…they break a record
Anonymous asked: (Homecoming) Emily's moved in and they are christening various parts of Hotch's place ;)
Six months after she returns from London they buy a house. It's a little two-bedroom not far from Jessica with a backyard for Jack. They move in on a weekend when Jack's at summer camp, for their own sanity more than anything else. With the team's help, they get everything moved in by lunch – though not unpacked – and the team is gone by mid-afternoon.
And they are by themselves.
. . . . .
i) She drops next to him with a sigh, curling into his side. He presses his lips to her head, then her temple, trails his mouth over her cheek as his hand curls around her hip. She hums and presses in closer, turns easily into his kiss.
"Empty house," he murmurs against her mouth.
"Our empty house," she responds. She moves into his body, shifts until she can slide into his lap. He welcomes her easily, slips his hands around her. She shivers as he spreads his palms over her back and slides her hands over his shoulders.
"Ours indeed," he agrees, tugging her closer. Those broad palms slide under her tshirt, running up her spine and taking her shirt with them. She is gloriously, wonderfully and beautifully bare underneath and he stares in awe. He can't help it, even all this time. It makes her breath catch every time, the way he looks at her, like she shouldn't be here, she shouldn't be real.
"Aaron."
"I love you," he tells her like he doesn't every day. She thinks it has everything to do with their painful time apart. He'll say it with desperation like he's going to wake up without her.
"I love you, too," she answers immediately because sometimes she feels it too, the way it all crawls up in her throat. For her it's about the gut wrenching loneliness and it makes her dig her nails into his shoulders. She balls his shirt in her fists and with a couple of tugs inches it up his back. He gets the hint and releases her only briefly to pull it over his head.
They christen their living room with the late afternoon sun beating down on her back as she moves above him.
ii) When they pull themselves from the couch, the sun has set and their stomachs are growling. They've been gifted with a couple of casseroles and enough fresh vegetables for a salad. She perches herself on the counter next to him. It's a tempting picture in his shirt and nothing else while he dices peppers in sweatpants he'd dug up from his go-bag. His hand sneak to her leg every once in a while, brushes her knee and outer thigh. She's not innocent either, letting her fingertips touch his hip, pressing her mouth to his shoulder when he reaches for her.
It's a comfort and a tease at the same time and there's a quiet tension in the air as he adds the peppers to the bowl and pushes the knife and cutting board into the sink. He steps into her easily and she wraps her legs around his hips. His fingers play at the soft skin of her inner thighs. She shivers as she reaches for him, but he grasps her wrist and spreads her palms on the counter.
He sinks to his knees then, doesn't care much about the hard tile floor beneath his knees. Not when her breath catches as he presses his mouth to her knee and up her leg.
He makes her scream twice before the timer goes off on the oven.
iii) They eat, they clean and they head up to bed. It's the one piece of furniture they'd made sure was wholly together by the time the team left, sheets easily accessible. They curl up together, exhausted and maybe a little bit sore as they spoon together.
"Can we keep score?" she asks softly, running her fingertips along his forearms. It's a carefully seductive touch because she knows how sensitive he can be.
He nudges her hair out of the way with his nose, pulling her closer. "All weekend?"
Her eyes flutter, in part because of the low rumble of his voice and in part because she remembers the last time they'd kept score. Her fresh return, her official welcome home, and the number of surfaces they'd managed to check off. His desk for one, still bears the evidence of passionate marks in the varnish.
"Yes."
He laughs, but still rocks his hips into hers. Her back arches as she rubs back against him. Their christening of the kitchen had, admittedly, been all about her and she feels wonderfully languid. Even so, she feels the arousal spread through her blood again, slower this time as she reaches back for him. She shoves his sweatpants down as he slips his hands beneath her tshirt, finding the bare skin of her stomach and then her hot, wet core. He lifts her leg easily, opening her up for him to slide inside.
