The Singularly Sensible Seduction of SSA Hotchner

Written for my beta, Greeneyedconstellations.

Warning for smut.

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Aaron Hotchner hunts serial killers.

That's his job. His life. He's devoted his adult existence to hunting the people who deserve to be hunted. He wouldn't go so far as to call it his calling, but he knows others would (and have). Rossi, for one.

This has given Aaron (or Hotch, to his team, and everyone left who matters, because he hasn't been Aaron since Haley), a certain… specialized skillset. A certain specialised skillset that leaves him completely out of his depth at his son's science fairs (which is why he takes Reid), and left him slightly puzzled that one time Garcia took him to what she'd generously called a 'party' (no party he'd ever been to before had had quite that much… Tupperware?), and also means that he never really quite fits in with Rossi's oddly numerous golfing buddies (odd, because Rossi doesn't play golf, the man has never played golf).

He does, however, know when he's being hunted.

And right now, he has a distinct feeling that he's being hunted.

"Sorry, sir," Emily Prentiss says with a smile that is anything but sorry and also weirdly Morgan-like in its smugness. "Guess it's me and you on this case."

"I think Reid…" he begins, because JJ is smiling too and Rossi's made himself absent, and he's feeling cornered even though this is his office they've invaded, damnit.

"Doesn't quite have the legs for a dress," JJ says, and Emily's smile grows wider. Hotch's gut cramps slightly, almost nervously. "And, no offense, but you might give off… a certain impression, if you rock up with Reid at your side. Which may draw unwanted attention to you."

Haley smiled at him like that once, and it ended with him climbing through her window in the middle of the night with a half-eaten box of chocolates because she told him to be romantic, but Sean had gotten into the box and bitten into them all before he'd been able to give it to her.

Right. This is fine. Going undercover at a poker tournament; who better to have at his back than the almost aggressively competent Emily Prentiss? Much better than Reid. Much. Just don't tell Reid that, the poor kid has only just stopped apologising every time he talks, like he's sorry for merely existing.

He only wishes the two women wouldn't look quite as triumphant as he agrees, because it leaves him with the distinct feeling that he's no longer the one in control of his life.

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"It's a case, not a date," Hotch protests when Rossi rocks up at his house with a suit that's suspiciously tailored to Hotch's measurements (what the fuck, Dave?), and an armful of flowers that are positively oozing with vibes of 'this is date Aaron, whether you know it or not.'

Which it isn't.

"Bah!" says Rossi, and shoves the flowers into the umbrella stand to wait while he gently and lovingly lays the suit over the back of Hotch's couch. "It's not even our case. It's dull. We're on loan like a library book to white collar, who gives a shit? So we're making it fun. You do know fun, yes? It's that thing that other people do while you glare disapprovingly at them."

"It's not a date," Hotch protests again, because Jack sometimes seemed sure that repeating things makes them true, so Hotch figures that kind of persistence in a theory must have some basis behind it.

"Not if you don't get in the shower it's not," Rossi says cheerfully, and follows him up the stairs.

Hotch stops. Turns, and directs his best 'what are you doing?' glare at his friend.

Rossi blinks. "Ah. Yes. I'll just… go and stand over here by my phone. Looking at it. Waiting."

He begins texting furiously, and Hotch sighs.

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"Oh, you two look lovely," says JJ when they get out of the car, and they both reply with a too-quick, "It's not a date!"

Hotch is almost disappointed to hear her say it, almost as much as he is disappointed with JJ's observation skills. He might look 'lovely', sure.

Prentiss does not look 'lovely'.

Prentiss looks fucking gorgeous.

He's trying to look everywhere but at the woman next to him in the low-cut red dress that curls around her legs just far enough to hide the holster he knows she has strapped to one muscular thigh. The material is thin and silky, clinging to her skin when she moves, and he has no goddamn idea how she's hiding her gun with dress like that but she is and he's sorely impressed (and now is not the time to be discovering a new kink, but a small part of him wonders what she'd look like with just the holster on).

He's also very abruptly become a fan of the colour red; especially when paired with dark hair and dark eyes and lips that are almost sinful.

Rossi is smirking knowingly, JJ is winking, and he was right back in his office.

