… it's the last thing she anticipated
The fourth time it happens, it's the last thing she could have anticipated.
She's stateside again, though it's not about Aaron. She'd heard through the grapevine – Penelope – about the latest fiasco with Derek's childhood mentor and decides she'd had enough. She books a week off and gets on a plane.
Derek is understandably surprised when he shows up on her doorstep, bag in hand. But Emily just glares and pushes past him.
"Hello to you too."
She rolls her eyes with her back to him and drops her bag. Then she's whirled on him and yanked him into a hug. "Garcia told me," she says, holding tighter when he goes stiff. "Don't."
He sighs, but then he's clinging to her. "There's nothing to say."
But she knows how much it shakes him.
He's been ordered to take time off. It's only a day but they spend it doing nothing but loafing around his house. She helps him clear out his basement, then leaves him banging around. She pretends that she's still in London as she answers text messages and a couple of quick emails, even straightens his living room and adds purple notes to his casefiles. Nothing about what she's doing is any different than things she's done with Derek in the past.
When he finally emerges from the basement, he picks her up from the couch and just holds her for a few minutes until she bats him away.
"You're sweaty and gross," she informs him with a dramatic wrinkle of her nose.
He chuckles, then presses a kiss to her cheek.
They spend the evening watching movies, exchanging mocking commentary as they lounge. He's gone when she wakes, but he's left her sinful waffles in the fridge.
She gets the text mid-afternoon, just as she's taking in some of her favourite exhibits at the Smithsonians.
Get pretty, Prentiss. We're painting the town red.
It's almost immediately followed by a number of angry text messages from the rest of the team, scolding her for keeping her presence so secret. She laughs to herself, then heads to Georgetown.
When she walks into the bar Derek's chosen for the evening, Penelope, JJ, Will and Derek are already seated in a large booth. She laughs at the raucous greeting she receives and accepts hugs, even a couple of slaps.
"You didn't even hint you were coming in," Penelope exclaims, snuggling into her side for a moment. Then she's back, pressed against Derek as Emily and JJ exchange a long-suffering eyeroll.
"It was an… impulse," Emily offers, settling in, only to stand a moment later to greet Spencer as he returns with drinks.
He grins widely and hugs her tight. "A waitress is bringing the rest."
He's pink and Emily grins because he looks so embarrassed about it. It makes her happy though, to see him recovering from everything with Maeve.
Dave shows up a few moments later, cuing a large and enthusiastic greeting. He's grinning as he pulls Emily from her seat. She laughs brightly, wrapping her arms around his neck.
"You look beautiful," he tells her sincerely. "Blake won't be joining us. Seems her husband's in town."
She doesn't ask about Hotch. She knows better than to give herself away like that. She hasn't said a thing to anyone about what she and Hotch are doing. She's not about to give them ammunition.
Since their… phone conversation, they've been in contact more than ever. They exchange emails whenever they get a chance and she's been shocked at how, well, candid, even downright dirty some of those emails have been. They've talked on the phone too, more than every before. She's thought about adding Skype, that visual element, but can't seem to bring herself to do it. Phone and email, well there's an odd anonymity to it. She can pretend she doesn't cling to every moment she gets. She can pretend that she doesn't think about him every minute, that she's not worried she's in too deep to find her way out again.
But that's a worry for another day. Right now, she's getting a reprieve, a moment with her friends, her family. She can see the way life is ragging on them. She can still see the dark bags under Spencer's eyes, the strain on Will and JJ's faces. Dave looks a little greyer than she remembers and even Penelope seems to have aged more than Emily can remember. A night out, she thinks, will do them all a little bit of good.
She's not sure how long they're there. She's being yanked between Dave and Derek on what serves as a dance floor. She's laughing as Dave dips her – and the song definitely does not call for it – before spinning her into Derek's smooth-moving hips, when she feels the hair on the back of her neck stand on end. She knows, long before Derek leans into her ear, just who has walked into the bar.
