Author's Note: Yes, I am aware that my summary sucked. But like I said earlier, both Emily and Hotch have been engaging in...well, for lack of a better description, stalker-like activities, with eyes for no one but the object of their desires. With one confrontation - and a WHOLE lot of alcohol - they realize that they desire...each other. And yeah, that's about it. Fanficlover, I sincerely hope that this is along the lines of what you had been imagining. I tried to make it as funny as I could without withdrawing from the main prompt, but uh...well, I'll let you be the judge. :) And hey, guys? Please don't forget to leave a review or two. They bring me to happy tears, and I have a couple of tissue boxes that need to be used. ;) Thank you (TIMES ONE HUNDRED) and I hope you enjoy!

Disclaimer: I - very unfortunately - do not own Criminal Minds or the lyrics to "Don't You Want Me."

She just couldn't stop watching him.

Glancing behind her at the empty corridor, Emily let out a relieved sigh – nobody was there but her. From her hiding place behind a tall, fake plant at the corner of the bullpen, she was invisible to the object of her desires.

Emily bit back a moan as she watched Hotch hurriedly write notes on the whiteboard before him for later consultations, the action causing the toned muscles in his forearms to ripple. He had previously rolled his sleeves up to his elbows, and Emily practically had to slap herself to keep from salivating.

As he brought a steaming cup of coffee to his lips and closed his eyes in pleasure as the warm liquid caressed the back of his throat, Emily was convinced.

Aaron Hotchner was the most perfect male specimen she had ever laid eyes upon.

Her gaze following him as he exited the bullpen, Emily let her mind wander. No matter what he was doing, what he was saying, or what he was wearing, Emily just couldn't tear her eyes away.

In short, he was gorgeous.

Emily had spun her fair share of fantasies with stemmed from her little watching excursions – all of which ended in her on top of his desk and him on top of her. Naked. God, sometimes she just wanted to take him by his tie, push him up against the nearest wall, rip off his clothes and –

"Prentiss?"

In a state of mingled fright and surprise, Emily spun around wildly and…

…knocked Hotch's coffee cup out of his hands.

Her eyes widened and a hand flew to her mouth in shock. "Oh my God, Hotch, I'm so sorry!"

He shook his head absentmindedly, grimacing as the scalding hot liquid forged a path down his chest. "It's fine."

Frantically searching for something, anything, to stop to spread of the gradually widening stain, Emily scanned the room.

There, on the nearest desk, was a box of Kleenex.

Making a crazed dash towards it, she grabbed several before madly wiping the coffee off of his shirt with fast strokes.

"Prentiss. Prentiss. Emily." Hotch stilled the woman's hand. "It's fine," he said again. "I'm okay."

"Sorry," she muttered guiltily, avoiding his gaze.

"It's just a shirt. I have plenty."

"And a mug."

He glanced at the shattered ceramic shards at their feet. "I have plenty of those, too." Then, he asked the question on his mind. "Why were you behind a plant?"

"Oh." Emily couldn't suppress the blush that crept up her neck. "I…ummm…I was looking for my…my…my cell phone! Yeah, I lost my cell phone and I thought it would be a good idea to look back here."

"Behind a fake plant?" Emily said nothing. "And during your lunch break, too. I thought you had gone out with Garcia and Seaver."

"I already ate," she said quickly.

"Hmmm. Okay." His gaze fell to her hip. "Well, if it's any help, your cell phone is right there."

A beat of silence passed. "You found it! And in such an obvious place, too. Silly me." She internally slapped herself. Way to go, dumbass. Just shut up already. "I'll, uh…" She glanced around nervously. "I'll find a broom and dust pan somewhere."

"I can –"

But she had already darted away, looking more flustered – but just as sexy – as Hotch had ever seen.

~.~.~

Unbeknownst to Emily, Hotch watched as she danced with Morgan, tossing her head back in carefree laughter. God, how he wanted to be the one whose arms she was in, who made her laugh and smile like that.

He shook his head. Don't go down that road again. He tried to tear his gaze away, but as he focused on the ice cold beer in front of him, his mind wandered to the brunette anyway.

They had just finished a huge case. The rest of the team was heading out to the nearest bar, but he…he was planning on finishing up some paperwork in his office.

Emily had convinced him otherwise.

