COLLATERAL DAMAGE ELEVEN:

"Lust is to the other passions what the nervous fluid is to life; it supports them all, lends strength to them all ambition, cruelty, avarice, revenge, are all founded on lust." Marquis De Sade

POORHOTCHPOORHOTCH

8:25 A.M.

Hotch was suffering, beyond what any man should be expected to endure. Apparently New York crime scene techs didn't make enough money to have decent air conditioning. And the sudden new York heat wave—coming in April of all things—was increasing Hotch's torture ten-fold.

Agent Emily Prentiss, dedicated professional, and a woman who should have known better, had chosen to sleep in the smallest shorts that could possibly still be called decent. Maybe, he'd have to review the statutes on New York decency laws. Or write one, if there wasn't one that he felt was appropriate enough.

And that wasn't all—the heat had gotten so unbearable that she'd kicked off her blanket and he'd been forced to remove his shirt, or drown in his own sweat.

And then, to make matters worse, the apartment air conditioner had kicked on with a vengeance less than half an hour after Hotch had finally managed to fall back to sleep.

Cold air, exposed skin, and a cold Emily Prentiss meant one thing for Hotch—a nearly naked goddess plastered to his naked chest. And damned if she didn't feel wonderful.

Hotch's hands were gripping her ass before he was even coherent enough to be aware of what he was doing. His lips were tasting the saltiness of her slightly sweaty neck—his knee was sliding stealthily between hers.

And she was waking.

She hmmed, a sound she always made as she woke, and it reverberated in Hotch's gut. He'd long fantasized about the exact sounds he'd be able to get her to make in the three days they'd been stuck in the little apartment. He'd decided the hmm would probably be his favorite. "God, Emily! You taste good!"

He followed his words with an action, pressing his lips to hers as her eyelids began that first fluttering of the day. As she looked up at him sleepily, dazedly—unaware.

Then her entire body stiffened, her hands tightened on his shoulders. She pulled away, just a bit, just as far as he'd let her, "Hotch!"

DAMNDAMNDAMN

David Rossi had long been a student of human behavior, and as he and Morgan entered the NYC crime lab, he knew immediately that the brunette with a riot of curls peeking around the corner into the office of the head of the lab was up to something.

In fact, Dave would lay money on the woman being the one they were there to see.

Seems Emily Prentiss had very few close friends within driving distance of DC, and at the top of that short list was a CSI Detective Stella Bonesara. Morgan and Dave, and the rest of the team were getting desperate to find Hotch and Emily.

Phillip Joel O'Connor's former cell mate had been found with his throat slashed, and O'Connor's best childhood friend had been found in a likewise manner. Not to mention what they'd done to that man's wife. And sister.

The women—both under the age of thirty—had just happened to be home that morning. Though they lived, Dave knew they'd never recover emotionally.

Dave wanted to make damned sure O'Connor's men didn't lay one finger on Emily Prentiss, or anyone else on their team. Or the brunette in front of them—who could be a potential target. Dave touched Morgan's arm quietly, both men pausing out of earshot of the obviously eavesdropping woman.

"Look." Dave said, motioning through the glass windows. "Isn't that Fornell's man, Sachs? I heard he'd transferred to IA a while back."

"That's him. Damned bastard is like a dog with a bone after he's made his mind up about something." Morgan said grimly. "And the woman? That Bonesara?"

"Ten to one odds." Dave said, "You—bring the SUV around. If we split up we're less likely to be seen by Sachs and his crew. I'll get Bonesara and meet you in the parking garage."

Morgan checked his watch. "You've got fifteen minutes. If you're any later, I'm assuming you've been made."

"Morgan! This is not an X-Men movie." Dave snarked. "Just get the car."

"Great, I'll get the car, you get the girl. Hardly seems fair."

"Woman. She's too old for you. And since Hotch has Prentiss now…" Dave shrugged. "Go, so we can get the action-flick in gear."

"You think he's had Prentiss by now?"

"If he hasn't then he must be in a whole lot of pain. After all, Morgan, wouldn't you be?"

DUMDUMDUMMMMMMMM

Hotch didn't want to pull back. Not at all. She'd been torturing him for days. Literally days. Surely, for Hell's sake, she knew he was just a mere mortal. Knew he had needs just like any other man. Like Dave. Like Morgan. Hell, even like Reid.

And as a profiler, surely she understood the danger proximity could present, when two people were attracted to one another. And he knew she was feeling the attraction a bit, as well. He'd seen the signs, seen the way she watched him when she thought he wasn't looking.

"Shh. It's ok." He murmured against her hair. "Not hurting anything."

"Have you lost your mind? Sir?" She breathed, though the words were short, choppy, and he realized he was lying fully on her—most likely cutting off some of her air supply. He shifted his upper body, leaving his hands right where they were—against her side and circling her waist.

"Yes. I have." He said, with a dark tinge to his words that had her brows rising quickly. "And it's all your fault."

"Excuse me?" She drawled the question out, the indignation plain for him to hear. "How is that? Did I show up on your door needing help? No. I don't think so. Will you stop that?"

"Stop what?" Hotch fought the urge to laugh, as one of her hands tried to capture his. Tried to keep it still, tried to stop it from caressing the skin bared by her shirt's rising up while she'd slept. "This?"

He kept his eyes trained on her face, not missing the way her breath caught. Not missing the bumps that suddenly rose on her flesh. She'd liked his hand running over her stomach. Teasing her by going just a bit lower. "Sure you want me to stop?"

"Yes." Her small word was broken, hesitant.

"Liar." He told her as boldly as he could. "We both know you're lying. Both know that's exactly what you don't want."

"What brought this on?" She demanded, this time pushing against his chest lightly. She negated her intent by pausing just long enough to run a finger absently through the sparse sprinkling of chest hair covering his skin. He caught her hand, trapping it against him—making her aware of what she'd done.

Her action had sealed things. Made it perfectly clear to him that it wasn't just him feeling the heat between them.

Enough was enough. She'd tortured him for three days, and three even longer nights. Now it was time for payback.

And he was going to see to it that she enjoyed it—just as much as he did. But only after he'd made her pay for her teasing.

And pay she would.