she doesn't know i'd let her ruin all my days
emily prentiss x f!reader
tags: developing relationship, insecurities, hurt/comfort, body worship(?), smut, bottom!emily, top!reader, age gap not specified, smut with feelings, no use of yn
warnings: explicit content, minors please dni <3
summary: you don't understand why emily won't touch you.
word count: 4.5k
request: hiii, so for a fic request i was thinking something along the lines of unit chief emily and younger reader and they’ve been going out or dating for a little bit (...) and they haven’t done anything more than makeout because Emily’s a little insecure about being older (...)
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a/n: um im such a liar i said this would take a few days but i couldnt stop writing it so here it is ! ty for requesting <3 i had so much fun !!! hope u like it
Emily is obsessed with touching you any chance she gets.
It's surprising, really, the way she starts clinging to you when she finally feels like she's allowed to. When you're at hers, she keeps a hand on your hip while you cook dinner, she likes laying on the couch with you on top of her as you watch some random reality show. Emily keeps her face pressed into your neck, breathing you in, whenever she can.
And it's good. God, it's great. You want it all the time, you love how much she enjoys it, how close she keeps you. There's only one problem.
You want her. Constantly. And it seems like every time you try to move on to something more, she retreats. She kisses your cheek, your forehead, ending the makeout session as soon as it starts.
You don't push, you haven't been going out that long, anyway, and maybe she's still uncomfortable. Maybe you thought she’d be fine with it earlier because you were friends before, yet that might be the reason she's still uncertain, you're not sure. Although trying not to take it to heart is hard, especially when it seems like she doesn't want you as much as you want her, and you don't know if that's because she doesn't see you as her equal.
Being younger than her never really mattered to you. Ever since you started at the BAU you thought she was beautiful, attractive, sure, but she treated you like a colleague worthy of respect, even as her subordinate. Emily never made you feel like you were less than her or your teammates, which is why you never really thought about her age or yours as anything of a problem.
Perhaps you were wrong and she sees yours as a problem.
But there are moments in which you can't believe these conclusions. There are moments, when you're having dinner or just talking on a rare free night, that she looks at you and you can swear she wants you, too. At this point, anything could be true. You enjoy spending time with her, you care about her, and this one thing won't put you off a relationship that you believe can be really good, for the both of you. But this liminal stage ends up confusing you anyway.
Sometimes, your frustration gets the best of you.
You're on her couch, after dinner on a night when you're mercifully still in town. Emily never kisses like she doesn't mean it. She grips your hair and holds your jaw with her other hand, she tilts your chin slightly lower so she can get her tongue into your mouth. Emily sucks on your bottom lip like she's starved for it, then dives back in, leisurely feeling as you open up for her.
Scratching the back of your neck, she lets out a surprised sound when you pull her closer by the cheeks. When you get a leg thrown over her lap, though, she lays a hand on it softly, touching your thigh as if she's afraid you might break. Emily slows the kiss, kisses your chin, then your cheek, and still, with her lips swollen and cheeks red from effort, she smiles like nothing's happened.
“We should watch a movie,” she says, reaching over for the remote. You grip her arm, not letting her get away that easily.
“You're kidding me, right?”
Emily frowns, seemingly genuinely confused — if you weren't so frustrated you might've even found it cute. “I don't know what you mean.”
You chuckle humorlessly, resigned. This is fine. It's just something you'll have to get over. “Never mind,” you say, bringing your leg back from where it still rested over her, almost managing to stand up before she touches your hand.
“What's happening?” She asks, so lost that you actually feel bad. Seriously, what is she doing to you? “Did I do something?”
“No,” you sigh, “it's me. Pick a movie, I'll be right back.”
Emily's still frowning, but you get up, turning away from those sorry eyes. You can't help but feel bad that you put that look on her face when she hasn't done anything to earn it.
In the bathroom, you throw some water on your face. Chuckling ironically at yourself because the feel of the lace lingerie you have on is starting to annoy you. Lately, you've been choosing aesthetics over practicality with your underwear, just in case. Apparently, it was futile.
Reaching under your shirt, you remove your bra, tired of the uncomfortableness it brings. In a t-shirt of Emily's, you can barely tell you're not wearing it, anyway. Since you came straight from work, all you have is your laptop bag, not even pajamas in it, so she's lended you some. You figured you'd keep the lingerie on, again, just in case. Deciding it doesn't really matter, now, you get out of the bathroom and throw it in your bag, cursing the fact that you can't do the same with the bottom piece currently digging into your hips.
Back in the living room, Emily is sitting in silence. She's got a silk set on, some button-up shirt and pants that feel as soft as they look. You like seeing her this casual, comfortable at home, with you. Knowing you should focus on that, you smile at her when you sit back on the couch, your arms touching so she knows you're not upset.
“I couldn't choose,” she says in a low voice, sounding oh-so-dejected, pointing at the television.
Okay, does she have to make it this hard?
“I’m sorry, Em, I was just… upset about something else.” You try, touching her shoulder, letting her silver hair slip through your fingers. “I didn't mean to take it out on you.”
Emily shakes her head, a soft, yet genuine, smile on her face. “Don't worry about it.”
Biting your lip, you nod, still unsure but deciding to take her word for it. “There's a new thriller I thought you might like,” you change the subject, taking the remote from her hand and delighting in the fact that she snuggles up against you, her head on your shoulder, one of her arms around yours.
This is fine. This can be enough.
In bed, Emily has a terrible habit of scrolling through her work e-mails before you turn the lights off.
It usually ends in her getting annoyed at something or someone. She sighs, mutters about how she needs to stop looking at her phone before bed, then does it again then next night.
Tonight's no different. The only different thing is you're sitting next to her, leaning back against the headboard and reading a book, one you've read a thousand times. More passing your eyes over the words than actually absorbing them.
Emily huffs, takes off her glasses, places her phone on the nightstand, screen turned down. She turns on her side, still half propped up by pillows, and scoots closer. Her arm finds your waist, her head leaves the pillow to rest on your shoulder.
“Read it out loud?” She asks, her voice muffled against your skin.
You don't add anything, only start reading to her from the top of the page. You know she's not asking to know the story, she just wants to hear your voice.
“As the king made no answer, the little prince hesitated a moment. Then, with a sigh, he took his leave. // ‘I make you my Ambassador,’ the king called out, hastily. // He had a magnificent air of authority…”
The cold tip of Emily's nose touches your skin where your shirt’s moved a little. She presses it closer, breathes you in. Leaves a featherlight kiss on your shoulder.
You close the book harshly in the middle of a sentence.
“You must be tired,” you say, placing Le Petit Prince on the nightstand. “We should get some sleep.”
Emily frowns, “you're acting weird.”
You look away to turn off the lamp. She catches your hand.
“Talk to me.” She asks, her voice so syrupy as it usually is this time of night. “Please?”
Taking a deep breath, you buy some time. Not nearly enough.
“Did I do something?” She asks again, crestfallen now. Your chest physically hurts.
“No, you didn't do anything.” Taking her hand, you lace your fingers together. “I mean it, Emily. This is my issue, I'll get over it soon.”
Frowning, “I’d like to help.”
You shake your head, kiss her cheek. “I think,” you whisper, “no, I know, you're the best thing that's happened to me in a long time.”
Emily only looks at you, eyes big and searching. Her profiler skills working at full speed and, still, she can't figure you out.
“I don't want to ruin it,” you finish. Squeeze her hand for good measure, to let her know you're there.
“I'm so confused,” Emily says, sitting up properly. “Why won't you tell me what's wrong?!”
“Why won't you have sex with me?!”
Alright, blurting it out was not how you wanted to do this.
You close your eyes, cheeks flaming. “Forget I just said that.”
When you look up, Emily looks… stunned. Her lips are softly parted and her eyes are wider than usual. Too bad you really want to kiss her.
“Let's go to sleep.” Imploring now, you try to pull your hand away. She doesn't let you.
“I'm sorry-” She starts, but you interrupt her.
“No! I'm sorry. I didn't mean to say it like that, I was-”
Emily shuts you up with a kiss. Pressing your lips together, she holds your face in place as she kisses you. She doesn't deepen it, but she lingers, then softens.
“Stop talking,” she murmurs against your lips. “Please.”
You nod, pressing your lips together.
“I'm sorry. I didn't realize this was weighing on you.” Her voice is collected, like she sounds in the conference room. You want to shake her, tell her to yell or show that this is affecting her, too. “I never wanted to make you feel unwanted.”
“I don't-” You interrupt yourself before she can because, really, what can you say to that?
“I do want to have sex with you,” she says, calmly, but there's a light rubor to her cheeks, like it's hard for her to say it.
“Then- Why? Do you think it's too early? We've known each other for over a year.”
Emily nods, moving the hands that were resting on your shoulders to grip your own hands. “I don't think it's too early, I…” She shakes her head. “I don't know how to explain it.”
“Emily,” you say, finding that you really want to get that disheartened look off her face more than you want an explanation. Trying to convey in your tone what you feel about her. “You don't have to explain anything. We’ll do it when you're ready. If you're never ready, we'll never do it.”
“Simple as that?” She asks, slightly incredulously.
You shrug, “simple as that. I just wanted to know why, but that doesn't matter.”
Emily smiles, a small thing that you might've missed if you weren't paying attention. “You're so young,” she starts, confusing you again. It must show on your face because she quickly continues. “I'm not. And I don't look like I did at thirty anymore, or even forty. And maybe you should be with someone like that.”
Scoffing, you can't believe what she's saying. “You think I want to be with anyone else? I've been crawling up the walls because you won't touch me!”
Emily shakes her head negatively, “I believe you. When you say you want me, I can trust it. But I don't think you should.”
You cross your arms, dislodging her hands from yours. “That's the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard.”
She opens her mouth to protest, but nothing really comes out.
“I don't care that you don't look like a wax figure. Do you care that my stomach isn't perfectly toned? Or that I have acne scars on my back? Cellulite?!”
“Of course not, but-”
“Emily!” You interrupt her. “I love you. God, why is that so hard for you to understand?”
She blinks. Silence engulfs the room.
“I was gonna wait, because we've only been together a month or whatever… But we've been friends for so long, and fuck it, it's out there now.” Holding her face between your hands, you bring it close to yours. “I love you. And I want you like I've never wanted anyone in my life.”
“I love you,” she whispers back. But you don't have time to react before Emily kisses you, holding you in place by the shoulders, forcefully pressing your lips together like a woman starved.
Moving a hand over her side, she grips it before you can leave it there, holding it in her lap and pulling back from the kiss. Emily touches her forehead to yours, breathing hard with her eyes closed.
“Sorry, I-” She gasps out. “I didn't think it'd be this hard.”
You nod, placing a comforting kiss to the side of her mouth. Pushing her softly against the pillows, you lean over her a little, but not enough to completely cover her body. Trying your best not to be overwhelming, you look all over her face, taking note of her breath coming in hard pants and her hands clenched in the fabric of your shirt.
“Emily.”
She opens her eyes, not realizing she'd even closed them in the first place. They're wide, searching your expression.
“Take a deep breath,” you suggest, touching your cheek to hers when she does so. “Again.” Matching her breaths, you keep her under you for a moment, hoping she can finally relax. “I'm going to tell you exactly what I'm going to do, and if you need me to stop, tell me, alright?”
Lifting your head, you lock eyes. Emily nods, pressing her lips together and managing to keep her breathing normally paced.
“I'm going to kiss you, now.”
And you do exactly that.
At least this is familiar territory. Emily quickly melts into you, her mouth welcoming your tongue in a practised move. You don't touch her anywhere else, only keep one of her hands in yours, the other resting by her head on the mattress. She lets out a small sound of approval, her neck lifting to get closer, head tilting for the best fit.
When she comes up for air, you lower your face into her neck. “Here,” you whisper. “Okay?”
Emily hums a consent. You kiss below her ear, slow and wet, enjoying the taste of her skin in the way she hadn't let you before. You've been dreaming about this for weeks, months, and the reality of it is better than you expected.
Placing kisses down her neck, you reach the base of it, right where it meets the skin of her shoulder. A particularly hard kiss there leaves a slightly red flush in the shape of your mouth. Emily gasps above you, her free hand moving to grip your shoulder. You let her hold onto you, let her feel the assurance of your body over hers.
You take your time exploring her skin. The exposed area of her chest glistens and flushes where you've kept your lips on it, enjoying the taste and the way she shudders, her back unclenching, lowering back onto her soft sheets.
“Can I take your shirt off?”
Not even having dared to undo a button, you wait for her approval. Emily looks up at you, an ethereal vision with her cheeks red and her lip swollen where she bit it to contain her own whimpers. She doesn't say anything, so you move your hands to your (her) own shirt, slowly lifting it off yourself. For a second, you'd forgotten you'd taken your bra off in the bathroom, but the chill in the room quickly reminds you of it.
Emily looks at you intently, her eyes mapping every bit of exposed skin. She licks her lips, placing her hands on your waist and squeezing softly. You nod at her encouragingly.
Dragging her hands up, she keeps her palms under your chest, not going further. You feel your skin heat up at the attention, but don't move to cover yourself, letting her look as much as she wants to.
Emily looks into your eyes again, "take it off.”
You don't waste any time. Swiftly opening the buttons on her silk shirt, you lower your head to breathe in every amount of skin that is gradually shown. When it's completely open, you kiss her sternum, the valley between her breasts, her stomach, but you don't move to push it off her body. Slowly, you taste every bit that's uncovered, feeling as Emily's hips move on their own accord, lifting up from the bed ever so slightly, a sight that you'll soon learn means she's aroused.
Getting your arms under her back, you pull her up, touching your uncovered chest to hers. “I'm going to take it off, now.”
Everything is said in your lowest tone, as if you're trying not to spook a scared stray. When Emily nods, you finally rid her of her shirt, throwing it somewhere on the floor and not caring to look. There is a much more interesting view right in front of you.
She lies back down, her eyes locked on yours, her hands gripping you at the height of your ribs. You move down with her, trying to stifle a smile but losing the battle, kissing her chest so she can't feel embarrassed.
“You're perfect,” you murmur against her skin, causing her to shiver at the warmth in your voice. Keeping your promise, you continue, “I'm going to taste you, now.”
Taking a nipple into your mouth, you smile around it when she whines. Sucking slightly, the sounds she lets out spur you on. This is so, so much better than you could've imagined. Emily moans when you move to her other breast, the cool air causing even stronger shivers on her wet skin.
After a while, when Emily's breathing is labored for an entirely different reason, you bring your face up to meet hers. You can never get enough of the way she kisses, so you ask for it again. A thumb on her chin, pressing it down to guide her jaw, loving the way she relinquishes her body to yours. Your tongues meet heatedly, and you moan at how she tastes, yet again. She groans in the back of her throat, gripping your hair strands and keeping you exactly where she wants you.
You touch her chest, taking care of it with your hands this time as she kisses you oh-so-sweetly, in that way only she can.
Coming up for air, you smile at the expression on her face, dazed and relaxed, at last. Surprisingly, Emily smiles back, a small tilt of her lips but a smile nonetheless.
“Can I take your pants off?”
She nods, running fingers through your hair to move it away from your face. Twisting it onto a low ponytail to keep it there, she runs her hands down your bare back, then your chest, mapping your body with her fingertips as best as she can reach.
You remove her pajama pants, leaving her underwear on for now. Closing your eyes, you try to center yourself. She's everything and she really has no idea.
“I really didn't plan for this,” Emily murmurs, pulling you back to the moment. She's gesturing at her underwear, you notice, a simple, black cotton pair.
“It's perfect.”
Standing up, you take off your, also borrowed, sleep shorts. Emily lifts her eyebrows at the sight of your lace bottoms.
You smile, “just in case.”
