Spoilers all the way through Season 4, specifically 4x03, Minimal Loss

Disclaimer: I do not own Criminal Minds, I am making no profit from the writing of this fic.

A/N: This fic came about as a rather odd, offhand conversation I had with losingntrnslatn and smacky30 about narrative, POV and style. The always amazing smacky30 betaed along with tolerating my usual neurotic nonsense, whiney insecurities and never ending tweaking. She is perfect; I, however, need some work.

The first time it happens, it shouldn't have.

Really.

You want to call it a mistake, but a mistake is something you make balancing your checkbook or when you put on navy socks when you meant to put on black ones; easily excusable, easily remedied. Failing fixing, most mistakes can be laughed at. Sleeping with your thrice divorced, egotistical coworker who also happens to be your superior? Not excusable, not easily remedied, not fixable and most definitely, not laughable.

Hot, though. And really, really good.

So, it wasn't a mistake (though it probably was a misstep) nor was it an accident (though with his hand up your shirt and his tongue in your mouth it did feel like a circumstance beyond your control…deliciously so).

A team night at a bar after a bad case on a hot summer night and Hotch takes everyone's keys before any of you even start drinking. You're a little tipsy but not drunk and neither is Dave. You share a cab that goes around a corner too fast and all bets are off when you land in his lap. You're still not sure what shifted; you're used to his teasing, the looks that linger a little too long, the flutter in your stomach when he invades your personal space, but suddenly the heat in his eyes is a clear reflection of what you know must be in your own, so when the cab parks in front of your place, you pull him out with you.

It's blisteringly hot and incredibly satisfying and you awkwardly agree it can't happen again.

***

But it does.

It's the middle of the night in the middle of nowhere on the way back from a consult on two bodies found in the Shenandoah National Forest. Turns out it's not a serial, it's not even murder, just two dead hikers with some bad luck and an overly enthusiastic Park Ranger who has watched one too many episodes of CSI.

It's approaching autumn and while the weather isn't what you'd call chilly, there is a coolness to it, the promise of changing leaves and crisp nights with the smell of wood smoke on the air.

Dave's driving and it's quiet between the two of you. Though you haven't been alone too often since that night, it's not really awkward. But you're looking at his hands, his fingers curling over the steering wheel and you remember how his hands felt on your breasts, how his fingers felt inside you, the thumbprint bruises you had on your hips for a week afterwards and you find yourself biting back a moan.

A sound must have escaped because he looks over at you and asks if everything is all right just as the SUV rounds a curve, headlights sweeping over a fucking herd of deer congregated in the middle of the road. Rossi brakes hard (years of handling firearms and madmen giving him great reflexes) and the deer scatter in frenzied bounds of tan fur and white tails in all directions as the SUV spins in an unbalanced one hundred and eighty degree turn, ending in a patch of grass off the road, thankfully upright but continuing to rock even after Rossi kills the engine.

Your eyes are wide, so wide they hurt and your heart is hammering, hammering, hammering in your chest so hard you feel it raising the skin.

He's asking again if you're all right, though the question this time is louder and much more concerned. When he says your name a second time, you take his hand without much thought and press it against your thumping heart and his palm brushes against your nipple.

Five minutes later, the driver's seat is pushed back as far as it will go, but your ass still occasionally bumps the steering wheel as you ride him, hard. His hands are everywhere, he's so hard inside of you, and his mouth is moving across your chest and neck with hot, wet presses. You want to kiss him when you come but you're having trouble breathing. You love the noises he makes when he arches up into you and you can feel him coming inside you and nothing has ever felt so good.

After, it is awkward and sticky but you still manage to laugh a little when you reaffirm this can't happen again.

***

The next time it happens, he follows you home from the airstrip when you get back from Colorado.

He doesn't say anything as he undresses you, slowly, gently and kisses every scratch, every cut, every bruise. Cradling your head in his hands, he kisses you over and over. God, you love his hands, how they touch you, how they make you feel wanted, how they make you feel precious.