"Hotch made it."
She pulls back, a little self-consciously, because something in her rebels at the idea of Hotch seeing her dancing with Derek like that. She can feel Hotch moving through the crowd that has amassed, can feel his gaze over her body like a physical caress. Even her breath has sped up and she'd bet her skin has flushed. She can't help herself. He's been helping her hands and fueling her fantasies, but it's all her imagination. Having him here, in arm's reach, makes her blood sing in anticipation.
Eventually, as always, Derek's lured away by a group of women a few feet away and Emily just laughs and waves him off. She's here to make him feel better after all, and nothing gets Derek back on his feet like unattached sex.
Everyone's still there, Dave the only exception, having begged off due to "old age". Emily makes a note to rag on him about it later as she slides in next to Hotch, If she's honest, she doesn't really expect Hotch to acknowledge her. The last time they'd actually been in the same room he'd seen her naked in his bed every night and given no indication of their much more intimate relationship.
But once she's settled into the booth, his hand immediately finds her bare thigh and she realizes with a sharp inhale, she couldn't have been more wrong. His eyes are dark, hot and it makes her breath catch. This isn't the quietness she's used to. There's nothing subtle when he looks at her. She shivers, violently, and his hand tightens on her knee. It's the only greeting they exchange.
She's not sure what happens in the next while. She's too focused on Hotch's fingers, the way they stroke against her skin. She looks down, his long fingers wrapped around her knee. She can't say her knee's been an erogenous zone before, but his heated palm is certainly spiking her bloody pressure. When she looks back up, JJ meets her eyes with a smug smile.
She blushes. "I'll… be back."
She needs five minutes, time to calm down. God, it's like she's desperate and she's not. She has better control than that.
But Jesus if the man doesn't turn her on.
She braces her hands on the vanity in the women's washroom. She wants to splash water on her face but she's allergic to most waterproof mascaras and she's sure as hell not wasting the painstaking time she took on her eyeshadow either. She runs the cold water over her wrists instead, trying to even her breathing. When she looks up, she almost releases a startled shriek. Hotch is there, sliding into the bathroom behind her. There's no one else here, but it's not a single washroom. There are stalls, sinks and there's an odd mixture of heated thrill and genuine fear that follows the knowledge that she just cannot lock the door and have her way with him.
Emily opens her mouth to tell him it's a bad idea, she's sure, but he's got her by the wrist, then the waist and against him before the words form. Then his mouth is on hers and thought flies from her head.
He's not gentle, not his mouth, nor his hands that race over her skin. They dig into her hips, press against the small of her back, clench on her ass. His teeth clash with hers, his tongue barely giving her a chance to respond. He slides his hand up her back, clenches in her hair and yanks. Her throat is exposed as she squeaks and he actually groans as he looks down at her. His lips slide down her neck until his teeth can dig into her pulse point. She gasps, her hips pushing into his.
She can feel the bulge, press against her in all the right and delicious ways. She shudders, her whole body vibrating against his. He takes control, he's taken control. He's got a hand on her thigh, her knee, pulling it around his hip. His hand clenches, lifts and she lets out a surprised sound again because she's losing her balance. It's seems to be what he wants because he boosts her, manages to get her leg on her hip. It's not comfortable and she feels like she's falling so she clenches her thighs around his hips, her arms around his neck and yanks.
He groans like he's in pain, but carries her to the handicapped stall. He shoves her against the wall, cushioning her head with his hand. The other he takes from her ass, somehow managing to wedge his hand between them. He grabs and yanks and she gasps when she hears the lace of her panties tear.
His fingers are there and she's actually, very suddenly, thankful for his hand on her knee. She's soaking she's sure he felt it through her lace. He drives two fingers into her and she chokes at the friction and pleasure that spikes through her. He gives her no time, no reprieve. He starts up a fast rhythm. His thumb moves, presses, and it takes maybe two minutes to have her clenching and flying, as he watches with demon dark eyes.
