Crossing the Rubicon

"Alea iacta est." ~Julius Caesar

November 1988. New York City, New York.

The hotel had a very lovely bar, Erin decided as she sipped her third aqua velva. The colors were dark, sensuous, yet still muted enough to keep the room from feeling too dim or too heavy. The bar was well-lit and well-stocked (the latter being the most important quality, naturally), and the furniture was covered in comfortable, smooth dark leather, which off-set the greens and blues of the neon lights behind the bar, running around the edges of the liquor shelves, amplifying the sparkling jewel tones of various alcohols.

This lovely atmosphere was even more improved by the fact that Erin was gloriously, deliciously, wonderfully alone. The past six days had been absolutely horrendous—she wasn't even supposed to be here, this wasn't her case or her team. She'd been transferred to the D.C. field office earlier that year, had finally left Goodwin and his godforsaken White Collar Division in Philadelphia for Organized Crime with the much calmer and unsexist Rutherford Golden back in the Capitol. She'd immediately fallen into sync with the rest of the OC gang, and finally felt that she was moving ahead in a positive direction, after years of accounting hell in White Collar.

But now here she was in New York City, being loaned out to a joint task force because her research and knowledge of one Jarrod Roche had made her an "easy fit" in the current investigation—she'd followed Roche for years, first through his white collar crimes and public corruption charges (which had allowed her to work with Organized Crime, and eventually led to her transfer), then through his ties to various criminal organizations, and now here, chasing international terrorists. Golden had made a good call by sending her—she truly was the most well-versed when it came to Roche's operating procedures and financial structuring—but he hadn't taken into account how her personality would interact with his old friend David Rossi, and therein lay the problem.

For years, she'd heard of Rossi's charm and suavity—he was the sleepy-eyed Lothario of Quantico, with his Italian phrases and expensive gifts and famed sexual prowess. And the first few times that she'd met him, she had seen where such stories could be true. But the man she'd come to know was nothing like the tales that had been spun around his almost-folkloric persona.

He was charming. At least until he didn't get his way. Erin was beginning to honestly believe that she was the first person who'd ever simply stood up to him (the man acted as if he'd never had to compromise in his life), because the instant that she'd shown any kind of backbone, their cordial conversation devolved from heated debate to all-out nuclear war. All because she'd dared to question his methods!

Erin was not a behavioral analyst. She never pretended to be. That was the BAU's turf, so to speak, and it was a land of uncertain meanings and moving shadows—she gladly yielded the field when it came to psychoanalysis. However, she had spent many long hours tracking this guy's financial, social, and organizational connections, and she'd learned what kind of person he was—Jarrod Roche was an investor, he made few connections, but when he did establish a new one, it was a well-grounded, thought-out decision. He didn't act brashly or make hasty judgment calls. Everything he did was like a game of chess—there was an endgame, and he always looked ahead. He carefully considered every enterprise and every person involved before he committed to something. He was methodical and pragmatic, he kept his tracks well-covered, and for that, Erin bore a begrudging sense of respect for the man. Respect was the key—if you didn't respect these people, no matter how dark or dirty or evil they seemed, then you lost focus, you turned it into a vendetta, you took it personally and then you made mistakes.

David Rossi didn't respect the UNSUBs, at least not like he should. But more appalling than his lack of respect for Jarrod Roche was his lack of respect for his fellow agents (perhaps Erin more so than the others, though she could never figure out why). The first day on the case, Erin had offered the data she'd compiled on the man over the past several years, which was merely tossed aside as "unnecessary" simply because it didn't have a psychological aspect—Rossi wouldn't listen to her assertion that a history of Roche's financial decisions would, in fact, provide unique insights into his personality—and Rossi had continued barreling along without so much as a backward glance.

He also wasn't a fan of sharing information, which irked Erin beyond belief, because she had other cases riding on this, and every piece of information was another drop in the bucket, another step closer to closing the books on several players who'd populated the underground stage for far too long. But sharing information would imply that they were a team, and David Rossi was the furthest thing from a team player that Erin Strauss had ever seen.

Despite his lack of basic social skills when it came to working a case, the rest of the joint task force seemed to like him—the only major disputes had happened between Strauss and Rossi, and everyone else simply skirted around them like it never happened. They knew that David Rossi could be abrasive and brash, but they just shrugged and moved on, completely unfazed by his temper or his antisocial ways on the job, because whenever they were off the job, he was warm and friendly and always, always buying rounds of drinks and laughing and telling hilarious stories of his former escapades.

In fact, that was probably what was happening right now, in whatever bar that the rest of the team had decided to invade.

The others had invited her to join them, but she'd politely refused (she always did that, always made herself an outsider, even when people wanted to include her and make her their friend). Quite frankly, she wasn't up to company, to being witty and charming and all the things that were expected of her—she was still smarting from her most recent abrasive run-in with Rossi, and though she didn't think that he'd continue their argument over drinks, she didn't want to take the chance.

So here she was, quietly (almost happily) installed in the corner of the bar, with her aqua velva and her wonderful warm buzz.

Of course, the fates could not allow her such peace and solitude.

David Rossi stumbled happily into the hotel lobby, laughing and joking with Tally and Other Dave. As the others headed back to the elevators, he glanced around, his attention instantly caught by a lovely image—Erin Strauss, at the end of the hotel bar. At least, it would be a lovely image, if she didn't look like someone had killed her pet hamster. Her sadness made her look even younger than her twenty-nine years, her light green eyes and flawless skin and honeyed curls giving her the appearance of a very unhappy porcelain doll.

