Word Count: 1,873
Warnings: Spoilers for Season 6, a bit of sexy stuff
Summary: Hotch and Prentiss flirt and then get it on.
She arrives late one morning, hair wild and windblown around her face. They watch her from the round table room, and she bustles in, throwing herself into a chair and gazing at him expectantly – like she’d been there all along, as though she wasn’t late at all, and he was holding everyone up by stopping to watch her entrance.
It makes him smile.
She thinks he puts too much sugar in his coffee, and she thinks maybe he’d eat raw sugar if he was allowed. He’s stirring another spoonful of it into his mug, and he sees the expression on her face and murmurs something about the coffee being awful.
He’s right, it is awful, and she doesn’t even bother with it. Instead, she sits at her desk and eats some cookies she keeps stashed in her handbag, watching him through his window. He persists with the coffee, and she decides to take pity on him.
He’s surprised when she places a couple of cookies on the desk in front of him, with flagrant disregard for any stray crumbs that might find their way into his files. She doesn’t say anything, just walks back out of the room. He wonders about her. He thinks about her for the rest of the day.
She’s wearing a red top, and it’s low cut. He tries not to notice, but it’s difficult, because she’s not lacking in the cleavage department. They’re supposed to be out as a team, having fun, but he’s unable to drag his eyes away from her. She looks amazing. Other men in the bar are staring too.
She gets up with Penelope, and goes out on the dance floor. Her hips sway as she dances, body long and graceful. She said to him once that she hates what she looks like when she dances, and he replied that nobody can ever really know how they look when they dance. She looks breathtaking. He doesn’t say that, though.
He thinks it, because what’s the harm in being appreciative of a beautiful woman?
She wouldn’t admit it to anyone, but she knows when he’s watching her. On the dance floor, she’ll do a twist, or shimmy her hips, or put her hands over head – all for him. She’s always had a thing for him – she couldn’t understand why JJ and Penelope didn’t share her view of him, why they didn’t think he was god’s gift to women everywhere.
She shouldn’t be thinking about him at all, not like that. He’s off limits. He’s her boss. He’s a man of principle, a gentleman. She’s going to hell for even thinking about it. But she catches him looking at her again, and she turns, swaying to the music, closing her eyes. She can feel him watching, and she smiles.
It’s raining. Her hair is soaked, and she looks furious. He decides to stay in his office, because she’s yelling at Morgan about messing with her desk. He thinks Morgan probably has it coming – the pranks have been getting a little out of hand. He was going to say something, but he feels it’s better for Morgan to suffer the wrath of an angry female.
Eventually, he has to intervene, because Morgan starts yelling back, and then Reid is backing away slowly, trying to escape, until he’s dragged in as well and three of his team members are screaming at each other in the middle of the bullpen on a Tuesday.
As soon as his presence is known, they stop arguing, and Reid bites his lip and looks terrified, and Morgan has his hands on his hips and is glaring at her, and she’s glowering right back at him. She jolts when he touches her shoulder, and then follows him wordlessly into his office, and as soon as the door is shut she’s yelling at him.
She’s sick of being bossed around by Morgan, she’s sick of having to sit across from Reid who talks constantly, she hates the fact that JJ is gone, and she wants her own space. He listens silently, but inside his heart is pounding, because he didn’t know any of this – had no idea she was feeling this way, doesn’t understand where this has all come from.
And then she’s crying, slumped in a chair, her face buried in her hands, and he’s standing awkwardly behind her – this was not what he was expecting at all. She finally looks up at him and whispers, “I am having a really bad day.”
He understands better than anyone how that feels.
She’s relieved when he sends her home – not that she’d ever admit it to anyone, she has her pride and pretending to be sick was certainly the better option – and she spends an hour soaking in a bubble bath, eating chocolate and reading a romance novel.
The whole day drifts by in a haze of relaxation, and she’s sprawled out on the coach in a pair of sweat pants and a ratty old top when someone knocks on the door. For one tiny second, she wonders if maybe it’s him – maybe he’s come to see her, to check on her, bring her flowers and chocolate.
She’s chuckling to herself when she opens the door, and it is him.
The shirt she’s wearing is at least two sizes too big, and it’s so long it could double as a dress. One creamy shoulder is exposed, and he knows instantly – and without even really looking, although men do tend to notice these things – that she’s not wearing a bra. Her arms fold across her chest instinctively, but she’s looking at him like she knew he’d be here, at her door.
