The thing he always associated with her was coffee. Freshly ground, warm and heady, rich and inviting, it drew him in like a command and he was helpless to do anything but obey. Back in MIT, they used to drink it by the galleon; they'd spend long nights, pouring over texts, and there would always be coffee. Maybe that's where he got the connection. The human brain has weird ways of connecting the abstract. Just like how polka dots reminded him of his fourth-grade birthday.

In the few years since they've graduated, neither have changed, much. She's a little thinner, now that she's not living on a steady diet of caffeine and twinkies, and she's grown her hair out; it tumbles down around her shoulders in a mass of burnished-amber curls. She's ditched the loose sweaters and casual jeans for a more form-fitting outfit, but she looks just as relaxed, just as at-ease as she's always been. One of the things he's always loved about her was her ability to remain so calm and friendly, no matter what the situation. Their first day of class together, she had plopped right down next to him, given him a mega-watt smile, and introduced herself as "Alyson, but everyone calls me Al." Just like that. No judgement, no hesitation. Everything Reid wanted to be, and wasn't.

He started calling her 'Aly' during their second week of class, and she accepted the nickname with casual delight. She called him Spence.

He had arrived at the coffee-shop first, ordered his usual, and then taken a gamble and got her a caramel latte, extra-foam, praying that she hadn't changed her coffee-order, at least. And she hasn't. When she whirls into the shop, she envelops him in a hug before he's even fully out of his chair, and she does it again when she sees the drink.

"You can read me like a book, Spence." She says, and it gives him a little glow of pride to hear it.

Four hours later, they had taken their animated conversation to dinner, where they settled back into that easy friendship that had been so effortless at school, catching each other up in the other's lives. She's doing research on cancer, now, in New York, and she's rubbing shoulders with the sort of elite Spencer was supposed to know, had he followed a different path, but there's no judgement, no questions. She plies him for information about his job, she tells him that she's seen his name in the paper, that she always knew her 'old lab partner' would make headlines. She even teases him about Lila, saying that "when you go for something, you never do half-measures, do you?"

They've ordered wine, but neither of them have drank much of it, and as the night draws on, and neither makes any effort to leave. It's like there's a pulse growing between them as the hours go by, soft and steady, and it feels like it used to at MIT; or rather, what Spencer hoped had been happening in MIT. He had never kidded himself that a girl like Aly, who was hit on frequently, would be much interested in a guy like him. But her eyes are always, constantly meeting his, and the gaze is warm, and he can't help but feel all those things she had made him feel in school.

"Well," She says, finally, when it's very late, and the rest of the patrons are nearly gone. "I'd better get going. God, Spence, it's been so good seeing you. We need to do this more often."

He can't help but feel a stab of disappointment, but he nods, covering up the moment but telling her that he'll have to visit her in New York, that she'll need to keep him up-to-date on her research. They step outside, into the cold, brisk air of the May evening, and Alyson turns to look at him, lips curling up into that familiar smile.

It takes Spencer a few seconds to catch his breath; her eyes are a deep, deep blue, and sometimes, they make him feel like she's looking right into his head. He shakes aforementioned appendage, knowing that it's stupid to think that. "So, um, how far away did you park?"

"Oh, I took a cab. I'm staying at the Merriot for the weekend." She turns to look down the street for a cab; despite the hour, there's very little traffic.

"Oh. W-well, in that case, let me give you a lift. It's on the way. Really," He adds defensively, because she's looking at him with a hint of scepticism.

"Spence, you don't have to do that. Really, I'll be fine -"

"I want to. It'll give us a few seconds to talk before you leave." He doesn't want to sound quite so … needy, but the words are out, now.

She cocks her head to look at him, and then, after a moment, nods. "If you're sure it's no trouble?"

"None whatsoever." He holds out his arm for her; she grins, sweeps him a theatrical curtsy, and takes it, and they meander back up the street to his pride and joy.

