Disclaimer: I do not own Criminal Minds, I am making no profit from the writing of this fic.
smacky30 encouraged me and only called me neurotic once and then she betaed because she's awesome like that; but I messed with it afterwards, so all mistakes are mine.
When Rossi arrives at the BAU for the first time in nearly three weeks there is a distinct lack of the usual noise; the murmur of voices is absent, as is the clacking of keyboard keys and humming of printers. It makes sense considering the bullpen and offices are mostly deserted. It's mid morning on a Friday and he asks Reid, just coming back from the coffee pot, cup in one hand and a report in the other, where everyone is.
"Hey. Welcome back." Reid's voice is absent as he continues to study the report. "Hotch and JJ are in a procedure meeting with Strauss." He grimaces, and Rossi is pretty sure it was unconscious. "Morgan and Prentiss are both at the range for recertification." Reid uses the piece of paper in his hand to indicate the remainder of the desks. "Seminar on social networking sites being used as recruitment tools for terrorists."
Of course, Rossi doesn't care where the usual occupants of the bullpen are. He's not even all that concerned about Hotch, JJ and Morgan. He's really only interested in one occupant of one desk.
Still, he needs to at least pretend he cares about more. "Everything wrap up with the case all right?"
They'd been finishing up a multiple missing persons' case in South Carolina when he'd had to leave the rest of the team tying up the loose ends and fly straight to Illinois to spend a week and a half giving expert testimony in a spree killer case. Dave's talked to Hotch at least a dozen times since his plane took off from Charleston International Airport ten days ago. He knows the only thing keeping Hotch from closing the South Carolina case is the report currently in his briefcase, so he only half listens to what Reid has to say about the resolution of the case and the suspect's suicide.
Eventually, Reid winds down and Rossi thanks him for the information and excuses himself. He puts his report in the middle of Hotch's desk and moves to his own office. He's not all that interested in catching up on his paperwork or anything else, but he does want to see Prentiss, wants to lean over her at her desk and breathe in the scent of her hair when he murmurs a suggestion for her to come to his house for dinner tonight. Garcia and JJ both wear a floral scent, but Emily wears something spicy and crisp; it reminds him of summer nights in Tuscany.
Sighing at the sight of the multiple piles of paperwork on his desk, he drops into his desk chair. He really hopes she doesn't have plans tonight, he needs to bury his face in her fragrant hair and feel her arms wrapped around him. Hell, he hopes she doesn't have plans for the whole weekend.
Getting sappy in my old age, he thinks, opening the file at the top of the first stack.
It's a secure facility, so all deliveries are cleared through the front gate, then left with security at the front desk. If the local florist has any deliveries they usually arrive early in the afternoon and since the guards' shifts are overlapping, usually one of them is glad for the distraction and walks them to the appropriate office or desk fairly soon thereafter.
Rossi looks up, pen in hand, from the file in front of him just in time to see the burly guard with the extremely large flower arrangement stop at Reid's desk and ask a question. Rossi has to smile, because Reid probably doesn't take up a third of the space the guard does; but the smile doesn't last long when he sees Reid point to Prentiss's desk. The moving mountain that is the guard nods his thanks and places the arrangement on Emily's desk, says something in parting to Reid who smiles and nods at the man.
Reid cranes his neck; quickly checking the area to see if anyone is looking, then moves to Emily's desk and leans over the bouquet, studying the card, looking for all the world as though he's trying to read through the envelope. If Rossi thought the kid had a chance at success, he'd give Reid a hundred bucks to tell him exactly who was sending Emily Prentiss flowers.
Rossi studies the obviously expensive cascading blossoms and frowns as Spencer fidgets around it. It might be worth a grand to know.
Dave's Uncle Sal had been a florist and had given Dave an afterschool job sweeping the floors and making late deliveries back when what type of flower, what color someone sent, had meaning. The meaning of red roses is well known and universal: love, passion, desire. Dave finds himself quite relieved not to see any red roses in the arrangement since most of the flowers appear to be lavender or a muted purple. But modern florists seem to have lost the art of sending messages with flowers; it's all about the arrangement to them. Still, he spots at least half a dozen lavender roses and he knows, thanks to good old Uncle Sal, what they mean: you are enchanting.