He felt a pang of guilt at the realization that he was the reason for her melancholia. He'd been too hard on her today—most of the time, he could push her, and she would push back, and it was a fun little game (at least for him, although he suspected that she enjoyed being able to ditch her passive-aggressive ways by being totally brutal towards him). But he'd gone too far, and he'd broken her, in some way. That had never been his intention—true, most of their time together was spent tearing each other apart, but there was an odd sense of camaraderie to the whole affair (she was his sparring partner, and when she was down, then so was he).

Of course, he'd tried to apologize, which had turned into a colossal mistake, because Strauss had still been hurting and she'd lashed out instead (and he actually understood that, when he thought about it). In retrospect, he should have known better than to approach her so soon after he'd wounded her—he should have known that she wouldn't be ready to accept his apology, not after he'd embarrassed her in front of the others, not after he'd made her lose her temper in public (though personally, he didn't see why she was embarrassed, because truly, it wasn't that bad, and it had been completely warranted, given the circumstances).

She had avoided him for the rest of the day, a bit like a cat who needed to lick her wounds and recover before dealing with him again, and he'd tried to be respectful and give her distance.

But hours had passed, and he still needed to make amends. David Rossi was well-aware of the fact that he had a short-fuse temper and a sharp tongue to match, and he wasn't the best at controlling either—however, to his credit, he always made a point of owning up to his faults, even if it took a while for him to acknowledge them. He knew that he'd inadvertently hurt Erin Strauss much deeper than he'd intended (she had been irritating the hell out of him, but he'd never meant to make her cry, which is what she had almost done, there in the conference room), and he couldn't shake the nagging voice at the corner of his mind which quietly informed him that he would have to make this right.

So he took a deep breath, said a quick (almost sarcastic) prayer of protection, and headed towards her.

He quietly scanned the bar—there were two more people, at a booth in the corner, both so sloppy-drunk that they didn't know the world was turning. Although she didn't look up, she obviously sensed his approach, because he saw her physically flinch, her shoulders rounding inward in a protective gesture, as if she were shielding herself from him.

He didn't like knowing that he had that effect on her. Despite the fact that he often couldn't stand her (or her voice, or her sarcasm, or her need to be right all the time), he didn't ever want to make her feel afraid or trapped or under siege, or any other scary emotion. In some ways, she reminded him of his younger sister—though they fought like cats and dogs, at the end of the day, he'd fight like hell to keep her safe. It was weird, the conflicting emotions that Strauss made bubble up inside of him, though he wasn't exactly sure that he wanted to take the time to try and sort them out.

He easily slipped onto the leather-coated bar stool next to Erin's with a soft, "Hello."

She still didn't look at him as she drained the rest of her drink, setting it back onto the bar. After another beat, she quietly returned, "Hello."

"You want another?" He gave a slight gesture towards her empty glass.

"You buying?"

"I can."

"You should."

There was an implication in her tone (you should, because you're the one driving me to drink) that didn't go unnoticed by the older man, and he gave a wry grin. There was the Erin he knew.

Silently, David motioned to the barkeep, indicating that he'd like two more. They didn't speak as the bartender set an aqua velva in front of each person. In unison, they both reached forward, taking their first sip. David winced (never was one for vodka), but Erin didn't seem at all affected (by now, the taste didn't matter so much to her anymore).

"I hate New York," she announced, rather flatly. David didn't respond, so she continued. "I know it's supposed to be the magical city of dreams and everyone just loves it, but I just…I don't get the allure."

Of course she wouldn't. She was too practical to see the romanticism behind it all, too busy seeing the trees instead of the forest. David couldn't stop himself from giving a snide smile, "What, is it too dirty for you? Too many people? Too much traffic and noise?"

He expected her to say something equally snobbish, something disdainful, down the length of her classical nose, the corner of her thin lips curling in distaste (yes, he knew precisely how she created that look of utter disapproval, because over the past week, he'd been on the receiving end of that exact expression many, many times). Instead, she simply gave a slow shake of her head.

"There isn't enough nature," she intoned mournfully, her face set in a serious expression that only a drunk can wear, when he or she has reached the level of contemplative intoxication.

That was not anything close to what David was expecting. "Nature? Really?"

"Nature. Really." She set her drink on the bar with a satisfying thud as she began to quote Emily Dickinson:

"The grass so little has to do, —A sphere of simple green,

With only butterflies to brood, And bees to entertain,

And stir all day to pretty tunes, The breezes fetch along,

And hold the sunshine in its lap, And bow to everything;

And thread the dews all night, like pearls, And make itself so fine,—

A duchess were too common, For such a noticing."

"Impressive." He meant his words.

"Damn straight," she agreed, taking another sip of her drink.

He grinned at her deadpan expression, "With a face like, you should play poker."

"A completely pointless game," she decreed, setting her glass down again. "You waste the money that you do have on a slim chance that you might make more."

"It's usually worth the risk," he returned easily.

"Very few risks are worth it. That's why they're called risks," she countered.

"You're definitely not a risk taker," he surmised.

"No, I'm not," she sipped her drink. "And despite your obvious disdain for playing it safe, I quite fancy it."

He gave an incredulous grin at her verbiage, "You quite fancy it? Careful, Agent Strauss, your country club card is showing again."

