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Booth's bed smells like laundry softener and musk and man -- that primitive part of her brain that calls itself woman recognizes it as such. She lays down in it and prevents the urge to roll around in it and relax completely. In the bathroom, Booth is brushing his teeth and washing his face and removing his dress shirt. She can see him out of the corner of her eye.
There's something to this. The rhythm of this. The opening of car doors and the quiet snick of the apartment door closing behind them. Bowls of fruit in the morning while he eats his eggs and bacon and they share a pot of coffee.
There's something to his smile now. It's like it bubbles up from his soul and sneaks up on him. He smiles all the time. She doesn't mind, because she finds herself smiling too. It's the rush of pheromones and endorphins and the serotonin released by the very pleasant sex they have as often as they can. Or that's what she tells herself. She mostly ignores that squeeze in the region some might call her heart.
Strange things catch her imagination now, like the swell of his hip bone. That faint dusting of hair that she's so familiar with now that leads down, down... The ripple of his ab muscles as he bends or twists. The fact that so much of him -- so much of his essential alpha male -- is quietly packaged away under suits or uniforms, that he hides how powerful an animal he is -- that turns her on and she can't turn off.
She's never understood Angela's unquenchable thirst for sex until now. She'd always considered herself healthy, but it wasn't like this. It wasn't quick trips to closets with doors that lock and that ache deep inside when all she wants is to be filled.
She's lost in thought, rolling around on his bed, dressed only in his FBI shirt and panties. She finds the most comfortable pillow and hugs it to her chest, hardly noticing when he's right beside her next to the bed, wearing boxer shorts and his watch. She knows when he rolls her over, his dog tags will dust across her abdomen. She knows that when they kiss, his St. Christopher's medal will brush her throat. She knows how his hands will wrap in her hair and how he'll whisper her name in that low register that something inside of her responds to so quickly.
She knows. It doesn't stop the image from being powerful. It doesn't stop the actions from being erotic and loving.
He rolls her over, kisses her neck. Hands wrap in her hair just as she's predicted, and she spreads her legs, communicating clearly where she wants this to go. He understands her body language (he does have an inherent understanding of proxemics and kinetics) perfectly, and shortly, he does his best to break all of the rules of physics for her.