The first time they fuck it's almost by accident. It's been a shitty day already when Rossi smugly informs Hotch that it's raining outside, and he remembers that he left the windows cracked so the damn car wouldn't be an oven when he drove back to the hotel. So he grabs his coat and is flinging himself out the door when the pocket catches on something and rips and in any case by the time he reaches the parking lot the rain is pouring and the front seat of his car is dark with damp patches from the rain.
His "fuck!" is echoed by someone else and he looks up, and Prentiss is kneeling next to her car, her hair hanging in limp tangles around her head, soaked to the bone. Her grey skirt is riding up as she bends over, searching for something.
He splashes over to her. "Can I help?"
She's wrist deep in a muddy puddle that extends under her car. "Dropped my keys and my car's locked and it's going to be ruined." He could hear the tears in her voice.
He glances into the back seat of her car and sees a card and a canvas, slowly dissolving in the rain that's pounding in.
So even though this was his absolute last decent pair of dress pants that he had left on this trip he drops to his knees and sticks his hand in the cold dirty water and feels around. Her hand bumps into his a couple of times, his hip is pressed tightly against hers and they're wedged pretty close together between her car and someone's brown Toyota. He can hear her breath going in and out as she searches, hears the smothered sobs. Finally his hand finds something sharp and metallic and snatches them up.
"Here."
He hands her the keys and she presses the button to unlock her car. Nothing happens. No beep, no answering clunk of releasing lock. "Shit!" she says, and he doesn't think he's ever seen her so angry. The rain pounds down harder and her hands are shaking with cold. She's fumbling through them, looking for the ignition key, not finding it.
He takes the keys out of her hands and finds the key and sticks it in the lock and turns, the damned alarm goes off like it is the end of the world. But the door opens and she snatches it wide, almost slamming it into his head in her haste. She dives into the front seat and the alarm goes off, and she's holding her hand out.
"Keys!" she says.
He stands and grabs the keys out of the lock and hands them to her. She jams them into the ignition and he hears the dingdingding of the door-open alarm. She's stabbing at the buttons to raise the back windows, but she fumbles and gets it wrong and the windows slide silently down. At that moment a gust of wind blows a hat full of rain through the window and he can hear it spattering against the picture in the back seat of her car.
"Are you fucking kidding me?" she cries, as if her heart is breaking. She stabs at the buttons again and this time the windows go up and seals the back seat off from the rain. He looks down through the back windows and all the colors from the canvas were running together. The picture was ruined.
She doesn't have to look, she already knows. The driver's door is still open and the alarm is dining and she just slumps down and puts her head on her hands on the steering wheel. Hotch stands in the rain, rain dripping off his hair into his face. He doesn't know what to do, but he knows he can't leave her.
"Come on, we should go inside," he says, and reaches for her elbow. She jerks away, turning her head away.
Fine. He slams the driver's side door and splashes around to the other side, opens the passenger side door and slides in. Or rather, squishes in. the seat is almost awash. He slams the door and knows it's caught his coat but it's a wreck now anyway. He thinks he probably looks like some homeless bum. Great way to represent the BAU. He leans toward her and puts a hand tentatively on her neck.
"Prentiss? Are you okay?"
She turns her head, still resting it on her hands, and looks at him. She looks tired and angry. "Six months. I have been looking for that damn piece of art for six months Hotch."
He's never seen her this angry, except maybe once. He looks into the back seat, hoping that it wasn't as bad as he thinks, but yeah, it is. Whatever she looked for for six months now was just a runny mess.
"Why the hell didn't I put it in the trunk?" she whispers.
Hotch figures he may as well not be here for all her awareness of him. "I'm sorry," he says. Although it's sure as hell not his fault. "What was it for?"
Prentiss blinks, and now she's aware of who she's talking to. He can see it in the way her eyes slide away from him. "It was for Morgan. Every where we went he said he was always looking for this one picture he loved when he was a kid, but he could never find it. And then we get a case here and I saw it, and grabbed it right up. I've been looking as much as he has. It was going to be for his birthday next week, and now it's ruined."
"Damn, I'm really sorry Prentiss," he says. And he means it. "Any chance they had another one?"
She shakes her head. "I asked if they had another one before I bought it because I didn't want him to see it and buy it as well." She turns her head, rests her forehead on the steering wheel. "Damn."