Everyone around him is conspiring against him, and he has no idea why.

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They get through most of the night without a hitch, unless Hotch is counting being bored to tears as a hitch.

Poker isn't his thing. It never has been. Rossi or Reid, yes, but cards and chips have never appealed to him as a pastime. It just seems… frivolous.

Prentiss appears to be of the same opinion, if her glazed over eyes are any indication. They swap tables regularly, flitting around the room, and she stays glued to his arm like she's relying on him to keep her feet. He knows she's not drunk; he's watched her pretend to drink enough that he can peg it a mile away now; but she's doing a damn good job faking it.

He doesn't mind. She's also doing a damn good job increasing the amount of 'support' she's seeking, and it means that he's a few short pretend whiskeys away from having a lap of silky dress and a spicily perfumed arm around his neck.

That thought seems almost unprofessional, and he pushes it away quickly. He's working, even if working tonight means not letting his gaze drift sideways to the dangerously low neckline of her dress while listening through a tiny earpiece to Morgan trying to profile the men around them using the camera attached to Hotch's fake (almost Reid-like in their width and sheer 'kick me' facade) glasses.

He's not doing a particularly good job profiling them, since Hotch is pretty sure white-collar doesn't give a damn that the guy in the salmon tie likes to dip his toast in his tea, or that the woman across the table has a ginger cat probably named after a dead poet or a type of fruit.

Hotch suspects that Morgan and Reid are just as bored as they are.

He calls, folds, and thinks about moving on. Reid's taken over the mic, cutting Morgan out, and he's counting cards through the grainy screen since Morgan is 'Taking a walk or something' which is Morgan for 'I've been locked in a van with Reid for seven hours, please get me out of here.' Hotch doesn't mind the card counting, but he does mind the endless calculations that come with it as Reid seems to decide that both Hotch and Prentiss need to understand the intricacies of what he's doing.

Suddenly there's a warm pressure around his thigh and his first instinct is to look down.

He manages to curb that, instead looking at Prentiss who is smirking as her hand slips further around his leg, and ah.

Reid rambles on and Hotch should probably not look down.

The night has suddenly gotten a lot more interesting.

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This is unprofessional. In fact, it's worse than unprofessional.

It's David Rossi level unprofessional, and that's something that Hotch has never been.

Until tonight.

They were on what should have been their second to last table, the man they were supposed to be watching decided to leave early, and Morgan went to tell Strauss that the job was done and get the authorisation to pull out.

The job is technically done. Which means they're, technically, off duty.

Which means that as Hotch opens the car door for Prentiss to get in, and instead she shoves him back against it and claims his mouth with hers, it's really only slightly unprofessional (and oh god, that sounds like Rossi, he's becoming Rossi).

But at this point, he's beyond giving a shit.

There had come a point where almost on his lap had become actually on his lap, and there wasn't enough stupidly sexy red dress in the world to hide the fact that he'd gotten hard almost immediately.

He wasn't embarrassed, because he was pretty damn sure that was the intention.

"You're not subtle," he mumbles into that sinful mouth that tastes whiskey-sour. He feels it curl, smile against him, and she shivers.

"I've been subtle," she replies, shaking her hair back, and they're in a carpark but that doesn't stop her from pressing her body against him and shifting her mouth to his chin, his throat, his neck; pressing damp lips against the skin under his ear and blowing warm air against the cool spot left as she breathes. "I've been subtle for months, Aaron. You apparently don't do subtle."

Oh.

Oops.

He thinks. "The dinners?"

She rolls her eyes and rolls her hips and yep, he's hard again and his heart slams in his chest as he barely restrains from cupping her ass and pulling their crotches together so he can feel that again. He distracts himself by scanning the carpark, ensuring they're still alone. "Okay, I get not realizing one dinner was a date, but Hotch… we went on seven."

On recollection, he did think it was odd that the restaurants they were visiting were getting steadily more upmarket, especially as Prentiss kept looking at him and laughing throughout the entire thing.

"The sweater?" he asks again, because really, who buys their boss a sweater with reindeer on it for Christmas if they have intentions upon seducing them in a fucking carpark, of all places?