Emily, mercifully, laughs. A loud, free thing that settles your worry.
“You can stop narrating now,” she says, pulling on your hand so you straddle her hips.
“You sure?”
She nods, pulling on the back of your neck to kiss you.
As you kiss, you feel her hips bucking up into yours. Your hands find her body again, relearning every curve that you, for a while, thought you'd never get to see. Finding the edge of her underwear, you only look at her, waiting for a sign of discouragement. Emily only nods.
“Fucking hell,” you whisper unconsciously after finally, finally, getting her naked. “I've been wanting to do this for months.”
Emily lifts an eyebrow, “months?”
You hum in agreement, growing more speechless by the second. Kneeling between her thighs, you stare at her unabashedly, earning an impatient look from Emily, who clears her throat. “Sorry,” you grin up at her, delicately lifting one of her legs onto your shoulder. Emily closes her eyes as her cheeks heat up.
“You're perfect.” It feels like you can't say anything else. You desperately want her to understand that you've never meant anything more than this. “Fuck, Emily, you're stunning.”
She opens her eyes, looking away quickly when she notes the flame in yours, her face turned to the ceiling. You let her have it, not wanting her to be uncomfortable, and start kissing the inside of her thigh where it's resting near your face.
Her skin erupts in goosebumps. You can smell her so strongly from where you lay, your mouth starts salivating almost immediately.
In the end, you don't know if you taste her more for her pleasure or yours. Every minute that passes with your head between Emily's thighs, you feel yourself get more and more aroused. You know you're just about to become addicted to her, you'll want to do this every hour or every day and it's gonna be so hard to not jump her every morning in the office.
The sounds she lets out are a spectacle apart. Her throat raw from moaning, the whimpers and gasps that she produces every time you find just the right spot. Every time that deliciously raspy voice hits your ears it spurs you on, when she calls please! into the ceiling, when she keens as you slip a finger into her.
Two fingers pulling forward, your mouth sucking precisely on her clit — you learn that's the perfect recipe. Emily cries out, telling you not to stop, telling you it's exactly right, and just like that, don't stop, fuck.
There's barely a breathy, broken, “baby, I'm so close” before she comes into your mouth. Her thighs shake and her hips try shooting up as you hold her down, keeping her close and still with your tongue on her, tasting as she comes down. Her back arches in the most stunning arch and you want to do it all over again, keep doing it, all night, all week, if she'll let you.
When she pulls your face away, gripping your hair strands and trying to stop you, you whine at the separation.
Once you're face to face again, you pout jokingly at her. “I was enjoying that.”
Emily smiles, “yes, well, I need a minute.”
She brings you in for a kiss, groaning as she tastes herself on your tongue. You feel the wetness on your chin passing onto her face, your kiss messy in the best way possible. Emily nips on your bottom lip, then beams at you.
“I don't know why I was so worried.”
You shrug, “I don't know, either.” But your eyes soften in understanding. A kiss on her cheek to tell her you've got her.
“Your turn?” She asks, grabbing your hips with her hands already under the waistband of the lace. Emily keeps them there, giving you the same time you gave her. It's sweet, even if you've told her you were crawling up the walls, and that she can probably feel the damp spot on her thigh from where you straddle her.
“I'm not done yet.”
Getting up again, you remove your underwear, then sit down next to her and pat your lap playfully. Emily rolls her eyes, but complies, straddling your own legs this time.
Gently moving her legs where you want them, you get one thigh over hers, the other under, and she swiftly adjusts herself when she gets your intention. She keeps herself lifted, not resting her weight onto you yet, leaning down to touch her forehead to yours, more easily as you're slightly propped up against the headboard.
You hold her hips firmly, guiding her down to bring your centers together. Emily closes her eyes, shivering.
Kissing below her ear, you whisper, “ride me?”
Emily sighs next to your face, hiding hers in your neck. “I'm not twenty anymore.”
“That doesn't mean anything,” you say, taking her earlobe between your teeth and enjoying the way she shudders. “I'll guide you, hm?”
She doesn't say anything, but she nods, and her hips give a slight, barely there, thrust forward. You both moan in unison.
Keeping a tight grip on her hips, you encourage her to move.
It's dramatic, sure, but you feel like you've died and gone to heaven in the span of a few seconds.
Murmuring in her ear about how good she looks, how well she rides you, you delight in her needy whimpers. Emily lets out these enticing little gasps where she hides her face in your neck.
Still guiding her movements with a hand, you take another to touch her back softly, caressing the skin and feeling as beads of sweat start to form from the exertion. You don't stop praising her out loud, the vibration of your voice emboldening the undulation of her hips, and Emily grips the hand that's resting right there, a bruising hold that keeps you anchored.
It takes a little trial and error, but you find the perfect rhythm together. She lifts her head when she's getting close. Her neck strains as she approaches orgasm, you've noticed, her entire body tensing in expectation.
As her breathing gets more labored, her brows furrowing from the effort, you think you've never seen someone this beautiful, and you tell her just so. Her cheeks flame, still so unused to praise, but it still spurs her own, her thighs burning now from the merciless pace she sets. With a particular twist of her hips, she slightly moves off where you need her the most, but she looks so ruined, so gorgeous, almost reaching her peak, that you don't say anything. You have time. Now, you only grip her harder, letting her take what she needs from you.
Telling her how good she rides you, how perfect she looks above you, you watch in ecstasy as her back arches and she comes again, an almost sob of relief leaving her lips.
When she falls forward, spent, you wrap your arms around her and kiss her temple, then wherever you can reach. You whisper that you love her, she answers with a squeeze of your arm, still catching her breath.
“You've ruined me,” she says when she finally finds her voice again.
“I did no such thing.”
Turning her face to look at you, your noses brush together. “You probably fixed me.”
“Don't be silly,” you joke, nipping at her nose. “There was nothing to fix.”
“Huh,” she considers, pressing your lips together sweetly, like she can't get enough. “Somehow, I almost believe that.”
I thought that Haley Cass’ writing couldn’t get any better after reading ‘Those Who Wait’, but I am 2/3 the way through ‘On The Same Page’ and I am OBSESSED.
If you folks haven’t read her work, I highly recommend any of her books, they’re sublime! Also, if you’re an audiobook fan, well you won’t be disappointed as Lori Prince does an incredible job.
description: What starts as academic admiration slowly turns into something far more complicated, as subtle glances, quiet conversations, and lingering moments blur the line between professional distance and something neither of you quite names. And the closer you get, the harder it becomes to tell whether you're reading her wrong… or exactly right.
Professor!Emily Prentiss x fem!student reader
tags: academic setting, professor x student, age gap, power dynamics, soft dominance, mutual attraction, protective energy, tension & chemistry
words: 9.8k
The late afternoon air hangs heavy over downtown, D.C., that strange in–between hour where the day hasn’t quite let go, but night is already waiting just beyond the treeline. The campus of the University hums in a quieter way than it does in the morning, less hurried footsteps, fewer shouted conversations, but there’s still a steady current of movement. Students drift between buildings, some with files tucked under their arms, others clutching paper coffee cups like lifelines.
You fall into step beside your two friends Amber and Jack as you cut across the paved path toward the university building for criminology, your shoes scraping softly against the concrete. The sky above is washed in pale gold, the last light catching on the glass windows ahead. It feels almost calm; deceptively so.
“Are you sure this is the right room?” Amber asks, glancing down at her schedule again.
“It has to be,” Jack replies. “Everyone signed up for this class.”
That part, at least, is obvious before you even reach the doors. There’s a crowd gathered outside the lecture hall, more people than you’ve ever seen for an elective. Not just second–years like you, either. You spot first–years hovering near the back, some whispering nervously, and even a few older students who look like they’ve already seen more than most, probably already worked in a certain field before they could apply for the FBI Academy. The low murmur of voices fills the hallway, layered with the occasional laugh, the rustle of papers, the creak of doors opening and closing.
You slow as you approach, instinctively taking it all in.
Profiling.
It had sounded almost abstract when you first signed up for it, a curiosity more than anything. You’d told yourself it would be useful, that understanding criminal behavior could only make you a better agent. But if you’re being honest, there was something else that drew you in.
The why. Why people break. Why they cross lines others don’t. Why someone becomes the thing everyone else fears.
And there was only one person teaching it this year. Even just hearing her name had been enough to make your stomach twist a little.
Emily Prentiss.
You’d heard the stories long before you even decided to study Criminal Justice. Everyone here had. Unit Chief of the BAU. International cases. Undercover work. The kind of reputation that didn’t need embellishment because it already sounded like something out of a film.
And now she was teaching.
“Come on,” your friend nudges, pulling you out of your thoughts. “If we don’t get seats, we’re going to be stuck at the back.” You push through the crowd with them, slipping inside just as a wave of students funnels into the lecture hall.
It’s bigger than you expected, tiered seating rising in a wide semicircle, rows of long desks with built–in microphones and worn wooden edges. The overhead lights are dimmer than usual, casting everything in a soft, muted glow. At the front, a large screen dominates the wall, currently blank, with a podium off to one side and a whiteboard stretching nearly the full width of the room.
It already feels… different. Most lecture halls at the University are bright, clinical. Designed for clarity, efficiency. This one feels almost deliberate in its atmosphere, the lowered lighting, the quiet hum of the projector warming up, the faint echo of voices bouncing off the high ceiling. Like you’re stepping into something more than just a class.
You and your friends manage to find seats about halfway up, sliding into the row just as it begins to fill behind you. Backpacks drop to the floor. Notebooks are pulled out. Someone two rows down is already flipping through a textbook, while another taps nervously against their pen.
You sit, but you don’t fully relax. Your gaze drifts to the front of the room, to the empty space near the podium.
“She’s not here yet,” Jack whispers.
“Give it a minute,” Amber murmurs back. “They said this class always starts exactly on time.” That only makes the anticipation worse.
The noise in the room swells and dips in waves, but there’s an undercurrent running through it, something tighter, sharper. People aren’t just here to pass a requirement. They’re here because they want to be. Because they’ve heard what this course is.
Or who it’s taught by.
You catch fragments of conversation drifting from nearby seats.
“…heard she was in Interpol…”
“…no, seriously, she led that case in…”
“…you think she’s actually going to teach us interrogation techniques?”
Your fingers tighten slightly around your pen.
Interrogation.
Profiling.
Understanding.
You glance back down at your notebook, the blank page waiting, and for a moment, the weight of it all settles in. This isn’t just theory. Not really. This is the beginning of something that will follow you into the field, into rooms where the stakes are real, where the people across from you won’t just be case studies on a slide.
A sudden shift in the room pulls your attention up again. It’s subtle at first, the way conversations falter, voices lowering without anyone explicitly telling them to.
The door at the front of the lecture hall opens with a quiet, almost unremarkable click. And yet, it changes everything.
At first, it’s just a shift, subtle, like a current passing through the room. Conversations don’t stop all at once; they taper, falter, sentences trailing off mid–word. Someone near the back lets out a laugh that dies too quickly, like they realize a second too late that they shouldn’t have made it.
You feel it before you fully see her. That pull. That sudden awareness that something, or someone, has entered the space and claimed it without asking.
Your spine straightens instinctively, shoulders pulling back as your attention snaps forward. Around you, the same thing happens in waves. People who were slouched moments ago sit up. Heads turn. Pens still. Even the restless tapping you’d been hearing since you walked in seems to fade into nothing.
And then you see her. She steps inside like she belongs there, like the room was waiting for her, not the other way around.
The door closes behind her with a soft thud, cutting off the last sliver of light from the hallway, and for a brief second, the late afternoon sun catches in her hair. It’s longer than you expected, streaked with grey that doesn’t age her so much as sharpen her, make her stand out in a way that feels deliberate rather than accidental.
She doesn’t hesitate. Not even for a second. Her heels strike the floor in a steady, measured rhythm as she walks toward the front, sharp, clean clicks that echo just enough in the high-ceilinged room to make every step feel intentional. There’s no rush in her movement, no sign that she’s even remotely affected by the sheer number of eyes locked onto her.
And there are a lot of eyes. The lecture hall is packed. Every seat taken, people lining the walls at the back. All of them watching her.
You swallow, your fingers tightening slightly around your pen. If it were you, you’d feel it. The weight of it. You’d trip, stumble, do something, anything, to break the tension. The thought of walking into a room like this, knowing every single person was looking at you, judging you, measuring you… You’d probably faceplant before you even reached the podium.
But not her. Emily Prentiss walks like she’s done this a thousand times. Like this is nothing. Like this is hers.
Her outfit is simple, almost deceptively so. A crisp white blouse, sleeves fitted just enough to look sharp without being restrictive. A black vest over it, tailored cleanly to her frame, paired with black pants that fall perfectly to the line of her heels. It’s professional, understated… and yet, on her, it feels like something else entirely.
She doesn’t look around the room. Not really. Not in the way you expect. There’s no nervous glance, no acknowledgment of the crowd in the way most people would. If anything, it feels like she’s already aware of everything, of everyone, without needing to visibly check. Like she doesn’t need to look to know she has your attention. Because she already does.
You don’t realize you’ve been staring until a voice cuts softly into your focus.
“She’s so sexy…” Amber. Her whisper is barely more than a breath against your ear, but it hits you like a jolt, snapping something into place.
You blink, your gaze flicking sideways toward her for half a second, and the grin she’s giving you is immediate; wide, knowing, absolutely shameless.
Yeah. That. That’s exactly what it is.
Because it’s not just that she’s attractive. It’s not just the way she looks, though that would be enough on its own. It’s the way she moves. The way she carries herself. The quiet, unspoken confidence that wraps around her like a second skin. It’s the kind of presence you feel before you understand it. And you definitely feel it.
Amber raises an eyebrow at you, her grin widening when you don’t immediately look away from the front again.
You’re staring. You know you are. And apparently, so does she.
“Wow,” she murmurs, nudging your arm lightly. “You’re not even trying to hide it.”
You huff out a quiet breath, tearing your gaze away for all of two seconds before it drifts back again, helplessly drawn in.
“I hate you,” you whisper back, though there’s no real heat behind it.
“Sure you do.”
Jack leans slightly forward from the other side, glancing between the two of you with a faint, amused shake of his head. “We haven’t even started yet,” he mutters. “At least pretend to be professional.”
You try. You really do. You look down at your notebook, at the blank page waiting, your pen hovering just above it. But the sound of her heels stopping at the front of the room pulls your attention right back up again.
Emily Prentiss sets her things down at the podium with the kind of ease that makes it look like she’s done this exact motion a hundred times before and maybe she has.
The bag alone catches your attention. It’s big. Not bulky, not messy, just… full. The kind of bag that somehow carries everything: files, notebooks, probably three pens that don’t work and one that does, maybe a spare charger, maybe something completely unrelated to work. It’s practical in a way that feels almost out of place against the sharpness of everything else about her.
A mom-bag, your brain supplies unhelpfully. And yet, even that looks deliberate on her.
She sets it down without looking, fingers already moving as she opens it, like she knows exactly where everything is. No hesitation. No rummaging. Just one smooth motion as she pulls out her laptop, places it on the podium, and flips it open.
Her gaze lifts briefly then, not to check, not to assess, but to take in the room. Packed. Every seat filled. People lining the walls. Attention locked on her. She doesn’t look surprised. Not even a flicker of it. If anything, there’s a faint sense of expectation in the way her eyes move over the room, like this is exactly what she anticipated. Like of course the lecture hall would be full. Of course people would show up.
Because why wouldn’t they?
She looks back down, connecting the cable to her laptop. The screen behind her flickers to life a second later, casting a cool glow across the front of the room. There’s no pause, no moment of turning the connector the wrong way, no subtle frustration.
It just… works. Of course it does. You can’t help it, the thought flashes through your mind immediately.