"I get uppity when I get drunk," she admitted easily. Then she shrugged slightly, "I suppose that means I shouldn't drink."

"No, it just means you should drink with someone who can knock you back down to size."

"Is that why you're here?" She turned to him, truly looking at him for the first time, her eyes searing him with a single glance. "Are you here to pull me down to your level, Agent Rossi?"

Her voice had taken an arched tone, each word enunciated, weighted, clipped and precise, as if to heighten their social differences, as if playing to the blue-blood stereotype in which he'd placed her. There was something beneath her words, an almost double entendre implied in her tone yet not fully expressed, just enough to cause the tiniest of sparks, and both blinked, as if suddenly hit by it.

She sat back, slightly shocked by her reaction to her own query (she wasn't that drunk, she'd never be that drunk, that far gone to actually contemplate such a thing...and yet...now that the thought was there...it was quickly growing, taking over her vodka-addled brain with little resistance).

David couldn't fight the grin that slipped across his lips at her actions, amused at how easily she became flustered, like a twittering little girl instead of the brass-balled woman that he knew her to be. She was actually charming when she was uncertain, in the way that the fox finds the rabbit endearing.

That's when he noticed that her shirt was opened wider than usual, the vee going further down her chest. She had freckles—light, barely perceptible little things, so indiscernible that he'd never noticed them until now, when he was closer to her than he'd ever been.

Freckles. Such an unbelievably human concept that he actually had a hard time reconciling it with his perception of Erin Strauss (that she would dare let any blemish mar her pristine skin, unthinkable!). Right now, those freckles were quickly disappearing under the light blush that seared across her skin, and that was another thing that he found entrancing.

Despite her poker face, Erin's skin would always be her tell. David stored this away for future reference—he could use it to truly gauge her reactions, her true feelings to anything, regardless of how schooled she kept her stone face.

"Stop staring at me." Even though she'd returned her attention to her drink, she could still feel his dark eyes on her, and it was disconcerting.

"You're an interesting read," he returned simply, shifting to take another sip of his drink. Freckles. He wasn't quite sure why, but he couldn't get over how charming that realization was.

She gave a small snort of derision. Obviously, she disagreed (not surprising, she always disagreed, regardless of the subject).

"Why are you here?" She asked, not being sober enough to mask her bluntness.

At this question, David paused (because he wasn't entirely sure himself). Then the corner of his mouth quirked into a sardonic smile, "Well, I would say that I came to apologize, but we both know how well that would go over."

She was not amused. He decided that he didn't really give a damn.

Her body language had shifted again, her muscles tightening and tensing as if she was holding back a retort (I'm not fighting with you, Rossi, not right now, not again, you can't make me).

David decided to switch gears. "Look, I didn't come over here to reopen the wound."

She didn't turn to look at him, didn't reply, but her eyebrow arched in disbelief as she took another drink.

Jesus, the woman could speak volumes without uttering a word. It was both infuriating and intriguing.

Despite her incredulity, he continued, "I understand that I upset you, and I am sorry for upsetting you. But I need you to understand that I did not mean it in the way that you took it."

"I see," was her only reply, but the coolness was back in her tone.

"I'm not…I'm not trying to lessen the gravity of my actions," he assured her, slightly raising his hands in a helpless gesture, unsure of how to make her understand the truth behind his words. "I know that how I meant it doesn't change how you interpreted it. I just need you to know that it wasn't intentional. I know that I hurt you—"

"You didn't hurt me," she interjected quickly, and he fought down a wave of irritation (because he knew that she was lying, that she was still trying to hide behind bravado, that she was still being prideful instead of simply honest, which was all that he was trying to be to her—honest, open, authentic).

"I didn't?"

"No," she added a little more force than necessary to the word. Still, she didn't look at him, "You just insulted me."

"I've insulted you many times over the past few days. I think this was a bit deeper than that." His mind went back to the flashing-eyed pillar of fury from earlier that day, and he actually wished that version of Erin (which he had since dubbed Very Angry Erin) would reappear—at least her reactions would be authentic, not confined to filters or hidden away beneath layers of false demure shrugs or impassive expressions.

And despite the fact that he knew that he was performing the equivalent of sticking his hand in the tiger's mouth, he leaned forward, his voice dipping lower as he prodded, "I know you better than that, Strauss."

It was presumptuous, making such a statement after working together for a mere six days (and fighting during most of that). However, Erin wasn't really surprised—leave it to David Rossi to assume that she, a mere woman, would be a simple and easy read, something he could effortlessly comprehend and manipulate with his master profiling skills, with his gut and his intuition, with his smug sureness that made her want to bite her tongue until her mouth filled with blood.

She briefly wondered if he was baiting her (why he would do such a thing, she had no idea, other than perhaps it was simply a new game for him, a new way to fuck with her mind and emotions and further prove just how smart and in-control he was). She knew that he was expecting a reaction from her, some kind of angry rebuttal—instead, she decided to turn the tables.

"Do you now?" She leaned towards him, her eyes locking onto his with a daring intensity as she challenged, "Then tell me what I'm thinking right now."

David was taken aback by her abrupt shift in gears, by how she'd went from self-contained, withdrawn anger to a suddenly open, almost-flirting playfulness. Still, he could tell that this was just another façade—he took in the line of her jaw, still taunt from all the things that she was holding back, and the tension in her fingers, still gripping her glass, although the rest of her body was pushed into his personal space, "You wanna choke the life out of me right now."