"You looked adorable in it," she says, her eyes turning wicked, and slides a hand down to fiddle with his fly. He shifts his posture, his ass slipping on the cold surface of the car door, and feels her palm brush against his cock with a lurch of his gut and a sharp uptick in the rate of his heartbeat. "I didn't expect you to be so… passive." She raises an eyebrow. He looks down at the dress.

"I didn't expect you to be so aggressive," he counters. "We're in a carpark," he adds, almost as an afterthought, and reaches up to itch at his nose, shoving the glasses up the bridge.

Another eye-roll. She's hanging out with Rossi too much. "No shit," she says, followed by, "When was the last time you did something wild?"

It really depends on who's standards they were judging 'wild' by, but he has a horrible feeling it's not his own.

Well, the place is empty… "Right now?" he suggests, and pulls her towards him and around so it's her ass against the car, leaving him free to mouth at her neck, the perfume tingling on his tongue as he tastes the smooth skin there, nipping at an ear as she curves her head back with a sharp gasp. Her fingers scrabble at his hip, probably creasing Rossi's creepily well-fitting suit, but he's beyond caring since she's shifting her own hips against his in a slow rocking motion that has his mind and cock both surging with identical feelings of want. "What do you want?" he asks, making sure to lower his voice to a rough hum against her as he closes his eyes and just savours the moment.

"You to take the glasses off," squeaks a miserable sounding Reid in their ears, and they fling apart from each other like the air between them has suddenly become electrified. Hotch stares at Prentiss. Prentiss stares back. Her hair is still perfectly in place but the dress has shifted on her body, creased suspiciously, and there's a flush to her cheeks that matches the wide-blown pupils in her eyes. "Sorry," Reid adds. "I tried to… not."

Hotch takes the glasses off, gets in the car, and they both stare straight ahead as he drives them back to the BAU.

He's fairly sure she's trying not to laugh, but he can't look at her without doing the same.

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He goes to walk out of the bureau once the paperwork is done, and she's sitting on the hood of his car in the darkened parking lot. He'd be worried about her safety, but the dress has ridden far enough up her thigh that he can see the holster strap, and he should probably be concerned about how much that turns him on.

Even with an oversized grey training hoodie pulled over the top of the dress, she still looks gorgeous. Possibly even more so.

And, if he's finally paying attention, he's pretty sure his attraction may possibly be reciprocated.

"Pity," she remarks, crossing those impossibly long legs and leaning forward to peer at him. "I liked the glasses on you. They're a good look."

"I think Reid would disagree," he says, closing the distance between them with his throat trying to tie itself in knots. "He almost went cross-eyed trying to work out where to look when he was debriefing me. I think we've scarred him."

He lays his hand on that cool thigh, and she slides down the car. He notes as she lands silently, that her feet are bare, and it's such an odd thing to do it almost feels un-Emily. In all the time he's known her, Emily has very rarely been anything that he could call odd. He gets the impression that she's letting him see a side of her right now that's more private than anything she'd bare to him in the bedroom.

"Shall we go?" she says, tilting her head towards the car, and he considers.

Then he reconsiders.

"Shall we stay?" he asks, pushing her back against the car and sliding his hand up, up, bringing with it the folds of the dress until the thigh holster is revealed; dark and dangerous against her skin; and moments later, the bare space on her hip where he'd expected underwear.

She looks down when she sees the mix of surprise and probably hunger on his face at the discovery and inexplicably says the words, "Panty lines," which… isn't as much of an explanation as she seems to think it is. Then she says, 'Oh,' because he's cupped a hand around her and she's already wet, she probably has been for hours, and his fingers are already teasing that wetness; slipping slickly through neatly trimmed curls to find the exact spot to make her buck just like that.

His phone beeps. He ignores it, captivated with the way she's rocking onto his fingers, pushing him deeper, lost in the way he's working within her. It beeps again, his pocket humming against her hip. She makes a soft noise that's almost a moan but mostly a sigh, and wraps her arms around his neck, pulling him close against her and making his arm ache slightly at the angle he's twisted it at.