There’s no way she got that in on the first try.
You know how those things go. USB sticks, HDMI adapters… it doesn’t matter which one it is. You always get it wrong the first time. Flip it. Still wrong. Flip it again, somehow that fixes it, even though it should’ve been the same as the first time.
And yet she didn’t even look. Didn’t check. Didn’t adjust. Everything about her feels like that. Like the world just aligns itself properly around her without effort.
It’s ridiculous. And a little unfair.
The laptop finishes connecting, and the screen behind her settles on the first slide; simple, clean. No clutter. Just a title.
Behavioral Analysis.
No flashy graphics. No attempt to impress.
She doesn’t immediately start speaking. Instead, she closes the bag with a quiet, precise motion and rests one hand lightly against the edge of the podium. The other slips into her pocket, her posture relaxed, but not careless. Controlled. Always controlled.
Her gaze lifts again, scanning the room slowly. And this time, she lets the silence sit. It stretches, not awkward, but deliberate. Long enough that people start to shift slightly in their seats, long enough that the last whispers completely die out. Long enough that you become acutely aware of every small sound: The hum of the projector, the faint rustle of fabric as someone adjusts, your own breathing.
And then she speaks: “Most of you are here because you think you want to understand criminals.” Her voice is calm. Even. Not raised, but it carries effortlessly, filling the entire room without strain. A few people shift. She tilts her head slightly, eyes moving across the rows, sharp and observant.
“Why they do what they do. What makes them different. How to catch them faster.” A pause. Not long. Just enough. Her gaze hardens, almost imperceptibly. “And some of you,” she continues, quieter now, but somehow more focused, “are here because you think if you can understand them… you can control them.”
You feel something in your chest tighten. The room has gone completely still. She lets that settle for a beat, then straightens slightly, her hand leaving her pocket as she steps away from the podium.
“But if that’s what you’re expecting,” she says, her tone sharpening just enough to cut through whatever assumptions anyone walked in with, “you’re in the wrong room.” Another step. The sound of her heels against the floor echoes again, measured, precise. “Behavioral analysis isn’t about control.” Her gaze sweeps across the room again, slower this time. Intentional. “It’s about understanding.” A beat. “And understanding means getting uncomfortable.”
Her lips press together briefly, not quite a smile, but something close to it. Something knowing. “Because if you’re doing this right,” she adds, voice lowering just slightly, “you’re not just studying them.” Her eyes hold on the room, on everyone.
“You’re learning how close you are to them.”
Silence. Heavy. Intentional.
And then, just like that:
“Welcome to profiling.”
Your pen finally touches the page.
By the time the lecture ends, it feels like the room has shifted into a different world entirely. You don’t even notice it at first, the way the lights seem brighter now, harsher after sitting in that dim, focused atmosphere for hours. Your neck aches slightly when you tilt your head, your fingers cramped from gripping your pen for far too long without a break.
Three hours. It hadn’t felt like three hours. And yet, somehow, it had.
The scrape of chairs pulls you back as people start to stand, conversations rising again in low, energized waves. It’s louder now than it was before the lecture, but different, less nervous, more charged. Like everyone just walked out of something they didn’t fully expect.
You stare down at your notebook for a second longer and see all these filled pages. Not just bullet points or half-hearted notes, but lines upon lines, observations, phrases, questions she posed that you didn’t want to forget. You’d underlined things. Circled words. Written in the margins when you ran out of space.
You can still hear her voice in your head. Your pen taps lightly against the paper. A quiet breath leaves you before you close the notebook, fingers lingering on the cover for just a moment.
“Jesus.” Amber’s voice cuts in, and you look up just in time to see her lean over, trying to peek at your notes. “You wrote a whole novel,” she says, eyebrows lifting. “Were you even in the same class as us?”
Jack snorts from your other side, already slinging his bag over his shoulder. “Pretty sure she was in a different dimension entirely.”
You huff, standing and gathering your things. “Some of us actually pay attention.”
“I was paying attention,” Jack protests immediately.
Amber gives him a flat look. “You nearly fell asleep.”
“I did not.”
“You literally nodded off at least twice.”
“That was strategic blinking.”
You can’t help it but you laugh, the sound slipping out easier now that the tension of the lecture has finally released. “Strategic blinking?” you echo.
Jack points at you like that proves his point. “See? She gets it.”
“No, I don’t,” you say, shaking your head as you sling your bag over your shoulder. “That’s not a thing.”
“It is a thing,” he insists, falling into step beside you as the three of you shuffle out of the row with the rest of the crowd. “It’s called conserving energy.”
Amber scoffs. “It’s called being boring.”
“Wow.”
“Also,” she adds, nudging your side lightly as you reach the aisle, “don’t think I didn’t notice you.”
Your stomach dips slightly. “Notice what?”
She gives you that look again. The one that’s entirely too knowing for your liking. “The staring.”
You almost trip on the step. “I was not staring,” you say quickly, a little too quickly.
Jack glances between the two of you, immediately interested. “Oh, she was staring?”
“She was absolutely staring.”
“I was taking notes,” you defend, even as heat creeps up the back of your neck.
Amber laughs. “Yeah, I saw all that note-taking you were doing when she was walking around.”
Jack lets out a low whistle. “Wow. First class and you’re already gone.”
“I am not–” You cut yourself off with a groan, pushing the door open as you step out into the hallway. “You’re both insufferable.”
“And yet,” Amber says brightly, “we’re right.”
You don’t dignify that with a response. Mostly because you can’t.
The hallway is crowded, people spilling out of the lecture hall in clusters, voices overlapping as everyone tries to process what they just sat through. You stick close to Amber and Jack as you make your way toward the exit, the cooler evening air hitting your face the moment you step outside.
It’s darker now. The sun has dipped low enough that the sky is painted in deep blues and fading gold, campus lights flickering on one by one along the paths. The day feels like it’s finally winding down and you feel it now, the weight of it settling into your shoulders.
You’re tired. Not just from the lecture, but from everything. The classes before it, the constant focus, the pressure that never really leaves. And yet there’s something else underneath it. A kind of quiet energy that hasn’t faded.
“That was…” Amber exhales beside you, shaking her head slightly. “Okay, that was actually amazing.”
You nod immediately. “Right?”
Jack shrugs, but there’s a hint of a smile tugging at his mouth. “It was… better than I expected.”
Amber nudges him. “You mean you expected it to be boring.”
“I expected a three-hour lecture at the end of the day to be torture, yes.”
“And?”
He hesitates, then sighs. “And it wasn’t.”
You grin slightly, hugging your notebook a little closer to your chest. “It was more than that.”
Amber glances at you, amused. “Yeah, we noticed. You were eating it up.”
“I just…” You stop, searching for the right words, your steps slowing slightly as you near the point where the paths split. “It’s different, you know? It’s not just theory. The way she talks about it, it’s like… it matters.”
“Of course it matters,” Jack says.
“No, I mean–” You shake your head, trying again. “She makes you think about it differently. Not just what they do, but why. And how close it is. How easy it is to–” You trail off, realizing you’re rambling.
Amber is watching you with a soft, knowing expression now. “You like it,” she says simply.
You hesitate. Then nod. “Yeah,” you admit quietly. “I really do.”
Jack bumps your shoulder lightly. “Well, congratulations. You’ve found your calling.”
Amber snorts. “Or your professor.”
“Amber...”
“What?” she grins, completely unapologetic. “I’m just saying, if I looked at anyone the way you looked at her, I’d be concerned.”
“I did not–”
“You were practically drooling.”
“I was not drooling!”
Jack raises an eyebrow. “There might have been a little drool.”
You stare at him. “You’re supposed to be on my side.”
“I’m on the side of truth.”
“You’re both terrible.”
Amber just laughs, looping her arm through yours for a second before letting go as you reach the fork in the path. “This is us,” she says, gesturing toward the dorm buildings further into campus. “Don’t stay up all night rewriting your notes.” Amber steps backward, pointing at you. “Next class, I expect a full transcript.”
“Go away,” you say, but you’re smiling.
She grins back. “Night, genius.”
“Night.”
They turn, heading down their path together, their voices fading as they continue bickering with each other. And then it’s just you. The quieter path leading away from campus stretches ahead, lit by scattered streetlights. Your apartment isn’t far, ten minutes, maybe less, but the distance feels welcome. A moment to breathe. To think.
Your grip tightens slightly on your notebook again. Three hours. And somehow, it still doesn’t feel like enough. You glance back once, just once, toward the building you just left. And for a brief moment, you can almost hear her voice again.
“You’re learning how close you are to them.”
A small smile tugs at your lips as you turn away, continuing down the path.
Yeah. You’re definitely taking that class again next week.
The campus noise fades quicker than you expect. One moment there are voices, laughter, footsteps echoing off buildings and the next, it’s just the quiet rhythm of your own steps on the sidewalk, the distant hum of traffic somewhere beyond the trees, and the soft rustle of wind moving through the branches overhead.
It’s darker out here. The kind of darkness that settles in gently, softened by streetlights casting warm pools of light onto the pavement. Your breath comes out a little slower now, your shoulders loosening as you put more distance between yourself and the academy.
Three hours of intense focus will do that. Your head is still full. Fragments of the lecture loop back through your mind, pieces of what she said clicking together in ways that feel almost… unfinished. Like there’s more to understand, more to unpack, more–
A car engine slows beside you. At first, you don’t think much of it. Cars pass here all the time, staff, faculty, the occasional late student. But this one doesn’t pass. It lingers.
Your steps falter slightly, your gaze flicking sideways as the low rumble of the engine stays right next to you. The vehicle is dark, black, sleek in that understated way that immediately feels official. Clean. Government-issued clean. The subtle emblem on the plate catches the streetlight.
FBI.
Your heart skips, then stutters. The passenger window rolls down smoothly. And there she is.
Emily Prentiss sits behind the wheel, one hand resting casually at the top, the other near the window frame. The streetlight casts soft shadows across her features, and without the podium in front of her, without the screen glowing behind her, she somehow looks… different. Less untouchable. Still commanding. But closer.
She says your name. Not quite certain, more like a question, testing if she remembers it right. It takes you half a second to process that she knows it at all.
You stop walking. Your heart picks up, thrumming harder against your ribs in a way that feels entirely disproportionate to the situation.
“It’s… yeah,” you manage, clearing your throat. “That’s me.”
Her mouth curves slightly, subtle satisfaction at getting it right. “Good. I was hoping I didn’t just confidently misidentify one of my students on the side of the road.”
You huff a soft, nervous breath. “No, you didn’t.”
She glances down the street, then back at you. “Do you live far?”
“Not really,” you say quickly. “Just about ten minutes that way.” You gesture vaguely ahead.
She studies you for a brief second. “Get in,” she says lightly. “I’ll give you a ride.”
Your brain short-circuits a little. “Oh, no, that’s really not necessary,” you rush to say. “It’s close. I don’t mind walking.”
“It’s no trouble,” she replies easily. “It’s my direction anyway.”
You hesitate. She tilts her head just slightly, something almost amused flickering in her eyes. “It’s late. It’s dark. And someone like you shouldn’t be walking alone if they don’t have to.”
Someone like you. Your stomach flips. Someone like you? What does that mean? You open your mouth to question it, but the words don’t come. Because she’s still looking at you like that. Calm. Kind. Not commanding, just offering.
And you realize you’re not going to say no. Not really.
“Okay,” you murmur, stepping closer to the vehicle. “Thank you.”
You move to the passenger side, pulse thudding in your ears as you open the door and slide inside. It smells faintly of leather and something warmer, coffee, maybe. The interior is tidy but lived-in. A pair of sunglasses in the center console. A travel mug in the cupholder. A file folder on the back seat. Human things.
“Seatbelt,” she says automatically, already pulling back onto the road.
You click it into place, suddenly hyper-aware of your hands, your posture, your breathing.
“Thank you,” you say again, softer this time. Almost shy.
She glances at you briefly, smiling. “It’s really no trouble. I promise I’m not secretly grading you for accepting a ride.”
You let out a small laugh before you can stop yourself.
“And I meant what I said,” she adds, eyes back on the road. “It’s dark. You shouldn’t have to walk alone if you don’t have to.” There’s no hidden meaning in her tone. No weird undertone. Just genuine concern.
You shift slightly in your seat, warmth spreading through your chest that has nothing to do with nerves this time. The silence that follows isn’t uncomfortable exactly, but you’re aware of it. A little too aware. You smooth your hands over your jeans, searching for something intelligent to say.
She beats you to it. “So,” she says casually, one hand relaxed on the steering wheel. “First lecture. Survived?”
You blink. “More than survived.”
“Oh?” A hint of curiosity there.
“It was… really good,” you say, and then immediately feel like that’s too simple. Too small. “I mean… really good. It was everything I hoped it would be.”
Her lips curve slightly. “That’s a relief.”
“You thought it wouldn’t be?”
She huffs softly. “It was my first one.”
You stare at her. “First… ever?” you ask.
“As the primary lecturer? Yeah.” She shrugs lightly. “I’ve briefed teams. Spoken at conferences. But this?” She gestures vaguely with one hand. “Three hours of structured academia? Different battlefield.”
You can’t quite hide your disbelief. “You were nervous?”
She glances at you, one eyebrow lifting. “Of course I was nervous.”
That does something strange to you. Because in your head, Emily Prentiss doesn’t get nervous. She walks into rooms and owns them. She doesn’t hesitate with HDMI cables. She doesn’t stumble over words.
“I couldn’t tell,” you admit.
“Good,” she says dryly. “That means I faked it well.”
You laugh again, the tension in your shoulders easing a little. “It didn’t feel fake,” you add quickly. “It felt… intentional.”
She looks at you more fully this time, studying you in a way that feels less like profiling and more like interest. “Intentional’s good.”
You nod and then you start rambling. “I wrote down almost everything,” you confess, gesturing vaguely to your bag. “Probably too much. My friends were making fun of me for it, but the way you explained behavioral proximity and the discomfort aspect and the ethical lines–” You stop to breathe. “It just makes sense. It makes it real.”
She laughs softly. Not mocking,, but warm. “I noticed,” she says.
Your brain stalls. “Noticed?”
“The notes,” she clarifies. “You were very committed.”
Heat floods your face.
“It’s a compliment,” she assures you quickly, amused. “It’s rare to see someone that engaged at the end of a long day.”
You look down at your hands. “I just… really liked it.” There’s a brief pause.
“I’m glad,” she says quietly.
And there’s something about the way she says it; less professor, more person; that makes your chest tighten. You glance at her again, really look at her this time. Without the lecture hall. Without the title hanging in the air like a shield.
Her sleeves are rolled slightly at the wrists now. There’s a faint crease near her shoulder where the vest must’ve shifted. A small line at the corner of her mouth that deepens when she smiles. She’s not just Unit Chief Prentiss. She’s not just Professor Prentiss. She’s a woman driving an SUV at night, giving one of her students a ride home because she didn’t want her walking alone.
“You know,” she says lightly, breaking into your thoughts, “for someone who insisted it was only a ten-minute walk, you look very relieved to be sitting down.”
You let out an embarrassed breath. “It’s been a long day.”
“I remember those,” she says. “Criminology will do that to you.”
“You studied it too?”
“Among other things,” she replies vaguely, but there’s humor in it.
You smile. The awkwardness is fading now, replaced with something easier. Natural. She’s funny. A little dorky, even. And kind. Disarmingly kind. The tension that had been sitting high in your shoulders finally easing into something softer. Something… warmer.
For a moment, it’s easy. Just conversation. Just the quiet hum of the engine, the low glow of the dashboard lights casting soft shadows across the interior. The world outside moves past in streaks of amber streetlights and darkened windows, the occasional passing car briefly illuminating the space between you before disappearing again.