A smirk graced her thin lips, "Gee, what a master profiler you are."

"But am I wrong?"

There was a beat as she considered the ramifications of her actions, but she'd had enough alcohol to lower her impulse control, so she simply answered, "No. I'd say that's exactly what I feel like doing right now."

"Then why don't you, kitten?" Now it was David's turn to lean in closer, his face just inches from hers as he taunted her. "Why don't you just let go?"

There was a beat as they simply stared at one another, trying to discern the things flitting behind each other's eyes, as he offered his first gauntlet and she considered it. One corner of her mouth curled into the briefest of smirks before she pronounced, "You really want to piss me off again, don't you?"

"If it means that for just once, you'd say what you were actually thinking, then yes," he answered simply.

His reply took her by surprise, and for a moment, she seemed to consider his statement. Then she simply stood, "I'm thinking that I'm not up for another row, Agent Rossi."

She slipped her wallet from her back pocket (he had yet to see her actually carry a purse, and for some reason, that amused him), taking out a few bills and tossing them onto the bar, speaking to the bartender, "I've covering all but the last two."

With a jerk of her chin towards David, she added, "Those will be on Mr. Rossi's tab."

She added one last cutting look into his eyes as she brushed past. David quickly paid out the rest of the tab, rushing to catch up to Strauss, who was heading towards the elevators.

"I would have paid for all your drinks," he informed her, easily falling into step with her quick pace.

"I know," she replied simply, not even bothering to look at him. "But I don't want to be indebted to you for anything, David Rossi. And you can't buy my forgiveness with a shot of vodka."

"I wasn't trying to buy your forgiveness."

"Of course not," her tone was almost patronizing. She reached forward and hit the elevator call button. She turned to look at him over her shoulder, "Because you know me better than that, right?"

"How is it entirely impossible to have a civil conversation with you?" David growled, shaking his head in exasperation.

"Other people don't have any problem with me," she gave a slight shrug.

"I find that hard to believe."

"Luckily for us, the world does not hinge on your belief or lack thereof."

He gave a slightly incredulous chuckle at her biting words, "Well, I guess I should be glad that you're speaking your mind."

"Trust me, you have no idea all the things I'm holding back."

"Then why don't you enlighten me?" He challenged.

She gave an amused quirk of her eyebrow, crossing her arms over her chest, "Why? So that you can get angry—really, truly angry? So that you can feel justified in your previous actions? I'm better than that."

She didn't say the rest of that sentiment (I'm better than you). She didn't have to. She knew the arrow hit its mark, because David Rossi became very, very still.

And yet, she wasn't finished. Not by a long shot.

"You see, Agent Rossi," she stepped forward, her voice taking on her snobbish, patronizing tone that she'd perfected for her role as shining socialite, further accenting their differences. "Along with my country club membership, I also received a set of manners and decorum. As well as a sense of self-respect that would never allow me to stoop to your level."

Erin Strauss knew nothing about David Rossi's life, about his past or his emotional triggers, and yet, she still knew exactly where to throw her volley, exactly which buttons to push without even knowing what the buttons really were.

She saw his jaw tighten, saw the strange flash behind his dark eyes, surprising her with their sudden intensity—she realized that her blow had struck deeper than she'd planned, and yet, she felt no remorse (there, now you know how it feels, now we are even, now I have hurt you as much as you have hurt me, an eye for an eye).

"You're a real piece of work, you know that?" His voice was low, dipping into a deathly-still register that she'd never heard from him before. Erin found herself actually intrigued by this new side of Rossi, intrigued because, even after all of her fights with Paul over children and careers, she'd never made anyone this darkly angry. It felt good, not being the girl who played nicely, who followed the rules and ducked her head and bit her tongue and apologized, even when it wasn't her fault. It felt empowering.

The elevator doors opened and she didn't respond, instead simply stepping inside. He hit the button for the eighth floor and they both stood in silence.

She should have left things alone. She should have acknowledged the hurt and anger radiating off him in waves, and she should have let him be.

She should have. She didn't.

"I'm not sure what you mean by that," she prompted.

"I think you know exactly what I mean," he returned, his tone filling with irritation.

"Perhaps," she replied. A beat passed, and then she added, "Or perhaps I'm just a stupid little woman who couldn't possibly—"

"Why can't you just let that go?" His voice rose in exasperation, in pure indignation at this woman who was so hell-bent on goading him, on bleeding him to death, one pin-prick at a time.

"Because you don't learn, David—you don't and you never do—"

"And so, what? You're going to teach me a lesson?"

"Someone has to."

There was such simple confidence in her statement, such arrogance that he had to laugh to keep from shrieking.

"And you obviously are the best candidate for that job," his tone filled with sarcasm. "Since you obviously know me so well."

"I do," she retorted simply, taking a step closer to him. "I may not be a master profiler, some great reader of human behavior, but I understand you."

She moved even closer, rising on her tiptoes to almost-whisper over his shoulder, "I hate to break it to you, Dave-O, but you aren't nearly as special and complex as you like to think that you are. In fact, you're a pretty easy read—just a common, unremarkable—"

She was hitting every emotional button—and to make it worse, he knew that she was doing it on purpose. His original fault against her had been an accident, certainly not an intentional triggering of psychological landmines, and her first push had been as well, but this…this was spiteful, manipulative, unwarranted.