There's a whipcord jolt of heat from his gut to his groin that has his mouth seeking hers, spine half bent so he can keep pushing her closer to the edge, contemplating dropping to his knees and seeing if she tastes as good as she sounds when she's aroused and wanting.

His mind whirs with the possibilities and he wants to taste her, to know her, almost as much as he wants to obey the hands that are tugging at his pants and just claim her right here. It won't take long; they've been half-aroused all night and Hotch doesn't know about her, but he's pretty sure if she turns that almost-moan into an actual-moan, that's him done. She shudders, and he actually feels her clenching around his fingers, which solves the question.

"Yes," she says, agreeing, almost purring, as he uses his free hand to help her shove his pants down just far enough that they're not going to be a complete write-off when this is over. "Oh fucking god, yes."

Removing his hand, the cool air catches the sticky skin of his fingers and he feels goosebumps tremor up his arm. He can't work out where to put his hand, where to wipe it, and she solves it by grabbing his wrist and wrapping his arm around her, splaying his hand on her back and shit her dress, shit shit, but she doesn't seem to care. "What do you want?" he asks again, and she gasps.

Her eyes are closed and her pulse is racing. "You," she says, quiet and fierce all at once, and it's a promise of more than just this. "You fucking me, Aaron, now."

Another shift of rough hands and fabric and he's bare to the air, her eyes locked on his length with a desire that has him twitching as he leans against her. The head of his cock, wet already, bobs, dips, threatens, and she's done being slow or subtle. Legs that wrap around him, exposing her completely to him for a flash before he's inside her, rocking, moving, taking her apart with every stroke of his hips.

She's tight and hot and wriggling and her dress is probably a mess, spilling around her bare ass on the car. There's the squeak of skin against sweat-damp metal, the slap of him pushing into her, and the rhythmic gasps of their own breathing, and it's all amazing, fucking amazing, and he can't (won't) stop because the need to come is fierce and all-consuming.

His phone beeps again and he hisses in frustration, missing a beat and sliding out, leaving a sticky trail across her thigh. She mewls, fucking mewls, eyes half closed and mouth parted, hand working to getbackintherefuckyou, as she mutters what's probably a curse or more likely a threat under her breath.

He's in, in, in and she flexes, wrapping around him with her arms and legs, pressing her head to his chest (lipstick on the suit, sorry Rossi, but you fucking encouraged this) and holding him so tight that he can't move, can't think, can only roll his hips in small circles, feeling her beginning to tighten around him, pulsing, coming.

He digs his fingers into her back, hearing her slow moan at the contact, eyes closed now and body still as she allows him to take him the rest of the way. "Come on," he goads her, trying to make his voice a challenge despite the huskiness to his tone. "Let me feel you come, Prentiss."

But she doesn't answer because she already is, and she's dragging him with her, feeling the pressure building, building and finally, spilling over and pulsing into her as he shoves her back against the car so their backs are braced better, almost sliding off, sliding out, feeling the mess trickling around his dick as he softens inside her.

"Don't," she hisses as he tries to pull away, holding him close. Their hearts beat together, both shaking, and he can feel hers beginning to slow. He closes his eyes, breathing in her skin and her musk and the mix of their scents together, feeling her run her fingers through his hair slowly, almost lovingly.

He wonders for the first time where this is going.

His phone beeps again.

"Fuck. Off," Prentiss snaps, and reaches into his pocket, drawing out his phone. "Oh of course, it's David fucking… oh dear."

He takes the phone from her and opens it with a flick of his (clean) finger.

From: Dave

When you guys are done, shoot me a text? I parked my car behind yours.

From: Dave

Hurry up, I'm missing The Daily Show

From: Dave

I've missed The Daily Show. You owe me dinner.

From: Dave

Ah. So I may have forgotten to warn Reid. Now you owe HIM dinner.

From: Dave

And therapy

Hotch groans and slumps against the car. Emily pats him on the back gently.

He's lost control of his fucking life.

When he opens his eyes, Emily is still there, patiently waiting. And he reconsiders, one final time.

Maybe it's not such a bad thing after all, allowing himself to be caught by Emily Prentiss. Maybe he should have given in months ago. Maybe this night is just them… catching up to what should have been.

He's pretty sure Reid would disagree.