He had never touched her until today.
He had thought about it, he had dreamed about it, he had fantasized about it, but he had never actually done it. Not until today.
Today, after the cult compound exploded behind him and he'd fallen into her embrace, he had allowed his arms to linger around her waist before she broke away to console one of the mothers whose daughter hadn't made it out alive. Today, after she grasped his hands in hers and reassured him that she'd made a choice in outing herself as an FBI agent and that she'd do it again, he had stroked his thumb against the back of her hand while they shared small, secret smiles.
The residual sensation of her body pressed against him, of her soft palms resting against his own, felt like a lingering electric force field that just wouldn't go away. Not when she stood up to use the bathroom, not when the BAU plane made its decent onto the runway, not when he grabbed his "go bag" and began to walk toward the parking lot in a daze.
Not until he heard her call his name.
"Spencer, wait up!"
She never used his first name. She'd only ever referred to him as Reid.
Surprised, he spun around and said, almost to himself, "Emily?" as he watched her break into a sprint, her jet black hair flying behind her and her breasts bobbing up and down against the confines of her dark sweater.
He swallowed hard, shaking his head, and fixed his gaze on the concrete below. Usually, he managed to suppress his attraction to his colleague when they were at work, but the sensory memory of those touches - those exquisite, brief touches - seemed to be burned onto his hippocampus. Which was why he needed to get home. And fast.
"It's been a difficult day for both of us," she said, ducking slightly so her hair fell across her face, partially obscuring the fresh bruises there. "Do you want to get a drink?"
His head snapped up instantly.
"Of coffee!" she added quickly, either clarifying or remediating her mistake. She knew that Spencer was in recovery. They all did. It was a time he didn't care to dwell upon further: a time when he was careless, indifferent, cruel. Even to Emily. No, especially to Emily.
And yet it was a time he couldn't possibly make up to her or even fully explain to her because if (as Agent Rossi claimed) we always hurt the ones we love, he'd never be able to tell her that he loved her.
"It's late," he replied hoarsely, in a voice not quite his own. "And spending all that time undercover has really made me miss being in my own apartment."
"You don't have coffee in your apartment?" she asked, biting her lower lip as though fully aware of the risk she was taking.
"It's a little late for coffee," he remarked, wondering if maybe - just maybe - the feeling of his skin against hers had affected her in the same way it had affected him.
Emily sighed. "I just ... I just don't want to be alone tonight, after everything that's happened. I thought maybe you'd feel the same way, but ..." Her sentence trailed off, leaving an awkward silence between them. "You know what? Forget it. Forget I asked. It's fine. I'll be fine."
The words escaped his throat before he had a chance to stop them. "No, it's OK. You can come over."
They drove to his apartment without a word passing between them. He would occasionally sneak glances over toward the passenger seat, but his companion continued to stare out the window, her expression blank. Spencer couldn't understand it - this was the independent, unshakable Emily Prentiss, after all - so why, after this case, did she suddenly need someone to be with her? Why did she need him to be with her?
When they arrived, she finally broke the silence by asking him if she could take a shower. His groin reacted before his mouth, but he did manage to nod and point toward the bathroom. While the water was running, he couldn't prevent himself from imagining her soaping her toned arms, her perfect breasts, the triangle of hair between her legs ...
He tried to breathe. Just breathe. She'd be finished soon enough, and then he could do - well, then he could do what he needed to do. What he'd needed to do ever since he felt the curves of her body pressed hard against his own lean torso.
Emily emerged from the bathroom in a towel, explaining apologetically, "I wanted to change into some clean clothes and I left my go bag on your couch." He wasn't sure if he'd gasped at the appearance of her long legs, her cleavage, at the thought of all the areas that his fluffy beige towel barely covered ... No, he wasn't sure at all, but he was sure of one thing: he needed to relieve himself as soon as possible.
After she'd grabbed her black bag and, moments later, walked out wearing a casual Yale T-shirt and a pair of form-fitting jeans, he'd practically rushed into the bathroom, nearly slamming the door behind him. And then he saw them, casually flung onto the tile floor next to her go bag. He saw the red lacy panties she'd been wearing.
Before he was fully aware of what he was doing, he picked them up and held them to his nose, inhaling deeply. My God. It was like nothing he'd ever smelled before. It was like the most delicious perfume in the entire world.
He dropped the panties on the dresser next to the sink and turned the shower on with his left hand while rapidly unbuckling his belt and unzipping his pants with his right, his cock angry and throbbing against the confines of his underwear. By the time he pulled it out, it was already so lubricated with pre-come that, as he picked up her panties and held them to his nose, he didn't even have to spit in his hand before rubbing himself furiously, hoping that the noise from the shower was sufficiently loud enough to obfuscate the slap-slap-slapping sound of his closed fist thrusting up and down against himself.
Curious, his tongue darted out to taste the origin of that tart scent and - imagining that it was her body rather than merely some silken material that had recently covered her body - he felt it rising within him, approaching so fast he barely had time to point his cock toward the sink where the residue of his shame could be easily washed away, and suddenly, almost out of nowhere, he was coming. Coming and coming and coming, groaning as thick white spurts of semen jetted out of him, his balls contracting repeatedly, his vision becoming hazy and his ears ringing as the powerful, unprecedented orgasm overtook him like a volcano erupting for the very first time.
When it was over, he dropped her panties on the floor and grasped the sink with one hand to prevent himself from falling down, light-headed from the unprecedented, dizzying power of his orgasm.
And when he raised his eyes to glance in the mirror before climbing into the shower, he saw something so unexpected, so unimaginable, he had to blink several times to make sure it was real.
Yes, it was real.
It was really Emily Prentiss, standing there in the doorway of that bathroom with a shocked expression on her face, staring at the limp cock he was still holding in his hand.