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A Friend Who'll Tease is Better

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"Excuse me?"

She's looking at him like he's just said the sky is made of purple elephants, and he just repeats his offer.

"I meant what I said. A beautiful woman shouldn't be embarrassed to ask for something most men enjoy doing."

"No, that's not the part I'm having trouble with," Emily says, taking a sip of wine to clear her throat, and uncrossing and re-crossing her legs on his couch in a rare show of nerves. "I meant – excuse me, you'll do what?"

Dave really can't fathom the blush that's spreading across her cheeks and down her neck. She's almost certainly had a lot of sex in her life, with the way she doesn't bat an eye at some of the weirder sexual aspects of cases they come across. She's shared intimate details with him before – albeit under the influence of four glasses of scotch and the peer pressure of the rest of the team on a night out. He's even fairly sure he's one of the few people who knows she's bisexual. What he's offering really isn't anything earth-shattering.

But just because he has certain views on sex doesn't mean she shares them. He shouldn't make assumptions, and whatever other feelings may be lurking at the back of his head in regards to Emily Prentiss, she's his friend, first and foremost. She deserves honesty.

"The fact that you claim to never have had an orgasm from oral sex is a crime. If you're up for it, I'm willing to put in the effort to correct that oversight." He sets her wineglass aside, raising her hand to his lips and kissing it. "If you're uncomfortable because we work together, I understand. But if you're uncomfortable because you think you're somehow imposing, trust me. Sex with you would never be an imposition, Emily."

She bites her lip, and all he wants to do is lean over and kiss her, but this is a decision she has to come to on her own. They're coworkers – albeit coworkers who spend time together outside of the office without the rest of the team – and while he's the reason 90% of the Bureau's non-fraternization rules were implemented, she almost certainly has more to lose. He would never want to put her in any position that would force her to choose between him and her career.

This isn't a decision to rush, so he gives her time and space, finishing off his own wine and bringing both glasses into the kitchen to rinse out. He's just put the wineglasses in the dishwasher when he hears her soft footfalls behind him.

"All right," she says softly, leaning against the doorway.


He takes her upstairs, past the guest room she's stayed in a few times (when her apartment was being fumigated, after the Louisville case when he'd gotten his bell rung, the weekend half the team crashed after a late dinner) and into his own bedroom. She's seen it before, but not under these circumstances, so he lets her scan the bookshelves and run her fingers over the photos of his parents' wedding and his sister and nephews in Jersey. A smile crosses her face when she reaches the photo of he, Aaron, Gideon, Sullivan, Dominguez, Lutz, and Web, the original BAU.

Dave doesn't smile – most of the people in that photo are either dead or so far off the grid they might as well be.

That's a story for another night, though, and tonight is about her. He walks over to her, slow movements to let her get used to the idea that he's going to be touching her very, very soon, and he loves the little gasp she gives when he slides his arms around her waist. He intends to start slow, but the hot press of her mouth against his convinces him otherwise. Apparently, once Emily Prentiss has made up her mind, she's made it up all the way, and she laces her fingers through his hair, tugging gently and moaning in approval when he opens his mouth and lets her tongue stroke along his.

She tastes rich and heady, like the wine they've just drunk, and a little spicy from the arrabiata sauce, and oh, he could get used to this, used to Emily. She makes gorgeous little moans when he sucks on her bottom lip and likes to retaliate by nipping and licking at his lips. His hands trail up to her hair, running through the sleek strands, and she practically purrs. She's aggressive, and he likes that in a woman, wants to see how pushy she'll be when he has his mouth on other parts of her body. She isn't shy about fitting her hips to his, sliding and rubbing and grinding herself against his cock, and mmm, he does appreciate the sentiment, but it's too much of a good thing.

"Hey," he gasps, breaking off from her mouth and shuddering as she moves her lips to his jawline. "This is supposed to be about you."

She laughs, low and sultry and God, he is never, ever going to be able to hear that laugh again without wanting to fuck her through the nearest surface, is he?

"You think this isn't doing anything for me?" she says, capturing his hand in hers and pressing it against the seam of her pants, hot and damp to the touch already. "I beg to differ."

His eyes almost cross, and he growls as he moves his hand against her, watching how she arches against his touch and kisses him again, desperate and messy. She lets him back her up to the edge of his bed, then sits down, tugging at her shoes and unfastening her pants. His one concession is to remove his outer shirt, belt, and shoes, but he doesn't shed any further clothing. He'll get distracted if he does that, want to fuck her instead of proving that she can come from just his mouth on her. Emily flicks open the buttons on her shirt, and he lets her see the appreciation in his eyes as she reveals pale skin and a black bra. He pushes her hands away when she goes to remove her bra, and flicks the clasp on it himself.