"God, you're gorgeous." It's the first thing he's said but she most certainly doesn't care. The climax is still rolling through her, little aftershocks and singing nerves where his hands are against her skin. It's good, but she wants more.
So much more.
She claws at his dress pants, cursing him for not changing into goddamn jeans. She shoves, does some acrobatics, and somehow manages to get his pants down and her hand on him. He groans, loud, and she lifts her free hand to press it against his mouth. His eyes spark and flare, then his hands are shifting, and she's guiding him inside. This time, she groans as she feels every inch. He reaches up, forcibly removing her hand from his mouth so he can fuse his mouth to hers. It muffles her moans, even her whimpers as he starts up a bruising pace. She does not flinch. Her hands clench, digging into his shoulders. Then they shift, clenching in his neck and she knows she's leaving crescent shaped marks and she can't say she cares.
He bites at her lip and one of her hands drops to his ass, hoping to drive him faster, harder. She's getting closer and closer and she knows by the way her gut is tightening that her muscles inside are fluttering around him, just on the edge. He pushes harder, faster. Every push sends her back into the wall, her head bouncing on the tiles, but she could not care less. She barely feels it. All she can feel is the way his hips piston into hers, the way his hands are gripping her thighs, the way he's using his tongue roughly against hers to try and muffle her enthusiastic sounds.
Then he's pulling away and she's gasping for air, flying impossibly higher as her lungs try to remember how to function.
"Emily," he growls, actually growls and her stomach clenches. He pushes his mouth to hers and when he pulls back his eyes are black. "Mine."
Her heart squeezes, painfully, but her arousal makes her stomach flip deliciously and her body is all but exploding. She realizes as she shakes and shivers with her orgasm that he's not moving. He's just letting her ride it out as he sits, hard as hell, within her. Her eyes flutter open and they lock on hers, possession in every line of his face.
"Yours."
His forehead drops to hers and he moves in earnest, hard slow strokes that jerk her up the wall with every push. She gasps, because she's still sensitive, but he doesn't seem to care. She whimpers, whines, and as she shifts, pushes, she's absolutely shocked when her body actually responds. She tumbles over the edge again, every muscle in her body going stiff. He follows, thrusting up into her one more time as his body goes taut.
When her vision clears, she's surprised to find them seated on the toilet. He's managed to tuck himself back in and she's straddling his lap, her head pillowed on his shoulder. He feels her stir and his hands cup her face, eyes searching hers.
"You didn't tell me you were flying in."
She shakes her head.
He uses his fingers to brush back her hair. "Why?"
She doesn't answer, tries to convey all her anxiousness, nervousness and worry by her fidgeting body, her reluctance to even meet his eyes. He takes it in, then pulls her to him. He kisses her and she cannot help but respond. When he pulls away, it's only far enough to press his forehead to hers.
"Mine," he says so soft. "Mine, Emily."
Her breath catches, her heart pounds. She can hear what he's asking for, of course she can. It's different now, than only moments ago, in the moments of passion. This one will be real. This one will tie her to him, even across an ocean. She blows out a breath, searching his gaze, because nothing has changed. Not a damn thing.
"Aaron-"
"Emily."
Her body goes taut, her spine straightens. There's so much emotion in that simple utterance of her name; emotion she does not want to identify.
He kisses her again, then nuzzles his nose against hers. "Mine," he whispers.
Her breath shudders out of her lungs. "Yours," she whispers back.
And in a public bathroom, they become more.
Back to back updates always make me feel like a crazy person, but I had a bunch of days at the cottage and my muse decided that was a great time to visit. So, two chapters straight. Not sure when I'm going to get to five (because if you don't know there's going to be more right now, we need to have a talk), but I think I have the idea of it. We've still got a far ways to go before I get them where I'm aiming to!
All the thanks in the world to you lovely folks who leave reviews. Some of you make me smile, some of you have me in stitches, and it's worth battling over these stories day in and day out. You all make it so worth it to do this as a hobby.