Disclaimer: Not mine.
A/N: So I posted Emily's Knees yesterday. And this morning I tweeted another prompt and this is the sequel. Written by the same incredible woman - who still wants to be anonymous. Thank you to everybody who responded to yesterday's post. I have passed the comments on and she is surprised and grateful.
The first thing she notices (she tells herself) is his hands.
They're warm, encompassing, and she thinks she says something like, "It's nice to meet you" and remembers to tack on the "sir" at the end before she embarrasses herself. She's blushing a little, and she's sure he catches it because there's a smirk on his face and a smile in his voice – he is a famous profiler, after all. He probably does this to women all the time, this little flutter in her heart and stomach, and she damns him in her mind for making her fall in love just a little.
Just a little, she promises herself, because she's not the sort of girl who sleeps with a co-worker, much less the boss and she doesn't believe in love at first touch. Admiration is fine, appreciation of the male body is fine, but falling in love with the boss (well, the under-boss, she supposes) isn't in her plans for the future. Immediate or long-term, she vows firmly, and as far as she's concerned, that's that.
But she likes the way his hands feel; when he escorts her to the car and it's on the small of her back, or when he catches her elbow when she's graceless and stumbles. She likes it even more when he puts his arm around her shoulders and she feels the palm of his hand against her arm – he'd been such a comfort throughout that ordeal, he'd backed her up and been there to lean on and it made the loss of Matthew so much more bearable.
She's looking at his hands now and thinking about the first slow, calloused brush of his fingers against her bare skin. A foot rub after a long day that left her craving more. A kiss goodnight that led to more touching, more rubbing, and she thinks that might have been the start of her addiction to Rossi's touches.
Who is she kidding – she was hooked from the first handshake.
She's looking at his hands and thinking how much she would give to feel them gripping her now, giving her the surety of safety she feels with the rest of him, too. She wants to feel them glide down her sides in bed, grip her wrists, tease her breasts and stroke her inside just once more. She wants to fall apart under them because having him put her back together with lingering touches, light strokes, warm, cupping hands is the most wonderful feeling.
God she wants that so much right now.
She's angry at this asshole with his gun pressed close and the way he caught her by surprise. She was on the phone with Garcia at the time and damned if her own voice – raised because out here in this middle of nowhere backwoods farmland, there's just no reception worth noting – didn't cover his approach and she's going to have a hell of a headache tomorrow, she promises herself, because not thinking about a tomorrow is unforgiveable when she thinks of the way his hands feel wrapped around her at night.
Morgan is shouting now (and God, how long did it take him to get there, they should never have split up) and her focus is still on Rossi's hands and she sees them clenching and unclenching and she thinks, Oh, Dave, oh no and she knows what's coming next and she dives to the side and I hate this job she thinks, knowing that it's not really the job at all that she hates but assholes like this who almost rip them from one another every few months.
The report is deafening and for just a moment she thinks she hears Dave saying her name. Then he's there, and his beautiful, calloused, rough hands are on her face, stroking her cheeks and she can't help but look up. There in his eyes is confirmation of how close she came to dying, and there in his kiss is all the affirmation she needs that he's just as addicted to her as she is to him.
What a pair we make, huh? He asks and she laughs, she can't help herself, and she folds herself into his arms just to feel his hands on her back and whispers, Can we please go home now?