He blurts out an apology, naturally, because he shouldn’t be bothering her at home, it’s late, she’s not a child, he doesn’t need to check up on her. But he feels compelled to – he’s never seen her so upset, and he’s never seen her yelling at Morgan and Reid and threatening them both with bodily harm.
She’s still staring at him, hands still folded across her chest, but a blush is creeping into her cheeks. He’s instantly ashamed for being there – it was a stupid idea, a mistake, and she has every right to be mad at him.
He takes a step back, awkwardly, and mumbles an excuse to leave. He’s looking away when she reaches out, grabs him by the tie and hauls him into the apartment. The door shuts behind him, and she presses him up against it, right up in his face. He’s blinking at her, stuttering in surprise, hands held up like there’s a gun trained on him, and her lips brush his ear as she whispers, “I’ve been waiting for you.”
And he’s gasping, choking even, trying to draw in a breath – anything to slow his heart rate down, because he’s made a colossal mistake, and he is mortified, and it’s definitely going to come back to haunt him, but her body is pressed against him and it’s so warm - she smells like cinnamon, he notes with wonder – and before he even realises what he’s doing, his hands are resting on her shoulders.
Their noses bump together, and he can feel her breath on his cheek, and one of her hands is gripping his forearm. A slight smile crosses her face, and she gazes into his eyes, wordlessly asking, ‘Is this okay?’
And before he even realises what he’s doing, he nods.
Their first kiss isn’t the stuff the romance novels rave about. It isn’t the earth shattering, stars exploding, magic carpet ride sort of kissing – it’s awkward, nervous, hesitant. It’s strange at first, and he’s so tense his muscles are quivering, and he sighs when her lips finally press against his – like he knew it would be like this, one day - like he expected this all along.
She’s the one who presses against him firmly, the thin material of the t-shirt she’s wearing the only protection between her body and his hands, and she wants his hands all over her. He’s slowly relaxing into the kiss, his mouth is open and she can taste him, finally, all dark and chocolatey and ever so rich. And that was what she was expecting, all along – he would taste like molten chocolate, and he would hum a little deep down in his throat when her tongue brushed against his.
Her clothes feel like they’re weighing her down, and his hands are heavy on her shoulders – not touching skin, only touching cloth, and he starts when she pulls away, yanking the shirt over her head and dropping it on the floor. His eyes are wide, and she’s breathing heavily, and the only thing she wants in the whole world is his hands on her body.
He gulps a little, renewed panic crossing his face, and she grabs his hands and places them firmly on her breasts, pulling him in for another sweet, velvety kiss. The muscles in the back of his neck are tense, his body is shaking, and his hands are warm on her skin, and she groans as his fingers begin to move, playing her like a violin.
This is what she wanted, all along.
His touch his hesitant at first, explorative, and the pads of his thumbs graze over her nipples, and she gasps into his mouth, hooking her arms around his neck and pulling him in close. He hums again, relaxing even more, and she presses her hips firmly against his and he’s already hard. She smiles, pulling away from him slightly, running a hand through his hair, wondering how long it’s been.
His hands slip from her breasts to her waist and then he’s lifting her into the air, and pressing her up against the wall, and she gasps loudly and moans as his lips find her throat, and one hand slips between her legs.
“You have no idea,” she whispers, tugging his hair gently, “how long I have wanted this.”
He noses along the nape of her neck, smiling against her skin. “I can imagine.”
It’s morning when she awakes, curled into his side, head resting on his shoulder. She’s seen this sort of thing in the movies, but it’s never happened like this before – usually she wakes up and the guy is in the shower, or on the throne, or all the way on the other side of the bed, curled up into a ball. Not him – his arms are wrapped around her, and she’s comfortable and warm, sated and spent.
They’d have to discuss the logistics of it, hash out all the details, but that was for later. Now, she wants to wake him up as slowly as possible, and keep him distracted and in bed as long as she possibly can.
His eyes flutter open when he feels her lips on his belly, and one hand shifts to card through her hair, and she looks up at him, all seductive eyes and pouty lips. He’s bleary-eyed, struggling to wake up, and he bucks when her mouth closes around him, and moans.
She has him right where she wants him, finally.
The fanfiction archive of woodchoc_magnum
- "Chocolate", Hotch/Prentiss, R