Emily Prentiss is enchanting, there's no doubt about that. She's exceptional and beautiful, smart and witty, stubborn and fiery, endearingly awkward and god, when she's convicted about something, anybody standing in her way better move, fast.
He frowns harder and realizes somewhat sourly he is jealous, and he doesn't even know if he has reason to be. Just because someone has sent her flowers doesn't mean someone is pursuing her. Still, there's a niggling voice in the back of his head (it has a nasty cadence to it, much like his second wife's voice the last two years of their marriage), you haven't seen her alone for three weeks and you've never given her so much as a single dandelion.
"Dave, whatever your pen did, I don't think it deserves that kind of punishment," Hotch's voice, slightly amused, interrupts his bitchy inner-voice and Rossi realizes he does have a death grip on his Mont Blanc. Any more pressure and it's likely to break in two, and that would be a waste since his publisher probably paid more for it than Dave paid for his watch.
Relaxing his fingers, he grimaces. "Thinking too hard, I guess." He inclines his head towards Strauss's office. "How's it going?"
"Not bad. We just broke for lunch." The younger man nods towards the pile of paperwork on Rossi's desk. "Want to grab a bite and catch up?"
A distraction is exactly what he needs right now; sitting here brooding isn't going to do him any good. Tossing the pen on the desk, he stands and grabs his jacket. "Sounds good."
With any other lunch companion, he might have brooded anyway. But it's not like Hotch is a nonstop conversationalist, and if Dave indulges in too much speculation about the sender of the flowers Hotch will not only call him on it, he'll bust his ass until he gives up the reason. So, he pays attention to what Aaron has to say about Strauss and procedures over ham and turkey on whole wheat. Then he offers opinions of his own, but none of it is so engrossing that the feeling of an unanswered question leaves his mind.
Even if Prentiss went on a date with someone (the bitchy voice is back and reminds him he's taken her to bed, he's taken her in the shower and he's taken her up against a wall but taken her on a date? No.), he knows she didn't sleep with anyone. They've been doing this for over five months; three months ago, they'd both passed their yearly physicals, including clean blood work. There had been a painfully awkward conversation about birth control patches and exclusivity. They decided to stop using condoms, with a promise to let each other know if exclusivity changed.
And besides, Prentiss wouldn't do that.
Hotch has finished with his sandwich and his analysis of Strauss's current motivations, so Rossi asks him about Jack just to watch Aaron's usually solemn face light up. When Hotch starts talking about the upcoming weekend he has planned with his son, Rossi smiles, puts the flowers out of his mind and really pays attention to what his friend has to say about Jack and his current obsession with all things dinosaur related.
When they get back to the unit, they meet JJ outside in the hall returning from her own lunch. She greets Dave with a smile and a teasing, "Finally decided to come back to work, huh?" then starts running over some phone calls Hotch missed during the morning's meeting. As soon as the doors open they head immediately towards Strauss's office and when they clear his sight line, Dave sees Prentiss at her desk, on the phone. She's wearing a deep red blouse and her hair is smoothed up into a ponytail the way she usually does when she's going to be handling a gun. He likes her hair down but he also likes the way the ponytail leaves her graceful neck on elegant display.
The flowers are nowhere in sight.
He's torn between being glad they're gone and suspicion about why she got rid of them so quickly.
Her eyes catch his and she gives him a wide and welcoming smile; it's unconscious but it's a lover's smile full of warmth and heat. Rather than worried someone else might see, he finds himself feeling relieved and then wonders if he has the right to feel anything like that. He's not so much of a fool he would have ever said what they're doing was just about the sex. They understand each other in the way only two people with the same kind of high stress job can. Their schedules match and they're just as likely to spend a night talking as they are testing the limits of his bedsprings. It was never meant to be forever, but it's good.
When they started this, he figured he had a year, eighteen months at the most. They're at different places in their lives, and at some point she's going to realize exactly how close to forty she is and the ticking of her biological clock is going to increase to about eight decibels. Feeling a little shame when he acknowledges it to himself, he is honest enough to admit he figured he'd have had his fill by the time she was ready to move on. Trouble is, it isn't happening that way, because the message of the lavender roses is apt: Emily Prentiss is enchanting.
