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There are many things one should not do before heading into a federal building for a day of catching serial killers.
Sulking in your car over your barely-there love life while pulling into the parking garage is probably in the top five. But I’ve never been one for rules. Or lists.
Or, apparently, functional relationships.
Last night was supposed to be different.
I lit some stupid candles. Wore the thing. The red one, more for looks than comfort. I tried.
I wasn’t desperate, I was patient. Gentle. Kind. I wanted to feel wanted. I wanted to feel something.
My fiancé hardly looked up from his phone. Said he’s not in the mood. Said it wasn’t a good time. Again. Like it hadn’t been a good time for the last eleven months and counting.
I tried to talk. Asked if he still found me attractive. If something was wrong. If we could maybe just meet each other halfway. He said I was making it a bigger deal than it needed to be. That sex wasn’t everything.
No, but wanting me kind of is.
So I went to bed alone. I must’ve fallen asleep sometime after midnight.
And then I dreamed.
Not about my fiancé.
About my goddamn boss.
In the dream, he didn’t just take control of a case. He took control of me, and I’d woken up in a tangle of sheets and sweat, whispering a stunned, “Oh my god,” into my pillow like I was witnessing a crime.
There are certain thoughts you just don’t take with you into the BAU Building.
Like wondering how long it would take to unbutton your superior’s starched dress shirt. Or how exactly he’d sound murmuring your name in that low, gravelly voice of his, the one he uses when he’s talking a suspect off the ledge.
I glance at my watch as the parking garage elevator dings. It’s 6:47 a.m.
For gods sake.
Why can’t I just get over it?
Because I have a pulse.
And unfortunately, the kind of subconscious that was doing unspeakable things with the image of Unit Chief Aaron Hotchner.
Which was wrong. So wrong. So criminally, ethically, categorically wrong.
So naturally, it was him who stepped into the elevator as I was halfway to level three.
“Morning,” Hotch hums, glancing at me sideways as the doors glide shut.
“Morning,” I echo, almost too quickly.
While we’ve grown closer over the past few months, there are some moments with him that make me feel…exposed. He’s a great profiler, but he’s not a mind reader. I have to remind myself of that when I’m forced to ignore last night’s dream where he handcuffed me for non-professional reasons.
I inhale sharply, forcing my eyes forward as if the steel panel in front of me has suddenly become fascinating. But I can feel him. His presence fills the confined space.
I shift my weight and make the mistake of glancing up at him.
Bad idea.
Because today he’s wearing that one suit, the charcoal one that fits a little too well across the shoulders. His tie is just a hair looser than usual, which in Hotch terms might as well be shirtless. His jaw has some tension, the kind that makes me want to trace the line of it with my fingers and—
No.
Nope.
We are not going there.
“Something on your mind?” Hotch speaks up, still staring straight ahead but his voice practically causes me to jump from my thoughts.
I shake my head, forcing a smile. “Just some personal stuff, that’s all.”
Hotch nods understandably. He doesn’t pry, thank God. But he doesn’t look at me either.
We’ve been working together for almost two years now. He didn’t quite know what to do with me at first. Most people don’t. I’ve got a clever mouth, a sharp mind, and I bake things for the bullpen because I genuinely like the people I work with.
Hotch…has started to soften though. Little signs. The occasional dry joke. The way he brings me hot chocolate on late nights instead of coffee.
And now we stand here, side by side, the hum of the elevator the only sound. I tried to ignore how close he was. But then he shifted slightly, arm brushing mine and my body betrayed me completely.
My breath caught. Heat bloomed in my belly and spread like wildfire. I imagined his hand there, at the base of my spine, sliding lower. Imagined his mouth against my neck, whispering things a boss should never say.
Jesus. I need to get laid.
Not by Hotch. Definitely not by Hotch.
My thoughts are interrupted by the low whir of the elevator doors sliding open and Hotchner steps out into the hallway, motioning for me to keep up.
“Coming?” He lifts a quizzical brow.
I wish.
I fight the urge not to make my first witty retort of the day, instead choosing to nod my head and follow behind.
The bullpen is already buzzing by the time we step out of the elevator. I catch sight of Spencer hunched over a file, lips moving as he reads to himself, and Morgan tossing a stress ball between his hands like it’s a grenade he’s daring someone to try and take from him.
“Briefing room. Now.” Hotch doesn’t stop walking, and neither do I.
Inside, the air is colder. JJ stands near the projector, remote in hand, jaw tight.