And she was still hovering over his shoulder, a smug smile on her cruel lips as she waited for his reaction.

He had the sudden urge to slap that disgustingly victorious look right off her face. And he almost did—turning quickly towards her, hand upraised, but he pulled back, merely clenching his fist in impotent anger as he fought back his own impulses (suddenly realizing just how much smaller she was, surprised at how she could call out these violent emotions with a few simple words, fearing his own depth at the reaction he'd given).

Her eyes widened at the movement, then a strange spark flashed across those big green orbs as she declared, "Why, David Rossi, you want to hit me right now, don't you?"

If she was afraid, then she did a damn fine job of hiding it, because instead of moving away, she was leaning forward ever-so-slightly, her voice taunting, "Then why don't you, Dave-O? Why don't you just let go?"

She was throwing his own words back at him, her mouth opened, waiting for his next reply, the corner of her lips quivering into the briefest flashes of fear and adrenaline. No man had every raised a hand to her, and her body went into overdrive, blood pumping double-time as she prepared for whatever came next.

So David hit her.

But not with his hand.

Instead, his hand went behind her head, pulling her infuriating mouth to his, as his other hand went to the small of her back, pushing her hips into him with a jolt that popped like a bursting light bulb, shocking them both at the electric chain reaction that occurred from the simple pressure of their bodies against one another. She gasped in surprise and he took the opportunity to forage into her mouth with his tongue, surprised by the oddly-sweet taste, despite the bitterness of the alcohol on both of their lips, surprised by the way her tongue seemed to welcome him, curving around his own as she melted against his mouth with an unexpected warmth.

He suddenly returned to his senses, and moved to pull away (had he seriously just assaulted her, in an elevator?), but he realized that he couldn't quite disengage, because she was mimicking his embrace—her left hand was at the back of his neck, pulling him further into her mouth, and her right hand was on his back, fingers pressing into his flesh as if she were holding on for dear life.

He was kissing Erin Strauss. And she was kissing him back.

Holy hell.

Erin had to pull away for air, and she was struck by reality. David Rossi's tongue had just been halfway down her throat (a very talented tongue, she tried not to imagine all the other lovely things that he could do with that thing, tried and failed miserably), and she had encouraged him, had pulled him closer, as if she had wanted him.

Dear gods, she must have had way more alcohol than she'd realized.

"Forgive me," he said simply, moving away from her, and she already ached at the loss of heat. His words were truthful, almost ashamed, and she knew that he truly was a good man (though she'd never admit it, not aloud, perhaps not even to herself).

"It's...um...it's OK," she returned shakily, unsure of what else to say, and certain that she couldn't say what she wanted to say (it's more than OK, in fact I wouldn't mind if you came over here and tried that again).

She should have left it at that. Of course, she didn't.

"So, I suppose that's what you meant by pulling me back down to your level," she stated casually, glancing up at the ceiling. She meant it as a joke, a way to ease the awkwardness building in the little cramped elevator, but of course (of course), Rossi chose to see it as a barb rather than a quip.

"I wasn't the only one doing the pulling," he informed her quietly, not even looking at her. "Or did I just imagine the part where your arms were wrapped around me and your tongue was in my mouth?"

Gods, his voice was so even, so neutral, and yet the images and sensations created by them sent a flush of warmth through Erin's skin.

"And what if I was?" Her question was weighted, filled with held breath and anxious expectancy—he had thought that she would argue, that she would deny it, and yet she hadn't.

He turned slowly back to her, his dark eyes latching onto her light ones as another strange wave passed between them.

"And what if you were?" He repeated, trying to comprehend the meaning of those five simple words (what if you were pulling into me, what if you were returning my fire, what does it mean, what then, just what are you confessing to?).

She didn't move a single muscle, as she quietly asked again, "What if I was?"

What if I wanted you to pull me to your level, what if I wanted you, what if I was pulling you further down, too, into something darker than a mere kiss?

The elevator doors opened, and the question remained unanswered. There was an awkward moment as they tried to shift past one another, walking down the hall towards their respective rooms.

The open corridor seemed to take away the stuffy, heady feeling of the elevator, and it helped clear their minds.

"That was...weird," David felt the need to say something, anything.

"Yeah," Erin agreed. "Weird."

"It wasn't a big thing."

"It doesn't have to be." Her slight re-arranging of his statement revealed a tiny truth—it was a big thing, it was a monumental thing, a strange thing, and yet, they could choose to ignore it, to brush it aside and minimalize it, if that was what they wanted.

"Right," he gave a small nod. He stopped at his door (her room was several doors down), still uncertain of how to disengage from this strange new situation. "Look, Strauss, I just—"

"Ye gods and little fishes, Rossi, I know," she rolled her eyes in aggravation, waving away his words before he could even finish (which only aggravated him in turn). "Let's not make it a thing. It happened, whatever, it just—"

Her words were stopped by David Rossi's mouth pressing against her own again with a harsh insistency—but this time, she did not gasp in surprise, or melt into his tongue with her own. She returned his harshness, her tongue expressing the infuriation and exasperation that he would not allow her words to pronounce, her hands involuntarily flying to his face again as she clutched at his neck, his shoulders, anything to give her leverage as she tried to win this new war between them.

