


Like any good sniper, Booth felt her presence before he heard her. He emptied his last clip and set down his gun, knowing that he had succeeded without bothering to check the target. He removed his head set and finally turned around to confirm what he already knew.

She had been watching him.

"Hey Bones." He started, trying to play it cool. After all, the last time they had seen each other had been a disaster. "What are you doing here?"

"I was just watching." She said nonchalantly. "You're good." He was about to respond when she walked over to him and leaned across his chest to reel in the target sheet. A heady mix of her shampoo and perfume wafted just under his nose, mixing with the otherwise testosterone-filled air as she examined the target. His fingers began to itch for something he already knew he couldn't have when she moved just out of reach.

"A perfect sheet." She stated, but he could hear that she was impressed. "You know, throughout history, cultures have connected accuracy with weapons to sexual prowess." She informed him a little too innocently.

"And why is that?" He asked, more than willing to play with fire.

"I suppose it could be due to the intense concentration and focus required to succeed, the obvious phallic implications of penetrating your target, not to mention the steady hands of a man who knows how to handle his weapon." The words dripped from her lips like honey but Booth was certain that she was just as affected by them as he was. He moved in closer, wanting to test his theory.

"And what do you think, Doctor Brennan?" He asked, energy coursing between the few inches of space that still separated their bodies. "Do you concur with that assessment?" He spoke quietly, wanting to rattle her. Sure enough, her breathing began to grow heavy as he reached out and let the fingers on his right hand dance along her hip, never giving either one of them the satisfaction of any real physical contact. Her eyelids fluttered shut at the action and Booth knew why. He was just as caught up in the forbidden tension but he refused to take his eyes off of her, even for a second. He was desperate to soak up this stolen moment before reality could snatch it back again.

Brennan finally opened her eyes and Booth had his answer. In her eyes, he found the raging blue flames of desire and need. Almost instantly, her mouth was on his, their tongues dueling as her body arched up into his and ground against him.

That was when Booth lost control: of his brain, of his body, of everything around him. He moved forward on autopilot; his only intention was of getting more of her. When he needed to feel her skin against his, he tore at her clothes. When he needed to taste her, he sucked the sweet, salty flesh of her neck and chest. He greedily took what he needed until he was so dizzy with desire, he thought he might pass out. And when that moment came, Brennan was there, opening herself up to him and bidding him to take more, to take all of her.

His only passing thoughts were incredulous as he sank into her warm, wet core for the first time. She was perfectly tight, hugging him as if they were made for one another. They both stilled at the intimate knowledge. When Brennan finally opened her eyes, Booth began again, desperate to finally quench the raging need within his body.

They moved in perfect time, slowly rocking to a rhythm that only they knew. As her murmurs of longing increased, so did his thrusts, until she was trembling violently against him. As Brennan rode out the waves of her gratification, she brought him with her, dragging him down into a riptide of pleasure. Whirling and spiraling, he sank into the depths of her until he found himself on solid ground again, buried in the crook of her neck and leaning heavily against a partition of the FBI gun range.

As soon as he came to his senses, he realized just how incongruent their passionate act was with the formal location in which it took place. He backed up and looked at her pale, naked body before analyzing the room once more.

"This isn't right." He realized. "This isn't…we would never…" He saw the look of puzzlement on her face as he realized what was amiss. "This, this is a dream."

As soon as the words were out of his mouth, Booth woke with a start, still panting and sweaty, but back in his own bed.

"Seeley, what is it?" He heard Tessa ask groggily from behind him, obviously woken up by his startled jump back to reality.

"Nothing." He said weakly, swallowing the tight lump in his throat. "Just an intense dream." It wasn't a lie. He didn't need another reason to feel guilty tonight. "Go back to sleep." He encouraged, not wanting to spend another second in her conscious presence until he got his head on straight.

"I told you not to read crime novels before bed." She scolded with a yawn as she rolled back over. Booth glanced at his bedside table, where a bookmark stuck stubbornly out of the middle of his most recent literary choice: a novel, by none other than Dr. Temperance Brennan. It starred a handsome FBI agent and a beautiful forensic anthropologist and it didn't take either to figure out who the book was really about.

Judging by the bookmark's position, Booth guessed that he had about 100 pages left of the book. 100 pages of her words, being read to him by her voice in his head. He had been surprised when he started reading and her voice had appeared to narrate the tale. After all, he hadn't seen her in almost a year. Nonetheless, he could still hear her, feel her, taste her, and the well-written book only intensified those long-repressed memories.

He shook away the familiar ache that always came with thoughts of their shared past: the guilt over how badly he had acted at the end, the haunting twinge of what might have been if they had only been able to communicate with one another without yelling.

But facts were facts.

She was gone.

Still, he couldn't help but hear the whispers emanating from the novel next to him, calling out 'Not yet'. They cut through the darkness, penetrating his thoughts with the glimmering promise of make-believe and a partnership that might have been.

He gave a single glance back at his sleeping girlfriend before sliding the book off the table and tip-toeing quietly out of his bedroom.

After all, what harm could another 100 pages really do?