"You still have it!" She exclaims, once she sees the vehicle. "I thought you might have traded it, but … God, do you remember when we were studying for Moore's final exam, and we were both so tired and wired on coffee that we decided to go to 7-11 at three in the morning?"

He opens the passenger door for her, and she beams at him and settles herself in. He thinks back to the night she's referring to, a grin unfolding on his own face. "And I ended up nearly crashing us into the gas station? Yeah. That was awkward, trying to explain that one."

And just like that, they're caught up in memory lane, again, and it feels like seconds later when Reid stops at a red light, two blocks away from the hotel. There's a lull in the conversation, and he's trying to think of something to say, but when he turns to look at her, the words die in his mouth. He's got nothing.

Alyson turns to look at him, her expression quizzical. "Spence?"

"I'm, uh," Dammit, mouth. Work! "Just … going to miss you."

It sounds stupid, it feels stupid, it is stupid, and he flushes with embarrassment, but he doesn't tear his gaze from hers, and something strange happens. The confused expression on her face shifts into something else, and there's a little, pregnant pause, before both of them move at exactly the same time; and the next thing Reid knows, he's kissing Alyson Benson in his car at 1:30 am and the traffic light is green.

He's kissed exactly one girl in his entire life, and as they were both in a pool, while a murdering, psychopathic stalker was practically looming over their shoulders, it didn't exactly set the bar for romance. This kiss is different. This kiss is different in literally every way a kiss can be different.

Alyson tastes like coffee — rich, and sweet, with the faintest hint of something else, something fruity, perhaps. Strawberry? Raspberry? Her lips are soft and fit his like they were puzzle pieces made for each other, and they slant against his as she tilts her head. She smells like her favourite perfume: the soft cinnamon that she was so fond of, back in school, and her skin is so unbelievably soft, and for ten, twenty seconds, Reid is caught in some blissful paradise where he doesn't realize that he's kissing one of the closest friends — or rather, he is, but that's okay because she wants him, too.

But, of course, like how the fairy-tales always end, the spell breaks, and he practically rips himself away, eyes wide, stammering, apologizing, hands fluttering about as he tries desperately to think of a way to make this okay again. He just kissed his best friend. Just like that!

The lighting in the car throws Alyson's face into shadows, but he's sure her expression is one of anger, and disgust; that any second now she'll call him a creep, a pervert, desperate, loser. She'll wrench the door open and dash out into the night, because she'd rather take the risks on the street then spend another second more with him. His mouth keeps opening, desperate apologies on his tongue that aren't making their way to his lips, when Alyson speaks.

"Spence."

His mouth shuts, but his chest hurts. "A-A-Alyson, I-I …"

"How far away is your place?"

"I … two b-blocks, but why -?"

She cuts him off by closing the distance between them and kissing him with a ferocity that damn near melts him.

—

In the years afterwards, Spencer Reid is going to do some pretty incredible things. The lives he'll save, the people he'll put away, the puzzles he'll solve … they'll be big. But at the end of his life, he's going to look back, and the one question he will always, always ask himself, is how the hell did he manage to get the two of them back to his place without crashing that car.

She let him go long enough to pull the car into drive, and he's pretty sure no one has covered the two blocks distance in less time than he did. When he stops outside the apartment, they both exit the car at the same time and, with a growing sense of bewilderment, Reid made his way over to the door, Alyson just behind him. They ride up the elevator in complete silence, and by the time they reach his apartment, Reid is sure this is some cosmic, sick, twisted joke, and he pauses, key in the lock, twisting about to ask Alyson what's happening, when she stretches up to her full height and kisses him again. Since they're not in a car anymore, there are a couple definite perks to this kiss: for starters, she's pressed tight against him, her hands twisting in the fabric of his jacket as she pulls him closer, and it seems only natural that Reid should put his hands on her waist to prevent her from toppling over. It's only proof that he's human when he groans slightly as her kisses turn heated, tugging gently on his bottom lip with her teeth. He thinks this is as good as it gets (and it's pretty damn good), but they're MIT graduates. If they're not upping the ante, they're not doing their job right, and that probably explains why Alyson rolls her hips slightly into his, and Reid chokes on a gasp.