The look on her face has changed to one of questioning concern and he realizes he's been standing by her desk staring at her while she said "uh huh, uh huh" into the phone at oddly spaced intervals. He's probably distracting her and he's done enough staring, so he jerks his head towards his office, an indication she should come see him when she's off the phone. She nods, gives him a half smile and he heads up the ramp.
It turns out he's on the phone with the prosecutor from the Illinois case when she comes into his office and he knows he'll be awhile, so he puts the litigator on hold. Prentiss has taken her hair down from the ponytail and he finds himself nearly over come with the urge to go to her so he can slip his hand between the cool silk of her hair and the warm skin of her neck and kiss her. He doesn't of course, but it's going to be the first thing he does when he's alone with her. "Dinner tonight? My place?"
Her smile is soft and happy and he feels most of his doubts melt away, at least for the moment.
"That would be great." Her eyes dart to the hall to make sure no one is within earshot. "Are you okay? You looked a little…fierce out there."
There's no way to tell her what's been going through his head this afternoon, so he just gives her a half smile and shakes his head, and uses the same excuse he used with Hotch, "Thinking too hard." Before she has time to dwell on what he's thinking so hard about, he indicates the phone in his hand. "Seven o'clock?"
"Yeah." She bites her lip and shoves her hands in her pockets. "See you then." Moving toward the door, she glances back at him over her shoulder. He gets the feeling she would have said something more if he hadn't already resumed his phone call. As he listens to the prosecutor ask him about relevant points to cover in closing arguments, he wonders what she was going to say until he catches the lingering scent of her perfume. Then he has to close his eyes in order to concentrate on his conversation.
***
All of the ingredients are on hand, it's simply a matter of assembling the lasagna, something he's done so often he's pretty sure he could do it blindfolded and drunk with one hand tied behind his back. Which leaves him plenty of time to think, which is exactly what he doesn't want to do; so, he puts a few cds in the player (Il Divo, followed by The Three Tenors and just to be completely cliché, he thinks, he adds a disc of early Sinatra), pours a glass of wine and concentrates on dinner.
It had taken every bit of self control and cynicism he possessed not to stop at a florist on the way home and pick up a dozen roses. Red, of course.
The lasagna has been in the oven for forty five minutes and he's just finished putting a salad together when she comes through the door. She's changed into jeans and a gauzy top the shade of ripe plums and he doesn't give her time to speak before he's moved across the kitchen and pulled her in for a kiss, just as he'd imagined doing in his office. His fingers slide smoothly against her skin until his hand is cupping the back of her neck and he registers the heat of her skin on his palm and the cool of her hair on the back of his hand just before his lips touch hers. Then there's the softness of her lips under his and there's just not a lot of thinking to be done in the face of that.
He runs his tongue over her bottom lip and she makes a happy, breathy noise and opens her mouth to him and he doesn't have to be invited twice. Wrapping his other arm around her he pulls her body flush with his, his fingers whispering delicately over the skin of her neck while his tongue invades her mouth, testing and savoring at the same time. He feels her arms go around him and he sighs with satisfaction and deepens the kiss, losing himself completely in the taste and feel of her.
Not for the first time since he and Emily became lovers he finds himself nearly forgetting to breathe through the kiss he gets so into it so fast and he has to hold himself back from escalating the action. He gentles the movements of his mouth and breaks the kiss, rubbing his cheek against hers, then planting a kiss at the corner of her mouth.
"Wow." Her tongue passes over her lips, as if she's tasting the remnants of the kiss. Her fingers are in his hair, massaging lightly and he closes his eyes to memorize the feeling. "How about I go out and come in again all night long?"
He laughs and feels some of his tension leave him. "If you stay in, it might get better."
She hums against his face, pressing little kisses along his jaw. "It always does."
"I've missed you." He hadn't intended to say anything remotely so telling or emotional, but she doesn't seem surprised or react as though he's crossed some invisible boundary.
"Missed you, too." Her breath ghosts against him as she kisses his ear and presses closer. "Take me upstairs and I'll show you how much."
He smiles against her hair. "No can do, Prentiss. Dinner is in the oven and once I get you upstairs we're not coming back down."
The noise she makes does his ego an enormous amount of good. "I'd be willing to forgo dinner."