"Beautiful, Em," he says, because she is. She also happens to have gorgeous breasts that he wants to get his hands on posthaste, but that can wait until she's comfortable. She moves her hands to shimmy out of her panties – blue cotton, and he loves that she isn't matching – and he shakes his head. "Uh-uh. That's my job. Lie back, okay?"

She complies, easing herself back against the pillows and reaching to grip the top of his headboard. He almost laughs - that's a very complimentary position she's taken – but the sight of her is just staggering to look at. Long legs, stretched out and bent slightly at the knee; curving hips, still in her panties; bare breasts, nipples flushed and pebbled already; and a lazy, dark-eyed look that pretty much begs "fuck me now". Fucking beautiful, and it's really a good thing that he's had time to learn patience. He's going to make her scream and thrash and come all over his mouth, and that's not the sort of thing you rush.


He begins by removing one hand from the bedframe and focusing on her palm, pressing a kiss to it and moving to suck each of her fingers into his mouth. Flutters his tongue against them, scrapes teeth lightly against the pads, and laughs against her skin when she swears and tightens the grip of her other hand. He moves up her arm, pressing a kiss to the delicate skin of her wrist, the middle of her forearm, the bend of her elbow, her bicep, and finally her shoulder. He repeats the procedure on her other arm, and by this time, she's moved from English swear words to what he thinks is Arabic.

His hands move to trail lightly across her skin, all smooth curves and dipping planes. Her back arches when he reaches her breasts, actually whimpering when he brushes his mouth against one teasingly. He gives in to his impulse to taste, and takes her nipple into his mouth. God, she's loud, gasping and crying out as he licks and sucks, and he can feel her breathing speed up.

"Dave, God, please," she moans, hand fisting in the material of his shirt. "I want your mouth on me."

He knows his smug little grin is the one that's gotten him slapped by all three of his ex-wives and more than a few other women, but he loves it. He loves teasing her, because she gives it right back.

"But it is. And you taste so good."

She shudders, tugging insistently and shaking her head. "You promised you'd make me come. Gonna back out now?"

"Calling me a liar, Em?" he asks, bringing his mouth up to her ear, tracing his tongue over the shell. "Not very nice of you."

Her hand in his hair, yanking it back viciously, is not very nice, either, and her voice gets that deep growl she gets when she's done being nice.

"Stop dicking around, Rossi, and eat me out. Begging was not on the agenda for tonight."

Her vulgarity – as impossibly hot as it is – is enough to cut through the haze of kid-in-a-candy-store ego. She's right. He's being an ass, and she's put up with it enough. He deeply appreciates how she won't let him walk all over her. Emily Prentiss might beg, under other circumstances, but not tonight. And he did make her a promise.

His forearms bracket her head, and he rests there, head dropped to the hollow of her collarbone and the faint sheen of sweat there. "I'm sorry. You're right. I'm being a dick, which is what I usually do when you let me have free rein. Let me make it up to you?"

She sighs, and runs a hand down his back. "Please?"

"You shouldn't have to ask," he says, easing off her and moving to settle between her legs. "Just smack me upside the head if I start being too much of a bastard."

"Can I get that in writing?" she quips, making him laugh the way he hasn't laughed in bed in far too long.

It's the best kind of relaxing, allowing himself to joke around about his ego and his asshole tendencies. He hasn't done that since at least one ex-wife ago. Melinda always did have a sense of humor – shame it didn't extend to humoring him when he wanted to quit profiling to write. She was always a social climber, too. Emily shifts under him, and right, he's got things to be doing instead of mentally reviewing why his second wife divorced him.

He runs his hands up her legs, mapping the curve of calf and bend of her knee. She moans when he reaches the skin just above the back of her knee, and he strokes his thumb carefully to hear it again. As he works his way up her thigh, he can feel her start to shift restlessly against him, aroused like she was earlier. Perfect timing, he thinks, and lowers his mouth to kiss along her upper thigh and brush his beard against the delicate skin there. He's not going to give her beard burn – not yet, anyway, and not in that particular spot – but she lets out a low moan and he can suddenly smell how wet she is.

God, if she tastes as good as she smells, he's never letting her out of this bed again.

"What do you think?" he murmurs, flicking his eyes up to her face. "Can I make you come through your panties first, or is that not part of the arrangement?"

She shakes her head. "Oh, Christ, fuck the arrangement. Should've known you'd take it as a challenge."

Yes, she should have.