They part, just slightly, panting, cheeks flushed, eyes a little wild, and there's a part of Reid — the primal, animalistic, male part of him — that wants to drop her to the floor and take her, right there. Instead, his hand reaches behind him, scrabbling for the doorknob. The two of them topple inside (there's a brief moment where they nearly fall in a heap on top of each other), but Alyson reaches out and grabs the door frame, using her free hand to pull on Reid's tie, back to her mouth. He complies eagerly, his hands moving to cup her face, fingers tangling in her hair. He doesn't have any stats for this; there's no blueprint, there's no set of instructions. All he has to go on right now is what feels good, what her body responds to, what his is craving.

It's times like these that he's thankful for a photographic memory.

Suddenly, she's pulling away; he has one brief moment of panic where he thinks, okay, now she's sick of him, now he's gone too far. But instead, Alyson unbuttons her coat and tosses it to the side before reclaiming his mouth with hers again. There's a breeze on his chest and he knows that she's working on his own, and just the fact that she's undressing him sends a bolt of desire through him, so strong that his knees buckle slightly. The part of him that's terrified and nervous and Reid is giving way to the part of him that is feeling things he's never felt so strongly before. Any man with a woman in his arms is bound to feel desire, but this is Aly, his Aly, and she's reaching up, helping him tug the coat off his arms before tossing her hair over her shoulder and meeting his gaze with those brilliant blue eyes of hers.

He freezes, but she doesn't look fazed, or angry, or confused. She looks radiant, and then she smiles, still stretched up as tall as she can go. "Hiya."

A chuckle escapes him, despite himself, and he leans forward, pressing his forehead against hers, one hand reaching for her own and threading their fingers together. "Hey, Al."

"Nice place you've got here."

He chuckles again, his nerves betraying him. "I … yeah. You know, it, um. Does its job."

"You okay?" Her free hand reaches up and brushes a stray lock of hair from his forehead, her fingers light as air on his overly-sensitive skin. He closed his eyes, exhaling softly at the touch.

"Nervous?"

His eyes snap open, and the look he gives her is almost pleading. It's one thing to fumble your way into some girl's pants — particularly if you've been a little in love with them for about five years — but it's another thing to be nervous, and it's in a whole new ZIP code when she's the one to mention it.

"I-I … I just … I've never … Al, y-you're -"

He doesn't think that she can say anything that will make this better (no offence to Alyson, of course, but he's in a tight spot right now) when, once again, she proves him wrong.

Her lips brush against his, softly, and as he leans forward, irresistibly drawn, she says, "I really wish I had waited for you."

And he's undone.

—

They cease talking, now, focusing instead on touching, on feeling skin and caressing flesh. Experimentally, Alyson arches her back, slightly, feeling his arousal between her legs, before sliding her palm across his chest to the first button on his shirt, popping it open and moving to kiss the exposed skin. For a moment, Reid allows himself to enjoy the sensation, as slowly, tortuously, inch by inch, his shirt is unbuttoned, but all too soon he feels the need to explore. His hands resettle on Aly's waist before sliding up her hips, rucking the fabric of her shirt and then, impetuously, raising it another inch and running his fingers lightly over the naked skin of her waist. Her shirt moves higher as his hands explore, until they reach the lace of her bra and he hesitates. Helpfully, Alyson takes his hands and guides them to the edge of her shirt, helping him pull it up over her head, tossing it in the general direction of his coat. And then it's just Alyson standing there, in the middle of his apartment, in her bra and jeans, and she's kissing him, and Reid wonders if this is some psychotic delusion — schizophrenia can cause powerful delusions that trick all the senses at once — when her lips move from his to his throat, where her teeth graze against the skin over his pulse, before nipping down gently.

