“But you live right over there,” Zack protests, his upper body still in the cab. Booth’s hand spans nearly the width of his ribcage as he pushes him back with a guttural snarl.
The cabbie stares at him in the rearview. Jack presses his face close to the rectangular aperture in the Lucite divider that keeps his passengers at a safe distance.
“Just wait until the kid goes upstairs. Liability issue,” he says gravely.
As Zack shambles up the back stairs, Booth pulls Jack away from the divider and barks at the driver.
“Whaddya waiting for, Christmas? We’ve got places to be.”
Less than twenty seconds later, the taxi idles at Hodgins’ back door. The driver protests genially when Jack tosses a pair of fifties through the pay window, but he’s out of the vehicle and fumbling for his keys before any significant discussion can take place.
Rocking on his heels, Booth rifles through his wallet as the taxi peels out, spraying whitewashed gravel in its wake.
Jack shoves the door open with his hip and shatters the quiet with a high–pitched whistle. Seconds later, Booth hits him from behind, sweeping long arms around his back to keep him from falling. Twisting in the clutch, Jack leans back and laughs.
“Damn. You came like a puppy, man.”
“You’re a fucking cat person. I knew it,” Booth sighed. “What? I did not.”
Whatever canine vs. feline argument might have erupted is swallowed in a deep, languorous kiss, followed closely by another, and another for good measure. Falling against the back door, their combined weight slamming it hard enough to rattle the windowpane, breathing hard and the kisses become sharper, more shallow, insistent.
“C’mon, dog,” Jack whispers, nipping Booth’s cheek as he takes his wrist to pull him up the stairs. Contrary to Booth’s accusation he’s not a cat person, but he knows a purr when he hears one, and it goes straight to his dick.
The spiral stairs could be from a salvaged townhouse in the French Quarter, wrought iron and cutwork, beautiful enough to be lethal and Seeley catches his toe in the lip of the stair tread, lurching forward and grabbing Jack’s hips for balance. They don’t fall so much as sit, and it suits Jack fine when Booth peers up at him, smiling, and buries his face in his crotch.
Nose and teeth and mouth and Jack groans and shivers, digging his fingers into skull and shoulders, head tipped back, nearly touching the top landing.
The attention stops and Booth is squinting hard, his head raised over Jack’s zipper.
“How tall are you? Five five?”
Booth lifts himself in an odd replica of a sit-up, and moves up to sit next to his host. Jack bounces his ass to the landing and stands, considering the question.
“I’m five six. And just so you know, wherever you’re going with this? Unchartered territory.”
“Bullshit. Five five, max.” Levering himself up from the stairwell, Booth leans into the doorway, smirking. “Why is it that short guys have such big dicks?”
“Balance of nature, baby. You better hope the reverse isn’t true.”
The look Booth gives could render the iron staircase into solder and flux. As he moves across the floor, Jack flips a foil packet and Booth nips it out of the air with effortless grace.
“Suit up, Seeley. I know where that bad boy’s been.”
The remark is barely out of his mouth when Jack finds himself on the flat of his back, pinned beneath 200 pounds of Booth like a Danaus plexippus on a waxed tray. Nose to nose, black eyes blurring into a Cyclopean orb and Jack blinks hard and tries to breathe.
“I don’t think you do,” Booth warns.
“Way to inspire confidence, big man. Like I’m gonna want. . .”
Booth’s got 60 pounds on Jack, easily, and every ounce of it is muscle. But Jack’s no slouch; he’s tight and hard and athletic and knows a hell of a lot more than Booth does about passive resistance. Plus, he’s shitfaced. And invincible.
They are both comfortably at Stage 10. Bulletproof.
“Yo, ease up, Batman.”
“Two words, Hodgins. Kitchen. Counter.”
Dan Jenkins 10 Stages of Drunkenness
1. Witty and Charming
2. Rich and Powerful
5. Fuck Dinner
7. Crank up the Enola Gay
8. Witty and Charming, Part II