SPOILERS FOR 200.

The yank on her arm almost dislocates her shoulder. The world spins around her for a moment before her back impacts, rather hard, against the door and forces it closed. Her training reacts before she does, but the man that's grabbed her seems to know all of her moves. It isn't until she's completely pinned that her senses register who has her.

"Hotch," she manages, chest heaving. "Jesus. What the hell?"

His eyes are dark, distressed, and he says nothing as he takes in her face. Then his hands move, sliding along her face, her neck, her throat. He ghosts them over her breasts, uses a firmer touch on her waist, her stomach her hips.

"Hey," she says, catching his face in her palms. "Hey, hey, hey. Hotch. Whoa."

But he growls, tears his face from her hands. "Why did you go after her?"

Emily blinks. "Because you told me to," she says. "Because it's JJ."

He makes another low sound in his throat and she realizes he's checking her, checking over her.

"Hotch." She catches his hands, fighting against the way he tries to yank them from her grip. "Hey. I'm fine. No injuries. A couple of bruises, and a scraped palm, but no harm done. Slow down."

He can't. He's a mess. It's ridiculous. She can see it in his eyes, the only piece of him she's ever found particularly descriptive. She's learned not to watch his face, to watch his eyes and his hands, the spread of his hips. There's genuine worry in him, maybe a bit of fear. She squeezes his wrists.

"I'm good."

She's never seen him like this. How many years of working together, and not once has he ever seemed so desperate. He's not haunting Blake down, and JJ, who is actually injured, doesn't seem to be on his radar the same way. It's her he has his hands on and it makes her swallow, the lump thick in her throat. She reaches for his face again, makes him face her, even if her arms are screaming. Jumping from roof to roof is not as simple as it seems.

"Hotch," she says slowly, softly. "What's going on?"

He says nothing, just searches her face for a moment, then his hands are in her hair and his mouth is on hers. It takes her a moment, but then she's in it as much as he is. Part of it's probably adrenaline, but she can't say this hasn't been a long time coming. On her part, anyway. Years of working with him, with that intensity, with that focus, with the compassion that sits just under the reserved surface and she's always wondered what this would feel like.

It feels like a torrent, she thinks. It feels like being yanked under the ocean waves, thrown into the undertow. Her body arches into his, her arms slide to the back of his neck, her nails digging into his skin. She feels helpless, she thinks, feels like her blood is pounding in her ears as her body bends to the pressure he puts against it. Hard muscle and curves, his leg sliding between hers, and her thighs spread easily. He's got her pinned in an entirely different way now, not that she's fighting that hard.

Instead, she tilts her head back, lets him slide his mouth along her neck and into her cleavage. It takes her a moment to understand that the little whimpering noises are hers, that the low growl is his response and as he presses his teeth into the arch of her collarbone her hips buck up. The whimper becomes a keen as she rubs against his thigh and she does it again, for the heat that spikes through her. Her initial reaction to sensation becomes a driving force as his hands drop to her hips, rock her against the strong muscle of his thigh until her fingers are digging into his shirt.

God, she hadn't even realized he wasn't wearing his suit jacket.

"Emily," he groans into her ear. "Emily, Emily, Emily."

It's a question, she thinks, but she cannot answer it. There's way too much going on, too much sensation in the smell of him in her nostrils, the feel of the door against her back and his leg between her own. She feels the way she's soaking her panties and she finds that she could not care less. This is so much more, so much better than what she'd anticipated, so much hotter than what she'd ever dreamed.

He lifts, just a little, and his strength slides her up the door. He wedges his thigh firmer between her own and she realizes it's so he can dance his mouth along the sensitive skin of her cleavage just above her sweater, but it takes his teeth against her skin to send her spiraling over the edge. She doesn't know what she sounds like, can only hear the blood roaring in her ears, can only feel his tongue and his thigh as he presses her hard against his leg, drawing out her peak.

She pants hard as she comes down, eyes blinking over. He's back to that impassive face, and his hands are gentle on her hips. He's left space between them, like he's trying to gather his head, but she won't have any of that. Her arms come around his neck and she yanks him hard against her, pops up as best she can on her toes – she's forgotten just how damn tall he is – and takes his mouth.

This time, there's nothing passive about her attack. On the contrary, she's determined not to give him time to think, not to give him time to ponder what they're doing. She strips her shirt and camisole over her head, locks the bathroom door and reaches for him again.

"You want to make sure I'm okay?" she whispers against his cheek, her mouth darting to bite at his ear. "Go ahead, Aaron. Touch me."

He explodes. His hands are everywhere and she gasps at the callouses on her skin. He finds the bruise forming just above her hip and she flinches automatically. He shushes her, gentles his touch over the spot and takes her mouth. She lets him plunder, lets him explore every crevasse. She gets her shoes off and sinks to flat feet, something that seems to unsettle him because he makes an unhappy noise. Then he's lifting her, hands on her ass and she gasps as her legs wrap around his hips. She feels him then, full and against her core for the first time.

She hears him breathe an obscenity, laughs a little. It turns into a gasp as his teeth come back to her collarbone and she has to grip his ears. They're going out after this; he cannot be leaving visible marks. He groans, but acquiesces, moving his mouth to her ear instead. She lets him go there and makes a mental note to make sure she showers. She'll have to wear her hair down. Meanwhile, she forces her fingers to work, forces them to pull his tie from his shirt and concentrates all of her focus on the buttons. It won't do for her to rip them open. This time.