"Come on, Hotch," she had practically whined. "It'll be fun! I mean, hey, I don't know much about you, I'll admit, but I know enough to say that you could use a drink. Or two."

And so, he had gone.

Part of her earlier statement rang in his ears. She really didn't know much about him – hell, none on the team really did. Emily knew the basics, but what she didn't know…

Emily didn't know that Hotch often watched her from his office. She didn't know that he had made it a habit to catalog every small thing about her – what made her bite her nails, exactly how many packets of Splenda she put in a single cup of coffee, what she was thinking when she flipped her hair or worried away at her bottom lip. She didn't know that he followed her home sometimes – for her safety, and…for something else.

She didn't know that he, her boss, was, in short, obsessed with her.

Emily came running up to him then, her face flushed and bright. "Let's dance, Hotch."

She apparently didn't know that he was a horrible dancer, either.

And the song that was playing…dangerous territory.

"Don't…don't you want me? You know I don't believe it when you say that you don't need me," he heard her belt. She tugged on his hand, then pouted when he didn't budge. "I love this song. And I've danced with everyone tonight but you. Even Reid. It's your turn." And oh, did I save the best for last.

"Emily, how many drinks have you had?"

"Not enough," she yelled over Philip Oakey's voice crooning, "Don't you want me, baby? Don't you want me, ohhh?" She gave him a no-nonsense look that rivaled even his. "Come on."

And because he was wrapped around her little finger – another fact that Emily didn't know – he went.

"I was working as a waitress in a cocktail bar, that much is true. But even then I knew I'd find a –" Hotch cut her off as he accidentally stepped on her stiletto-clad feet.

"I'm so sorry," he said, glancing at her feet warily, half expecting to see blood gushing out of one. Or both.

She shook her head idly, her mind still on the music. "Don't worry about it," she said, raising her voice to be heard. "My feet are already numb from Rossi. He's awful. At least you're better than him."

"Not even Reid?" he asked, half-heartedly trying to distract himself from the feel of Emily's body moving against his.

"Nope." She bit back a smile. "Sorry, Hotch."

"Oh, good."

Emily couldn't help but laugh at the sarcasm in his voice. At her jubilant laughter, Hotch felt pleasure course through his veins. I made her laugh.

Mere seconds later, they were both singing at the tops of their lungs. "You may not b able to dance, but you sure as hell can sing," she said frankly.

His pride swelled. Not knowing how to respond, he went with, "You, too."

She arched a perfectly manicured eyebrow. "Are you saying I can't dance?"

Hotch's eyes went wide. "No, I…no! I meant that you…that I…oh, forget it," he grumbled. Damn it, she makes me so nervous.

Emily grinned. Oh, he's so cute. "I'm just playing with you." Then: "Don't you want me, baby?"

I do. "Don't you want me, ohhh?"

Hot damn, I do.

They ended up dancing to – and singing along with – the next four songs.

And neither had any intention of stopping.

~.~.~

Hotch followed her home that night.

Two cars behind and one to the left, he tailed her all the way to her brownstone. He watched as she grabbed the bag of cat food and the pint of ice cream she had stopped by the supermarket to buy, her purse, her go-bag, and a couple of files from the trunk of her car, somehow opening the door of her home and entering without dropping anything. He saw several lights go on, saw her silhouette puttering about the living room. He saw her bend to feed Sergio. Then, he saw her stop in the middle of the room and look around, as if having forgotten something.

It was when Emily returned to her car that Hotch knew his cover had been blown.

One more grocery bag in hand, Emily approached him slowly. "Hotch? Is that you?" There was a pause as she positively identified him. "What are you doing here?"

Not stalking you, I swear to God! "Making sure you made it home without being killed in a drunk driving accident," he said without hesitation, giving her his repeatedly rehearsed excuse.

How chivalrous. "Oh. Well, do you want to come up for a few minutes?" I'm feeling rather daring tonight and you're the most beautiful man I've ever seen. "For…coffee. Or something." Coffee meaning hot, passionate, bone-melting sex.

Coffee? Is she joking? She had, what, ten shots of tequila? He glanced at his watch. Eleven-fifteen. Eh. Why not? "Sure, thanks."

Emily grinned. "Then follow me, sir."

And that was that.

THE END.

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