A low, keening moan from Spencer, who never realized before just how much that sort of thing could turn him on, and his hands started moving again, tracing over the taut skin of Alyson's stomach, moving up to the clasp of her bra. Their kisses are getting sloppy and a little wild, and he's not sure he can stay upright for much longer, when, once more, Alyson tears away, and pants, "Bedroom?"

"Just down the hall." Spencer says, his own words coming out between rapid exhales, and without a word, Alyson grabs his hand and pulls him down the hall.

He never stopped to think about it, much, before, but the apartment was sparse. Books on every available surface, and more than a few files from work, which he poured over for fun, but there wasn't much to identify him, yet. If Derek or Gideon had to profile Reid, they'd start with his apartment, at the lack of comfort, or warmth, or good furniture. He could afford it, of course; technically, he could afford a much bigger place than this. But he doesn't know what he wants, what sort of place he needs. He feels a quick, momentary stab of shame that Alyson, whose own place has to be as bright and vivid as she is, is in this dreary home, when they reach the bedroom. And after that, his mind sort of shuts down.

Now that there's another lull, Reid awkwardly pauses, wondering what he should say, or do. Alyson, however, has it in hand. She releases his own and literally springs onto his bed, bouncing slightly on the comfy mattress before straightening up. With her wide, infectious grin, and that cascade of curls falling in a shower of red down her back — and, of course, the fact that she's not wearing a shirt — Reid loses some of the fear. He even grins, a little, at that childish, purely Alyson action.

She wiggles, testing the springs on the mattress. "Excellent choice, Spence. I'm always a fan of anything that bounces."

"Like that Bouncey-Castle in third year?" He moves closer to the bed — not on it, yet, but he's enjoying himself, and he loves the way her grin widens at his words.

"Exactly like the bouncy castle. Whoever said that was for kids was a liar." She moves closer, too, and her hands go to his belt. "I used to have mattress-jumping contests with my roommate, Hannah."

The belt is undone, and she pulls it sharply through the hoops, causing Reid's hips to jerk slightly. His breathing is speeding up, but he lets Alyson set the pace, dictate the game-plan. "I-I remember. You h-hit your head on the ceiling, once, and Hannah ran screaming around A-House for ten minutes."

Her hands have moved to his shirt, finishing her work on the buttons, and when she's done, she pulls it down off his arms, making an appreciative sound as his chest comes into full-view. He can't imagine anyone being impressed or delighted with his physical stature: he remembers the taunts, the jeers, the jokes about his build, the way girls rolled their eyes and ignored him when he managed to stammer a greeting. But Alyson is kissing him again, and there's no feigning the want, there. Her hands go to his shoulders, pulling him down, and he leans forward, finally resting his hands on the mattress, pinning her down. When he surfaces for air, the smile on her face sends jolts down his spine.

"And you were the first person to come running." She finishes the story softly, and pulls him down on the bed.

He lands on his side, right next to her, and before he can think about logic or stats or how the hell this is working, Alyson pushes him on his back, swinging a leg over him so that she's straddling him, pinning him to the bed. A strangled sort of noise makes its way past Reid's rather dry mouth, and Alyson chuckles, hands on his shoulders, reaching down to dot kisses all along his torso. Her tongue traces the faint lines on his chest, and he shifts his hips slightly, needing some sort of friction to relieve the sudden pressure in his groin. Finally, her hands resume their earlier work on his pants; he feels the button going undone, and then hears the sound his zipper teeth being unzipped, and all the while her fingers are brushing against him, teasing without giving, and then finally she tugs his pants down, all the way down, releasing his cock from its prison. He kicks his shoes off and lifts his hips to help her out, uncomfortably aware at how naked he is. He tries to avoid nudity around other people, after that incident with Alexa Lisbon and the football team, but Alyson is still touching him, soft caresses and gentle kisses on his skin.