“We’ve got three victims across two states. Same signature,” she starts. “Young women. Early twenties. Found in motel rooms, posed. Each with a different colored scarf tied around the throat but no signs of sexual assault.”
“Staging,” Emily says, already flipping through the file she’s picked up. “Victim profile fits, but this doesn’t feel personal. He’s not reliving anything.”
“Not yet,” Rossi adds from the back, voice dry. “But he’s working up to it.”
My fingers move almost automatically across the photos as they’re handed down. Blood. Ligature marks. A pattern that hasn’t quite revealed itself.
Hotch sits beside me again, close enough that I catch the faint scent of his cologne. Sandalwood and something darker, sharper.
“The third victim was just found this morning,” JJ continues. “Boone County, Kentucky. Local PD called it in two hours ago.”
“Wheels up in thirty.” Hotch commands. There’s a shuffle of chairs, papers being gathered, the click of pens into pockets. Our team moves like a single living organism when the clock starts ticking.
Morgan is already asking JJ about jurisdictional pushback, and Reid’s muttering statistics about interstate travel and victimology. I’m supposed to be thinking about logistics. Timeline. Geography.
But as I follow the team out of the briefing room, my steps slow. Just for a second.
Because Hotch is still there.
He hasn’t moved.
He’s watching me.
And when I finally meet his gaze, it’s not what I expect. Not the cold professionalism I’ve mastered over the years. Not the distant, stoic unit chief mask he wears.
The look isn’t overtly sexual, Hotch is too controlled for that but it lingers a second too long. Enough that it feels intentional. Like a challenge.
My pulse skips.
Then, just like that, it’s gone. He turns away and disappears down the hall, back straight, stride sharp. As if it never happened.
And I should be thinking about the profile, about victimology, about the geography of Boone County.
But I’m thinking about the look he gave me right before turning away.
Not quite unreadable.
Not quite professional.
And that? That’s going to be a problem.
The hotel hallway is quiet. That kind of middle-of-nowhere silence where the vending machine hum is the loudest thing for miles.
I’m walking back to my room when I hear my name being called. I turn and there he is, Hotch, standing outside his room, tie loosened, jacket off, sleeves rolled up. It shouldn’t affect me but it does.
“Got a second?” He inquires.
“Yeah,” I breathe out, nodding. “What’s up?”
He nods toward his room. “Need to run through something.”
We talk case details in hotel rooms all the time. This is standard. Professional, even.
But the door clicks shut behind me and I swear it’s like the air shifts. There’s no file on the bed. No laptop open on the desk. Just him. And me.
Son of a bitch, he tricked me.
Hotch doesn’t waste time. “You’ve been off today.”
I blink, caught. “I’m fine.”
“You’re not.”
He says it plainly, without accusation. But that’s what makes it worse. I’ve been doing this job long enough to know that he doesn’t ask that question unless he already has an idea of what’s wrong. I lie anyway.
“It’s just jet lag.”
His gaze doesn’t move. Doesn’t waver. “That’s not it. You’re distracted. You didn’t even challenge Reid when it came to homicide statistics-“ he cuts himself off. “It’s not just the case.”
I open my mouth, ready with another excuse. But nothing comes out. Because I’m tired of lying. Mostly to myself.
So I shake my head and sit on the edge of the bed, palms against my thighs. “I cannot believe I’m telling you this.”
Hotch doesn’t say anything. Silence is a clever interrogation tactic to get someone to keep talking. But if there’s one thing I’ve learned in the many cases we’ve had involving sexual frustration without an outlet, I’ve learned it causes anger.
And right now I’m feeling pissed off enough to let my thoughts fly without consideration.
“Fine.” I huff, letting my words spew out before my brain can catch up. “My fiancé treats me like a coworker he barely acknowledges. Hell, I think you touch me more just handing me case files.”
Silence.
I finally glance up. He doesn’t look surprised, just still. Listening.
I let out a shaky breath. “It’s not just the sex. I could walk around the house naked and he’d ask me to grab the mail on my way back. Like I’m… like I’m wallpaper. Something to decorate the background.”
A bitter laugh escapes my throat. “Sorry, nevermind, that was absurdly inappropriate.”
Hotch’s voice is quiet. “You feel undesired.” I nod once. He steps closer. His eyes don’t leave mine.
“You’re not.”
I freeze, inhaling sharply.
“As your team leader,” he continues, voice dipping lower, darker, “it’s my responsibility to make sure you’re focused. Operating at full capacity.”
