He didn't hesitate, just dropped his lips to hers. He tasted her gasp, mingling with the chocolate. He took advantage of her open lips and kissed her as surely as he could.

He glorified in the deep moan she released, in the way her hands rose to fist in the material of Morgan's shirt. But it was him inside that shirt, him she was kissing as ardently as he was kissing her. Hotch pulled her legs up, using the barstool as a prop to help her wrap those long, long legs around his waist. This time, he gave no thought to hiding how she'd turned him on. Just thrust his hips forward, letting her feel full-on what she'd managed to do to him.

Then he had his hands under her ass, pulling her out of that chair and carrying her through her own living room, toward the cream couch. The window blinds were opened, and though she'd not turned the lights on in her living room, the glow of the streetlights and the Monument behind her apartment, illuminated both of them more than adequately.

She wasn't protesting, he realized, thrilled to the core. She was watching him, just a touch of apprehension still visible in those dark eyes. "Emily. God, I want this. Please tell me you do, too."

He didn't give her a chance to answer, half afraid she'd tell him she didn't. instead he crouched over her, slipping her back against the arm of the couch. She still didn't pull away, and as her hands slid over his shoulders he realized something important—she was pulling him closer. She wanted it, too. He fisted one hand in her hair, ran the other down her side, feeling each ridge and thread of that dark blue sweater clinging to her body. She tasted so sweet, so perfect. He kissed deeper. Then it was he who was moaning.

One of his knees slid between hers, then up, farther. Then he was pressing against the vee of her legs, against the denim separating them.

He didn't stop to think, to consider that he may be rushing things a bit. It had been too long, and it had never been like this. He wanted her more than he'd ever wanted anything in his life. His hands slid to the snap of her jeans.

She tensed, just enough to let him know she wasn't quite that ready, yet.

Hotch backed off. He was always one of those people who needed goals to work toward. That would be his goal. Getting those denims off of her.

He never stopped kissing her, running his tongue over her lips, sucking her bottom lip into his mouth. Then his tongue was running over her teeth, darting in to tease her own. She never protested, just teased him back.

He took that as a good sign. He finally pulled back, but lowered his head again after taking a deep breath, taking in the scent of warm Emily and hot chocolate that clung to her. He nuzzled against her neck, placing soft little kisses alternating with quick little nips over the smooth, silky skin. Then he nipped her earlobe. Laughed when she squealed. Did it again, then slid over to her mouth to catch her giggle.

His hand moved to the front of her sweater, slowly, but with sureness. He was ready to touch her, anywhere, somewhere. Just to touch her. Her breath caught, but she didn't pull away. He cupped her, squeezed lightly. Pulled back to check her expression. Her eyes had closed, and there was a flush of sexual heat on her cheeks. He moved back, wanting nothing more than to take thing to that next level.

His hands gripped the bottom hem of her sweater, and slowly lifted it. She didn't protest this. Actually leaned forward to let him slip the garment over her head. Then she was before him in nothing but a dark bra. It wasn't a practical bra either. It was delicate, lacy, and he didn't see how the minimal material could possibly adequately fulfill the role it had been designed to. This piece of lace was nothing like the practical woman it embraced, and Hotch found that irresistibly sexy.

He trailed one finger over the bra, and the sensitive skin beneath. She shivered. He smiled. "Emily, you are more beautiful than I even imagined."

If possible, her cheeks got even more flushed. "Hotch? What are we doing? Are you sure we should—"

"Shh. Sweetheart." He spoke the words as he leaned back down, then covered her mouth, not letting her protest again. He did a thorough job of distracting her from her inhibitions. He pulled back for a moment, just long enough to pull that damned t-shirt over his head.

He wanted to feel her skin pressed against his, and he soon did. The bra went the same direction as the shirt and sweater. He cupped her again, squeezed a little harder, then grabbed the tip. She moaned, deep and low. He thrust his hips against her, once, twice, more, simulating what he wanted to do to her. If she'd just let him.

Her hands weren't still, either. They ran over his shoulders, over the slight hair covering his chest. Touched his own nipples. Her fingers then fisted in his hair, pulling him down closer, pulling him to her for a deep kiss. Then dropping to his sides, his back, where she pulled his hips in line with hers. They were both moaning, flushed with the sweat of sex and desire.