You shift slightly in your seat, angling toward her without really thinking about it. And that’s when it happens. It’s subtle. So subtle you almost miss it.
Her gaze flicks toward you, not unusual, she’s been doing that while talking, but this time it lingers a fraction longer. Not just your face. Lower. Then back up again.
Quick. Controlled. And then gone.
Your breath catches just slightly. You look down instinctively, like you might see whatever she just saw. Your hands rest in your lap, fingers loosely intertwined. Nothing unusual. Nothing that should draw attention.
You tell yourself you imagined it. You must have. She’s your professor. Unit Chief. Someone who walked into a room full of trained, perceptive students and held all of their attention without even trying. Someone who reads people for a living.
Of course her eyes move like that. She’s observant. That’s all.
Still… You swallow, your gaze drifting back to her despite yourself. Nothing has changed, that’s the first thing you notice. Her posture is the same: straight, composed, effortless. One hand rests at the top of the steering wheel, fingers loose but controlled, guiding the car with minimal movement. Her eyes stay on the road, focused, steady. The soft glow from passing streetlights slides over her face in brief, shifting patterns, catching on the curve of her cheek, the line of her jaw.
There’s no sign of anything unusual. No hesitation. No awareness of the way your thoughts just spiraled somewhere they absolutely shouldn’t have. Like nothing happened. Like you didn’t just feel something tilt, just slightly, in the space between you.
Your fingers tighten faintly against your jeans.
You’re overthinking it.
You have to be.
She’s trained to observe. To notice details other people miss. A glance doesn’t mean anything. A second longer doesn’t mean anything. That’s her job.
Your gaze drops. Her other hand rests near the gearshift, relaxed, fingers loosely curved over it. For a moment, it’s just that. Just a hand. Still. Controlled. And then her fingers move. A quiet, almost absent rhythm, tapping lightly against the side of the gearshift. Not impatient. Not nervous. Just… something to do. A small, unconscious motion. You watch it without meaning to.
Tap.
Pause.
Tap.
The movement is subtle, but it draws your attention in a way that feels disproportionate. Your focus narrows, catching on the details you hadn’t noticed before.
Her nails. Neat. Clean. Not overly done, painted in a nude color, practical. Most of them are a little longer, evenly shaped, kept just past the fingertip. Except…
Your breath catches.
Her middle and her ring finger are shorter. Not uneven or broken, but deliberately shorter. Your mind stutters, trying to make sense of it.
Oh.
Oh.
The realization lands slowly. Then all at once. Heat floods your face before you can stop it, your gaze snapping back up to the windshield like you’ve been caught doing something you shouldn’t.
You stare straight ahead, suddenly very aware of yourself. Of her. Of the small space inside the car.
You’re definitely overthinking it.
People trim their nails differently all the time. There are a hundred normal explanations. Practical ones. Innocent ones. It doesn’t mean anything.
Your heart is beating too fast. You risk another glance at her, slower this time, more careful. She hasn’t changed. Still composed. Still focused on the road. The faintest hint of a smile still resting at the corner of her mouth, like she’s carrying some private thought you’re not part of.
Her fingers tap once more against the gearshift. Unbothered. Unaffected. And for a split second, you wonder… Not if she knows what you noticed. But if she noticed you noticing. Your throat goes dry.
You’re overthinking it. You repeat it to yourself, like if you say it enough, it’ll settle the strange, restless feeling curling low in your stomach.
Because the alternative… The alternative is something you’re not even sure how to begin to process. She’s your professor.
And yet your grip tightens slightly in your lap. It doesn’t quite feel that simple anymore.
Your gaze drifts to the window again, watching the city slide by, trying to settle your thoughts. But it’s harder now. There’s a quiet awareness sitting under your skin, making everything feel just a little sharper.
The hum of the engine fills the silence, low and constant, and for a few seconds, neither of you speaks. It gives your thoughts too much space, room to spiral, to replay that moment, to overanalyze every small detail until it loses all meaning and somehow gains too much at the same time.
You press your lips together, trying to ground yourself.
“So,” she says, easy, conversational, like nothing has shifted at all. “Next week’s lecture.”
Your attention snaps back to her, grateful for the interruption, for something normal to hold onto.
“I’m focusing on victimology,” she continues, her tone thoughtful. “Background patterns. Risk factors. The things people overlook when they’re too focused on the offender.” She glances at you briefly. “Think you’ll come back for that one?” There’s a hint of something in her voice, light, almost teasing. But it’s subtle enough that you could be imagining it. Again.
You straighten slightly in your seat, nodding without hesitation. “Yeah. Definitely.” You almost add of course, but you catch yourself.
She smiles. Not big. Not showy. Just enough. “I’m glad,” she says.
The car slows as she turns, the movement gentle, controlled, and you recognize your street immediately. Your stomach dips, a quiet disappointment threading through the realization.
You’re here already. You barely noticed the rest of the drive. “Just up ahead,” you say softly, gesturing.
“I see it,” she replies.
The SUV glides forward, the familiar buildings coming into view, your apartment just a few seconds away now. The street is quieter here, softer. Dim lights in windows. A distant dog barking somewhere further down.
You shift slightly, already preparing to say thank you again, to gather your things, to step back into your own space.
And then her hand moves. It’s quick, casual, like it means nothing. The same hand that had been resting near the gearshift lifts, crossing the small space between you, and for a brief, almost fleeting moment, her fingers brush against your thigh. Then settle. Your breath catches.
It’s not a grip. Not anything that would draw attention if someone else were looking. Just a touch. A grounding motion. Like she’s steadying you or herself. Or maybe neither. Maybe it’s nothing.
“Don’t overthink it,” she says lightly, eyes still on the road, voice calm.
Your heart stutters. Because for a second, you’re not sure what she’s referring to. The lecture? Your earlier rambling? Or something else entirely?
Your thoughts spiral, but before you can catch up to them, her hand is already gone. Back on the wheel. Like it never happened. Like you imagined that too.
She pulls to a smooth stop in front of your building, shifting the car into park with the same effortless precision she does everything else. Silence settles again. But it’s different now. Charged.
Your pulse is loud in your ears, your body suddenly hyper-aware of the space you’re sitting in, the place her hand had been just seconds ago, the warmth that lingers even though it shouldn’t.
You stare ahead for a moment longer, trying to gather yourself. Trying to make sense of something that doesn’t quite fit into anything you understand. Then you turn to her. She looks back at you.. Calm. Composed. That same faint, knowing softness at the corner of her mouth. Like she’s exactly where she wants to be. Like nothing is out of place.
And somehow that makes it all the more confusing.
“Thank you,” you say softly. “Really.”
She gives you that small, steady smile. “Anytime.”
Anytime. Your heart does that ridiculous thing again.You reach for the door handle, then pause.“And, uh,” you add, gathering a little courage, “for what it’s worth? You don’t have to be nervous about the lectures...”
She tilts her head slightly. “No?”
“No,” you say firmly. “You were… perfect.”
Something flickers in her expression at that. Brief. Almost shy. “Careful,” she says lightly. “Flattery won’t get you extra credit.”
You grin sweetly despite yourself. “Worth a shot.”
She laughs. And as you step out into the cool night air, closing the door gently behind you, you realize something important.
You weren’t imagining everything.
The rainy week passes faster than you expect. Classes blur into each other, notes pile up, days stretch long and exhausting, but somehow, through all of it, one thing stays sharp in your mind.
Thursday. Late afternoon. Behavioral Analysis. You try not to think too much about the car ride. About the way her hand had rested on your thigh, brief and light and impossible to fully explain. About the way she had said don’t overthink it and how you’ve been doing exactly that ever since.
You tell yourself it didn’t mean anything. You tell yourself it was nothing. You tell yourself a lot of things. None of them stick.
And then Thursday comes. The familiar building stands ahead of you again, the sky painted in that same fading light, the air cool and crisp in a way that makes everything feel just a little more alive. You walk beside Amber and Jack, their voices filling the space easily, the rhythm of your steps syncing as you approach the lecture hall.
“You’re excited,” Amber says, not even bothering to hide the grin in her voice.
“I’m not,” you reply automatically.
“You are.”
“I’m not.”
“She’s been weird all day,” Jack adds, adjusting his bag. “Distracted.”
“I have other classes,” you protest.
Amber hums. “Mhm. Sure. Nothing to do with a certain professor.”
You shoot her a look, but it lacks any real bite. Because arguing would mean acknowledging something you’re still not entirely ready to put into words.
The hallway is busy, but not like last week. There are still a lot of people, clusters of students lingering outside, voices overlapping, the low buzz of anticipation hanging in the air, but it’s different. Thinner. More contained.
The overwhelming flood of curiosity from the first lecture has settled into something more selective. More intentional. You remember what people always say about these kinds of classes. They start full and then, week by week, people drop off. Lose interest. Decide it’s not what they thought it would be.
Until eventually only the ones who really want to be there remain. The thought settles somewhere in your chest as you push open the door and step inside.
The lecture hall looks the same. Dimmer lighting. The soft hum of the equipment. The large screen at the front already lit, the title slide for today’s lecture displayed in clean, simple text.
But this time she’s already there. Professor Prentiss stands at the front of the room, one hand resting lightly against the edge of the podium, the other holding a remote. She’s not moving much yet, not pacing like she had during parts of the last lecture. Just… waiting. Observing. There’s a quiet confidence in it. A sense that she doesn’t need to fill the space for it to belong to her.
You feel it the moment you step in. That same pull. That same awareness that makes everything else fade just slightly at the edges. And then she looks up. It’s immediate. Too immediate. Like she didn’t just happen to glance toward the door, but knew, somehow, that you were there.
Your breath catches, just for a second, as her eyes meet yours across the room. There are too many people between you for it to make sense. Too much distance. But it feels direct, like she picked you out of the crowd without trying.
You stop for half a heartbeat, your brain scrambling to catch up with your body, with the sudden rush of heat that spreads across your chest. And before you can think better of it… you lift your hand.
A small, awkward wave.
The kind you immediately regret the second you do it. Oh my god. What are you doing? Your hand drops almost instantly, your fingers curling back in as if you can erase the movement, your cheeks heating so quickly it almost feels like a physical burn.
You look away for a split second, mortified. That was so embarrassing. You’re in a lecture hall. She’s your professor. You don’t wave at her like that…
You look back, because you can’t not and she’s still looking at you. But now she’s smiling. Not broadly. Not something that would draw attention from anyone else. Just enough. And suddenly she winks at you, quick and subtle, gone in a second.
But it hits you like a shockwave. Your breath stutters, your entire body going still for a fraction of a second as your brain struggles to process what just happened.
Did she…
Did she just…
“Oh my god,” Amber breathes beside you, low enough that no one else would hear.
You don’t dare look at her. You feel her looking at you, though. Feel the weight of her gaze, the way she’s absolutely thriving off of whatever expression is currently on your face.
If you weren’t standing… If you weren’t very aware of the fact that you are in a crowded lecture hall, surrounded by people… you’re almost certain your knees would have given out. Because that, that was not normal. That was not something a professor does.
Your heart is racing, pulse loud in your ears as you force your feet to move again, heading toward your usual seats with Amber and Jack.
Jack, for once, is quiet.
Amber is not. “You are in so much trouble,” she whispers, barely containing her grin.
“I didn’t do anything,” you hiss back, dropping into your seat a little too quickly.
“You waved at her.”
“I panicked.”
“She winked at you.”
“I…” You stop, your voice catching slightly. “I know.”
Amber lets out a silent laugh, shaking her head as she sits down beside you. “Wow.”
Jack leans forward slightly, glancing between the two of you. “What did I miss?”
“Nothing,” you say quickly.
“Everything,” Amber corrects at the same time.
You bury your face in your hands for half a second before dragging them down slowly, trying to compose yourself, trying to act normal, trying to ignore the way your heart is still beating too fast.
At the front of the room, Emily moves again, her attention shifting to the rest of the class as more students filter in, as if nothing just happened.
But when you risk another glance at her, you catch it again, that same faint, knowing curve at the corner of her mouth. And something in your chest tightens, because whatever this is… it’s not just in your head anymore.
The lecture, somehow, passes both slower and faster than it should. You notice it in fragments, the way time stretches in certain moments, when she pauses mid-sentence and lets silence settle, when she looks at someone just a second longer than necessary until they shift under it, when she asks a question and waits, not filling the gap, not rescuing anyone from it. And then there are the parts that slip by too quickly, where you’re so focused on writing, on listening, on trying to follow the thread of her thoughts, that you barely register the passing minutes at all.
It’s different this time. You’re not just observing, you’re participating. At some point, your hand lifts before you’ve fully decided to do it, your voice cutting into the space of the lecture with a question that feels both too simple and too exposed. For a brief moment, every head in the room seems to turn, the weight of attention settling on you in a way that makes your stomach tighten.
But she doesn’t let it linger. She answers you seriously, thoughtfully, building on what you said instead of correcting it, guiding it instead of dismissing it. And when you nod, when you follow, when you add something else, she smiles. Approving.
And somehow, that feels worse than being called out.
Better.
Much, much worse.
It happens again later, when she asks something of the room and the silence stretches just a little too long, and you hear your own voice answering before you can second-guess it. This time, you don’t even look around to see who’s watching. You look at her.
And again, that look. That brief flicker of something in her expression that feels like recognition, like she expected it.
By the time the lecture winds down, your hand aches slightly, your notebook filled with dense, careful lines, annotations in the margins, arrows connecting ideas that seemed important enough not to lose.
At the front of the room, Emily glances at the clock, then back at the class, shifting her weight slightly as she sets the remote down on the podium. “For those of you who want to get ahead for next week,” she says, her voice steady, carrying easily across the room, “take a look at chapter six in Mindhunter. We’ll be building on those concepts, but from a slightly different angle.”
A few people scribble it down immediately, you already have. Her gaze moves across the room once more, slower this time, like she’s taking something in, measuring, observing.
“Otherwise,” she adds, a faint hint of something almost amused touching her tone, “get some rest. You’ll need it.” A pause. “That’s all for today.”
The room exhales. Chairs scrape against the floor as people begin to stand, conversations picking up almost immediately, the tension of focus dissolving into movement and noise. You sit there for a moment longer, your pen still resting against the page, as if your brain hasn’t quite caught up to the fact that it’s over. Again. Too quickly.
“Okay,” Amber says beside you, already packing her things, “that was actually terrifying.”
You glance at her. “You say that every time.”
“Because it is every time,” she shoots back, shoving her notebook into her bag. “The way she looks at people? I feel like she can see my entire search history.”
Jack huffs, slinging his bag over his shoulder. “That would require you to have shame.”
“Wow. Rude.”
You smile faintly, closing your own notebook carefully, your fingers lingering on the cover for just a moment before you slide it into your bag.
“You were on fire today,” Amber adds, nudging you lightly. “Asking questions, answering questions… who are you?”
You shrug, trying to play it off, even as warmth creeps up your neck again. “I was just… paying attention.”
“Yeah,” Jack mutters. “Very intensely.”
Amber leans in slightly, her voice dropping just enough to keep it between the three of you. “She was looking at you a lot.”
Your heart stutters. “She looks at everyone,” you say quickly.
“Mhm.”
You don’t respond, because you don’t trust yourself to. You finish packing your bag, pulling the strap over your shoulder as you stand, falling into step with them as the three of you move toward the aisle, joining the slow stream of students heading for the exit.
You’re almost at the door when…
“Hey.” Her voice. It cuts through everything else.
You stop. So do Amber and Jack. You turn, your heart picking up in a way that feels entirely too familiar by now.
Professor Prentiss stands at the front of the room, one hand resting lightly against the podium, her gaze directed, not at the class as a whole, at you.