She whines when he pulls her legs from around his waist. It's not what she wants, not by any extent of the imagination. He makes it worth it though, diving for the fastening of her pants. Then he really is touching her, his fingers sliding through the wetness that's a result of his ministrations and her previous climax. Her body arches, her breath chokes off in her lungs. She'd always known his intense focus would turn into something absolutely phenomenal when concentrated on pleasure.

She has to grip his wrist, has to make him stop or he'll send her over the edge again before she's even had a real taste of his skin. She does not want that, refuses to even think on it. Her eyes go dark as he allows her to pull his hand from her pants and brings it to his mouth, tasting her on his tongue. She shakes her head as he eyes her. Another time. Next time. So she gives him something else distracting, pulling her bra from her body and dropping it on the small pile she's already created. While he teases her breasts, pulling at the rosy peaks, applying his mouth to the outer and undersides, she gets his shirt undone and all but rips it from his shoulders.

The man's built. Of course he is. It isn't the first time she's seen it – there's a story about too much alcohol and comparing scars – but it's the first time she's seen it like this. She feels the arousal spark in her stomach, feels her abs tense and her hips spread. She just wants him, she thinks, and it gallivants her into movement, has her all but ripping at his belt and his pants. He's hard, and she barely gets his hand on him before he's hissing and pulling her away.

"Pants off," he growls at her, shoves them over her hips. She gets her feet on the hems, tugs a leg out and decides that's enough.

"Inside," she says. "Aaron. Jesus, just get inside."

Protection is not an issue – it's Hotch and she's on the pill – so she wraps a leg around his hip, shoves his pants down as far as is necessary and lines him up. She can tell he's grasping at control as he pushes in and her body arches with him. It's been a while, so she's grateful that he's moving slow, but the desperate part of her just wants to tighten her leg, just wants him all the way inside. He hushes the whine she doesn't realize she's making, pinning her hips against the door and controlling the pace. She's helpless again – had she ever realized just how strong he is? – and focuses on remembering to breath as she stretches around him.

"Shit," she hears him breathe against her ear when he's bottomed out inside her, makes a desperate sound as she absently squeezes around his length. She gets the sense that he wants to stay there, wants to give her time, is barely clinging to his control and she's having none of that. She bears down again, squeezes him inside as best she can and tilts her hips.

"Move," she manages to choke out, her hands rising to squeeze his neck. "Move, move, move."

He does, like her words have completely shattered his control. There's nothing gentle about the rhythm he sets. It's hard and pressing and punishing and drives whimpers and whines from her with every press of his hips against hers. But it's also delicious and wonderful and sends shockwaves of heat to the absolute tips of her nerves. She squeezes every time he pulls out, huffing with the force and the effort and the exertion.

And then she shocks the hell out of him. It starts low at first, just little words she can barely make out. He presses his mouth against her shoulder, like he's trying to stifle the words, but it does the opposite. He's murmuring at her, filth about how wet she is around him, how tight, how wonderful, how smooth and soft her skin is, the scent of her and them as it wafts up between him. A dirty litany and her whimpers become keening moans. When he switches to the chanting, it takes her more than a few moments to figure out what it is.

"Let go. Let go, Emily. Fly for me. Come on, sweetheart."

And she does. She throws her head back, knocking it against the door as she screams. She has no idea how he has the presence of mind to bring his hand up against her open mouth to stifle it since he follows her over the edge moments later. When her body relaxes it's complete and her mouth curves beneath his hand in a happy, satisfied smile.

"God, we waited too long," she says as she manages to unwind her legs from his hips. She moves quickly to the sink, feeling the mix of him and her starting to drip out of her and onto her thighs.

"Did we?"

She looks up into the mirror, into the uncertainty in his face. She laughs a little.

"Hotch-"

"Aaron."

His cheeks are pink and it makes her smile shyly down at her hands. "Aaron." She avoids his eyes as she goes about cleaning herself up. "You can't tell me you didn't see that coming."

He doesn't say anything, and it's his silence that has her raising her eyes to his once more. He looks nervous, a little off, like he honestly hadn't expected the way he'd exploded against her.

"Aaron, you didn't add any new injuries," she says, her tone all business, no nonsense. She's not going to dream about this. They still live in different cities, have different lives, and as much as she's wanted this, as long as she'd wanted this, she refuses to start thinking in unicorns, rainbows and happily-ever-afters.

"Are you sure?" he asks, surprising her as he steps towards her, fits his fingers on her hips. Huh.

"No marks I won't wear proudly?"

He chuckles, low and dirty, like he's replaying the moment he'd made them. She can't remember, actually. The bite of his fingers outweighed by the pleasure she feels. She thinks that's the right way to go about it.

"Hotch. Aaron." She turns, still naked and unapologetic about it, bringing a hand up to her cheek. "Let's not make this into something it can't be, okay? We're going to clean up, get dressed, and I'm going to go back to my hotel, you're going to go back to your apartment. We're both going to get ready for drinks with the team and in a few hours, I'm going to go back to London. That's the way it has to be."

It's the way it is, for the most part. They do clean up and go their separate ways, both of them arriving at the bar in different clothing than they'd worn for their tryst in the bathroom. They interact like they always have, like this is an every day thing. Like he hasn't fucked her hard and fast against the door.

And if they both find a way to sneak away; if they both excuse themselves early and he offers to drive her back to her apartment; if he walks her up, follows her in and has her again…

Well, maybe that's the way it's supposed to be.

MUAH HAHAHAHA.

Errors are mine. Such is my life.

No, no more to this. I doubt it. I kind of like the way it ends actually.

Reviews are loved, adored and appreciated.