This is just a little one-shot done in response to a fic meme at Livejournal, courtesy of bitesize_bones and bones_ga! The prompt was 'What if Booth and Bones had struggled to stop being Tony and Roxie when they got back to their hotel room?' Done at a very late hour - I fell asleep six times (!) - so please accept my apology for any typos or random silliness. Hope you enjoy, guys.

TAUROMACHY

She'd watched him closely, as his body was rattled by the huge fists of the other man but his legs held strong. Blood had flown, spattering across the front of his shirt. Most of it his. The howls of the crowd had competed with the rapid thumping of her heart but both had been nearly drowned out by the sound of his hissing breaths. She'd tried to get to him, to get close enough to give him help, and had to elbow people out of the way to do so. Leaning down close to him she'd been able to see every injury, hear the galloping beat of his heart, smell the blood. Swiftly she'd imparted her knowledge to him and then stood back, unable to do anything else but hope and wish and watch. When he'd used what she'd given him and defeated the champion, she'd expected to feel satisfaction. Relief, even.

What she'd felt was something entirely different.

Now all of the paperwork was done, the criminals arrested, the reports given. She should have been weary as she slid the key card past the door sensor. She should have been tired, uncomfortable, and sick of the dress and the heels and the heavy makeup. But she wasn't.

She was on fire.

Her pulse was still racing, her breathing shallow and just a little too fast. She felt as if she had a fever though she knew she wasn't sick. And she knew what was wrong. She knew exactly why she felt this way.

It was him.

He entered the room behind her, his stride still cocky and energetic and assured. He hadn't stiffened up at all during the long hours at the FBI field office as she had thought he might. He also hadn't changed out of the bloody shirt and black trousers. His suspenders hung neglected against his legs as he walked in a tight circle within the room. Bruises bloomed and cuts swelled on his face and hands. But he didn't look beaten. He looked like a warrior. And the woman in her rose up in response. When she glanced at him, unable to look away, she was surprised for the second time that night.

He was watching her as he paced, his eyes hot and alive and hungry.

Her thighs trembled in reaction, the quivering weakness unfamiliar and yet strangely welcome. A steady pulse began at her very center, seeming to beat in cadence with his footfall on the plush carpet. She didn't look at him again. But his eyes were burning her alive, burning her no matter what she did. She didn't know what was wrong. She didn't feel like herself.

She felt like Roxie.

He was close, too close, and the room was too small. Fighting the want that was curling in her stomach she slowly pulled out her suitcase, hoping the menial task of packing would calm her trembling fingers. Finally she could put it off no longer, could resist no longer, and turned to face him again.

He had stopped pacing and was standing stock still several feet from her. He wasn't moving at all but he was, he was moving without moving and it set her on edge. It made her want. When she asked him what was wrong, his answer was short and terse and in an accent that sounded much too much like Tony. She didn't hear what he said but she knew what he wanted.

She hesitated, and he had his answer.

He started toward her, the heat in his eyes boiling over into his limbs and transforming into powerful action in an instant. She barely had time to register his strong fingers at her back and he was on her. His free hand gripping her hair, he pulled her head back and took her mouth in a bruising, relentless kiss. She returned the kiss, an urgent moan transferred from her lips to his. She wanted to pull back, look at him again, see the desire that she felt so strongly reflected in his eyes. But he had other plans.

He dragged her to the floor, the deep pile of the carpet softening the impact. But she still lost her breath, the hardness of his body against hers emptying her lungs. She couldn't keep up with him, with his racing hands and possessive mouth and pressing hips. But it didn't bother her.

She fucking loved it. She was helpless to his demands, and she wanted more. He rubbed against her, a slow grinding of chest and hip. His hardness assaulting her softness. She wanted it. She wanted to feel him all over her body. She wanted to be driven until she dropped.

She wanted to be taken.

A quick, deft flick of his fingers at her shoulders and her dress parted, sliding eagerly down her shoulders. For a moment she was trapped, a prisoner of the wardrobe she'd so casually donned hours earlier. He tugged less gently and the fabric rent with a sharp ripping sound. She arched into his mouth, wantonly presenting herself to him when he bared her skin. His mouth following his hands down her body, sucking at her torso while his long fingers slid under her skirt to tickle slyly at her hips. When they encountered the raised straps attached to her stockings his lips curved in a smile that spoke more of appetite than happiness.

Shaking from want, from his assault on her body, she tried to push the dress off. But it was tight at the waist and refused to give. Mewling in frustration, she tugged harder in a vain attempt to rid herself at last of her costume.

Her desperate whines at last catching his attention, he looked up, his eyes almost black with lust and satisfaction. His smile sharpening, he merely flipped her skirt up, wrapping it around her middle and exposing her completely. She sprawled underneath him, open to him, clutching at him with hands that kept losing their grip. She wondered for a few heady seconds what had happened to them and then his fingers wrapped around her garters and he pulled hard, dragging her toward him that last few critical inches. The fabric of his trousers felt rough along the inside of her thighs, but she welcomed it, welcomed the feel of the coarse fabric rubbing against her. She closed her eyes, surrendering to the delicious weakness spiraling through her body. If she never felt anything but this again she would be content. If she never felt anything but him again. Then a low snick caught her attention and her eyes flew open again.

He hovered above her, his length huge and hard, every bit as hard as every bit of him. The throbbing inside her increased and she reached for him greedily, small sounds of keening want pooling in her throat. His palms cupped her ass and he lifted her, aligning her perfectly with him. Before she could breathe again he was inside her, the pleasure of the sliding friction making her eyes roll back in her head. As if on strings, her legs wrapped around him, pulling him deeper, and her arms flung out, searching for purchase somewhere, anywhere. But there was nothing to hold on to, and her fingers slid into the deep carpet and fisted tightly. She was so lost in him, in them, that when he gritted out a command to her she automatically obeyed, opening her eyes once more. Watching him watch her.

He moved; a slow slide of hip that tested her. She moved; her soft and pliant body stretching to take him in. A soft growl of approval was his only sound as he thrust again, his muscles trembling not from use but from restraint. He was affected as much as she was. The hot flare of satisfaction inside her was like a supernova and she arched within it, bent at an almost impossible angle like a sculpture. From her position beneath him she saw his powerful build tense and flex as he slowly slid inside her, again and again. The feeling began to build within her, rising uncontrollably, and she clawed at his back, satisfied when he hissed and cursed.

His hands shot to her waist and she writhed when he began to hammer inside of her. She had wanted him; had wanted to be taken. At long last she was getting what she'd craved. With a harsh cry she shuddered and jerked, digging her heels into his back and contracting around him. Endlessly she quaked, crying out and writhing in complete abandon until she'd wrested control from him and driven him over the edge. Plunging ceaselessly, almost violently, he came with a rush of warmth and a gritted groan, grinding against her until she began to whimper.

When he would have pulled away she twined her fingers around his shirt and tugged him down onto her. His question whispered softly into her ear tickled, and she purred and felt her way down his damp back once again with her dragging fingernails. She felt him chuckle deeply and begin to strain toward her once more. More than pleased with his quick response, she smiled, a hot, smug, female smile.

Yes. She had gotten what she needed.