Pulling back, he looks at her severely. "You would waste my lasagna?"
"Oh, wait, you didn't say it was lasagna." Disengaging from his embrace, she makes a show of sniffing the air, then makes motions with both of her hands as though they are opposing plates on a scale, shifting one above the other, back and forth. "Dave's lasagna, instant sexual gratification. Dave's lasagna, instant sexual gratification."
His eyebrows climb into his forehead, "Instant sexual gratification?"
Pursing her lips, she considers for a moment, then resumes miming the scales. "More immediate sexual gratification, Dave's lasagna."
"It's not up for discussion, Prentiss." The scowl he gives her only makes her laugh. "It'll be ready in 20 minutes."
The sigh she heaves is huge and put upon. "We could do plenty with twenty minutes."
His lips are twitching as he turns to pour her a glass of wine. "Why do I suddenly feel like a sexual object?"
Emily laughs, and the sound makes his stomach jump in a very nice way. "I thought that was every man's dream."
Narrowing a disapproving gaze at her, he hands over her glass. "I suppose there's a certain male ideal about a completely attachment free sexual experience, but I'm not sure it could ever live up to expectation." He's not sure why he's shifted from teasing to sounding like he's giving the introduction to a profile, but there's a slight straightening in her posture and he knows she is intent on his every word.
"That's an interesting theory, but a lot of men seem to make it their goal." Her voice is somewhere between amused and challenging and she sets her glass on the counter.
Turning, he grabs the salad bowl and sets it on the second shelf in the refrigerator, giving himself time to wonder if this is a personal or professional conversation. But that's the thing with Prentiss, she keeps blurring a lot of lines for him.
"A lot of men are seeking the conquest; they're goal oriented. Get the girl, have the orgasm, move on."
He swipes at the countertop with the sponge from the sink and levels her with a look. "Some women, too."
Holding up both hands in a gesture of concession, she leans a hip against the cabinet. "Not arguing that at all. I assumed your theory extended to women as well."
"It's not a theory, it's basic mammalian data." This was certainly skating into dangerous territory and Emily's eyes have rounded, as though it's suddenly occurred to her they're discussing more than theories. He begins clarifying as he washes the knife he used for the salad. "Some would say we're at our most vulnerable physically when we're having sex: naked, exposed, distracted, consumed by the sensory impact. But there is a good deal of emotional vulnerability, too. Ultimately, the goal is to completely collapse ourselves into the sensations, to completely let go; to do that there has to be trust between the partners."
Carefully, he dries the knife with the dishtowel, making sure to remove all the moisture from the blade. "At minimum, there has to be trust that your partner won't do you physical harm. The different levels climb from there: they won't steal from you, harm your environment, become a stalker, laugh at the way you look naked, make fun of what turns you on." He slides the knife back into its slot in the rack. "There's no way to have that kind of trust with someone we've just met. So, something has to suffer with the encounter. If there's no trust then it's the amount we're able to sink into the physical experience. If there's trust, then there's a certain amount of emotional intimacy, which blows the non-attachment scenario all to Hell."
Tilting her head, she motions with her hand between the two of them. "That's why this works so well, isn't it? There's trust without a lot of expectation."
That was not the point he started out to make so her conclusion is completely unexpected. But things seem to be taking those turns today. "Prentiss." Placing his wine glass down on the countertop beside hers with a clink as the glass meets the granite, he moves toward her. "Emily." He slips his arms around her. "There's one reason this works so well. Because you are an incredible woman."
Her cheeks flush and she buries her head against his shoulder. "I don't know what to say when you say things like that."
Shrugging slightly, he runs a hand over her back. "You could say 'thank you' or you could say 'I know' or, my personal favorite would be, 'my god, Dave, do you have to be right all the time?'"
He feels her laughing against him and he's glad for unexpected turns, so he takes another, not bothering with a smooth segue. "Who sent you flowers today?"
"What?" She pulls back to look at him, clearly confused, then her face clears. "Oh. You saw those?" At his nod, she frowns. "My father."
Dave suddenly feels like a world class idiot. He doesn't know why her parents hadn't occurred to him. "Special occasion?"
Snorting, she rolls her eyes. "Other than the general Prentiss hubris? No."
The note of disgust in her voice causes his eyebrow to cock. "I wasn't aware there was such a thing."