“Could you stay for a moment?” she asks. It’s casual, professional. There’s nothing in her tone that anyone else could question.
Your stomach flips. “Yeah,” you say, a little too quickly. “Of course.”
Amber’s head turns toward you so fast it’s almost comical. Oh no. You don’t even have to look at her to know what kind of expression she’s wearing.
Jack, for once, looks mildly impressed. “Well,” he mutters, adjusting his bag. “Look at you.”
“It’s probably about class,” you say quickly, even as your pulse climbs.
“Obviously,” Amber agrees, entirely unhelpful. “Definitely just about class.”
You shoot her a look, she grins. Then, leaning closer for just a second, she murmurs, “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”
You stare at her. “That is the worst advice you could possibly give me.”
“I know,” she says, pleased. “Good luck.”
Jack gives you a small, amused shake of his head. “Try not to get expelled.”
“I’m not going to get expelled.”
“Famous last words.”
You huff, but there’s no real irritation behind it, just nerves buzzing under your skin as you watch them turn and head out of the lecture hall, their voices fading into the hallway beyond.
It’s quieter now. A few students still linger, gathering their things, finishing conversations, but the room is already beginning to settle into that post-lecture stillness. You take a breath, adjusting your bag on your shoulder before stepping down the rows, your footsteps soft against the floor as you make your way toward the front.
Each step feels… louder than it should. You’re aware of her, of where she stands, of the way her gaze follows you and because she’s watching, you become acutely aware of yourself, too.
Of everything. Of the rhythm of your steps, just a fraction too deliberate now, as if you’ve forgotten how to walk naturally under the weight of being seen. Of the way your shoulders hold, a little straighter than usual, your breath measured without you meaning it to be. Of your hands, suddenly unsure of what to do with themselves, tightening briefly around the strap of your bag before loosening again.
And of your skirt. The soft brush of fabric against your legs becomes impossible to ignore, the subtle sway with each step exaggerated in your own perception, like your body has been turned up a notch too high. You can feel it with every movement, small, ordinary sensations that suddenly feel… not so ordinary, not when you know she’s watching. Not when every step carries you closer.
You don’t dare look up at her immediately. Your gaze lingers somewhere just short of meeting hers, tracing the edges of the podium instead, the line of her hand resting against it, the careful stillness in the way she holds herself.
But you feel the attention, the way it doesn’t waver.
And by the time you finally reach the front, stopping just a few feet away, that awareness hasn’t faded, it’s settled somewhere deeper, quieter, threading itself through the way you stand, the way you breathe, the way your pulse seems just a little too present in your own ears.
Like you’ve stepped into something you don’t fully understand.
And can’t quite step back out of.
The last of the students have filtered out now, the door at the back closing with a soft, final click. And just like that it’s only the two of you.
The space feels different now. The air heavier in a way that has nothing to do with the room itself. You stop a few feet from the podium, shifting your weight slightly, your fingers tightening around the strap of your bag.
You clear your throat, the sound a little too loud in the empty room, your fingers tightening around your bag again. “You… uh- wanted to see me, Professor Prentiss?”
There it is. The title. A small thing, but it settles something back into place, if only for a moment, draws a line, reminds you of where you stand. Student. Professor. Structure. Distance.
Her mouth curves slightly at it, not quite amused, not quite something else. “I did,” she says, her voice easy, but softer than it ever is during a lecture. “You’ve been asking good questions. Engaging with the material.”
You feel heat rise again, quick and inevitable. “I just…find it interesting.”
“I can tell.” There’s a brief pause. Not awkward, not quite. Just… held. Then, almost lightly, as if it’s an afterthought. “Do you need a ride home?”
You blink. The shift is so sudden it takes you a second to catch up. “Oh- no, it’s okay. I’m fine. It’s just…ten minutes.”
Her eyebrow lifts, slowly and she turns her head, glancing toward the tall windows at the side of the lecture hall.
You follow her gaze. The world outside is a blur of rain, heavy sheets of it slanting against the glass, the sky darkened far earlier than it should be, punctuated by a distant roll of thunder that you hadn’t really registered until now.
Oh. You hesitate.
“It’s just rain,” you try, weaker this time.
“Mm,” she hums, turning back to you, that same look settling in her eyes again, the one that feels like she’s already decided something. “It’s a storm.” Another beat. “It’s still on my way,” she adds, casual, almost dismissive, as if that alone settles it.
You open your mouth. Close it again. Because the thing is, she’s not pushing. Not really. She isn’t insisting, not in any obvious way. Her tone stays light, her posture relaxed, one hand resting against the podium, the other slipping into the pocket of her slacks.
You get the distinct impression that saying no isn’t actually an option she expects you to take. Or maybe just… not one she’ll accept.
You let out a small breath, somewhere between a sigh and a laugh. “You’re good at this, you know.”
Her lips curve, just a little. “At what?”
“Making it sound like I still have a choice.”
That earns you a proper smile. “Do you?”
You shake your head before you can stop yourself, a soft huff of amusement slipping out despite the way your pulse has picked up again. “Apparently not.”
“Good,” she says simply, already reaching for her things. “Let’s go.”
The underground garage is quieter than the rest of the building, the sound of the storm above reduced to a distant, muffled roar, broken only by the echo of your footsteps against concrete. You walk beside her. Not quite shoulder to shoulder, either, there’s still space between you, still that invisible line, but it feels… different. Easier, maybe. Or maybe just more dangerous, now that you’re aware of it.
Her keys jingle softly in her hand, and a moment later, the black SUV unlocks with a muted click, lights flashing briefly in the dim space. That strange, heavy feeling settles again in your stomach as you reach it, not unpleasant, not at all, but present in a way you can’t ignore. Anticipation, maybe. Or something you’re not quite ready to name.
You slide into the passenger seat, smoothing your skirt automatically as you settle, the fabric clinging slightly from the damp air, your skin still warm from the walk.
The door shuts. For a moment, you’re alone. Then the driver’s side opens. You don’t mean to look, you really don’t. But you do anyways. And you catch it, just for a second. Her eyes dropping, briefly, taking in the line of your legs, the way your skirt rests against your thighs where you sit, before lifting again, meeting your gaze as if nothing happened at all, as if it was nothing.
Your breath stutters, barely there. You don’t say anything, you can’t. And she doesn’t either. She just settles into her seat, calm, composed, entirely in control as she starts the engine, the soft rumble filling the car, grounding, steady…like everything about her.
Like nothing has shifted.
Like you didn’t just feel the air change again.
Outside, the rain pounds harder against the windshield, the world beyond blurring into streaks of light and shadow.
Inside it feels smaller, quieter and very, very aware. You swallow, fingers tightening briefly in your lap before you force them to relax, your voice coming out softer than you intend.
“Thank you… for the ride, Professor Prentiss.”
There’s a brief pause. And then, without looking at you this time, her mouth curves slightly.
“You’re welcome.”
But there’s something in it. Something that lingers.
Something that makes that strange, heavy feeling settle just a little deeper.
I very rarely binge read novels by the same author. I like to have a break in-between, but I have made the exception when reading Roslyn Sinclair’s The Carlisle Series. I know I’ll regret this when I’m done, but I just had to do it.
I also get that we as the reader/listener are meant to sort of visualise Devil Wears Prada when reading, but all I can think of for Vivian Carlisle is a short haired Charlize Theron and for Jules I think of Elizabeth Olsen. I’ll attach pictures for reference.
summary » [ requested ]: for your anniversary, emily books a hotel room so you can finally have a night alone after months of interruptions and unfinished moments at home. what follows is a long overdue reconnection that blends intense physical desire with the deep emotional bond you share, ending in quiet tenderness and devoted aftercare.
warnings » size kink, rough sex, creampie, oral sex (receiving and giving), cock worship, breeding kink, begging, dirty talk, praise kink, spanking, tongue fucking, rutting, overstimulation, dom/sub tones, established relationship, aftercare (emotional and physical), intimacy post-sex, mutual vulnerability, sweat/slick/mess, hand on throat (brief/light), possessive behaviour, soft dom emily, use of g!p anatomy (emily), explicit language, parenthood dynamics mentioned (briefly)
word count » 11.6k
masterlist 〢 ko-fi
You still remember the first time you saw her. Not because of anything dramatic or cinematic, but because something in the air shifted the moment your eyes met. It was the kind of memory that settled in your bones without your permission. The sky outside had opened up that morning, unleashing a cold, steady rain that soaked your clothes, flattened your hair, and smeared the ink of the notes you'd so carefully prepared. You were late.
The clatter of your shoes echoed down the FBI corridors as you hurried, heart pounding, palms damp with a mix of rainwater and nerves. This was your first real assignment as a junior consultant, and you had been assigned to shadow a cross-agency task force. You were expecting the usual: tired agents, too much bureaucracy, and a room filled with people who wouldn't remember your name. What you weren’t expecting was her.
When you entered the conference room, every head turned. But only hers stayed turned. She stood at the front of the room, tall and composed, arms crossed loosely over her chest, the sleeves of her dark blouse rolled just above her elbows. Her posture radiated authority without arrogance. The charcoal fabric clung to her broad shoulders and slim waist, and her slacks were pressed crisp down the front. She looked like she belonged there, like she had never belonged anywhere else but in command.
Her hair, a striking mix of soft black and elegant grey streaks that framed her face, was pulled back at the nape of her neck in a practical, no-nonsense twist. A few strands had come loose, curling slightly near her jaw. You noticed the small details first, how her watch sat perfectly on her wrist, how her eyes, a deep warm brown, flicked toward you with the precision of someone who noticed everything. She didn’t need to raise her voice to command the room. She simply existed within it, and it shaped itself around her.
That was the first time you heard her name spoken aloud. Unit Chief Emily Prentiss. You had read it in the case briefings, but seeing it attached to her in the flesh was something else entirely. She had a quiet gravity about her, the kind that made the agents around her sit up straighter and choose their words carefully. You had read about her background in passing, Interpol, international work, a history too long and decorated to absorb in one sitting, but none of it prepared you for the woman herself.
She was older than most of the room, seasoned in the way only people who had seen too much could be, and yet nothing about her seemed weary. She had a fire behind her calm exterior, a sharpness in her gaze that told you she could cut someone down with a word, and probably had.
You muttered a soft apology as you closed the door behind you, trying to blend into the nearest empty seat. Your coat was still dripping, your hair stuck to your cheeks, and your notepad was nearly ruined. You didn’t look like someone meant to be there. And yet, she held your gaze just a moment longer than she should have. Her expression didn’t shift, not even slightly, but you felt the weight of her attention like a physical thing.
Then she turned back to the whiteboard, picking up where she left off in a voice that was low, smooth, and unwavering. It wasn't just the authority in her tone that captured you, it was the subtle rhythm of it, the controlled patience, like she had spoken to too many people who never listened, and had long since learned how to make them pay attention anyway.
You tried to focus, you really did. You jotted down notes with frozen fingers, underlining the same sentence three times without realizing it. But you were hyperaware of her. The way she moved around the room with fluid efficiency. The way she asked questions that cut straight to the heart of the matter. The way her lips shaped each syllable with clarity and purpose. And every time her gaze passed over you, quick and searching, your breath caught in your throat.
The meeting lasted just under an hour. Agents filtered out slowly afterward, murmuring in low voices, gathering files, checking their phones. You were packing up your things when you felt her presence beside you. Close. Closer than she had to be.
"You’re with the behavioral science support team?" she asked, her voice softer now, no less composed.
You looked up and nodded, eyes meeting hers again. “Yes, ma’am.”
A hint of a smile tugged at her lips, not full, not warm, but something unreadable and curious. “No need for ‘ma’am.’ I’m Emily.”
And just like that, she walked away, her back straight, her stride confident. You watched her go, your pulse still fluttering beneath your skin. You told yourself it was just respect. Just awe. Nothing more. But deep down, something in you had already begun to shift.
You didn’t know it yet, but the woman you met that day would become the centre of your world. You didn’t know that the quiet thunder of her voice would one day soothe your children to sleep, that those sharp eyes would soften only for you in the early hours of morning, or that the same hand that held a marker at that board would one day hold yours across years of laughter and heartbreak. All you knew then was that you had seen something rare. And you would never unsee her again.
You stand in front of the bathroom mirror with nothing on but a thin towel clutched at your chest, steam still clinging to the air and curling around your shoulders. Your skin is warm and sensitive from the shower, faintly pink where you scrubbed a little too slowly, a little too deliberately. You aren’t rushing.
For once, you don’t have to. No one is calling your name from down the hall. No tiny fists are knocking on the door asking for snacks or help or attention. It is quiet, and that quiet makes your heart beat faster than it should. Tonight is just for you and Emily. Just you and your wife. No interruptions. No half finished touches. No stopping right when things start to get good.
You drag lotion slowly over your legs, up your thighs, over your hips, taking your time because you know she will touch every inch of you later. You know the way her hands roam when she finally has you to herself. Firm. Possessive. Slow in a way that makes you shiver before she even gets to the places you ache for.
You look at yourself in the mirror and try to see what she sees. The curve of your waist. The soft swell of your breasts. The way your body has changed since the kids, and how she still looks at you like you are the most beautiful thing she has ever laid eyes on.
Your mind drifts without permission. Back to the beginning. Back to the first time she touched you like that.
Your first date had been calm on the surface. Coffee turned into dinner, dinner turned into a long walk, and all the while the tension built quietly between you like a current neither of you acknowledged out loud. She listened when you talked. Her eyes never left your face. When her hand brushed yours as you walked, it felt electric. By the time she walked you to your door, you could feel the heat pooling low in your stomach just from being near her.
That first kiss had been slow. Testing. Her lips soft but deliberate against yours. You kissed her back harder than you meant to, and she made this quiet sound in her throat that went straight between your legs. You invited her inside without thinking. She stepped in without hesitation. The air in your apartment felt thick. Charged.
You remember how she looked at you when she started unbuttoning her shirt. Controlled. Focused. Hungry in a way she tried to hide but couldn’t. You helped her out of her clothes with shaking hands, and when you felt the hard press of her through her slacks, your breath caught. You could feel the weight of her arousal even through the fabric. You touched her there, tentative at first, and she sucked in a sharp breath that made you bolder.
When she finally pushed you back onto the bed, her body hovering over yours, the size of her felt overwhelming in the best way. Her hands were warm and sure as they slid under your shirt, over your stomach, up to your breasts. She kissed down your neck, over your collarbone, her mouth hot and slow and deliberate. By the time she reached your hips, you were already wet, already aching for her without fully understanding why.
She took off your underwear with careful fingers and paused. Just looked at you. Spread open and needy for her. You felt exposed and wanted at the same time. Her fingers slid between your legs and she groaned softly when she felt how slick you were for her already.
Then she freed herself.
You remember staring. Her cock thick and long, flushed deep with want, veins raised along the shaft. Heavy. Hard. It made your mouth go dry. You had never seen her like that before. She stroked herself once, slow, and your hips lifted off the bed without thinking.
She kissed you again before she entered you. Slow. Deep. Like she was trying to anchor you to the moment. Then she lined herself up and pushed in carefully. The stretch made you gasp. She didn’t rush it. She slid into you inch by inch, watching your face the whole time. Your body opened around her slowly, your walls gripping her as she filled you completely. When she was finally buried inside you, she stopped and pressed her forehead to yours. You could feel her pulsing inside you. Warm. Thick. Alive.
She started moving slowly. Deep, steady thrusts that made your toes curl. Each one dragged against the places inside you that made your breath hitch and your nails dig into her shoulders. You wrapped your legs around her waist and pulled her closer, urging her to go faster. Harder. She lost that careful control then. Her hips snapped into yours with a rhythm that made the bed creak beneath you. Her voice dropped low and rough as she whispered how good you felt, how tight and perfect you were around her.