I blink. “That… sounds like something you’d put in an HR report.”
The corner of his mouth lifts just slightly. And then the faintest glint of mischief in his eyes. Is that a smirk?
Hotch leans in slowly until his voice is just above a whisper. “Maybe I should conduct a wellness check.”
My breath catches.
Heat floods my face, amongst other places.
My voice is barely a whisper now. “That doesn’t sound very professional, Special Agent Hotchner.”
His eyes drop to my mouth, then back to my eyes. “You’re not the only one who’s been…distracted lately.”
God. My body reacts like I’ve been touched, even though he hasn’t even moved. I know if I told him to stop right now, he would. I could walk out this door right now and he’d never bring it up again.
But I don’t want that.
Unfortunately for me, Hotch is holding back. His sharp features make the hunger in his gaze look more pronounced. He wants to pounce. He wants verbal confirmation. He wants to hear me say it.
I swallow. “Please.”
A beat.
“Touch me.”
In one swift movement, he takes the opportunity to guide me backward on the bed, climbing over me and capturing my lips with his own.
It’s better than heaven.
Yes. This. This is what I need. Someone who takes control, who seizes the moment. I’ve been missing this feeling for so long but I’d recognize it anywhere.
Unbridled lust.
He cups my face in his hands, deepening the kiss. For a man who acts so cold, his mouth is surprisingly warm. Inviting. Addicting. I could kiss him all day.
Hotch apparently has other plans. I feel his hand skim down my body, the feather light touch making me squirm in place.
The moment his big palm finds my breast and squeezes, I can’t help but let out a quiet moan. It’s impossible not to arch into him, especially with the way he starts to pepper kisses along my neck.
He presses his lips to a spot right above my collarbone and I shiver. This is torture. Is torture supposed to feel this good?
Lifting up my shirt, Hotch continues, determined as ever. He pushes the cup of my bra to the side and his tongue swirls around my nipple, alternating between sucking and licking while his hand plays with the other.
I’m dizzy. The pleasure is too much and he’s barely even started. I bite back a whimper, letting my eyes flutter shut. I feel hot all over, warmth shooting straight to my core.
“Where do you want me?” He mumbles mindlessly as he makes his way lower, leaving a trail of heated kisses down my stomach.
My fingers grip the sheets, but I find courage to open my eyes only to discover that Hotch is already staring up at me with such intensity I think I’ll pass out.
Fuck, I don’t even know where to begin. His mouth? His hands? His cock? All three sound incredible and I’m feeling greedy.
Hotch speaks before I have a chance. “I’ll decide for you then,” he hums as his fingers slide beneath my lace panties and tosses them over his shoulder.
Every curve, every inch of my bare body is exposed to him. There’s no going back now.
Still keeping his hot mouth pressed against my skin, he moves tantizalingly across my hip and down my thigh, eliciting a gasp.
I know he’s being slow on purpose. Sometimes I truly wonder if he’s a sadist, keen on drawing every little reaction out of me.
Right when I think I can’t take anymore teasing, he moves back up toward the apex of my inner thighs and tastes me.
He works his talented tongue with purpose, alternating between long strokes and circling my clit. I’m embarrassingly wet but he doesn’t seem to mind as he relentlessly fucks my cunt with his mouth.
A familiar feeling grows in my stomach and I can feel the pressure building. My heartbeat pounds in my ears as I call out his name.
Hotch abruptly pulls back.
I whine in frustration as my orgasm is delayed but quickly get stunned into silence as I see him raise an eyebrow, a boyishly charming grin playing on his lips.
So I was right, he is a sadist.
Before I can open my mouth to reprimand him, I feel him push a thick finger inside me and I hiss.
He tuts. “Honey, how are you going to take my cock if you can barely take my fingers?” Hotch coos, gently moving in and out of my entrance until I adjust enough for him to add another. I can barely think, let alone respond. I throw my head back, letting the mattress engulf my body.
It feels so. Damn. Good.
And then it hits me- he wants to pleasure me. To work my body over until I’m a mess. He knows what he wants and isn’t afraid to show it.
The thought causes another wave of arousal to wash over me.
My hands find their way down to his hair and I enjoy threading my fingers through the dark brown locks until I’m gripping tightly. Hotch lets out a low groan, the sound going straight to my core.
“I’m, god, I’m so close, please,” I breathe out, and even I’m surprised at how needy I sound.