He wasn't exactly sure why he'd kissed her the second time (though it was all that he'd been thinking about doing, ever since he'd pulled away the first time), but he knew that if the first were an accident, this one certainly wasn't. It didn't even feel the same—the first time, their bodies had clashed together, and there had been lightning and electricity and strange new sensations, but the second time, their bodies simply gravitated towards one another, and there was an odd sense of relief (as if there had been a long and tiresome journey between their last meeting, as if their bodies had been waiting to reconnect again), something deeper and darker and more ominous, the roar of thunder and waves, less electric and new, but more forceful and constant.

She wasn't even kissing him the same way. In the elevator, she'd been compliant, and now, she was almost feral—his mind flashed back to the image of her from earlier that day, with her flashing eyes and blood-stained cheeks, and he suddenly pictured those features in a different setting, and new bursts of heat and desire shot through his entire being.

David Rossi's hands were on her hips, and she could feel the heat of his palms searing through her blue jeans, deep into her muscles, through loops and curves until it reached the caverns between her thighs, which were already trembling with electric anticipation. He leaned further in, and for the first time, she noticed that he was bigger than she'd realized—he didn't have Wallander's tall, broad shoulders or Talladeris' barrel chest, so he'd always seemed smaller, agile and light, like a cat. But now she felt the width of his shoulders, felt the power behind his hands, the taunt muscles of his chest, and Erin had a hard time refereeing her own hands from exploring all these new discoveries.

"We've gone too far," she tore her lips away from his, stating the blatantly obvious.

"Too far to turn back?" This was a question, an invitation, an I-won't-push-you-unless-you-want-to-be-pushed.

"We should—we should just let this purge itself?" Again, she was speaking in code, in questions, too—another invitation, an I-want-to-be-pushed-but-I-won't-push-you-to-push-m e.

"Agreed," he said curtly, opening the door to his room (had they really been making out in the hallway, completely oblivious to anything and anyone else?).

"Agreed," she seconded, following him inside. He pulled her closer again, and she added, "It doesn't have to be a big thing."

"One and done."

"Agreed."

"Agreed."

"Not a big thing at all."

"Strauss?"

"Yes?"

"Stop talking." He captured her mouth with his own again. She hummed in agreement, and it was the most erotic sound he'd ever experienced—a simple thing that slowly devolved and melted, pushing from her tongue to his, past his lungs, all the way to the soles of his feet, sending off alarms in every nerve ending in-between. It was a siren call to every impulse within his being, and he abandoned thought and simply let his instincts take over.

His hands slipped down her body, grabbing her ass and pulling her body back into his with a rough jerk. She gave a gasp that devolved into a moan, fingers scrabbling against the front of his shirt as she pulled his mouth further into hers, knees sinking slightly as she pressed against his hands, encouraging him to continue.

The sensation of her body jolting back into his sent a shot of need straight through Erin Strauss (yes, need, yes, she needed to feel his hips moving between her thighs, she needed to know what it felt like to have him inside of her, needed more of his mouth and the taste of his tongue and the sharp edges of his teeth and the warmth of his skin and irritating pleasure of his hands, needed, needed, needed). She fumbled with the buttons of his shirt, tearing her lips away from him to concentrate on her task, surprised to hear the sound of her own panting (what was the frenzied aching that he inspired in her, how could a mere kiss, a mere touch reduce her to this mindless thing?).

David helped her, his hands less shaky than her own, and the instant that she saw the first glimpse of his chest, she parted the unbuttoned fabric to bring her mouth to his skin.

Warm. That was her first response. Of course, it was natural and human that his skin would be warm, but for some reason, it still seemed odd—intoxicating, but odd. She sampled this warmth, this taste of his flesh, and it only furthered the need pulsing through her (she needed to feel all of his skin, all of his warmth, without any other barrier between his body and her own, oh, she needed it more than she could ever truly explain or even understand).

Erin's head was bowed to his chest, and David realized how feminine she actually was in that moment—she'd always been attractive, but she'd also been a thing of clean lines and tomboy looks, an agent of no-nonsense and practicality, somehow bigger than her own body. But now, he truly noticed how much shorter she was, how thin the line of her shoulders was, how her body actually curved under her loose clothing, how her hair smelled light and wonderful, how entrancingly her skin blushed. He kept one hand firmly on her ass as the other went back to her hair, drawing her closer so that he could bury his nose in her now-disarrayed tresses. Then his fingers were truly intertwining in the tight bundle of curls, tilting her head so that his mouth could move downward, ghosting over the shell of her ear, landing firmly on the pulse point of her neck, which he gently nipped and sucked.

Her own movements stopped at the wet, hot contact of his mouth on her neck, and her own warm breath washed over his chest as she gave a shuddering sigh. His other hand slipped further down, deeper into the vee between her legs, fingers pressing and seeking along the seam of her jeans, using the rough denim to increase the tight pressure already building around her pulsing apex.

Dear gods, he was using her own clothing against her. Well, two could play that game. He was the perfect height—she could feel his hardness through his pants, pressing into the soft flesh of her lower abdomen, just above her belt buckle. So she pushed her hips further in, rolling onto the balls of her feet, letting the hard edges of her buckle press and stroke against his cock, which was still much too far away, still separated with too many layers of fabric.

He gave a soft moan at her actions, and she chuckled smugly, her smiling mouth returning to his neck, mimicking his mouth's current movements against her own neck.

David's hands were moving again, pulling at the bottom of her shirt, unbuttoning a few more buttons before simply pulling it over her head. She obliged, lifting her arms up so that he could easy divest her of the shirt, eyes wide as she simply waited for his reaction.