You came with her name on your lips the first time. She didn’t stop. She kept moving, chasing her own release, her thrusts getting sloppier, deeper, until she finally groaned against your mouth and spilled inside you with a shudder that shook her whole body.
The memory makes heat bloom low in your belly now as you step into your dress. You smooth the fabric over your hips, over the place you already feel warm and sensitive just from thinking about her. You know she is waiting for you at that hotel. Probably pacing. Probably pretending she isn’t as worked up as she really is.
Tonight, you get her all to yourself again.
And you already feel wet just thinking about it.
You slip into your heels slowly, letting the strap hug your ankle while your other hand smooths down the front of your dress. It clings just right. Snug at your waist, soft over your hips, low enough at the neckline to be a little daring but not desperate. The fabric feels cool against your flushed skin, and your nipples are already sensitive under the thin lace of your bra.
You can feel the slow throb between your legs, a low ache that started the moment you began thinking about her. Really thinking about her. The way she’ll look at you when you walk through the door. The way her hands will grip your hips once the door’s locked behind you. The way her cock will already be hard before she even kisses you.
The hotel she booked is only twenty minutes away, but the anticipation is making every second crawl.
You pick up your phone from the bathroom counter, screen lighting up with a message from her. Just her name. Emily. Your wife. Your everything. Your thumb hovers over the keyboard for a second before you decide to take your time.
You step in front of the full-length mirror and shift your weight from one hip to the other, studying yourself the way she will. The dress hugs you perfectly. Your legs are bare. Your hair’s still damp at the ends, and your lips are tinted just enough to catch her attention the second she sees you.
You slide one strap of your dress off your shoulder. Then the other. Just enough to let it fall slightly, the fabric dipping lower to show the curve of one breast, the soft swell teasing just above the lace of your bra. You let your hand drift down your side, your fingers trailing over the sensitive skin of your thigh. Your other hand lifts the phone.
You take the picture.
The lighting is soft and warm, your skin glowing, your expression just shy of innocent. Your eyes look heavy, mouth slightly parted, like you’ve just been kissed. You can see the curve of your breast, the subtle dip of your waist, the bare skin of your leg. Enough to make her want more. Enough to remind her that tonight, you belong to her and no one else.
You type slowly.
“You still want me to behave when I get there?”
Send.
Not even ten seconds pass before the typing dots appear. Then they vanish. Then come back. Your heart skips. You don’t even need to open the reply to know exactly what her face looks like right now—jaw tense, cock probably already stiff in her pants, her hand gripping it through the fabric while she stares at her phone in that expensive hotel room she picked just for the two of you.
When her message finally comes through, it’s short. Barely restrained.
“Get in the car. Now.”
You stare at her message for a moment, your breath catching in your throat, thighs pressing together instinctively. The words are simple, commanding, but they ripple through you like a shock. You can almost hear her voice behind them, low and rough and just this side of desperate.
You grab your purse and your keys and hurry out the door, heart thudding hard in your chest. The cool air outside hits your skin and only sharpens the sensation already building between your legs. You get in the car and slide behind the wheel, your dress riding up slightly as you settle into the seat. You don’t fix it. You just grip the steering wheel tighter and start the engine.
The streets are dimly lit and quiet, your tires gliding over wet pavement as you drive through the heart of the city. Every stoplight feels like a test of your patience. You shift in your seat, your panties sticking slightly to your soaked pussy, the fabric doing nothing to ease the heat radiating from between your thighs. Your mind is already with her.
You can see the way she’ll be pacing the room in that slow, focused way she does when she’s barely holding herself back. You can feel the weight of her hands on your hips, her lips against your neck, her cock pressed against your ass as she grinds into you before even bothering to get you fully undressed.
It’s almost ridiculous how much you both needed this. How much you both counted down the days to this anniversary, clinging to it like oxygen. A night with no responsibilities, no children slipping into your bed in the middle of the night with a stuffed animal and sleepy eyes. No calls from school, no laundry, no dishes, no sippy cups. Just you and Emily. Finally alone. Finally allowed to touch and take and taste the way you used to. The way you crave.
You think about the last few months. The moments that could have led somewhere, that should have. Nights where Emily kissed you in the kitchen, her hands sliding under your shirt as the kids watched cartoons in the other room. Moments where she pressed you against the bathroom counter and whispered what she wanted to do to you, only for a knock to sound on the door seconds later.
You remember one night in particular. The kids had gone to bed early, and Emily had pulled you into the bedroom with that look in her eye, the one that told you to drop everything. Her mouth had been on yours before you even reached the bed, her hands working open the buttons of your shirt, her cock already stiff and straining under the waistband of her boxers.
You had been grinding against her thigh, moaning into her mouth, panties soaked and clinging to your pussy. She’d pushed them to the side and rubbed the thick head of her cock against your folds, soaking herself in your slick, just about to sink into you when the door creaked open.
Mommy, I had a bad dream.
You had frozen, heart pounding, her cock still resting against your entrance, both of you trembling with frustration. Emily had let out a slow breath, her forehead pressing to yours. Neither of you had said anything. You had tucked yourself back together, swallowed the heat in your throat, and gone to comfort your child while your wife lay back on the bed with her hand over her face, hard and aching.
It had happened again and again. Interrupted hands, interrupted mouths, interrupted need. And you always smiled through it because your children were your whole world. But still, it left something unfinished every time. It left you both with this mounting tension, this quiet ache that never quite went away.
Tonight is the answer to all of it.
You grip the steering wheel tighter as the hotel comes into view. The tall windows glow soft and golden in the dark, warm and inviting. Your pulse jumps. Your body responds before your mind can catch up.
Wetness pools between your thighs, and your nipples stiffen against the lace of your bra. Your skin is flushed and hypersensitive. You don’t even want to waste time checking in. You want to open the door to your wife and have her press you against it the second it closes behind you.
She is waiting for you. And you are ready to give her everything she has been needing.
You pull into the parking lot, your hands trembling slightly as you turn off the engine.
Tonight is for you.
For her.
For everything you’ve been holding back.
You sit in the car for a moment, your hands still curled tight around the steering wheel, breathing shallow and quick. The lights from the hotel spill through the windshield and wash over your thighs, your dress pushed up just enough to reveal the top of your bare skin. You feel the hum beneath your skin, that low pulse of heat that’s been building all day, building through the last few weeks.
Your pussy is wet, throbbing steadily, soaked through the thin lace of your panties, your clit swollen and sensitive just from thinking about her. You press your thighs together without meaning to and let your head fall back against the seat. The air feels thick and heavy, your whole body tuned to the same need.
You grab your phone and pull up her name again, your thumb hovering over the screen. You want to text her something else, something filthy, something teasing, but you know you don’t have time. She’s already waiting. Already hard. Already aching. You can feel it.
You get out of the car and smooth your dress back down over your legs, your hands shaking with anticipation as you cross the pavement toward the hotel entrance. The wind catches your hem and brushes cool air between your thighs, and the sensation makes your cunt clench and flutter.
It’s embarrassing how wet you are already. The memory of her cock dragging against your folds during those stolen moments, hot and thick, her voice low and tight in your ear as she tried to keep control, it all hits you hard as you walk through the sliding doors and into the warm lobby.
The elevator ride is fast, but not fast enough. You watch the numbers light up one by one and shift your weight from foot to foot, heart pounding. You try not to imagine her standing behind the door in nothing but boxers and that black tank top she knows drives you insane, cock straining up against the waistband, leaking already just from waiting.
You try not to think about the way she’ll grab you the second she sees you, her hands rough and sure, mouth crashing into yours, years of married restraint snapping loose all at once. But you can’t stop the images. You want them. You want her to shove you up against the wall and tear the straps of your dress off your shoulders.
You want to feel the hot, swollen head of her cock press against your entrance before she even has your panties all the way down. You want her teeth in your skin. You want to be fucked like the nights before the babies, before the midnight cries and early alarms and mornings spent in different rooms.
The elevator dings. The doors open. And your whole body tenses.
You walk the hallway slowly at first, breathing through the tension, your heels clicking softly over the carpet. Every step makes your pussy throb. Your nipples are hard under the lace of your bra, the weight of your breasts making them rub ever so slightly with each movement. You stop in front of the door and rest your palm against it. You can feel her on the other side. You knock once, soft, teasing. Then again.
The door opens like she’s been standing there waiting.
And there she is.
Emily.
She looks at you like she’s starving. Her dark eyes sweep over your body with slow, deliberate hunger. Her jaw is tight, her hair pulled back loosely, just a few silver-streaked strands hanging down to frame her face. She’s barefoot, wearing only a pair of grey boxer briefs and a black tank that clings to her chest.
The muscle in her arms flexes as she grips the door. Her cock is straining hard and thick beneath the cotton, the head clearly outlined, a small wet spot already darkening the fabric where she’s been leaking from the build-up of waiting. It twitches when she sees you.
Neither of you say a word.
You walk inside, and the door shuts behind you. She doesn’t touch you right away. She steps back and just looks. You feel her eyes burning into your chest, your hips, your thighs. Her cock is throbbing visibly now, a vein standing out down the side of the shaft beneath the boxers, the head swollen and flushed with blood. She groans softly, like the sight of you actually hurts.
“Take it off,” she says. Her voice is low. Hoarse. Like she hasn’t spoken in hours and you’re the first word on her tongue.
You don’t ask what. You reach behind your neck, slide the zipper down, and let your dress fall to the floor in one smooth motion. You stand in front of her in nothing but your lace bra and panties, heels still on, skin flushed, body already trembling.
You can feel how wet you are. Your panties are soaked through, clinging to your cunt, the lace going nearly transparent where it stretches over your slit. Your clit is pressing hard against the fabric, swollen and aching.
Emily steps forward then, finally breaking the space between you, and her hands are on your waist before you can breathe. She kisses you hard, mouth open and hungry, her teeth dragging over your bottom lip as her fingers grip you tighter.
You moan into her mouth as her cock presses against your stomach, hot and pulsing. You feel the damp patch of her boxers smear against your skin as she grinds into you slowly, dragging the length of her cock along your belly.
“I’ve been hard all fucking day,” she growls into your mouth, voice low and rough. “I wanted to fuck you against the front door the second I opened it.”
Your knees nearly buckle. You clutch at her shoulders, desperate for more. Her hands move down to your ass, squeezing, lifting you slightly so your pussy grinds right against the ridge of her cock. Your panties are soaked now, and she feels it. Her breath stutters against your cheek.
“God, you’re dripping for me already,” she murmurs. “I haven’t even touched your clit and you’re fucking soaked.”
You nod, whimpering, grinding against her. You want more. You want her to rip the lace from your body and fuck you deep into the mattress until you forget everything but the way she feels inside you. You want to come on her cock, full and stretched and gasping, her fingers gripping your throat, her voice in your ear. You want all of her.
And she’s going to give it to you. Every single inch.
Emily has you lifted just enough that your heels barely brush the carpet, your back pressed to the closed hotel room door, her hands locked under your thighs to keep you there. Your weight rests in her grip like you belong exactly where you are, suspended against her body, your pussy grinding helplessly against the thick, hard length straining inside her boxers. She can feel how wet you are through the lace. It is soaking through. Warm. Slick. It makes her jaw tighten and her breathing deepen.
She hasn’t felt you like this in months. Not without rushing. Not without stopping halfway through because a small voice called from down the hall. Not without the constant hum of responsibility sitting in the back of her mind. Right now there is nothing but you in her arms, your breath hot against her cheek, your fingers gripping the back of her tank top, your body moving instinctively against hers like you are both trying to make up for lost time.
She buries her face in your neck and inhales slowly. Your skin smells like soap and perfume and something underneath that is just you. Familiar. Addictive. Her cock throbs harder against your stomach, leaking into the cotton, the head swollen and aching from how long she has been turned on for this. She grinds up into you slowly, dragging herself against the slick heat between your legs, groaning when she feels the wetness soak through to her skin and smear between you.
Then you lean in closer.
Your lips brush her ear. Your voice is soft and needy and it goes straight down her spine like a spark.
“I wanna taste you before you fuck me.”
Emily freezes for a split second.
Her grip on your thighs tightens instinctively, fingers digging into your skin as a low, rough sound leaves her throat. She pulls her head back just enough to look at you, her eyes dark and blown wide with desire. There is no teasing there. No patience. Just raw want.
Her wife. Her beautiful, aching wife, asking to get on her knees for her.
Her cock twitches hard at the thought, pressing insistently between you.
“You have no idea what you just did to me,” she says, voice thick and uneven.
She lowers you slowly, carefully, until your feet are back on the ground. Her hands never leave you. She walks you backward without breaking eye contact, guiding you toward the edge of the bed like she is steering something precious. Something she has been starving for.
When the backs of your knees hit the mattress, she pushes you down gently. Not rough. Controlled. But her breathing is heavier now. Her chest rises and falls under the tank top, and she runs a hand through her hair, the grey streaks catching the warm light of the room as her composure slips further.
She steps back and hooks her thumbs into the waistband of her boxers.
Your eyes drop immediately.
She pushes them down slowly, inch by inch, letting you watch as her cock springs free. Thick. Long. Flushed deep red at the tip. Veins stand out clearly along the shaft, pulsing faintly with each heartbeat. A bead of precum clings to the swollen head, glossy and inviting. She is hard to the point of discomfort, and the sight of you staring at her like that makes her exhale sharply through her teeth.
Her boxers fall to the floor. She steps out of them and stands in front of you completely exposed, legs slightly spread, chest rising with heavy breaths, her cock hanging heavy and rigid between her thighs.
She doesn’t rush you.
She watches.
You slide off the bed and sink down to your knees in front of her without breaking eye contact, your hands coming to rest on her thighs. Your fingers trace slowly upward, feeling the tension in her muscles, the heat of her skin, the faint tremor running through her. You lean in and press a soft kiss to the inside of her thigh first, then the other, taking your time like you know exactly how much this is undoing her.
Emily’s head falls back slightly. Her hand comes up to cradle the back of your head, fingers threading into your hair, not pushing yet. Just holding. Feeling.
“Jesus,” she breathes, the word barely audible.
When your mouth finally closes around the head of her cock, warm and slow and deliberate, her knees almost buckle. Your lips are soft and wet as they seal around her, your tongue sliding along the underside where the vein runs thick and sensitive. You taste the salt of her skin and the slick sweetness of her precum, and you hum softly without thinking.
Her hips twitch forward before she forces herself to stay still. Her fingers tighten in your hair just slightly, not guiding yet, just grounding herself in the sensation. She looks down at you with blown pupils, watching the way your mouth moves, watching your throat work as you take more of her inch by inch.
You hollow your cheeks gently and drag your tongue along the length you can reach, saliva already coating her shaft, making her skin shine under the warm lights of the room. A low groan spills from her chest, rough and unrestrained, the kind of sound she only makes when she is close to losing control.
She can feel every flick of your tongue, every slow pull of your lips, every soft breath you exhale against her. It sends sparks straight through her body. Her thighs tense, her abs tightening under the tank top as she fights the urge to thrust into your mouth.
Her wife is on her knees in front of her. Lips wrapped around her. Eyes looking up at her with pure need and devotion.
And she knows she is not going to last nearly as long as she thought she would.
Your lips slide down her shaft slowly, wet and eager, your tongue tracing every vein along the underside as you take her deeper. She lets out a deep groan, her head tipping back slightly, hips twitching forward despite her effort to stay still.
Her fingers are tangled in your hair, flexing with every pass of your mouth. Her cock is heavy on your tongue, the head swollen and slick, and every time your lips meet the base, she grunts low in her chest like it knocks the air right out of her lungs.