He's seized by a sudden desire to do something, to prove to Alyson that he's not some poorly-informed virgin. His hands, which had been fluttering rather uselessly around her waist, grips her with sudden decisiveness, and he spins them around, pressing her into the bed, smiling as she lets out a surprised laugh. And now it's his lips that are dotting her skin, his hands that slide over the expanse of smooth skin, fingers hooking into the belt loops on her pants, gently tugging and pulling without much goal but to tease and torment her as much as she was teasing and tormenting him. After just a few minutes of this, Alyson loses patience, her hands moving to her own zipper, pulling it down and undoing the button before taking one of Reid's hands and placing it over where the zipper had been. He gulps, throat dry, as he slowly pulls them down, exposing her bright blue panties (which, he notes, matches the blue lace of her bra), moving slowly over ridiculously long legs. He's trying not to take the picture in as a whole, because he's not sure he can take it, but once he tosses her pants to the floor (because who can focus on keeping things neat and tidy during a time like this?), he meets her gaze and his chest tightens at the look in her eyes. He didn't need to be a profiler to read this: the look says, quite clearly, I want you inside of me.

One of his hands, experimentally, slides up the inside of her thigh, enjoying the soft warmth of her skin, before rubbing her gently with a finger over the layer of cotton. And she's soaking; he can feel the moisture on his hands, and it makes him want to rip the rest of their layers off and bury himself in her heat. But he also wants to touch, to explore, to feel every hidden curve and to hear her panting in his ear, so, awkwardness long forgotten by now, Reid hooks his fingers in her underwear, and drags them down the same way as her pants.

When he resumes his position, he takes in the sight: of Alyson, gloriously displayed, with only her bra as a last vestige of modesty, red hair spread out on the dove-grey of his comforter, skin pale and creamy in the moonlight. Gulping, Reid tries to think of something to say, some way to tell her that she doesn't have to do this, that she needn't feel obligated, when Alyson sits up, pressing herself against him and claiming his lips with her own. He feels movement against his chest, and then the glorious feel of skin against skin, and when he pulls away, he realizes she's taken her bra off, and Alyson Benson is naked in his bed. Completely, utterly naked, and she's pulling him back down against her, lips moving softly against his, coaxing his mouth open with her tongue before tasting him, and he obliges because he wants to taste her, he wants to feel her, he wants to feel her pulse around his cock. He lowers his head, his tongue dipping in her belly button before pressing kisses all along her lower stomach, moving to the junction of her hip. Her soft whimper of his name —his name! — caused a grin to spread across his face, and he looks up, watching her own as his teeth bite down on the skin that stretched across the hollow of her hip.

She inhaled, sharply, chest rising and falling rapidly as her hands gripped the sheets on his bed, and he could tell he had pleased her. Slowly, he kissed up her inner thigh, the heady smell of her arousal causing his own to twinge almost uncomfortably, and it took every ounce of his self control to stop himself from stripping and burying himself deep in that heat. His thumb ran up her slit, pressing against the hardened nub, causing Alyson's hips to jump and her hands to fly to his head.

"S-Spence, please …"

His name.

His tongue traced the slit, the taste of her pulling a growl from his throat and causing his cock to twitch. He traced ever part of her sex, his head spinning — getting drunk off her. He pressed his tongue flat against the hard nub, feeling it throb under him. Letting his tongue flick and circle the bundle of nerves, Spencer's hand moved, slowing pressing a finger inside of her. The tightness was enough to make him choke.

He pulled her clit in his mouth, gently sucking on the nub and slipping in another finger to join the first. The fingers started to move slowly in her — pumping in and out — as his ministrations on her clit became faster and harder. Alyson was writhing, her breathing coming faster and faster, matching the tempo of his fingers, and when he felt her tense, he brought her to a crescendo.

"J-Jesus Christ —!"

Her head tilted back, baring her white throat, and her hands relaxed as she came, causing Reid to let out a growl of desire. He moved from his position above her, intending to let her catch her breath, but Alyson was evidentially more in control than he had thought. She reached out, pulling him close again, kissing him with supreme tenderness, nibbling on the skin of his throat, making Spencer feel things he had never felt before and never, ever wanted to end. He could feel her hand trailing down his torso, and he had just opened his mouth to tell her how much he loved her (and reason and logic be damned along with it), when her hand cupped his bulge, causing Reid to moan against Alyson's mouth. God, oh God, he needed her to touch him, he needed to feel some sort of release, some escape from the pressure that was almost painful. He needed her.

