A/N: Just a lil somethin' to tide us over until Wednesday ;p I got the inspiration for this from a short, sexy story I read, and couldn't help but imagine Morgan and Garcia in the same situation.

Disclaimer: As usual, I own nothing from Criminal Minds :( which is a damn shame if you ask me, Morcia 4EVER ;p, and all credit for the idea for this plot to Anne Calhourn's What She Needs.

…...

Sighing, Penelope Garcia rubbed her tired eyes and set about shutting down her computers after a long, gruelling case which had taken her team away for 11 days straight. They'd finally returned home, and she could rest easy again...which was exactly what she was planning on doing just as soon as she got the hell out of here.

She felt like she could sleep for a week and still be tired. Her superheroes had left an hour ago, but she'd had a couple of things she'd wanted to finish up before she left for the day, given that along with the rest of the team, she had been given 4 whole days off, she'd rather not have a pile of work to come back to.

Just as she was shrugging into her coat and collecting her bag, her cell rang. Huffing slightly and wondering which of her three phones had which ringtone, she finally located it, underneath the right strap of her bra. Her breath caught in her throat as she caught sight of the name lighting up the screen, and she brought the phone up to her ear with a shuddering sigh.

'Garcia.'

'I'm going to be at The Ruby Suites in an hour. Meet me there.'

Again her breath shuddered out of her, seemingly getting stuck in her throat as she takes in the deep, rumbling, sexy tone of his voice. She only knows two things in that moment; he wants to fuck her, and she will let him.

Because he knows the answer before she even picked the phone up, she decides to make him wait. Just a little bit. She makes her way home, locating the sexy underwear from the back of the drawer, where it's been waiting for this very occasion, and taking a long shower, making sure she's freshly shaved and smelling of his favourite strawberry and cream shower gel. She puts a lot of effort into her make up and hair, curling the blonde locks into big, bouncy curls which hang loosely around her shoulders, and choosing sexiness over boldness for her outfit tonight.

The knowledge of where she's going, to do what and with whom, makes the colours brighter, the shapes sharper as she drives downtown. Making her way across the marble lobby, she knows her stride must be portraying a confidence she doesn't feel, either that or the pencil skirt and tight, sheer sleeved blouse she's wearing are attracting the attention of a bunch of jacket-less, no tie business men, lounging at the front desk.

She makes sure not to make eye contact, her head held high, eyes forward, and her stride never losing pace as she ignores them. They are not what she is here for. They are not what she wants. Especially not tonight, when she can have him.

She feels like a fraud, walking through that opulent lobby, with its high vaulted ceilings and understated, elegant mirrors, reflecting the light beautifully. What they are about to do could just as easily have taken place in a rundown motel, with rooms to rent by the hour, but he, however, likes comfort and couldn't care less about the $300 a night bill.

The bar is behind a large atrium, but the waterfall doesn't quite mask the sound of her fuck me heels clicking against the floor. He knows making this walk by herself heightens her nerves and yet he leaves her to do it anyway.

As always, she stands in the doorway for a moment, her eyes searching, and her imaginative brain working overtime as just for a moment, she imagines that he has found someone equally willing and right there, and has taken her upstairs in the time it's taken her to get ready and come to him.

And then her eyes light on him, propped on a bar stool, looking especially scrumptious in charcoal dress pants, his crisp white shirt clinging to his upper torso with the top 3 buttons open, exposing just a little bit of his muscled, smooth, caramel chest. His sleeves are pushed up to his elbows, the suit jacket carelessly tossed across the neighbouring stool. The sight of his forearms, muscular and dusted with dark hair send a shock of lust straight to her pussy.

She knows how special he is. His well-earned muscles strain against his clothes, his handsome, chiselled face looks like something that should be on the cover of a magazine, and the distinct lack of a wedding ring only makes him more desirable. There is absolutely nothing average about him, he's a hard, dominant, masculine manly man. He looks like a man who could make a woman lose her mind. And he is. With a woman, on a bed stripped down to the bottom of the sheet, he is gifted. Which is why she is here. Out of the corner of her eye, she can see women of all ages anxious to catch his attention. Unfortunately for them, he catches sight of her and their eyes lock, lust smouldering between them, unspoken, as she makes her way to him, miraculously managing to make the journey without tripping over anything en-route.

As she sidles up beside him, he gives her a slow appraisal and nods his head in appreciation, just staying on the right side of insolent. 'You want a drink first?'

His voice stays calm, even when his eyes are churning with lust, their colour a deep, melting dark chocolate.

She tilts her head with indecisiveness and then shrugs slightly, propping herself up on the bar stool next to him. The bartender comes across, enquiring as to her order.

She considers her options, until finally, 'White wine, please.'

Usually, wine definitely wouldn't be her first choice, but this is an elegant place, full of elegant people, and she can only imagine the looks should she order a sex on the beach.

Openly eyeing her, the bartender stands for a few moments. She's not wearing a ring either, and she knows from experience that her companions presence doesn't necessarily mean that she's not fair game. Still, after a moment, he moves off to pour her wine.

Despite having not staked his claim in front of the bartender, once they are alone again, he slides his hand across the back of her stool, leaning close to whisper in her ear, 'nice blouse.'

She tips her head, indicating her increasing interest.

'Undo another button.'

Although her breath stops at his command, she lifts her hand anyway and flicks open the button resting just above the swell of her ample breasts. That is the button that keeps her from being slutty,

but he wants it undone, so she undoes it.