She watches you through half-lidded eyes, her abs tightening under the clinging fabric of her tank top, a faint sheen of sweat beginning to gather at her collarbone. Her jaw clenches as your mouth works her over with slow, deliberate strokes, and her free hand moves to her side, fingers digging into her own thigh to keep herself from fucking your throat the way she aches to.
“Fuck,” she murmurs, voice breaking. “You feel too good… baby, I’m gonna…”
But you pull back.
Your lips drag slowly off the tip, your tongue flicking against the sensitive slit as you release her from your mouth with a soft pop. A thick string of saliva connects your lips to her cock for a moment before it snaps and drips down your chin. You look up at her, pupils blown wide, chest rising and falling fast, your mouth swollen and wet from taking her so deep.
Emily blinks hard, stunned from the sudden absence of your warmth. Her cock is throbbing, standing flushed and angry in front of you, slick with spit and precum, twitching at nothing. She growls your name under her breath, her voice strained and wrecked.
“Why’d you stop?” she asks, jaw tight, breathing shallow.
You smile up at her with a slow, dirty glint in your eyes, your voice low and teasing.
“Because I want you to cum inside me.”
The words hit her like a punch to the gut. She watches your fingers slide up your thighs and hook into the waistband of your panties. The soaked lace peels away from your pussy, strings of slick stretching between the fabric and your folds, your lips swollen, flushed dark, glistening for her.
Her cock jumps in the air as you toss your panties aside and climb onto the bed, spreading your legs wide with no shame, your pussy open and dripping onto the sheets beneath you.
“Come here,” you whisper, voice hoarse and thick with want. “I need you now.”
Emily doesn’t speak.
She moves.
Her tank top is stripped off and dropped without care, revealing the taut muscles of her stomach, the slope of her breasts, her body lean and strong and trembling with restraint. She crawls onto the bed, cock bobbing between her thighs, heavy and red and slick, her eyes locked on your center like a predator finally allowed to feed.
She kneels between your legs and runs her hands up your thighs, her fingers spreading your folds apart slowly. She groans low and deep when she sees how soaked you are, how your pussy clenches and flutters at the faintest touch.
“Look at you,” she breathes. “You’re so fucking wet for me.”
Her cock nudges at your entrance, the thick head dragging through your slick, catching on your clit and making your whole body jolt. You gasp and lift your hips, begging without words, and Emily watches the way your pussy pulses, greedy and open and ready to take her.
She presses forward slowly, the head pushing into you, stretching you inch by inch, and your walls flutter and squeeze around her with a deep, aching need. Emily grits her teeth, her hands gripping your hips as she sinks deeper, the tight heat of your cunt pulling her in until her pelvis is flush against you.
A long, low groan tears from her throat.
“Fuck, baby,” she growls. “You feel like heaven.”
And then she starts to move.
Emily pulls back slowly, dragging her cock through the tight heat of your pussy with aching control, the thick head catching just slightly at your entrance before she pushes forward again, sinking back into you with a low, strained breath. The stretch of her is everything. She fills you completely, your slick walls clinging to every vein, every inch, like your body was made to hold her. She watches the way your mouth falls open, the way your chest rises with each breath, your nipples peaked and flushed, your thighs trembling on either side of her waist.
She starts a rhythm that’s slow and deliberate, hips rolling into you with deep, powerful thrusts that leave no space untouched. Her hands are on your hips, gripping hard, fingers sinking into the softness of your skin as she fucks into you with that thick, perfect length. You can feel her everywhere. Each thrust presses her cock right into that sensitive spot inside you that makes your back arch and your fingers claw at the sheets.
“You’re taking me so fucking well,” she growls, voice rough and close to breaking. “So tight, baby. So full.”
You moan her name, voice high and breathless, hips rocking up to meet every stroke. The wet sounds of your cunt pulling her in again and again echo in the room, loud and filthy and perfect. You’re soaked for her, the base of her cock already slick and glistening with your arousal, her pelvis slapping against you each time she drives in deeper.
Emily leans over you, one hand sliding up your stomach, her palm flat and warm against your skin as she moves it higher, until it’s resting between your breasts. She watches your face closely, her mouth parted, pupils blown wide, sweat beginning to bead at her temple as she keeps up her pace. You feel her cock twitch inside you with every deep thrust, thick and throbbing, the ridge of the head dragging over your most sensitive spot every time she pulls back.
Your legs wrap tighter around her waist, trying to pull her in deeper, closer. Your heels dig into her back, urging her on.
“Harder,” you whisper, breath ragged. “Please, fuck me harder.”
Her eyes darken at the sound of your voice, and she answers you with her body. Her thrusts grow faster, harder, deeper. The bed begins to rock beneath you, the headboard tapping lightly against the wall as her pace turns feral, her hips snapping into yours with raw, desperate force. You cry out, your fingers gripping her biceps, feeling the muscles flex and tense beneath your palms as she fucks you without restraint.
“God, baby,” she pants, her voice breaking. “You’re so wet. I can feel you squeezing me. You’re gonna make me cum so fucking fast.”
You’re close. So close you can’t hold it back. The pressure is building in your core, tightening with every thrust, your clit swollen and begging for more. Emily leans down and takes one of your nipples into her mouth, sucking hard as her cock slams into you again and again, your entire body shaking beneath her. The feel of her mouth, her tongue, her teeth dragging lightly against your skin while she pounds into your soaked pussy is too much.
You whimper, voice shaking. “I’m gonna cum, Emily… fuck, I’m so close…”
Her mouth leaves your breast, lips dragging hot and wet up your throat as she growls into your ear.
“Cum for me. Let me feel it.”
Your orgasm hits like a tidal wave, slamming into you so hard your back arches off the bed, a cry ripping from your throat as your pussy clamps down around her cock. Your whole body spasms beneath her, your thighs quivering, your nails digging into her back. She keeps fucking you through it, never slowing down, her rhythm only growing rougher as she feels you tighten around her like a vice.
“Fuck, baby,” she groans, her voice broken and raw. “Gonna fill you up. Gonna cum so deep in this tight little pussy…”
You feel her cock swell inside you, thick and heavy, the base grinding against your soaked folds as her hips stutter once, twice—then she buries herself to the hilt and cums with a deep, guttural moan. Her whole body goes tense as she releases, hot spurts of cum flooding your pussy, filling you so full it leaks out around her as she keeps rocking her hips, trying to bury every drop deeper.
You cling to her, legs still wrapped around her waist, arms locked around her shoulders, both of you gasping against each other’s skin. She holds herself there, buried inside you, cock twitching with aftershocks, her breath ragged and warm against your neck.
She doesn’t pull out. Not yet.
She just stays there, cock deep in your pussy, her cum thick and hot inside you, her hands stroking your sides softly now, grounding you both as the room slowly quiets.
You feel her lips press against your temple.
“I missed this,”
she whispers against your temple, her breath hot and heavy, still shaking from the force of her release. Her cock twitches inside you again, thick and softening but still buried deep, her cum seeping out around her and sliding down the crease of your ass. The heat between your thighs hasn’t faded. It pulses there, throbbing and slick, every movement sending another ripple of pleasure through your oversensitive body.
Emily doesn’t pull out. She stays right there, wrapped around you, arms locked tight beneath your back, her mouth finding the side of your neck to kiss and taste. Her lips are wet against your skin, her tongue dragging up toward your jaw, slow and lazy but filled with the same hunger that never quite dies down in her. You moan softly, your body melting under her, fingers still trembling as they slide up to cup your own breasts. You roll your nipples between your fingers, still flushed and firm, the pleasure sharp and immediate. Your body is still humming, still wide open for her, still hungry.
Her head lifts and she looks down at you with her eyes heavy and dark. There’s no gentleness in her expression now. Just a raw, reverent need that sinks deep behind her gaze. She pulls back slowly, the thick shaft of her cock dragging out of your swollen cunt with a wet, obscene sound that leaves your legs trembling. A rush of her cum follows, dripping down your folds, a warm mess that coats your thighs and the inside of your cheeks. You’re soaked and flushed and panting, your pussy still clenching involuntarily like it’s begging for her again.
Emily lowers herself between your legs without a word. She grabs your thighs and pushes them up toward your chest, spreading you wide open. The air hits your soaked pussy and makes you shudder, but then her mouth is on you and nothing else matters.
She licks through the mess she made, her tongue dragging slow and deep between your folds, collecting the cum she just pumped into you. She groans into your cunt, the sound thick and guttural, like the taste of you and her mixed together is enough to make her dizzy. Her tongue pushes deeper, slipping inside your still-sensitive hole, fucking the cum back into you in slow, filthy strokes that make your whole body lock up.
You cry out, your hips jerking, heels digging into the sheets as you writhe under her. Your hands come up to your breasts again, tugging at your nipples hard, twisting and rolling them between your fingers to match the rhythm of her tongue plunging into your cunt. Your back arches off the bed as she tongue-fucks you, her mouth wet and relentless, saliva and cum coating her chin as she pushes in deeper, grinding her face against your pussy like she never wants to come up for air.
“Fuck, Emily—oh my god—your mouth,” you pant, voice shaking, eyes rolling back as the heat coils low in your belly again.
She moans into you, the vibrations sending another jolt straight through your core. Her grip on your thighs tightens, fingers digging into your skin as her tongue pushes as deep as it can go, fucking you open with slow, powerful strokes that make you see stars. She pulls back just enough to suck your clit between her lips, tongue circling the swollen bud in tight, controlled motions, your juices smeared all over her mouth.
You are on fire. Your thighs are trembling, your pussy leaking with need, every nerve ending alive. You can feel her cum dripping down your ass, soaking into the sheets, the smell of sex thick and heady in the room. Your fingers slide down to your clit, rubbing furiously as her tongue dives back inside, and you can feel the orgasm coming again, sharp and unbearable.
But then Emily pulls away, chest heaving, her lips slick and shiny, her face flushed and wet with your release. She rises to her knees beside you, stroking her cock lazily. It’s still thick. Still hard. Her tip glistens, smeared with the mess of both of you. She moves to the edge of the bed and braces her hands on the mattress, lowering herself until her cock drags along the sheets, the head catching slightly on the soft cotton.
She ruts against the bed, grinding her cock into the mattress with deep, slow thrusts, her eyes locked on you as you spread yourself open again, fingers still teasing your clit. Her abs flex with every motion, her hips working forward as she fucks into the bed like she’s pretending it’s your cunt. She’s breathing through clenched teeth, her jaw tight, watching you moan and writhe in front of her while she uses the soaked sheets for friction.
“You look so fucking perfect like that,” she growls, voice low and wrecked. “Touching yourself. Making that sweet little pussy pulse for me.”
You whimper, body arching, your hand moving faster, circling your clit while you watch her rut into the bed like she can’t take it anymore.
She moves closer again, dragging the head of her cock through your folds, smearing the mess across your already slick pussy lips, the heat of her overwhelming. You’re both soaked, both desperate.
Emily leans over you again, her body looming above yours, muscles taut and trembling with restraint. Her cock is slick with your arousal and her own cum, and as she drags the swollen head through your folds, it coats you all over again.
Hot, wet, and messy. The touch is barely there, just enough pressure to tease, but your whole body responds like she is fucking you all over again. Your clit is throbbing, hypersensitive from her mouth and your own fingers, and when her cock nudges it, you let out a broken, high sound, your thighs twitching involuntarily.
"Still so greedy for it," she murmurs, her voice rough and reverent. Her fingers trail down your stomach, slow and warm, then dip between your legs to spread your folds wide. She watches you twitch under her touch, watches your cunt flutter around nothing, slick and leaking, still open for her. "Look at how messy you are. Look at how bad your pussy's begging for me."
You can barely speak. All you manage is a breathless, "Please," as your hips lift off the bed to chase her cock, desperate for her to fill you again.
She does not make you wait.
Emily grips the base of her cock and pushes forward in one slow thrust, the thick, aching length of her sliding into you all at once. You both moan at the same time. Your voice high and gasping, hers low and rough, almost pained with how tight you still are. Her cock stretches you again, your walls hugging her so snugly she has to grit her teeth just to hold on.
"God, baby," she growls as she bottoms out. "You feel even tighter the second time."
You cannot answer. Your fingers are back on your clit, circling fast as she starts to move inside you. Her rhythm is rougher now, less controlled, her hips snapping into you with sharp, wet slaps that echo off the hotel walls. Her cock drags perfectly against your inner walls, pressing into that sweet spot with every thrust, filling you again and again until the heat builds to unbearable levels.
You squeeze your tits with one hand, pinching your nipples hard while the other works your clit, your thighs shaking from how intense it all feels. Her cock is everything. Thick, hot, unforgiving. Every time she thrusts deeper, you feel her cum from earlier squelch out around her, making it even wetter, even filthier. The slick sound of your pussy swallowing her whole drives you both wild.
She groans and drops her head beside your neck, teeth grazing your skin. Her hands press down against your hips, holding you still as she fucks you deeper, harder. Her breath is hot and uneven, chest heaving against yours.
"You are gonna come again," she growls. "I can feel it. Your pussy's milking my cock."
Your whole body is pulsing, your orgasm right there again, clawing its way up your spine. You cry out her name, hips jerking, your clit throbbing under your fingers. She slams into you harder, your tits bouncing with every thrust, her cock hitting deeper and faster until the pressure finally breaks.
You shatter beneath her, your orgasm tearing through you hard and fast. Your back arches off the bed, your cunt spasming around her cock, squeezing her so tight she curses under her breath, barely able to hold on. You are gasping, crying out, your thighs wrapped around her hips, holding her in as deep as she can go.
Emily groans loud, a ragged, wrecked sound that vibrates against your throat.
"Fuck. Gonna cum again. Fuck, I am gonna fill you up."
She slams into you one last time and holds, her cock buried as deep as it will go, and then you feel it. Her release hits in thick, hot pulses, ropes of cum filling you until it is leaking around her again, running down your ass and pooling beneath you. She stays there, panting, her arms trembling as she holds herself up, her body pressed flush against yours.
Neither of you move for a long moment.
You are both drenched in sweat, the bed soaked, her cock still twitching inside your raw, sensitive cunt. Her lips find your shoulder, your cheek, your jaw, leaving kisses that are soft and slow, so different from how she just wrecked you.
"I missed this," she whispers against your skin, voice low and hoarse. "I am not done with you. I am gonna fuck you again. Gonna keep my cum inside you all night."
And the way your body responds tells her she can. That you want it. That you will take every drop she gives you.
Emily stays inside you, deep and warm, her cock still slowly softening inside the mess she just filled you with. Her body covers yours, heavy but comforting, and her breathing is still coming down in long, uneven pulls against your neck.
You’re both slick with sweat, flushed and panting, the sheets beneath you damp from the way she used you, the air between you thick with the scent of sex. But for the first time in what feels like forever, there’s no rush to clean up. No small feet padding across the hallway. No interruptions waiting to pull you both back into the world outside this room.
You run your fingers gently along her back, your touch featherlight, just gliding up her spine and down again. Her skin is hot beneath your hands, her muscles still trembling slightly under your fingertips. She’s quiet, head tucked into the crook of your neck, and you feel her exhale softly as your nails rake through the sweat-damp strands at her nape.
“Hey,” you murmur, your voice rough and a little hoarse. “You okay?”
She lets out a quiet laugh into your neck. “Better than okay.”
You smile, closing your eyes for a moment. “You needed that.”
Emily lifts her head slightly and rests her forehead against yours. Her eyes are darker than usual, still half-lidded with lingering lust, but softer now. “So did you.”
“I did,” you admit. “I missed being touched like that. Not just sex. That. You looking at me like you haven’t seen me in years.”
“I haven’t,” she says without hesitation. “Not like this. Not without someone barging in. Not without watching the clock.”