When he finally slides into you and begins to move slowly, slowly, so slowly with such exquisite tenderness you have to blink your suddenly stinging eyes.

Neither one of you bothers lying this time. It will happen again, the sooner, the better.

***

There's a routine: every other night when you're in town. Most times you go to his house, but he's willing to come to yours. There are rules, albeit unspoken: no strings and absolutely never any personal contact on the job.

But the contact at home is very, very personal. His thumb on your clit, his cock in your mouth, his mouth on your breast. The way he looks when he kisses the curve of your shoulder, the tone of his voice when he says your name, his warm breath against your shoulder when he sleeps, the way he sounds when he tells you about something he wants to share with you just because it's beautiful.

You're beautiful, he says.

You almost believe him.

***

He buys you a robe.

He buys you a robe to keep at his place.

Not a silky, slinky, shiny, fuck-me red, Let me get you out of this robe, but a big, fluffy, cotton, snuggly, white I want you to be comfortable robe.

Rossi hangs it on the back of the bathroom door right beside his; he had to install a new hook especially for the big comfy robe. Right beside his.

You fuck his brains out and then avoid him for a week.

***

Day eight and he's leaning against your front door with a bottle of wine tucked under one arm when you get home from your run.

You're hot and sweaty and gasping for air and you're fairly sure you smell worse than the boy's locker room at the local junior high. It doesn't stop him from smiling at you like he thinks you're beautiful or like he might be glad to see you.

You can't help it. You smile back.

***

He doesn't ask why you've avoided being alone in a room with him for the past week or why you've dodged his calls or how you've managed to make sure JJ or Hotch or Morgan or Reid was always there to ride shotgun while you rode in the back when you went out on interviews. He just smiles and says he'll call for take out if you want to go catch a shower and would you rather have Thai or Indian?

Later, after your shower, after curry, after slow kisses on your sofa, the weight of him presses you into your mattress and every slow, calculated thrust causes you to whimper with need and greed. And you realize you're hot and sweaty and gasping for air again and the look on his face, right here, right now, is what you've been running from for a week.

Maybe your whole life.

Then he's thrusting harder and it's too much but it's also not enough and you want to cry, you want to scream at him that he's ruined you, ruined you forever for every other man. But the possessive grip he has on your hips lets you know he already knows; it was probably his intent to begin with.

You want to be angry, somehow, want to pound your fists against his shoulders and…and…and…do something, because it scares you. How you feel, what's inside of you…the want, the need, the ache, the giddiness, the hope, all of it, fucking terrifies you. Then he looks at you, looks into your eyes, and…

Fuck. Holy fuck.

Your hands aren't fists against his shoulders; they are soothing fingers against his neck, a comforting palm against his cheek.

He chokes out your name in a raspy voice and it's so much more than your name, it's a prayer and a poem and a song. He kisses you, kisses you like he wants to drink you in, kisses you like he wants you to consume him.

You gasp his name against his mouth, your hands in his hair, on his back, grasping his arms, fingers and palms connecting with every bit of him that you can reach. You cannot, cannot get enough of him; the touch of your hands on his body, the smell of him surrounding you, the feel of the perfect heat and heft of him inside you, the taste of his skin (salt and musk and just…Dave) on your tongue, the way he looks at you as he moves just a little faster, just a little harder.

His arms tighten, muscles and tendons knotting and cording. You know he's close, but you also know he's not going to let go until you do. You want to come but you also want to stay like this forever, surrounded by him, filled by him. His hand smoothes across your stomach, seeking and finding your clit. Two presses and you're gone, his name on your lips, arching against him, head thrown back, writhing, coming and coming undone. He's right there with you, his head against your neck, his lips against your skin as you ride it out, the two of you propelling each other higher and tighter until it all comes apart and you both scatter and fall.

Together.