She bit him, right over his heart, and instead of hurting him, it heated him. He returned the gesture, only he bit soft, female skin, then soothed it by sucking deeply. She arched, and he laughed. "You like that, you like it a bit more rough, don't you, Emily?"

He complied, moving to her other shoulder, biting quickly. He pulled her leg up higher, wrapped it and its partner a bit farther north up his back. The only thing separating him from what he really wanted was those damned jeans and the thin material of his sweats. "Emily, sweetheart, can I?"

He didn't finish the question, just lifted his hand to hover over the snap of her jeans. She took a deep breath, and then nodded slowly, deliberately.

He knew then she was as much into this as he was. His fingers made short work of the button, but the zipper took him a bit longer than he liked. Then his fingers were hooked into each side and he was sliding the worn denims over her hips, then stepping back to pull them free. He looked down at her, seeing that the panties—what there were of them—matched that bra.

She was before him in nothing but a small scrap of dark lace. Her hair was tangled from his fingers, her lips swollen from his kisses, and it was the best Hotch had felt in a long time. He hooked his hands in the band of his own pants and slid them off hurriedly.

He now wore only a pair of navy boxer briefs.

But he didn't want to rush things, so he left them on. Left her panties on, too. But he resumed his original position, leaning back down to kiss her again. His hands weren't any more still than hers, as they touched and groped and fondled each other.

Her hand was the first to go below the waist, the first to dip into a pair of underwear to touch skin beneath. Then it was he who was moaning. Her hand cupped him, surely and skilled, touching all the right spots. "God, sweetheart."

She laughed, a low, wicked sound he'd always associate with that moment. He dropped down to catch the tail end of that laugh with his lips as his own hand traveled south of her navel. Her skin was smooth, taut, softer than he'd ever expected a woman's skin could be. Then he was beneath that scrap of lace touching her more intimately than he'd ever imagined touching a subordinate.

But she wasn't his subordinate then, she was his lover. It took him scant seconds to remove those panties and his own briefs. Scant moments to pull her down further on the couch, to make access just a bit easier for him. There was nothing between them, not even protection, and he paused for a moment. "Emily?"

"Don't worry. Shot, every three months, I'm good." Her words were harried, her hands pulling him in just a bit closer; her entire body was giving him an unstated order. He complied, feeling her surrounding him with one motion of his hips. They both moaned. Her breath stuttered, he smiled.

They just froze for a moment, both of them enjoying that first feeling of that most intimate of contacts. She was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen—save for the newborn face of his son—and he reveled that she was with a man like him. A damaged, broken, cold, secretive, bitter man had won her attention. He couldn't fathom it, not in that moment. "God Emily!"

"Hotch, please!" Her hips began to move, begging him to echo the gestures and he gave in. They soon developed a rhythm of their own, the sounds hot and carnal, as they loved right there on her couch.

He lay there with her several long minutes later, bitterly wishing it wasn't over so soon. But it was. And he had to deal with the reality of his actions. The reality of what he wanted from her. He wasn't ready for more than what they'd just done, and he hated that he'd have to tell her that. Soon.

"Hotch?" Her voice was soft, hesitant, and he looked at her, as she lay curled on his chest.

"Yes, sweetheart?" He ran a lazy hand down her back, once more marveling at how smooth her skin felt beneath his fingers. "What is it?"

"That's my question, too. I didn't mean for this to happen. Never thought it would. Not sure that I want it to happen again." Once again he was struck by her honesty, even in difficult situations.

"I know. I feel the same way." He told her; he shifted, pulled her tighter to him, dropped a kiss on her mouth. She didn't resist. "But we have tonight, let's just enjoy that before we have to be at work tomorrow."

"Tonight, only." She said, and he couldn't tell if that was a question or a statement.

"One night at a time." Hotch said, hoping that this had finally put to rest the desire he had to walk to her every night. The need to have her with him, beneath him, loving him, belonging to him.

But Hotch knew the truth—he'd never stop needing those things. Ever.

It would just take him a while to convince her she needed them, too.