"Oh, believe me, there is." Moving out of his arms, she picks up her wine glass by the stem, turning it in a slow circle, her gaze unfocused and a little bit pained.
"He and the ambassador have never divorced." She looks up then, and her lips quirk down briefly in that look he knows means she's not happy about what she's about to reveal. "They came to an amicable and civilized agreement when I was six. They divvied up the assets and agreed to appear in public together when absolutely necessary." Taking a sip of her wine, she meets his gaze and he winces at the bleakness he sees in her eyes. "I'm sure there was some sort of custody arrangement and I honestly don't know if it was my mother's postings or he just didn't care, but…" She tilts her head down and back up and he has the odd impression she's trying to clear her throat with the movement. "I would go years without seeing him. But, every year, on the anniversary of the day he left, he sends a present…a doll, a book, jewelry. He hasn't remembered my birthday in over twenty years, but this he remembers." The shrug she gives tries to be nonchalant, but the way she bites her lip makes his chest ache. "The last few years he's sent flowers."
"Emily…" Words fail him. He's torn between wanting to comfort her and going out and finding her father to kick his ass. And there's no small part of him that feels like an ass for having worried about it, for having asked her to begin with.
He also wishes he had gotten those roses. Emily deserves flowers given to her for the right reasons. Emily deserves so much more than anyone has ever given her.
Shaking her head, she smiles. "It's okay. Really." She reaches out and runs a hand lightly over his sleeve. "I gave them to Garcia; she loved them."
Tugging her close, he touches his lips softly to her forehead, holding onto her, just holding. Then he tips her head back and begins gently kissing her face; one kiss to each of her cheeks, then each of her eyelids and finally to her lips. His hands are stroking through her hair as he presses kiss after kiss to her mouth. It's only a minute before her lips are clinging to his, her mouth opening under his and they've moved from tender and comforting to passionately intense. She does this to him every damn time, he loses himself in her so fast. It's so easy to forget everything but Emily…Emily's mouth, Emily's face, Emily's hands, Emily's body…the way she tastes, the way she smells, the way she feels. As soon as one kiss breaks, he takes a breath and then loses himself again.
The timer goes off and they're both startled. Rossi moves quickly and takes the lasagna from the oven. It still needs to rest before it should be served and frankly, he's lost his appetite and from the look on Emily's face she doesn't have much of one either. They can come down and eat if they get hungry later. And if they don't, well, he's wasted far worse things in life than lasagna. This opportunity to be with her is not going to be one of those things.
He moves back to her, rests his hands against her cheeks. "Still want to go upstairs?"
Her smile is luminous and the sadness has mostly cleared from her eyes. "That depends," she tilts her head and kisses his wrist. "Still feel objectified?"
Wrapping his arm around her, he gives a low chuckle. "I'm willing to live with it." He knows the sudden change in temperature isn't good for the pasta dish, but he slides it into the refrigerator anyway. Then he tugs her out of the kitchen and up the stairs, stopping at intervals along the way to kiss her over and over again, pressed against the wall, on the stairs, in the hall.
Once they're in the bedroom, she lets him begin to undress her slowly. He pays attention to every patch of skin as it comes into view under his hand. Her blouse is the first thing to go and he licks his way across her collarbones, loving the way her head falls back when his lips climb her neck and how she shivers when he licks her ear. His teeth graze her earlobe and she moans. Even though they've been doing this for months he feels like he discovers something new every time he touches her.
Gently, he pushes her down on the end of the bed and slips his fingers inside her jeans, rubbing against her stomach and feeling the moist heat rising from her. Squirming, she pants, "David" only it sounds like "Dave-Id" as if she's in the bedroom with Dave and his id. Which one, he wonders, does she want to fuck her?
He shifts his fingers and undoes the button on her jeans and peels them off of her. When they hit the floor, she's resting on her elbows and her look is unapologetically hungry and not for lasagna. She extends her leg and runs her toes up the leg of his jeans and into interesting territory. "Off."
His eyebrow quirks and he tries to think of a witty retort, but the flow of blood to the part of his brain in charge of repartee appears to be redirected…elsewhere. He settles for something between dry and sarcastic as he pulls his shirt over his head. "Yes, ma'am."