He pauses there, lets them both really feel it before he pulls out, just as painfully slow. His next thrust is just as patient and forces her to feel every damn inch. Her breath hitches as he bottoms out and her fingers squeeze at the hand still splayed over her stomach. He keeps that slow pace, has her whimpering and whining with every thrust. But he's also so determined to be gentle and slow because they aren't young teenagers anymore and he knows she has to be feeling it.
"So good, sweetheart," he whispers as he tends to do when he's getting close but wants to take her with him. She whines in earnest, grasps for his hand on her thigh. Their hands slide over her hip, between her thighs until they press against her clit. Together, they work her up into a rolling languid orgasm. The flutter of her muscles around him sets him off too and he groans into the back of her neck.
He shifts when he's caught his breath and she whines. He shushes her gently, a hand slipping soothingly down her back as he slips from the bed. He cleans up in the bathroom, then digs up a cloth to do the same for her. He presses butterfly kisses to her neck and should when he returns and settles against her.
"Let's keep score this weekend."
She grins.
iv) She wakes up alone but with the sheets behind her still warm and the sound of the shower in her ears. She smiles into her pillow and pulls herself out of the bed. Their bed. She stops long enough to dig a towel from their carefully marked boxes then reconsiders their promise to keep score and adds another.
He's not surprised when she joins him, simply offers the towel a quizzical look as he rinses the shampoo from his hair. She offers him a smile, a coy look from beneath her lashes as she shifts him back. She drops the still-folded towel to the tile and adjusts the showerhead so it doesn't pound down on her skull. Her hands press against his hips, hold him still as she sinks slowly and deliberately to her knees.
"Emily-"
She knows it's not his favourite thing, and over the years she's been largely indifferent to it. But there's something about the way she can drive this carefully controlled man to the very edge that makes her partial to it every now and again. This time is no different and she leans in to press her mouth to his stomach and his hips, then takes him in her mouth. He groans and slides his hands into her hair.
She takes her time with him, pauses to feel the weight of him on her tongue, to circle the head. He pants above her, guides her gently as per their long-standing compromise. Not that she is really against letting him have that control, or the illusion of it, anyway. He lets her go a few more minutes, long enough for her to hope that maybe, just maybe, he'll let her make this all about him, but then he's pulling on her hair and reaching to turn off the shower at the same time.
"Aaron," she pouts, but he is resolute and leads her out of the shower until he can press her against the bathroom sink, his front to her back. She gasps at the temperature contrast of her skin and the counter and catches his gaze in the mirror as he presses inside from behind.
They christen the bathroom with heated eyes locked in the mirror.
v) When they're finally cleaned up, they go grocery shopping at Aaron's insistence. Not that Emily's really complaining. She knows breakfast is one of his favourite meals to cook and she's not stupid enough to stand in his way. That's how they end up with bacon, eggs and fresh fruit spread over half of the dining room table. It's a quiet, companionable breakfast fed by heated glances and the still-fresh memories of their shower tryst.
And he thinks it's that, the memory of her pleasured cry bouncing off the tile that has him pushing his plate out of the way and reaching for her. He strips her slowly, touches every inch of skin he reveals. She follows his lead, murmurs to him about how she wants him. He responds in kind, tells her how beautiful she is, how much he loves her. He worships her with hands and mouths, feels the gratitude well up in him all over again. He will always feel that way, he thinks, lucky and blessed that she'd given him a second chance.
"Always," she whispers back, just as harsh and fierce as he settles between her thighs. He's slow and tender as he pushes inside, aware of how swollen she must be. It's a careful rhythm and he draws on wellsprings of patience as he works to find the best touch and pattern that works.
She barely makes a sound as she comes, wrapped as tight around him as he is around her.
. . . . .
They check off the foyer, the hallway and the office before Jack comes home on Sunday. And that night, Jack tucked snug in his new room, their things mostly unpacked around them in the house that will always be theirs, they christen the bedroom again.
Just for good measure.