Roll Four: Humdrum
Warning for mild sexual situations
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I was bored, she imagined saying to a room of faceless, judging men. Stuck in a rut, she thought, fingers knuckling into the tightly wound fabric of the armchair as she fought the urge to buck. A hand on a her hip, nails tapping on the sharp line of her pelvic bone. Urging her down again, urging her calm. I'd been drinking.
All ways to bear away this moment, put it on someone else's shoulders. All excuses. Excuses to work away the weight of a head on her thigh, the silky smooth slip of brown hair through her splayed hand as it cradled the back of a delicate skull. All to feign that she didn't want this; the huff of warm-sweet breath on sweaty skin, her leg hooked up and over the bare shoulder kneeled in front of her, the wicked press of a practised tongue.
"Okay?" the woman murmured, and Emily almost groaned no. Almost asked for a do-over, a reset, back to the moment she'd seen a half-familiar face sauntering towards her to slip onto the stool next to her at the bar and order her a drink.
Emily Prentiss, isn't it? Greenaway had asked, with a casual flick of her hand baring short, unpainted nails. My replacement. Well, you've certainly got the look.
The look? Emily had replied, heart missing two quick beats. She'd looked around for Reid, hidden somewhere at this crowded, humdrum conference. I know you. Agent Greenaway.
A slip of the tongue.
A slip of fingers, another choking gasp. No regrets, not really.
Formerly Agent Greenaway, the woman had replied with a growly kind of laugh, and downed her drink. Hotch still a hardarse?
She hadn't explained 'the look'. And somehow, somehow, they'd ended up here.
Emily made every excuse except the real one. The one that had taken notice of that spice-brown gaze and sunk straight from her brain to her cunt, spurred along by the smooth burn of the whiskey she'd just swallowed. The one that whispered truthfully, you wanted this. Wanted this because it was convenient, because she couldn't deal with the egos that usually came with a stay-for-the-night cock, because Elle ran her hand along the stubbly bite of legs that Emily couldn't be fucked shaving after a week-long case in a hotel with shitty pipes and didn't give a damn because she knew the feeling.
"Yes," Emily coughed out, husky with the teasing trace of that tongue. The tongue delved, dived. Explored ruthlessly, and Emily squeezed out a groan from deep in her chest that came out crisp and sharp. "Yes."
Elle smirked. "They don't talk about this, do they?" she asked, shifting her legs to ease cramped muscles, replacing her tongue with her fingers as she arched back to peer up at Emily's face. "The stress. The tension. The building strain that nothing but a good turn in the sheets can fuck off." The muscles in her arm bunched as her wrist turned and shifted, fingers working Emily apart from the inside out. Finding that tension and cording it tighter and tighter until it all unravelled at once.
Emily wondered if she'd unravel with it, if this was a sign of something more. Sexual promiscuity can be a maladaptive response to stress, she heard in Reid's throaty voice, a little husky, as though he was hovering over her shoulder with his dinner-plate eyes wide and interested, studying her reactions to the unexplainable.
She turned and checked, just in case, frowning at the white-flutter of the drapes on the open window.
"Could you imagine Hotch trying to explain this?" she said instead of any of that, and Elle laughed. Another finger. Emily reached down, gripped her shoulder with nails that bit, and memorized the way weak light glinted from a wet mouth. "Or Re—ah—Reid…"
Elle smirked again. Catlike, cunning, and Emily's gut jolted with that smirk. Tensed more. Knew her mouth was open, her eyes blank, knew she was on the cusp of that endless unravelling.
"Oh, he knows," Elle said, and Emily swallowed hard. Coughed. Didn't know what to say next. Knew what was coming. "After bad cases, he'd knock at my door. You know the knock. Shave and a haircut, every time, and I'd open it to him standing there sheepishly in his best damn shirt."
"You fucked Reid?" Emily said, almost laughing, almost not.
"He did his share of the fucking, little minx he is," Elle murmured, her voice a low hum. Her fingers hooked, found the tension, and she didn't stop Emily from bucking this time. Just waited for the surge to subside and pressed her mouth to the taut line of skin from hip to stomach. Kissed like a promise. "Better?"
Emily shuttered her eyes, tasted the whiskey again. Nodded. Opened them and slid to the floor, Elle scuttling back. Emily smiled, shaking away the image of Reid and this woman tangled together in shared insecurity. That was something to ponder later.
"Your turn," she said, still shaking, and ignored the buzz of her phone as she found the other woman's mouth. I don't kiss and fuck, Elle had joked as they'd stumbled into the room. Don't expect tender lesbian bullshit from me, agent.
Emily proved her wrong.