She's reclining on the end of the bed in a matching bra and panty set the same color as her blouse. The silky material catches the light every time she moves and he doesn't take his eyes off of her as he sheds his jeans and boxers. He's hard. He has been since the kitchen and the look on her face just makes him that much harder. Her gaze is nearly feral as she looks at him. Maybe, if he were less sure of himself it would make him self-conscious, but the weight of her eyes on him and the desire so clearly on her face only cranks up how turned on he gets with her.
Climbing on to the bed, he begins kissing his way up her body, listening to the different noises she makes when he kisses her left ankle, her right shin, her right knee, her left thigh, the edge of both hips. Breathing in the incredible smell of her, he presses his tongue to the edge of her panties, wetting skin and silk together, testing the feel of both textures on his tongue. He feels her shiver as she strokes her leg against his side.
Rubbing his goatee back and forth across her stomach several times he smiles when she whimpers, but she nearly bolts off the bed when he dips his tongue into her navel. So, he does it again, just to feel her arch beneath him, warm and alive and so, so beautiful. He maps her body with his hands as he kisses her stomach, fingers dancing over her arms, tracing her ribs.
Prentiss isn't quiet; she never has been with him. She moans and sighs, groans and whimpers, and every noise she makes just makes him a little bit harder, makes him want her all the more. She's touching him wherever she can reach; his hair, his biceps, his shoulders, his upper back. Her touch is a heady, heady thing, more intoxicating than any wine and his vision narrows to this room, this bed, this woman beneath his hands and mouth.
Just below her right breast, she has four freckles that, with a little imagination, form a crescent; he leans in to connect the dots and draws the moon over and over again with his tongue as she hums and sighs beneath him. His hands cup her breasts through her bra and he is amazed at how her body heats up the silky material and it feels a little like he feels when he's buried inside her, soft and hot at the same time.
He pays exquisite attention to every millimeter of skin when he finally unclasps her bra and draws it away from her body. Her nipples are hard and he runs his thumb across one, while lavishing the other with attention from his tongue which causes her to buck beneath him; he laughs.
"Dave," she groans, "now, please."
"Shhh," he hums against her breast, "I'm busy here." But he does move his leg between hers and feels her begin to rub against him immediately. There's a smell of musk and sweat hanging in the air and it melds with Emily's perfume and he's suddenly overcome with the thought of taking her to Tuscany. They could rent a villa in the country and make love with the windows open. He wants to taste that on her skin. He wants to give her happy memories of Italy.
"Dave, fuck me. Now." Her voice is rough and she grinds against his leg a little desperately and he brings himself back into this moment with a bit of a bump. Rossi can feel how wet she is even through the silk as she presses against his thigh and he makes soothing noises against her as he slips his hand inside her panties. She's warm and she's wet and he slides two fingers against her, then into her and he thinks he might be insane not to give her what she wants.
But then his confidence in his sanity returns when he gets to see the way her whole body arches in response when his thumb brushes over her clit then how her chest flushes as his hand finds a rhythm that matches the movement of her hips, fucking her with his fingers. He keeps brushing over her clit lightly, erratically, but then he presses and she cries out, so he does it again and damn, he sees it, watches it as every muscle in her body seems to tense to the point of shaking. Then, then, there it is, and it's a thing of beauty. He sees the moment of perfect stillness and tension and just for an instant he wants to be inside her head, so he can feel what she feels.
Then he sees the release, watches her unfurl, let go, collapse and he can't name the feeling in the middle of his chest. There's something about Emily Prentiss that completely unmans him, tears him down, leaves him feeling shaky and vulnerable, but at the same time heals him and gives him hope. All he knows for sure is that she is beautiful, maybe the most beautiful thing he's ever seen, and he's grateful to be with her. He thinks of that as he presses light kisses over her face while she slowly comes back to herself.
When she opens her eyes, her smile is slow and a little bit lazy. Her hand is on the back of his head and she pulls him forward, "Come here, you." She kisses him then, hard and deep, his cock pressing into her soft belly, her breasts rubbing against his chest and he can feel her moving from satiation towards arousal again. All of his nerve endings feel like they're on fire and he honestly doesn't know if he could be any more aroused, but he keeps kissing her just to prolong the moment, just to hold onto this time with her in his arms.
