He held her hand as they walked quickly down the street toward his place. It was on the way to hers, but he had no intention of passing it by. He had one thought, and one thought only. Getting her naked as quick as possible.
But then they approached his building, and she resisted slightly. He turned toward her.
"I like my own bed." Her voice was full of candor, which he admired, and a tiny hint of nerves that he struggled to identify the cause of. Then it occurred to him—he had her unsure.
He wrapped his hand even tighter around hers, then pulled it up to his mouth, kissing it softly. "Ok."
"But hurry, right?" This time her voice held humor and he felt his own lips curve in response. He hastened his step.
"Something like that." It was the last he spoke until they reached her door. He pushed her against it, kissed her quickly before speaking again. "Keys?"
"Right front pocket." Her voice was husky and he shivered, his hand traveling down over her side toward the pocket in question. He found the keys but didn't pull them free. His fingers slid past the metal, warmed from her body, and caressed her hip through the material of her pants. Then he quickly pulled the keys free, he reached around her and opened the door.
They barely made it inside, stopping against her immaculate granite counter. He wrapped both hands around her waist and lifted, setting her on the cool counter before covering her mouth with his.
Then his fingers went to the buttons of her barely-there blouse, slipping them hurriedly free. He dropped the material casually on her kitchen floor. His shirt soon followed, and he felt her heated skin pressed against his.
He wrapped her legs around his waist and lifted, intent on carrying her up the stairs to the bedroom he'd yet to see. Last time they'd never made it off her couch. This time he was determined to be different.
He wanted to do things entirely right this time, and that meant having the room to move.
As he walked the short distance to her stairs she pulled his head down to hers, running her tongue over his lips. She tasted like Mexican chili's and beer and Emily, a strangely intoxicating taste. Hotch wanted more. He wanted to taste her everywhere.
He fully intended to taste her everywhere.
They didn't make it passed the middle stair.
As much as he hated to admit it, carrying a woman up a flight of stairs was a bit much for a man his age, and he paused to take a break. He leaned her back against the steps, just long enough to catch his breath.
Then she stole the air right from his lungs with one hot look and a quick, hot little hand that shot out to unbuckle the navy trousers he wore.
"God, Em!" He rushed the words against the skin of her neck, before running his teeth over the soft skin. He nipped, probably deeper than he should have. She just moaned, and he knew immediately that she did like it a bit harder than Hayley ever had.
He found that idea incredibly hot.
Her hand tightened, bringing forth a hot moan from him. He ran his tongue over the fresh nip on her neck before slowly moving up toward her ear. He bit her there, softly, before whispering just exactly what he was going to do to her.
If he ever got her up those damned stairs.
He hadn't realized he'd said that lost thought aloud until she laughed, that low, wicked sound that tightened his gut even tighter.
"Who said we have to get up the stairs?" She asked, pushing the pants off his hips before he could respond.
"So you want to, right here?" He asked as his own hands went to the zipper of her black pants. He paused in pulling them off to slip the heels from her feet.
"Unless you want to…wait…until we make it all the way up there?" She arched her neck, looking up the rest of the way to the second floor.
Hotch's attention was diverted from the conversation, seeing the redness of his bite on the pale skin of her neck. He leaned down and repeated the action on the other side. Now the sides matched, and he thrilled seeing that he'd marked her—branded her—in two places.
It was a clear claiming that any other male would understand.
It had become abundantly clear that, as far as Hotch was concerned, she was his—and he wanted to make that clear to every guy she'd come into contact with.
"Here's good." He told her, whispering the words harshly against her ear as his hands started exploring the flesh he'd revealed. Emily's skin was smooth, soft, supple, perfect. It felt good and it tasted good. And he took his time reveling in it. In her. In all of her.
When he caught his breath, he laughed, actually laughed. His pants were doing a bad impression of the splits—one leg still wrapped around his ankle and the other trailing down the steps between them and the bottom. Emily's rested over the railing—where he distinctly remembered throwing them.
It took him a moment to remember where their shirts had ended up. He didn't really care. "Em? You ok?"
"Hmm. Better." She opened her eyes for a moment then closed them again. She stretched tentatively against him.
His knee between her thighs was probably the only thing keeping her from sliding down the steps. He nudged her with that knee, thrilled when he was rewarded with another moan.
"I told myself I wasn't going to do this again." She whispered, though her hands tightened around his waist.
"You had?" Hotch hoped his voice didn't reveal the sudden fear that tightened his chest.