"Hey." The floor creaks as he walks toward her.
"Hi," she replies, blinking up at Booth and trying to shake off the vestiges of a dream that has left her warm and slightly aroused, though she can't recall any specific images, just impressions.
They only exchanged keys last week, so this--being in his apartment when he isn't there--still feels strange.
"You have a good nap?" Booth grasps the hem of his gray t-shirt and pulls it up to wipe his face.
The flash of skin and abdominal muscle leaves her distracted. "Hm," she says, struggling to focus. Parts of the shirt are stained a darker gray, and she knows he had a good workout. His face is flushed, his hair damp and messy. But it has always been his dark eyes and facile mouth that have drawn her steadily toward the precipice.
When they were partners, she'd carefully controlled whatever impulses she had to touch him, surrendering only under the guise of needing comfort. But they'd eventually crossed those imaginary lines and fallen headlong into the territory of lovers. Now here they are, and there is no one to see them, no one to stop them as the fading light of the sun moves over them both.
It is, after all, a lover's prerogative to touch the object of her desire, she tells herself, standing and sliding her hands under his shirt and over hot, moist skin.
"Bones, I'm sweaty."
"I know," she murmurs against his pulse. "I like it." Tasting salt, she shudders. More than anything, she wants to crawl underneath his skin, but that isn't possible, so she'll settle for this.
The hunger terrifies her, but that doesn't keep her from pushing him until his back kisses the wall. Bending, she reaches for the waistband of his shorts.
She looks up at him.
Author's Note: Thank you to everyone who encouraged me when I was feeling less than good about my writing; I really appreciate it. I forced myself to push through it, and this is what came out.