Erin Strauss was pretty sure that David Rossi's only preference was anything that fit under the category of woman, but for some reason, she always imagined that he was particularly interested in curvy burlesque types—women with big doe eyes and hour-glass figures and red lips and dark hair, all the things that she wasn't and didn't have. She was a freckled, plain-jane strawberry blonde with barely-b cups and absolutely no feminine charms (usually, that last part was something that she generally prided herself on, because she was an enlightened feminist who didn't need to feel pretty, not when she could feel smart and capable, but right now, she found herself wishing she could be all the things that she normally wasn't, just to inspire a desirous reaction in this man before her—and she slightly hated herself for such weakness, and hated him for creating it).

However, David Rossi did not seem fazed by her shortcomings. In fact, the look he gave her sent another wave of heat over her entire body—he looked as if he wanted to devour her whole, as if he couldn't have wanted anything or anyone more than her right now.

That was her last moment of hesitation. In the back of her mind, Erin Strauss had held onto a strange fear that perhaps Rossi was playing a horrible, cruel trick on her—getting her to capitulate by agreeing to sleep with him, only to throw her over before anything actually happened, a spiteful, passive-aggressive way of humiliating her by making her forsake her moral high ground, only to be told no thanks, kitten, you don't appeal to me in the least.

The dark lust in his eyes was not pretend. It was not the way a man looked at a woman whom he didn't want. This was real. This was happening.

Again, David was completely enchanted by Erin's freckles—they lightly dappled across her chest, spilling over the curves of her shoulders and down to the tops of her breasts. And now, in the oddly harsh light spilling from the bedside lamps, he could even see the faint marks on her nose as well, fading onto her cheekbones (they must only come out in the sun, when she's been tanning, when her skin is warm and flushed and delicious, like it is now). How had he never noticed this?

Of course, there were other things in desperate need of noticing. His hands gently went to the curve of her waist, taking a moment to appreciate her softness, before slipping upwards, feeling her ribcage expand and contract under his fingers as she held her breath, waiting for his next move.

The world suddenly seemed to slow down as David Rossi's dark eyes moved upwards to meet her own. His face filled with a quiet intensity that caught Erin's heart in her throat, slightly frightening her with this change of pace, with this sudden stillness. However, her fear was quickly forgotten as his hands continued upward, his thumbs slipping under the lining of her bra, the warm pads of his fingertips brushing against her nipples with just enough pressure to tighten the coiling feelings in her chest.

His eyes were still locked onto hers, still taking in every nuance, every reaction to each movement of his hands, and she felt utterly vulnerable, as if she were already standing completely naked before him, as if it were more than just physical bareness—as if he were truly seeing her, on a level that removed every filter, every artifice so carefully constructed, every defense that she needed to protect herself.

Erin distracted herself from his penetrating gaze by looking away, by returning her focus to his shirt, which was still only half-unbuttoned (she'd been distracted by his skin, by his taste and his warmth). He continued his movements, though he only used his thumbs and it wasn't nearly enough. Then his hands slipped away, to her back, and for a moment, she thought that he was going to unclasp her bra, but instead, those hands traveled down her spine, resting on her hips as he began to guide her to the edge of the bed.

Oh, so foreplay was over, then. Honestly, Erin was ready for the main event, but she had expected a little more from the legendary David Rossi.

David read Erin's reaction as easily as a billboard, and he smiled to himself (oh, kitten, you have no idea). He may be a brash, impulsive, reckless agent, but when it came to sex, he was a man who prided himself on taking his time. Especially when his companion was Erin Strauss—shouldn't he take a page from her own playbook, shouldn't he be passive-aggressive and make her feel the same frustration and impatience and irritation that she'd made him feel for the past six days?

He slipped out of his shirt, easily tossing it across the room, where it landed next to Erin's. She was sitting on the bed, slipping out of her shoes, her eyes now focused on his abdomen. Her hands reached for him, landing on his hips and pulling him towards her, surprising him with how softly her mouth caressed the taunt muscles of his stomach. However, her teeth soon reappeared, lightly grazing his flesh as her hands wandered upwards, seeking out the warmth of his body with a slow reassurance.

And though each movement of her lips was sending another ripple of heat through his body, this was not part of the plan—this was allowing Erin to have what she wanted, and right now, he didn't want to give her that (not yet, not when he could taunt her first). So he pushed her back onto the bed, grinning at the way her hands still reached for him as he leaned over her. He took a moment to simply stare into her eyes, watching them widen with uncertainty as she tried to hold his gaze. He placed his hand on the soft smoothness of her stomach, the heat from his palm seeping through her skin with a heavy weight that stilled the rest of her trembling body. Her hands went to his, lightly holding him there, and she forced herself to keep her eyes locked onto his.

It was in that small moment of capitulation that David Rossi wanted Erin Strauss more than he'd ever wanted another woman—her wide eyes, her quietly heaving chest, her bitten lips and her adorable freckles, her fingers with their slow-burning pressure against his own hand, all waiting for his move, despite the yearning he could feel radiating just beneath her skin.

Erin read his expression, and she flushed in response, biting her lip to keep back a girlish grin (a simple look from a man—gods, why did it have to be this man in particular?—and she was blushing like a silly schoolgirl).