His hand is moving on her neck, stroking, soothing her the way he'd rub a dog between the ears. Her hair is cold and wet and the inside of the car smells like shampoo and wet wool. Thunder cracks overhead and the rain pelts down harder. He wasn't sure that was possible. The windows are now so rippled with rain he can't make out anything outside the car. It's a tiny little world, a bubble that holds only the two of them. He knows he shouldn't be touching her, especially when he's in a car alone with her.
He's not sure what to say, but in this bubble it seems he can be honest with her in ways he hasn't been able to. "Morgan will understand, Prentiss. It's the thought that counts, and if he knows you went through six months of trying to find this picture for him, it won't matter if it's ruined. He might even still want it. I know I would be happy to have a soaking wet picture you spent that long looking for."
Her shoulders move up and down…a shrug. And a sigh. She sounded tired, discouraged.
Hotch wasn't sure where the impulse comes from but he doesn't argue with it. He pulls her towards him and she comes into his arms and now she's mostly in his lap on the passenger side, crowded into his chest with her wet hair in his face and that's fine. She's not crying, but she's almost inert. He can feel the anger in her, the hurt, and the disappointment.
"It'll be all right," he murmurs. He's not really talking about her ruined picture, and he thinks she knows it.
She nods and he feels it against his chest. Her head is nestled in his right arm and shoulder, while his left hand is on her waist. And for the life of him he cannot prevent that hand from burrowing under her coat and sweater, stealthily, as if it had a life of its own. He finds smooth cotton and then under it smoother skin and he rubs it, his heart beginning to pound. He expects her at any moment to protest, to slap his hand or his face, get angry. He doesn't care. It's been so long since he's touched someone of the opposite sex like this, and the relief of finally touching her is like the relief of dropping a too-heavy burden, the relief of no longer hanging on to the end of a fraying rope.
Hotch closes his eyes and just feels her, warm and breathing, under his hand. Between the sounds of their breath and the drumming of rain on the metal roof, he's almost dozing. But then he feels her hand, small and cool, snaking up his chest. It slides up around his neck and then she's drawing his face down to hers. She kisses him and he feels dizzy when her lips touch his, when their breath mingles in their mouths and her tongue is so wet and alive against his.
It goes on and on, a detailed, in-depth exploration of mouth and lip and tongue, and he honestly is unaware of his hand slipping up, up until his left hand is on her right breast and he can feel the warm cloth of her bra under his palm. He snatches his hand away and pulls his head up but she just burrows her face into his chest and makes a sound between a sob and a sigh and he is so gone.
So he puts his trembling hand back on her breast and she arches a little against him and he buries his face in her damn hair and moans because he wants her so bad but he doesn't know what to do about it.
Her hand slips down from his neck and lands on his waist. At first he thinks she's trying to tickle him and thinks that's kind of a teenager thing for her to do. Then he hears his belt bucks and a shock goes through him from head to toe. Is she really…yes she is. She flicks open the button on his pants and he hears his zipper. He shivers all over as he feels that small, cool hand slip between his skin and his pants and "God!" he says through clenched teeth because she has him in her hand and he's about as hard as a human male can get without actually turning to stone. "Emily?"
"Shh." She pushes at his pants then, pulling at his shirt, squirming in his arms. She pulls herself upright, bumping her head against the roof. Then she is straddling his lap and she pushes his pants down as far as they go while in his sitting position. She doesn't look at his face. She puts her mouth next to his ear. "Help me."
He slides his hands up her thighs, under her skirt and discovers that she's wearing thigh-high stockings, not panty hose. This sends his heart rate into triple digits and he can feel his whole body throbbing now. His cock feels like it's about to explode. Is he really doing this? Is she?
Her mouth is on his neck now, making soft sucking sounds. He can feel her breasts pressing against him through their clothes. His hands find panties; he curls his fingers into the elastic and tugs. They slide down but he can't get them further than halfway down her thighs. His right hand lets go of them and slides up to find her so wet, so wet.
"Ah!" he gasps, as her hand finds him again. Grasps him tight. "Emily!"
"Shut up," she murmurs against his skin. "Don't talk, you'll ruin it."
He sure doesn't want to do that, so he closes his eyes, decides to pretend this is a wet dream. In which case, he knows exactly what he wants. He slides his fingers into her, lets his thumb explore her outer lips, sweeping up and around and over until he find "Oh!" she says softly. A deep, intimate sigh. Her hips move slightly against him, asking for more. He gives it to her, stroking slowly but firmly. He can't believe he's touching her this intimately.
Her hand is a fist around him and he feels the hum at the base of his cock that warns him he won't be able to last much longer. He's debating how to tell her this when she shifts, her hand pulls at him, and he feels her open wetness against the head of his cock.