Emily, however, has other ideas. She appears to be trying to wriggle out of her panties without breaking contact with his mouth. Considering he's currently resting between her thighs, he thinks that might be a bit challenging, and if he wasn't so interested in being inside her he might have teased her by refusing to move. But the friction of her hips and panties have added a new layer to his arousal, so he moves off of her and helps her slide the panties off. He flings them away with so much force, he wonders if she'll be able to find them later. He doesn't care; he'll buy her a dozen pair tomorrow. Hell, he'd be just as happy if she never wore any again. Well, he mentally amends, at least around him.
Then he stops thinking all together when she wraps her hand around his cock and pumps him. He's leaking pre-ejaculate and he can feel it spread between her hand and his erection. But when she brings her hand up to her mouth and licks the fluid off the palm of her hand with a broad brush of her tongue, that is just about all he can take. He crowds her up against the pillows and kisses her, hot and open mouthed, tasting the perfect mixture of the two of them on her tongue. And he's pretty sure if he doesn't fuck her soon his head is going to explode.
Prentiss seems to feel the same way, reaching for him, brushing the head of his cock against herself, once, twice, three times and she moans.
"Emily…" he wonders if that's really his voice, so completely overtaken with raw need.
"Yes." Her own voice is something between a growl and a groan when she puts him in and he slides forward into her.
He holds for a minute, completely buried in her, and lets the sensation flow over him. But there's so much to feel surrounded by her warm wetness, his skin touching hers, the smell of sex heavy in the air, the sight of her flushed face and bright eyes that he's half afraid his nervous system is going to short circuit from overload. Then she's kissing him, her mouth is hot and wet and her tongue tangles with his and they're both a little bit frantic again as he starts to move.
She follows him, moves with him and god, he doesn't know how he's going to last. Then, she wraps her legs around his waist and he feels his eyes roll back and he's sure he's not going to last. He grits his teeth and listens to the noises she makes as he moves in her and he's relieved to hear she's just as desperate and probably just as close as he is. Shifting a little, he angles his hips so he's bumping her clit with every forward thrust and she goes a little crazy under him gasping and wriggling, and he knows it's okay to stop thinking.
Sinking fully into the sensations, he sinks further into her, tasting and testing, searching and savoring with every move of his body against hers. He's lost and she's home and he's fighting against saying things she might not believe so all he says over and over is, "Emily" infusing it with all the feeling he has for her. "Emily," a sigh. "Emily," a groan. "Emily," a gasp. It's all he can give her when he wants to give her everything.
Her hands are suddenly cupping his face and it grounds him. She must sense something he needs from her when he isn't even sure what it is. Her voice is breathy and beautiful as she answers him, "I'm here, Dave, I'm right here with you." He wraps his arms around her, wanting nothing more than to stay like this, part of her, moving with her, forever.
But there's nothing deep enough, nothing close enough, so his hips push into her a little faster and when he hears her cry out and feels her begin to clench around him there's no way he can stop, no way he can ride it out, so he lets go and falls with her, gasping, holding her tighter, pumping faster, driving into her, wanting to be part of her. Falling and falling and falling.
It's her hands that bring him back. She's lightly stroking down his arms and back. Then he's aware she's touching his face with light, small kisses. He's not sure he's really capable of movement yet and he certainly doesn't want to, but he knows he's too heavy to stay like this. Turning his head, he kisses her and rolls, bringing her with him. Emily is a warm, solid weight in his arms and he thinks she might already be half asleep; he certainly is. He rouses himself enough to speak, "Em?"
"Umm?" Her eyes are closed and her head is against his shoulder. He always enjoys the sight of her fair skin against him; the contrast is beautiful to him.
"You have any plans this weekend?" He touches his lips to the top of her head.
She shakes her head and rubs her nose against him.
"Spend it with me?" He doesn't know why he needs to ask now, it could have waited until morning, but there's something in him that needs to know.
"Brought my bag," she mumbles. "Lemme sleep."
He smiles. It's still early and he knows she'll probably wake up around midnight and demand he feed her and that's fine with him. They can eat dinner, make love again and sleep late in the morning. A weekend with Prentiss has limitless possibilities.
But he's getting her those roses tomorrow.