So I really, really should be writing My Dark Duke but this fic - our HotLy prompt challenge for March/April "Psycho Beth" - won't let go of my muse until it was written. It's a multi chapter, so no Beth as yet in case you're wondering. Anyhow, tell me what you think! I do hope you like it cos I sure had fun writing! Unbetaed, so all mistakes are mine.

This story is a work of fiction by an amateur writer and is for entertainment purposes only. The writer is in no way associated with Criminal Minds nor anyone connected to the program. No Copyright infringement is intended and no monetary compensation has been received by the creation of this story.

All publicly recognized characters and storylines are owned by The Mark Gordon Company, Paramount/Viacom, Touchstone Television, CBS Television Studios, ABC Studios, and their related entities.

All original characters, settings and/or storylines are Copyright protected. Any duplication or distribution of this story, in whole or in part, expressly prohibited without written consent of the Author.

The muffled sound of laughter from outside drifted into the room and slowly filtered into her subconsciousness, making Emily stir. A dull throb in her temples heralded her arrival into wakefulness and she winced at the dryness in her throat. Groaning, she threw an arm over her eyes to shield them from the thin shaft of sunlight piercing through the gap in the drapes that appeared intent on causing her mortal injury if the sharp stab of pain in her head was any indication.

Oh God... Why had she done this to herself yet again? It had been bad the morning after her last girls' night out but this. This was like the grand canyon of hangovers. She slowly turned over onto her back, holding her breath as the pounding in her temples increased its intensity before settling down. What the hell even happened last night? Vague memories surfaced. Oh, right. The whole team had travelled to Topeka for Gina's wedding. As an added bonus to Agent Sharpe's surprisingly classy wedding reception, there was an open bar which, Emily, being herself, felt the need to take advantage of, assisted by Morgan betting that he could beat her in any drinking stakes that night.

She swallowed a moan at the memory. Why had she even fallen for that? She was 42, not 14. Not that it was any excuse, but all of them had been a little more motivated than usual to have a drink to drown out the horrific details of their last case. Seeing bodies of kidnapped and abused children were not really conducive to a festive mood. She seemed to remember seeing Hotch down more than a few single malts with Dave. And not that she could have sworn to it, but she even thought she had seen him sans tie at the end of the evening, the top button of his dress shirt unbuttoned. Hotch had looked kinda hot.

Ha, who was she kidding. He had looked really hot. But that was the alcohol speaking, of course. She was pretty sure she had been well over the legal limit in relation to blood alcohol level at the time. In fact it was more likely that she had been verging on alcohol poisoning seeing that she was a woman who can hold her liquor and Hotch unbuttoned was pretty much the last clear-ish memory she had. Please God, let me not have done anything stupid after that. Like the time she had gotten up on stage and tried to sing when she was nowhere near a karaoke club or another time when she apparently told some butt-ugly loser that she'd meet him in the bathroom after she had just one more pina colada. That's what JJ and Pen said had happened anyhow. It seems she wasn't the most discerning of people under the influence.

But nothing like that could have happened last night. JJ and Garcia had been there. They had her back. Oh man... She really needed to go to the bathroom. Her bladder was on the point of bursting and she thought someone had taken a dump in her mouth. Crap, if she had been that far gone last night, she was going to have to shoot herself. But first, the bathroom.

Emily sat up slowly, groaning softly as the pain intensified. When her body finally acclimated to its almost vertical position and she had focused on what was before her, two things struck her simultaneously.

One, she was naked. As in, as the day she was born. Two, there were clothes scattered everywhere in the room.

Oh shit. Was that a fricking pair of crimson boxer-briefs on the fricking lampshade? Shit, shit, shit!

Emily froze a split second later when the full impact of the boxer-briefs' presence in the room hit her with all the delicacy of a ten-ton semi-trailer. She slowly, oh so very, very, slowly, turned to her left.

Lying on his stomach next to her, head turned away, in all his naked glory – well, almost naked glory, a sheet lay precariously low over his nicely toned buttocks (hey, she was a federal agent, she couldn't help her keen observation skills even in a severely hung over state) – was a man. And what a man he was, with his lean and sinewy frame, sleek muscles in his back and fine, fine arms. Upper arms anyhow. Emily couldn't see his forearms which were currently buried under the pillow he was lying on. A sudden flashback of forearms generously sprinkled with dark hair banded tight around her waist as she rode him, back against his front, appeared in her mind in high definition, complete with x-rated sound effects. She barely held back a gasp.

Fricking hell.

She stared at the small mole under his shoulder blade which was shaped incongruently, and rather adorably, like a tiny daisy, while her mind desperately tried to recall the events from last night. Who the hell had she hooked up with? Unfortunately, the harder she tried to picture his face, the more her head throbbed. Gingerly, she got off the bed, but before she could walk around to the other side of the bed to check out his face, her bladder gave her a not so gentle reminder that she needed to get to the bathroom stat.