She moans and it's a moan of passion, not angst. It takes everything he has to stop long enough to gasp, "Condom?"
"I'm on the pill."
All thought is erased from his mind as she lowers herself onto him, still holding him, guiding him.
And she is every bit as hot and wet and tight as he always dreamed, and it feels so fucking wonderful to slide into her he can't believe he hasn't passed out. She lets him get about half way, and then moves her hips towards him, then back out again. It makes his shaft brush against her, sliding tightly against her clit, and he hears her breathy moan against his neck and decides to let her do whatever she wants, even thought what he really wants right now is to slam home in her and fuck her until she comes like Fourth of July fireworks.
She rocks against him, her hand steadying him, stroking him, guiding her against him and he feels her tight wetness gripping the top half of his cock and he buries his face against her shoulder and tries not to come right then and there. Her back and forth motion drives her shoulder into his face and once she hits his nose and it hurts for a moment but then he feels her tighten, feels her whole body tensing up and knows this is it for her. He forces himself to not move as she slides faster against him and then "Oh!" She throws her head back and shudders, let's goes of his cock and grabs his shoulders with both hands, and he feels her whole body trembling against his as she comes. And at that moment he thrusts deep into her, all the way, as she falls against his chest and sinks down on him, and he's in her about as deep as it is possible to go and he feels her throbbing around him, sharing her orgasm with him.
It's the most beautiful fuck of his life. He thrusts once, twice, but there's really no room to maneuver in the front seat and they don't need it anyway, because he can't hold back, not with this beautiful and amazing woman gasping in his arms, clenching around him. He buries his face in her hair and screams as he comes inside her, deep and hot. The world almost goes black around him and his heart is pounding like a jackhammer.
Slowly he comes back to himself. Her hands are tangled in his wet hair and she tugs it and it almost hurts but she can be scalping him right now and he wouldn't feel it. He rubs his cheek against hers, feels himself shrinking inside her. He doesn't want this to end.
"I don't want this to end," he whispers.
She says nothing, but sighs.
The rain is slowing; now he can begin to see shapes outside the car. Bushes. Other cars. The world is out there. He wants to stay in here…forever.
She sniffles, and then stirs in his arms. Pushes herself back and, for the first time since he reached for her, looks him in the eyes. Inches from his, hers are brown, wide open and searching. She says nothing. He's not sure there's anything to say, any way. He leans forward and her mouth meets his and it's a slow, sweet kiss. In the middle of it, she reaches a hand up to his face, strokes his cheek. He closes his eyes, blissful.
Then she's backing away, head bumping the roof again. She looks down, sees the mess of their tangled clothes, his cock lying along his thigh, her panties halfway down her thighs, her stockings sagging around her knees. She giggles. Looks up at him, eyes dancing with laughter, and he falls in love with Emily Prentiss. Not that he was ever not in love with her.
"God," he breaths, and hugs her close. "I love you."
"Yeah," she breathes back.
He feels her hands between them and lets her go. She is pulling up her panties, adjusting her stocking. He fumbles himself back into some kind of decent order. When he reaches up to fix his tie, he smells her on his fingers and it drives him crazy. He grabs her by the back of her head and jams his mouth on hers for a passionate kiss. She opens her mouth under his and returns it just as passionately. Just when he's thinking he zipped up too soon, she breaks off and plants kisses on either side of his face.
And then her look goes solemn and she holds his face in her hands and she says, "I love you, Hotch," so softly he knows she means it. It hits so deep he wants to cry, he can almost feel the tears but damn it he is not going to be a sap.
So he kisses her mouth and tells her, "We're on the clock." She laughs as he knew she would, and climbs off of him awkwardly, catching her skirt on the console. She falls clumsily into the driver's seat and sees her keys hanging from the ignition jingle.
"You know," he says, trying to make his expression serious. "This kind of came out of nowhere. I didn't plan this."
"Me, neither," she says. She looks up through the windshield. "It's clearing. We need to go back in."
I…I don't know what to say to you," he says softly, looking away. He feels naked, even though he's now fully clothed again. "I…this was…important to me."
She reaches over and grabs his hand and somehow it's as sexy and intimate as when her body slid down onto his cock ten minutes ago. "I needed you," she says quietly. "I always have."
He smiles and there really isn't anything more they need to say. In a few minutes he'll go back inside and go back leading the team through this case like he didn't just have the most mind blowing sex ever with his subordinate. But he could deal with that, especially if they didn't just let it be a one time thing.