This is the rule they have. If she meets him, she must obey his every command, when he commands it. She's free to decline his invitation, but if she accepts, she must do what she's told. She always accepts.

The bartender returns with her wine and a flirtatious smile on his face. She doesn't smile back. When he left, her appearance was demure but appealing, now he can see cleavage and the edge of the black lace cups of her bra. His eyes flash to her chest, then over to the man sitting next to her, one hand resting on the back of the stool.

She doesn't need to look at him to know what expression he will have on his face; a grin too hard to be pleasant tells the bartender he should look elsewhere for his night's entertainment. That doesn't stop the bartender taking on last, longing look before moving away.

They sat in silence as he finished his beer and she drank her wine, her heart pounding in her chest, lust licking at her every nerve ending. Small talk isn't a part of this ritual.

She asked him once what he thought about, as they sat here, sipping their drinks before they made their way upstairs.

'Fucking you,' he'd said.

He didn't ask what she was thinking about. She couldn't help but replay those two words, everyday until he'd called her again. The next time he'd called, she'd shaken her head when he'd asked if she wanted a drink. Surprised, he'd escorted her to a room on the seventh floor and within 5 minutes, she'd been naked and writhing underneath him. She wanted him badly that night. Tonight, she wants a drink first, and he humours her.

Her subconscious thoughts have sparked a need in her, and without meaning to, she leans closer to him, the edges of her blouse parting just slightly, revealing her bountiful breast all the way down to the bow holding her bra together at the front.

He doesn't miss the little show playing out in front of him, and after two long swallows, finishing off his beer, he pulls himself down from the stool and tosses some bills on the bar, pulling his jacket on. He holds one hand out to her, palm up, in a command, not an invitation.

'You're done.'

As he has spoken, so shall it be. She hops down to stand next to him, his hand sliding across her back, splaying wide across the curve where her back meets her ass in a possessive gesture of ownership, not that he really has a right to be possessive, they're not dating.

As they walk across the lobby, she can sense peoples stares, they glance and then quickly look away. No doubt his hand on the curve of her butt, and her now indecently unbuttoned blouse advertise their primal intentions. She can feel the heat of his hand, his fingers rubbing gentle circles across her skin, and it's sending shockwaves through her body. As they board the elevator, she can feel her panties soaking before the doors even shut.

Once, when their room was on the top floor, he fucked her in this elevator, up against the doors. Just ten measured strokes, before the bell dinged and he calmly stepped away. She felt each purposeful thrust from tip to base and then back again, and it had left her unable to walk steadily without his hand on her waist. That night had been all about little teases and tastes, teasing her with a few thrusts, before pulling out of her to lick of suckle or caress, again and again, until she'd shamelessly begged him to fuck her.

Tonight though, he simply leans back against the wall and stares at her, arms folded across that muscular chest, one leg bent at the knee as his foot rests on the wall.

While he looks his fill, admiring her bountiful curves, she takes a moment to think about the different kinds of sex she's had. New love sex, lasting for hours and hours, relationship sex, the later stage, when fucking is as much maintenance as it is pleasure. Sex with him at The Ruby Suites is an adrenaline rush, it makes her feel as if her skin is too tight and she might burst out of it with the absolute blissful pleasure he evokes in her.

She doesn't know what these nights mean to him. She's never asked, and he's not here for her sparkling conversation.

The elevator doors open, and he indicates with a lazy tilt of his head that she should precede him. She puts a little extra sway into her hips as she walks, until just a moment later she feels his hand on her ass, half coping a feel and half guiding her to the right room.

He backs her into the door as it closes behind them, leaning in close to take her lips with his and give her the kiss she's been thinking about since he called. Their first kiss of the night is always slow, intense and aching, and when his lips slide over hers, his mouth open, she lets out a gasp of longing. He doesn't kiss like a man desperate to fuck, he kisses like a man who knows she is his for the taking.

In her heels, she doesn't have to tilt her head back to kiss him, nor does he have to bend all that far to capture her lower lip in his teeth. He wraps an arm around her waist, the other hand gripping the back of her neck in an effort to pull her closer. She palms his butt through material of his pants, and while she waits to feel his tongue, pushes against the impressive erection straining against his zipper.

Her reward for her eagerness is the slide of his tongue across hers. He likes her to be eager, but that eagerness doesn't guarantee immediate response, let alone satisfaction. The knowledge makes her soft, pliant, and so very, very hot. Without conscious thought, she grinds against him in time to the flickering licks of his tongue against hers.

His fingers flex and release against the nape of her neck, and heat surges through her at the evidence of his desire.

Whatever control she managed to take from him is lost in an instant, as his hands smooth down her back, over her bottom to her hips, where he drags the fabric of her skirt up enough just enough to expose the lower curve of her ass. His fingertips scratch gently, once, twice, and she shudders at the rough sensation, then he shoves her wet panties down to her upper thighs. One hand stays on her ass while the other moves lower, trailing over the curve of her hip, through her trimmed curls and into her core.

He hisses out a whisper. 'Jesus, Pen. Baby Girl, fuck.'

She feels no shame in how wet she is for him, how hot. Her pussy lips spread easily for him and his fingers slide through her slick heat, up into her dripping cunt, and she can't muffle her cry, 'Derek! Oh, yes, Derek, please!'