He's meandered his way up to the edge of her panties, placing a few sharp bites and swipes of his tongue to her lower stomach, and giving into her urging of "again", "more", and "harder". She's figured out he's doing this on his pace, but that he doesn't mind being given direction. She jumps, startled, as he wraps one arm around her right leg and presses his other hand to her stomach. He strokes the skin of her belly reassuringly, and she tries to shift, realizing he's made it so she can't move unless he releases her. The look on her face is half "oh-god-you're-so-dead-when-I-get-free" and half "yes, please", and he hums in pleasure against her thigh.

"Shit, you don't play around," she says, trying to relax a little in his grip.

He decides against answering her verbally and trails his mouth up to the edge of her panties, licking along the skin of her hipbone and inner thigh. The cotton between her legs is soaked through, and he loves it, loves knowing he did this to her. Emily raises her hips insistently against his mouth, trying to urge him closer, give her more. He moves to her other thigh, brushing his lips and beard against her and enjoying her creative usage of further foreign swear words. His hand spreads out on her right leg, pulling it to lie flat against the bed and opening her completely.

"Dave, please," she begs, and he forgives her the lie from earlier. She can beg however much she needs to, because he has every intention of doing whatever she asks. "Your mouth. Please, I want to feel your mouth on me."

He was going to draw it out, he really was – mouth her through her panties, feel her wetness soak through the cotton, make her beg him to take them off – but there's time for that another night (and there will be a "next time", if he has to tie her to his bed to make sure of it). So he unwraps his hand from her leg, and she helps him take the panties off her. She settles back, hands fisting tightly in the sheets, and he eases her legs open again, his breath catching at the sight of her.

So beautiful, soaked to the core, brown curls framing her cunt. His brain almost shorts out, can't decide what he wants to do first, but then she shivers at the feel of his breath against her, and he dips his head to taste her. And yes, he was right, he's never, ever letting her out of this bed again now that he knows what she tastes like – salty and rich and scorching hot - and the way she throws back her head and cries out has him leaving fingerprint-bruises on her hips and thighs. His tongue flickers against her clit, testing and learning what she likes best.

Seriously, he can't believe she's never been given good oral sex. He'd accuse her of setting him up if not for the bright red blush across her face when she'd brought it up. And it's a goddamn crime, because how can you be with this woman and not please her the way she wants? How can you not want to put your mouth on her until you know every single solitary thing that will make her scream? He pulls off a little to experiment; what is a brush of his beard against her cunt going to do? What kind of noise will she make if he sucks lightly on her clit? What about using his teeth, just the barest edge?

Fuck, the sounds she makes. She's loud in bed – not that that's a surprise – and each sound is different. Low moans when he sucks on her clit. Panting cries when he works his tongue around it. A scream that actually crescendos into a wail when he lets her feel his teeth.

She's dripping wet, flooding his mouth, and he can feel the telltale trembling of her legs underneath his hands. He's surprised she hasn't come already, but it's been a shitty week and they were both under a lot of stress. No matter, she's going to come soon, and he just redoubles his efforts, going back to the rhythm she likes. Lets it build until she's arched off the bed, muscles taut and trembling, and flicks his gaze up the line of her body to watch her curse and thrash and rock incessantly against his mouth.

She comes in a gasp and a rush of liquid on his tongue, just like he'd hoped. Dave licks his lips, and lets go of her legs – fuck, she's going to have bruises for days, and he's going to know exactly how they got there every time she winces – moving off to the side and watching her come down. She reaches for him, pulls him up beside her and makes him groan as she kisses him, slow and dirty, licking her taste out of his mouth. He's been half-hard since dinner, and aching enough to cut glass since she stripped for him, and he tries not to scream as she pushes his jeans and boxers off and takes him in hand.

Her grip is strong, pumping him in shallow movements, just the way he likes it. His hand covers hers, letting her know it's okay to speed up, go harder, he won't break. She pushes him onto his back, and oh, much better. He can stretch out more, and she nods approvingly. Her eyes are impossibly dark, and he struggles to keep his own eyes open, because he likes watching her watch him, and swears as she continues to jerk him off.

It's very soon after she brushes her thumb over the head of his cock that he comes with a moan, spilling over their fingers and onto his belly. He feels about as wrung out as she probably does, but when she raises her fingers to her lips and sucks her index finger – and his come – into her mouth, he can't suppress a shudder.

"Fuck me," he mutters, finally taking his sweat-soaked shirt off and kicking his jeans off the bed and onto the floor. "You're going to kill me, you know that?"

Emily grins lazily at him, curling up with one leg over his and an arm across his chest. "You gotta admit, it's a fun way to go."

She's not wrong.