After she did her business, she quickly used the toothbrush that was sitting in the glass together with the toothpaste. From her single flashback she was pretty sure they'd exchanged spit at the very least. A few more germs won't make any difference. She looked at the dark grey toiletries bag that sat on the counter. She barely paused before opening it. Packed neatly within were a strangely familiar smelling aftershave, floss, electric shaver, deodorant, comb, super hold hair gel (really?) and Advil. Nothing that gave her a clue about who she had done the horizontal – and possibly vertical – mambo with. Except for the fact that he appeared to be somewhat obsessive about neatness. And the fact that his hair had to be tamed at all costs. Hmm... two things they already had in common, and that didn't even include the apparently mind-blowing sex they had last night. Granted, she was extrapolating that last bit from the one and only four-second flashback she had gotten.

For God's sake, Emily, focus! Maybe she could look for his wallet and find out who he is. Yeah, that was a good idea. Just as she was about to open the bathroom door, however, she heard a buzz. What the... Looking around, she saw what looked like her cell on the floor near the wastepaper basket. Oh lord, it probably slid out of her clutch during the wild, passion-fuelled clothing removal stage last night.

Emily picked it up. Yep, it was her cell because Garcia's beaming face was staring up at her from the small screen.

"PG?" she whispered, looking up. She grimaced as she finally took a proper look at herself in the mirror. Holy cow. There were hickeys galore on her collarbone and upper chest and she had epic whisker burns on both breasts. In addition to the ones on her inner thighs. Yeah, that had been the first thing she had seen when she sat down on the toilet. The details from last night were fuzzy to say the least, but she thought Mr Tall, Dark and Well Endowed – she was also rather sore – had been very gifted in the oral stakes. Damn it. Another reason why she had to remember.

"Em? Where the living supercomputers are you?" Garcia's voice was loud and excitable. Emily winced.

"I don't know. In one of the hotel rooms. I think." I hope, she added silently to herself. Damn, she really, really had to stop drinking this much.

"What? You don't know where you are?" came the incredulous reply. Garcia suddenly gasped. "Oh no. Please tell me you're alone. That you spent the night alone."

"What? Why?" A sinking feeling appeared in her stomach, causing the mild nausea she was already feeling to worsen. "Who was I with last night?"

"You weren't with anyone. But there was this complete dickwad redneck who spent the entire evening trying to get into your pants." Her friend sounded disgusted.

Emily blinked, an image of a tall, dark-haired man in a buff Stetson appearing in her mind's eye. He could be the guy in the bed. But somehow she didn't think so. Call it a gut feeling. And her gut feeling was never wrong.

"E, you're not with him, are you? Please tell me you're not."

"I'm not." Emily paused. "But I'm uh...with someone else. He's asleep," she added.

"WHAT! WHO?" Garcia practically shouted into the phone, causing Emily to stifle a moan at the pain that her voice summoned.

"I don't know!"

"Oh God, I knew I should never have left you behind. Well, are you sure it's not Mr Jackass-in-a-Stetson?"

"No, it's not him. I didn't see a hat in the room. And I would not have hooked up with a cowboy."

"Well, whoever he is, I suggest you get out of there quick smart, missy. You know what you're like when you're drunk, so it's completely possible it's him. Trust me, if it's the cowboy, you do not want to be there when he wakes up. He's a dick! So c'mon, Em! Chop chop!"

The urgency in Garcia's voice was making her nervous. "Okay, okay! I'm going! I'll just get my clothes and I'll see you in a few."

She snuck back into the room and looked around. Thank goodness, her thong was hanging on the corner of the tv in plain view and she quickly pulled it on. She was just about to slip into her evening gown when the male in the bed started to stir. Shit. Forget that. She leapt for the armchair and took his white dress shirt, slipping it on before grabbing her clutch, stockings and heels and fleeing out the door.

The man turned over and slowly sat up on the bed, frowning when he saw was the door closing. He blinked, trying to remember the events of the night before. His recall proved unusually faulty and he cursed himself for his immoderate consumption of alcohol. Who was the person who had just left?

It wasn't until he got up to go to the bathroom that he saw it.

A crystal-beaded high-heeled sandal lay on the carpet next to the door.

He picked it up, looking thoughtful as he perused the footwear, which was an epitome of elegance and class. He knew nothing about shoes with the exception of his own, but even he could tell that these were expensive. Well, it was a relief to know he hadn't taken a lady of a night to his room. Unless she was a very high end type of escort. But he didn't think so. Something his gut was telling him. And he always trusted his gut instinct.

So it looked like he was going to have to do some investigating to find out who his Cinderella is. Despite the twin bongo drums pounding in his head, his mouth curved into a smile as he placed the sandal on top of his ready bag. Prince Charming may have had minions, but he sure as hell didn't have Penelope Garcia. The question was not whether she could find out the identity of the owner of the sandal, but how he was going to phrase his request to the technical analyst without letting the cat out of the bag.

Because it certainly won't do to have his subordinates finding out that their Unit Chief had had a one night stand with a person whose identity he could not recall. Now, if he were Morgan, that would be fine. But Hotch had his personal reputation to uphold. He just hoped he hadn't inadvertently exhibited his intentions last night to the whole team. Dave would never let him live it down. Never.

Pretty please send a review my way and tell me what you think of the start of this fic!