Her tongue slowly traced his bottom lip and she looked at him with half-lidded eyes, a wicked smile playing across her lips before tugging on his boxers. Her fingers danced up his chest, tracing nonsensical designs as her lips moved to his neck, biting and sucking.

Desperate for friction, Reid rolled his hips, only to be stopped by a firm hand on his hip. "Aly …" he breathed as her hands moved lower, tracing where the waistband of his underwear would have been, "Alyson, please…"

"Please what," she said, gently nipping at his hardened nipple.

He clenched his jaw, trying to swallow the moan, "Please, t-touch me…"

Her nails traced up and down his thighs, causing them to quiver and he whimpered, his cock aching. "A-Alyson, please …"

Her hand wrapped around him, causing him to choke, and she gave him one long, steady pump, squeezing him gently in her hand as he struggled to remember breathing. His hips jerked with each pull, and just as he was thinking there was no possible way for this to get any better, he felt her lips brush against the skin of his cock, before taking him in her mouth.

His eyes rolled back in his head. If he died, right here and now, he was sure he would die the happiest man in the world. The warm heat of her mouth around him was almost too much to bear; the way her tongue swirled over the tip of his cock sent him gibbering and babbling nonsense. In what felt like no time at all he was gasping, chest heaving, choking out, "A-A-Aly, I-I, I'm -"

Before he could climax, she released him, moving back up the bed to kiss him, and he knew that taste on her lips was his. His fingers tangled in her hair, pulling her against him, shaking though he was with his desire. He needed her so badly it ached, and he needed her to know how badly he wanted her. She was panting, meeting his kisses with urgency, and for a few minutes that was all they were doing: kissing with desperation and desire. Finally, Alyson literally tore her lips from Reid's and choked out, "Condom."

He froze.

Fuck.

Fuck fuck fuck.

"Spence?"

"I-I-I don't -"

"None?" She didn't sound disappointed or irritated; on the contrary, she propped herself up on her elbow and looked at him, her expression one of interest.

"I don't spend all that much time with women." He said, slightly defensively, before realizing what he had just said and backtracking rapidly. "I-I mean, with work, and I'm just not looking, I don't really date, I-I mean, God, no, I'm messing this up -"

She giggled, ducking her head to kiss him, right over where his heart was thudding. "Breathe! I know what you meant."

"Oh. Could you explain it to me, then?"

She hooted with laughter at that one, sitting up and smoothing the hair off her face. "That has to be a first. Spencer Reid, asking for an explanation."

"It happens," He retorted, somewhat defensively, but smiling nonetheless.

"Got a percentage for that?"

"Uh. Probably less than 1. Maybe 0.1. Or 0.0001."

"Not likely, huh?"

"About as likely as a successful landing on Mars happening in the timeframe of a year."

"That's impossible."

"It's not impossible, it's just really, really unlike - Al?"

She was getting up. If he wasn't so worried she was leaving, he would have taken the opportunity to appreciate her naked form in an upright position, but before he could ask her what she was doing, she had picked her pants up from the floor and was reaching into the pocket.

"I was wearing these the other day when I was at a guest lecture at U of T." She explained, correctly reading the expression on Reid's face. "And there was a group talking about Safe Sex and STD's. They handed out pamphlets with condoms, and I took one to be polite. It's a good thing my mother taught me manners, don't you think?"

"Mm. Very good thing." He reached out for her, pulling her back into the warmth of his arms and kissing her. "Remind me to write her a thank-you letter."

