Ficlet: Sandpaper Hands
Still writing to make myself feel better, thought I'd share some of the fruits of that labor.
Title: Sandpaper Hands
Author: ladychi
Characters/Pairings: Booth/Brennan
Rating: Adult (Explicit Sexual Content)
Summary: Booth has cool hands -- ever-so-slightly rough like the finest grade of sandpaper...
Sandpaper Hands
Booth has cool hands -- ever-so-slightly rough like the finest grade of sandpaper, with fingernails that are cracked and uneven. He smells faintly of gunpowder and blood and soap and something so quintessentially Booth that she can walk into a room and catch a hint of whatever-it-is and know immediately that he has been there. His cool-rough hands once grasped hers in comfort, and then in good-bye, and then in hello. His hands do more talking than he ever will. They tilt her chin up to look in eloquent eyes -- he can rhapsodize about the blue of hers but the earthy realness of those deep brown eyes are all she needs to believe in his God. Because they are like him -- firm, steady. Always-there-never-leave-you-always-love-you-but-Christ-you-hurt-me-sometimes-eyes. Eyes that sparkle, eyes that cry. Eyes that are there in the morning and the night.
His eyes and his hands.
And his voice. Rougher now, because of the hormones coursing through his body that are preparing him to imprint on her -- the testosterone that urges him to mark her skin as his, with deep sucking kisses on her breasts and her neck. Whispering things that she never thought she'd hear him say. Gorgeous things about her body and the way she sounds and how she moves. And filthy words that inflame her desire, remind her of their baseness, their humanness. For all of her rationality - her gossamer web of science - she is an animal with animal needs. She must eat. She must sleep. And she must mate.
This is more than scratching an itch, though. This is like taking water into dry cells. Everything expands, feels real. When his sandpaper hands move over her skin, push apart her legs and press just there, it's like oxygen. What was dull becomes bright red. Behind her eyes, inside her mind.
He says, "Christ, Temperance."
And she says, "Fuck me, Seeley."
And he does. Slips inside of her like her insides were made for him -- like every nook and cranny has always had his name on it. He pushes so deep inside of her it hurts for a moment and he stops, panting, poised over her, and she can appreciate, like most other people can't, just how strong he is.
She can trace the line of sweat that falls from his forehead down his chest which is still aligned with hers. She is hyper-aware and yet utterly complacent. In bed, she usually dominates. Takes what she wants and gives what she wants to give but not this time. This time she gives everything to him, because she knows he is giving everything to her.
Her ankles loop around his back. He smiles at her in that way that turns her into goo, and he says, "Like that, huh?"
And she says, "Less talking."
And it's no wonder he's usually in the driver's seat, because he takes her on a journey where pleasure is so acute it aches and pain feels good and she feels alive, alive, alive...
He hits her spot and she flies apart, ankles unlocking, body arching, trying to scoot back, away from the pleasure that's too much, but Booth holds her there, makes her feel, makes her stay, and this is what she has always wanted. Someone to care enough to make her feel everything.
Her eyes fly open and he says, "Again."
Title: Sandpaper Hands
Author: ladychi
Characters/Pairings: Booth/Brennan
Rating: Adult (Explicit Sexual Content)
Summary: Booth has cool hands -- ever-so-slightly rough like the finest grade of sandpaper...
Sandpaper Hands
Booth has cool hands -- ever-so-slightly rough like the finest grade of sandpaper, with fingernails that are cracked and uneven. He smells faintly of gunpowder and blood and soap and something so quintessentially Booth that she can walk into a room and catch a hint of whatever-it-is and know immediately that he has been there. His cool-rough hands once grasped hers in comfort, and then in good-bye, and then in hello. His hands do more talking than he ever will. They tilt her chin up to look in eloquent eyes -- he can rhapsodize about the blue of hers but the earthy realness of those deep brown eyes are all she needs to believe in his God. Because they are like him -- firm, steady. Always-there-never-leave-you-always-love-you-but-Christ-you-hurt-me-sometimes-eyes. Eyes that sparkle, eyes that cry. Eyes that are there in the morning and the night.
His eyes and his hands.
And his voice. Rougher now, because of the hormones coursing through his body that are preparing him to imprint on her -- the testosterone that urges him to mark her skin as his, with deep sucking kisses on her breasts and her neck. Whispering things that she never thought she'd hear him say. Gorgeous things about her body and the way she sounds and how she moves. And filthy words that inflame her desire, remind her of their baseness, their humanness. For all of her rationality - her gossamer web of science - she is an animal with animal needs. She must eat. She must sleep. And she must mate.
This is more than scratching an itch, though. This is like taking water into dry cells. Everything expands, feels real. When his sandpaper hands move over her skin, push apart her legs and press just there, it's like oxygen. What was dull becomes bright red. Behind her eyes, inside her mind.
He says, "Christ, Temperance."
And she says, "Fuck me, Seeley."
And he does. Slips inside of her like her insides were made for him -- like every nook and cranny has always had his name on it. He pushes so deep inside of her it hurts for a moment and he stops, panting, poised over her, and she can appreciate, like most other people can't, just how strong he is.
She can trace the line of sweat that falls from his forehead down his chest which is still aligned with hers. She is hyper-aware and yet utterly complacent. In bed, she usually dominates. Takes what she wants and gives what she wants to give but not this time. This time she gives everything to him, because she knows he is giving everything to her.
Her ankles loop around his back. He smiles at her in that way that turns her into goo, and he says, "Like that, huh?"
And she says, "Less talking."
And it's no wonder he's usually in the driver's seat, because he takes her on a journey where pleasure is so acute it aches and pain feels good and she feels alive, alive, alive...
He hits her spot and she flies apart, ankles unlocking, body arching, trying to scoot back, away from the pleasure that's too much, but Booth holds her there, makes her feel, makes her stay, and this is what she has always wanted. Someone to care enough to make her feel everything.
Her eyes fly open and he says, "Again."