Hotch responds by curling his fingers, gently massaging and the stimulation is all too much. I can’t hold back for long. I’m about to-
“Three…”
What?
He’s counting. He’s fucking counting. It hits me then that I don’t have permission to orgasm yet. Never thought I’d be into those power dynamics but with each passing second I feel my orgasm growing.
“Two…”
I bite my tongue as he presses a kiss to my thigh.
“One…”
I grit my teeth. “Ohmygod that was longer than ten seconds, please just-“
“Come.”
And right on cue, I practically explode with pleasure. The low vibration of his voice and the way he’s practically playing me like an instrument causes waves of ecstasy to wash through me. A cry tears from my lips as my body convulses beneath him.
He doesn’t stop, continuing to work me through my orgasm until I’m catching my breath. Hotch slowly withdraws his fingers as he moves back up my body.
With my legs still wrapped around his waist, I can physically feel his hard cock straining through the fabric of his pants.
We lock eyes for a moment before he drops his forehead to mine, closing his eyes.
I clear my throat “That was really nice-“
“I’m not done with you yet.”
I practically choke on the rest of my words. He says it with such nonchalance, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. Maybe it is. Maybe I’ve been neglected for too long. Maybe going multiple rounds all night sounds like fun.
“You’re overdressed.” I comment lazily, propping my elbow up on a pillow as I give him a look over.
He smiles innocently before sitting up and makes haste of discarding his clothes. The moment he leans back down and captures my mouth in a kiss, I wrap my arms around his neck and rock my hips ever so slightly. Hotch groans, his hands gripping my hips tight.
This time around, he doesn’t need to ask me for what I want. I reach down between us and guide him, the tip of his hardened cock brushing against my folds.
“God, Y/N,” he groans.
Eyes locked on each other, he slowly moves into me, inch by inch. Even though my breath catches at the sensation, I want all there is to take.
As I adjust to the feeling of being stretched out, my nails dig into his back and he brushes a hair out of my face. “This okay? We can take a break.”
I instinctively pull him closer, shaking my head. “I want more.”
He nods approvingly, beginning to move. Slowly, at first, as if to not cause me any discomfort. I take the opportunity to savor every inch of him.
“You’re taking it so well, look at you.” Hotch comments and my face warms at the praise. His thrusts become more forceful, not entirely rough but every single one was meant to feel all of him, deep within me. And this new angle causes me to let out a soft moan.
“So gorgeous.” He continues and I lean my head up to kiss his neck. I notice the way it makes him shiver but don’t comment on it.
“You feel so good.” I gasp.
He hums in response, closing his eyes as if to savor the feeling. After a beat of bliss, I feel his hand come down between us. His thumb draws small circles over my clit, only adding to the pressure that’s mounting inside again.
He pulls his cock out, just to push back in with one slide and fuck he’s big. I can’t remember the last time I took something this thick and heavy inside me. The way his hands feel on my skin, how I’m about to come apart on his-
“Is this why you’re always acting up?” He teases, “no one fucking you properly? What a shame.”
I shiver at the honesty in his words but also the mockingly humiliating tone in his voice. Yeah, that. That does it for me.
My mouth falls open at the feeling of him thrusting deep inside of me. Our skin slapping against each other and soft moans are the only sounds that fill the room.
I barely have time to remember who’s on the other side of this hotel wall- Rossi, Jesus Christ- before Hotch pulls back and rocks his hips against me once more.
And there’s not a damn thing I can do about it except take it.
God, there’s so much I want to do. I want to suck him off, try a dozen different positions and a hundred different ways that we can-
“Fuck,” he pants, leaning down to bury his face in my neck. I can tell he's close. I clench around him as my own orgasm threatens to build.
“Aaron,” I murmur, so lost in a haze of desire that I don’t even realize I’ve used his first name until I hear it out loud.
He responds by biting down on my shoulder gently. I squirm, but he only chuckles. “Let go,” he hums knowingly, “I’ve got you.”
And I do. Muffling my cries of pleasure into his neck, my body tightens as my orgasm hits me hard. The entire time he holds me through it, even while I’m breathing heavily against his skin. He lets go with a low groan, his arms wrapping around me.
Neither of us speaks for a long minute after we cool off. He lays on top of me now, and I bring my hand down to stroke his cheek in a lazy motion.
And when he pulls back just barely, his hand reaching for my own, he whispers, “Still think this needs an HR report?”
I smile, breathless. “Not unless you plan on filing it under ‘Field-Related Stress Relief.’”