He leaned forward, his mouth almost touching hers, and she strained to meet his lips, but he moved away, earning him a light sigh of regret from the woman beneath him—a regret that was quickly forgotten when his mouth finally did alight on the skin above her bra, the first slope into the valley between her breasts. It was a simple kiss, a chaste one (or one that would have been chaste, if not for its location), a light brush that only made her crave more. Her hands went to his hair, fingers caressing him, burying in his locks, urging him to continue, to give her more. She could feel him smiling against her skin, and she merely closed her eyes, trying to ignore his smugness and simply focus on the sensations that his smirking mouth were creating across her body.

His mouth traveled further down, to the ribs beneath her bra, to the well-toned stomach (he knew that she liked to run, and it showed, and he grinned at the fact that her running meant that she had stamina—she was certainly going to need it tonight), stopping just above the waistline of her jeans. He slowly unbuckled her belt, unbuttoning and unzipping her pants as he stood straighter, reaching down to push the fabric off her hips, following the bend of her legs over the edge of the bed and all the way to the floor. Then he crouched, nipping the inside of her knee, where he could feel her muscles tensing at the contact.

He rose to his full height again, fully taking in the sight of Erin's pale skin against the dark paisley bed spread, and though she obviously enjoyed the dark look in his eye, she gave a light kick, a silent command to come closer, to return his body back to hers. He was grinning again at her impatience, at his own ability to incite such a reaction in this woman who had verbally threatened his life on more than one occasion, at the gleeful thought that he was just getting started.

He leaned forward again, his hand slipping up the taunt muscle of her thigh, the tips of his fingers brushing under the edge of her panties, simply feeling the hip bone beneath. That obviously was not where she wanted his hand, because she gave a slight huff. He kept his eyes on her face, grinning as he watched her expression change when his fingers shifted further inward, towards a center whose heat he could feel long before he reached it.

He shifted, bringing his face closer to her own, making sure that he would not miss a single detail as the tips of his fingers brushed past the moist curls, watching her expression with fascination as he parted her lips to trace and discover the outlines of her sex, which made her shudder at the contact. Then he took two fingers, slowly entering her core, which made him moan at its beautiful wetness—she gave a moan too, shifting beneath him, pressing against his hand for more. He added a third finger, biting his lip at how she shifted in response, at how tight she was (it was almost too tight—oh, how absolutely perfect it was going to feel, when he was finally inside of her).

It was then, however, that Erin Strauss suddenly chose to be sensible.

"Wait," she raised her head, placing a hand on his shoulder to still him. "What—what about protection?"

Oh, hell. He was a married man; he no longer saw the need to carry condoms with him whenever he went out on a case.

She could read his expression, sitting up and slipping away from his fingers as she hurriedly added, "I...I'm on the pill, but I would...I would feel better if you wore a condom."

"Given my past history?" He guessed. Just as he'd made snarky asides about her pampered country-club ways, she'd made allusions to his legendary inability to keep it in his pants.

She bit her lip in consternation at his words, but she didn't deny it, either. And truth be told, he didn't blame her—they barely knew each other, and what time they had spent together, they'd spent it fighting, so what reason did she have to trust him? Of course, her unease wasn't helped by the HIV-AIDS pandemic that still eddied and swirled around the city—every time they left the office, they were bombarded with signs for free testing, PSAs for protected sex, charity workers handing out condoms and pamphlets to people standing outside clubs and bars.

"What about the bar downstairs?" She spoke again, shifting a little closer to him. He nodded in agreement—nowadays, there were condom dispensers in every public restroom, or even stashes of free ones left by humanitarians trying to combat the spread of deadly diseases. In fact, he'd been in the restroom of the hotel bar, and he remembered that there was such a stash on the marble counters.

"I'll be back," he informed her, rising to his feet to grab his shirt once more.

"I should hope so." Now that he was further away from her, she could think again, and her wit returned. But her snark only added to David's fire and suddenly he was next to her again, leaning over and his hands pulled her face upwards to meet his own, taking her mouth with a sudden ferocity that made her dizzy with lust.

"Hurry back," she whispered, her breath too shaky to be controlled, and David decided that he'd never heard two words more appealing than those uttered from Erin Strauss' lips.

He finished hurriedly buttoning his shirt, taking a moment to glance down the hallway before leaving the room.

Erin already missed his presence with a clawing neediness that actually scared her, but she quietly shook her head, trying to allay her fears and inner turmoil, That's just the adrenaline talking, just sex drive and hormones. And frustration—that's why you're really here, isn't it? You think you can just work out all your aggravation and irreconcilable differences with a single fuck, don't you? As if there were enough endorphins in the world to make David Rossi a more bearable human being!

She grinned at that last thought. He was unbearable. But he certainly wasn't unfuckable.

Fine line between lust and hate.

David nearly cheered with relief when he entered the men's restroom of the hotel bar—his lust-riddled brain had not been incorrect in remembering the glass bowl of condoms with the "Take One" sign, surrounded by informational pamphlets.

He took more than one. He took more than three. He hoped he had the chance to use every single one tonight.

For whatever ungodly reason, Erin Strauss had slipped under his skin the second that he'd sat down at the conference table six days ago. And tonight, he was going to exorcise that demon—and exercise the woman who possessed it.

Tomorrow morning, everything would be back to normal, the world would be righted and he wouldn't feel this odd pulsing energy, this needy hunger for a woman who on the best of days still made him want to beat his head against a dull wall. But tonight, that hunger and that fire was still there, and tonight, he'd cure it.

"The die is cast." ~Julius Caesar