She wasn't Hayley. He knew that. Her name was Corinne and she told him that she was a pharmaceutical rep from New York. Not that it mattered. They didn't talk about pharmaceuticals anymore than they talked about profiling, they didn't really talk about much at all.
From the moment she sat down next to him at the bar and ordered a glass of Merlot, they began a mating dance that although subtle was shameless in its intent. Bar pick ups were not Aaron Hotchner's style. He never was a lounge lizard, never did have fancy lines on the tip of his tongue. Despite the years that he'd watched David Rossi in action, not one iota of it had rubbed off on him.
But tonight, it didn't seem to matter. Corinne liked his awkward attempts at flirting. She complimented his voice and the way he wore his suit. She said he looked like a decent, upstanding guy and once he admitted that he worked for the FBI, she told him she knew her decision was correct. Of course, he had to pull out his id and allow her to scrutinize it in order for her to truly believe him. Something about that fact made him realize that she wasn't a stupid woman. Or at least that she had a good sense of self preservation.
She was, he discovered, a lot of things. But she wasn't Hayley. She looked enough like Hayley that, from a distance, someone could mistake them. He guessed he had a type and that was the type he went for, but he hadn't exactly been out looking for anyone, so how could he say he had a type?
As the evening passed, they talked about their childhoods, they talked about their children. Corinne had two sons, ages 11 and 9, who were home with their father, her ex husband. Another thing they had in common, both had watched marriages fall apart and were now living with the damage left behind by those broken vows.
She claimed to have dated a bit, but not too much. She said her skills were rusty, but he assured her, she was doing just fine. She smiled at him and a faint hint of blush crept across her cheeks. He found that refreshing and told her so. She dismissed it with a laugh and turned the conversation away from herself.
She did that quite frequently during the course of the night, something that would have raised a flag for him, had his mind not been clouded by alcohol and desire. Both of which he tried to keep in check, but failed miserably.
When midnight arrived, she stood to leave. They were both staying at the hotel, he on the fourth floor, she on the fifth. He offered to escort her to her room, but wondered on whose behalf he created that ruse. They both knew where things were going. Once they were alone in the elevator, they stepped together. He couldn't remember who made the first move although it really didn't matter, because by the time they reached the fourth floor, the were a tangle of arms, hands, lips, and tongues.
They separated only long enough to reach his room. Once the door was shut and locked behind them, they were on each other, clothing discarded without care as they made their way to the bed.
She wasn't Hayley; this fact was brought home as they writhed on the pure white hotel sheets. Her muscles were more toned her breasts smaller, her legs longer. Sure, her body responded to his touch, but with a heat and passion that he hadn't felt from Hayley for a long time.
He nearly called her by Hayley's name, in the midst of the passion, but bit it back, wrapping his lips around a taut nipple to keep from saying anything more. If she'd noticed his near slip, she didn't show it.
He would have liked to say he made love to her, but he didn't. No, it was sex, pure, raw, need driven sex and neither of them made any apologies for it. When they reached their end, barely moments apart, they each cried out, and then collapsed on the bed. Lying next to each other, not touching, just trying to catch their breath.
As they lay, exhaustion set in, pulling him deep into a deep, dream filled sleep. He dreamed of Hayley in happier times. Of their days in school, of the early days of their marriage, of the good times.
When he awoke, he was alone in bed. Sitting up slowly and fighting the throbbing head ache of a hangover, he realized that Corinne left sometime during the night. Looking around the room, he found that she'd taken all of her things and gone. The only proof that he could find that she'd even been in the room was the condom in the trashcan and the lipstick trace on the pillow case.
She'd left, without a word. And, he decided, that despite all of his earlier protests, she was like Hayley after all.