She flopped back onto the bed, pulling him down, once more, atop her, and she quickly ripped the condom open with her teeth, sliding it along his cock with hands that shook slightly. He bit his lip to stop the hoarse groan from coming forth, but he couldn't stop the way his hips jutted forward, desperate for her heat. She reached up to kiss him, gripping him in her hand and lining him up with her entrance, before the thing that had been bothering Reid all night finally made its way out of his befuddled brain and into his mouth.

"A-Al, are you sure … are you sure you want to do this …?"

"Spencer." She said, and her tone lacked any teasing. "If I wasn't sure, I would have never even responded to your call."

It's that determined proclamation, the way her eyes meet his and holds his gaze, the way she feels, the way she tastes, that convinces him. He's not even thinking of it in terms of him losing his virginity: he's thinking of it in terms of him being with Alyson. Alyson Benson, who once wrote a 30 page paper on the consequences of poor medical planning because her best friend's mother had died in the hospital from inexperienced care; Alyson, who used to surprise him with outlandish presents during the holidays, because she loved the expression on people's faces when she gave gifts. Alyson, who dropped everything when someone needed her. Alyson, who is here, with him.

He nudges her legs apart and kisses her once more as he thrusts into her, choking at the tightness that meets him. Her hands, which are on his shoulders, tighten slightly, nails digging into the skin, and she inhales sharply, eyelashes fluttering as she takes him in. For a second, they're both still as they adjust to each other. Then, slowly, Reid draws out and thrusts again, shallow pulses that are designed to test the water rather than satisfy.

By the third thrust, Alyson is rocking her hips up to meet his, wrapping her legs around his waist and pressing him in, which rips a moan from Reid as he struggles to find a pace. Sweat is already gathering at his temples and his lips are dotting kisses everywhere he can reach. One hand slides up to her breast, the other keeping him upright, and he rolls the taut nipple between his fingers before flicking his tongue over the nub, causing Alyson to whimper in pleasure, arching her back slightly. He was moving steadily, now, plunging into her with long, deep strokes, trying to hold himself together. And he was doing a pretty good job, until Alyson found her voice again. The panted 'harder' made him moan, the pleading 'more' caused him to grip the headboard of his bed with one hand and literally ravish her, moving like a jackhammer as she mewled with pleasure, tightening her grip around his waist and plunging her tongue into his mouth. One of her hands moved down to rub her clit, and the sight of her, touching herself as he fucked her, caused Reid to growl, pounding into her at just the right angle so as to hit her most sensitive spot. When she tilted her head back, again, lost in the pleasure he was giving her, he traced his lips down her throat.

Her inner-walls clenched around him and he drew it out as long as he could, fighting the need to come, when he felt her orgasm rip through her. Her nails raked down his back, and he knew there would be marks in the morning, but he didn't care; all he cared about was Alyson, so warm and tight, coming undone, panting his name, "Oh, my God, Jesus Christ, Spencer, oh God …" He thrust one final time, heard her breathe out, "Yes, God, yes, I love you!" and finally came with explosive force, which triggered a second, smaller orgasm in Alyson, and for the next few minutes it was a jumble of pleasure and hoarse cries and Alyson, biting down gently into his shoulder to stop herself from screaming, and Reid burying his face in the space of her neck, and when the euphoria died down, they were panting, covered in sweat, sated.

She reached up to kiss him one final time, her tongue darting out and tasting the sweat on his temple, her hand moving up his back, feeling every vertebrae under her fingers. He was spent, exhausted, sated, delighted. He had lost his virginity. He had sex with Alyson Benson. Alyson Benson was in his bed, naked. She had said "I love you." Naked.

Alyson's eyes are drifting shut, exhaustion overcoming her, and Reid kisses her one last time before pulling the blanket up over top of her before getting up. He doesn't bother getting dressed; just disposes of the soiled condom and opening a window to let the cool breeze in before climbing back under the covers. Half-asleep, Alyson nonetheless turns to face him, arms wrapping around him, nuzzling his chest, and when he falls asleep, he doesn't have the nightmare of waking up to the empty bed, the ignored calls, the visit-they-pretend-never-was looming over him until morning.

For now, life is pretty good.