You nod slowly, brushing your knuckles over her cheek. “I know. I miss the days where I could have you all to myself. When I could tease you for hours and not have to pause because someone needed juice or forgot their stuffed animal.”
Emily laughs again, quieter this time, and kisses you gently. Her lips move against yours like she has all the time in the world now. Slow. Unhurried. Like she’s memorizing your taste again. When she pulls back, she looks at you like she did that very first night she undressed you for the first time.
“I think about that all the time,” she says. “How it used to be. How I could take my time with you. Eat you out until your legs shook. Edge you until you begged. Wake you up with my cock already buried in you before you could open your eyes.”
Your breath stutters, your hips twitching slightly beneath her, still overly sensitive from everything she just gave you. “You still can,” you whisper. “We have the whole night. You don’t have to rush.”
Her lips twitch into a small, crooked smile. “You sure you can handle it?”
You let out a soft laugh, brushing your fingers down her chest, feeling the slow rise and fall of her breath under your palm. “I’ll crawl out of here tomorrow if I have to.”
That makes her groan quietly, and she dips her head to kiss your neck again, letting her lips linger as she whispers against your skin, “I love you.”
“I love you too,” you breathe, your hand finding her jaw and guiding her mouth back to yours.
The kiss deepens slowly. Tongues brushing, mouths opening wider, no urgency this time. Just heat and connection and time to explore. Her cock shifts inside you again, still half-hard, still thick, and you both feel it. A quiet moan slips from your lips into her mouth, and she responds by pressing her hips down slightly, enough to remind you that she’s still there, still inside you, still not done.
But she doesn’t fuck you again. Not yet.
She rolls slowly onto her side, pulling you with her, keeping her cock inside you as you shift together beneath the sheets. Her arms wrap around you, her fingers splayed across your back, your face tucked against her chest.
You both breathe.
You both settle.
And in the quiet, her voice rumbles softly against your ear.
“Next round,” she says, lips grazing your temple, “I want you on your knees. I want to see your back arch when I slide in. Want to watch your pussy stretch around my cock.”
You shiver in her arms.
“Okay,” you whisper.
Because she doesn’t need to rush. And neither do you.
Emily’s breathing has long since evened out, but her hand hasn’t left your skin. It glides up and down your back in slow, absent strokes, occasionally brushing over your ass or curling lightly around your waist to pull you closer. Her cock is still nestled inside you, softening gradually, the fullness of her still there, her cum thick and warm, held deep where it belongs.
The room is quiet, dimly lit by the bedside lamp she never turned off. The sheets are messy, your legs draped over hers, your body tucked tightly into the curve of her chest. You’re both silent for a long time, not because you have nothing to say, but because there’s nothing urgent anymore. It’s just the two of you now. No distractions. No time limits. Just shared warmth and the heavy scent of sex that clings to the sheets.
You’re barely drifting off when you feel her move.
There’s no warning. One second you’re curled up in her arms, your legs tangled with hers, your head tucked under her chin. The next, her grip shifts. Strong hands wrap around your hips and she rolls you forward, guiding you onto your stomach. You let out a sleepy, questioning sound, but before you can open your eyes, she’s already shifting again.
Her palm slides over your ass, wide and firm, smoothing over the curve like she’s reminding herself of every inch. Then she nudges your thighs apart and pulls your hips up in one smooth motion, settling you onto your knees and chest, exactly the way she said she wanted you.
Your breath catches. Your body tenses in anticipation, cunt still raw and open, dripping faintly from how full she left you earlier. You glance back over your shoulder with a half-lidded, drowsy smile. "You really meant it."
Emily kneels behind you, one hand stroking down your spine, the other gripping the soft flesh of your ass. Her voice is low, heavy with heat. “Told you. I want to see this perfect pussy stretch for me again. You’ve been greedy for it all night.”
Your stomach flips. Your body clenches in response, and you swear you feel some of her cum drip down your thigh just from the way her voice slides over your skin.
She moves closer, her chest brushing against your back as she leans over you, her lips ghosting over your shoulder blade. “You look so good like this,” she whispers. “Back arched, legs open, dripping for me. You don’t even know what you do to me when you let me take you like this.”
You whimper softly as her fingers slide between your thighs. She groans when she feels the slick there, still warm, still messy. She spreads you wider, thumbs dragging your folds apart as she looks down at the way her cum glistens inside you. The sight of it makes her cock start to stiffen again, thickening slowly against her thigh.
"You’re still full," she murmurs, rubbing slow circles over your entrance. “I fucked so much into you. And your pussy just swallowed it all up.”
You bite your lip, moaning into the sheets, your body already arching back into her touch. "I want more," you whisper.
Emily hums low in her throat, reaching down to stroke herself slowly, dragging her cock through your slick folds. She’s getting hard again, her tip thick and flushed, already glistening from where she’s smeared your arousal along her length. Her hands move to your hips again, her thumbs digging in just enough to hold you still as she lines herself up.
"You’re gonna take me again," she says, voice rough and steady. "All of me. Just like this."
And then she pushes in, slow and deliberate, letting her cock slide into your soaked cunt inch by inch, the stretch intense, even deeper from this angle. Your walls clench around her, tight and pulsing, as she bottoms out and holds, buried to the hilt.
You let out a shaky breath, your body trembling under the weight of her.
"Fuck, Emily," you moan, hands gripping the sheets. "You feel even bigger like this."
She leans over your back again, pressing kisses along your shoulder as she starts to move, grinding her hips into yours with slow, deep thrusts that make the bed creak beneath you. Her cock drags against every sensitive spot inside you, thick and hard, her pelvis slapping against your ass with every push forward.
Her hand slips between your thighs again, fingers circling your clit in time with her thrusts.
“I’m gonna fuck you until you can’t hold yourself up,” she murmurs against your ear. “And then I’ll do it again.”
And all you can do is moan, already unravelling again, already craving everything she’s about to give you.
Emily keeps her hands locked on your hips, thumbs digging into the soft curve of your skin as she sets a steady rhythm. From this angle she can see everything. The way your back arches beautifully with every thrust. The way your shoulders tense and your fingers clutch helplessly at the sheets. Your ass presses back into her instinctively, silently begging her to go deeper, harder. Your pussy is stretched wide around her cock, slick and shining, every push forward swallowed eagerly by the tight heat of you.
She watches the way your body responds to her. Every small gasp. Every shiver. The way your thighs tremble as she drives into you again and again. The sound of it is obscene. Wet. Loud. Your cunt pulling her back in like it refuses to let her go. Her breathing grows heavier, more ragged, as the control she usually holds so tightly slips through her fingers.
“You take me so fucking well like this,” she groans, her voice low and strained. “Look at you. Back arched. Legs shaking. You were made to be fucked like this.”
Your head drops forward as a broken moan leaves your lips. Your spine curves even more, presenting yourself to her without thinking, your body instinctively offering her everything she wants. The sight makes something snap inside her.
Her hand leaves your hip and comes down hard against your ass.
The smack echoes in the room. Sharp. Loud. Your whole body jolts forward from the impact, a shocked cry falling from your mouth as heat blooms across your skin. Your pussy clenches around her cock at the sudden sting, and Emily groans deeply at the sensation.
She does it again.
Another firm smack that makes your thighs quiver and your cunt pulse tighter around her. You whimper loudly, pushing back into her like you need more of it, your hips rocking in time with her thrusts.
“Emily,” you gasp. “Oh my god…”
She leans forward over your back, her chest pressed to your spine, her mouth close to your ear. “You like that?” she murmurs, breath hot against your skin. “You like when I fuck you and spank this perfect ass?”
You nod helplessly, unable to form words, your pussy gripping her tighter with every thrust. The pressure inside you is building fast now. Your clit throbs between your legs, untouched but desperate, and every time she drives into you, her cock drags against that perfect spot inside that makes your vision blur.
She reaches around and slips her hand between your thighs, finding your clit without looking. Her fingers rub firm circles over it in time with her thrusts, and that’s all it takes.
Your whole body locks up.
Your back arches as far as it can, a loud cry ripping from your throat as your orgasm crashes through you. Your cunt spasms violently around her cock, squeezing and pulsing in tight waves that make Emily curse under her breath. Your legs shake so badly you nearly collapse onto the bed, but she keeps you upright with her grip on your hips as she keeps fucking you through it.
“Fuck, baby,” she groans. “That’s it. Cum on my cock. Just like that.”
She feels you clenching and pulsing around her and knows she is right behind you. Her thrusts get sloppier, deeper, her breath coming in harsh pulls as she fights to hold off her own release.
You feel it. The way her cock swells inside you. The way her hips stutter slightly. You glance back at her over your shoulder, eyes glassy, mouth parted as you pant.
“I want you to cum in my mouth,” you say desperately. “Please. I wanna taste you.”
The words hit her like a shock.
Emily pulls out immediately, her cock slick and dripping as she steps back, chest heaving. She watches you drop down onto your knees in front of her without hesitation, your hair falling around your face, your lips already parted.
She doesn’t need to be told twice.
Her hand wraps around her cock and she strokes herself twice before stepping closer. You lean forward and take her into your mouth eagerly, lips warm and wet as they close around her swollen tip.
She groans loudly, her hand coming to the back of your head as you suck her in deeper, your tongue swirling along the underside, your cheeks hollowing as you pull her in and out of your mouth.
It takes seconds.
Her hips jerk forward as she cums with a rough, broken sound, spilling into your mouth in thick, hot bursts. You swallow around her, taking everything she gives you, your eyes fluttering closed as she empties herself on your tongue.
She stays there for a moment, breathing hard, her hand still tangled in your hair as the last pulses fade.
When you pull back, you lick your lips slowly and look up at her with a satisfied, glowing expression.
Emily exhales shakily.
And she knows she will never get enough of you.
Emily stands in the quiet that follows, her breathing still unsteady, chest rising and falling as she watches you from above. Her cock softens slowly in the heavy warmth of the room, glistening with your combined release. You’re still on your knees, gazing up at her with that soft, dazed expression that always twists something deep in her chest. Your lips are swollen from how you took her, your cheeks flushed, skin shining with sweat. There’s a faint tremble in your shoulders, like your body is still catching up to the intensity of what just happened.
She lowers herself slowly, careful not to move too fast, her knees pressing into the mattress as she reaches for you. Her hands slide around your waist, gently guiding you up from the floor and into her lap, where you collapse against her without hesitation. You bury your face in her neck, and she holds you tight, one arm wrapping around your back, the other cradling the back of your head.
“You okay?” she murmurs, pressing her lips to your temple.
You nod against her shoulder. “Yeah. I’m more than okay.”
Still, she doesn’t let go. She rocks you slightly, a steady rhythm meant more for comfort than anything else. Her hand moves in slow strokes up and down your spine, anchoring you to her. The tension in your muscles begins to ease as you melt fully into her arms, letting her hold all your weight.
“I’ve got you,” she whispers. “You’re safe. I’ve got you.”
After a long few minutes, when your breathing is calm and your heartbeat slows, Emily shifts just enough to bring your face into view. She brushes your hair back from your face, wiping the damp strands off your forehead with gentle fingers. Her eyes scan your expression like she’s reading something sacred. Looking for any sign that she pushed too far. That she went too hard. But all she sees is peace. Your body, even as spent as it is, leans into her with full trust.
“You were incredible,” she says softly, brushing her thumb along your cheek. “The way you took me. How beautiful you looked. I can’t stop thinking about it.”
You smile, lazy and quiet. “You always say that after.”
“Because it’s always true.”
Emily lifts you slowly, easing you both back onto the bed. She lays you down gently against the pillows and pulls the blankets over your body, tucking them around you as if shielding you from the world. Her own body is sore, her thighs aching, her arms heavy, but she doesn’t move away. She settles beside you, her hand staying wrapped around yours, fingers laced together tight.
“Are you sore anywhere?” she asks, her voice quiet now, almost reverent.
“My hips. A little,” you say, shifting slightly. “And my throat.”
Emily leans in and kisses the center of your chest, just between your breasts, then lower, down your stomach, slow and tender. “I’ll take care of you.”
She gets up for a moment, naked and flushed, walking softly across the room. She pours a glass of water and returns with it, helping you sit up enough to drink. When you're done, she presses a kiss to your forehead before disappearing into the bathroom. You hear the sink running, a towel soaking, and then she returns, kneeling between your legs with a warm, damp cloth.
Her touch is slow and gentle as she cleans you. She doesn’t rush it. She moves with care, wiping the mess between your thighs, the slickness of your mixed cum, the sweat that clings to your skin. She soothes the spots where her fingers and hips pressed too hard, kisses the places she marked with her mouth. When you flinch slightly at the pressure between your legs, she pulls back immediately.
“Too much?”
You shake your head. “Just sensitive. But I like it.”
She softens even more, her expression full of tenderness. “Tell me if anything hurts, alright?”
Once she’s finished, she sets the cloth aside and eases into bed behind you, curling her body around yours. One arm wraps around your middle, the other brushes hair away from your shoulder as she nestles close. The room feels warmer now, filled with your breaths and the quiet sounds of your bodies winding down.
“You make me feel human again,” Emily says softly against your neck. “Like I’m still the person I used to be before all of… everything.”
You turn your head slightly, eyes meeting hers. “You’ve never stopped being that person. You’ve just been too tired to see her.”
She smiles, slow and grateful, and kisses you again—slower this time, more intimate, the kind of kiss that lingers long after it ends.
“Happy anniversary,” you whisper.
“Best one yet,” she replies. “And it’s not even over.”
Her hand slips under the blanket, resting on your stomach, thumb brushing in lazy circles over your skin as she holds you close. You know she’ll stay awake a little longer, just watching you breathe. Protecting you. Loving you in the quiet ways only she knows how.
Tags: shy!reader, unit chief emily, established relationship, fluff, very mildly possessive emily, luke flirts just a lil bit (not too much), fem pronouns, use of petnames
Summary: Luke assumes you're a new addition to the Bureau. No harm in being friendly, right? Only you're not just anyone, he soon realizes. Requested here.
Word count: 0.8k
Maybe, you think, lunch bag clutched in your hand, eyes darting around through the window of Emily’s clearly vacant office, visitor’s badge somewhat hidden in the folds of your clothes, you do look new. It certainly helps that there’s mysteriously no familiar faces around. Your brows had creased into a frown that still somewhat lingers, even under Luke’s bright smile and noticeably wandering eyes.
“B team?” He guesses, still not quite giving you the chance to cut in. “You’re a profiler, right? You’ve got that look about you.” His grin widens to show charming dimples, pearly white teeth splitting the seam of his lips. You quietly wonder what kind of look that is, because you’re decidedly not—although you’ve lived long enough to be able to glean the flirtatious edge of his mouth, his easy open posture.
Your own shrinks a little bit. The lunch bag crinkles in your hand as your fingers tighten around it, discomfort settling under your skin like pebbles as you crane your neck.
Where the fuck is Emily? Or anyone else that knows you, for that matter?
Luke Alvez—it’s definitely him, curly hair and a slight roll to his r’s—follows your line of sight, craning his head to meet your eyes. “I could show you to Cruz’s office, if you’d like. Team’s already gone off on a case, he’ll help you get settled.” He offers politely, and then the heat in your neck triples.
“No, thank you,” you say quietly. “I don’t work here. I’m Y/N Prentiss.” Though you don’t know why you say it, because he clearly doesn’t know you. Emily’s not the most forthcoming when it comes to sharing details about you; it suits you just fine, although now you kind of hope he knew so he’d get the hint instead of the both of you having to suffer you floundering through it. “Have you seen her?” You murmur, thumbing creases into the paper bag.
Luke’s face shifts into an expressive oh. “Prentiss?” He reiterates, curiosity drawn in the raise of his brows.
“Mhm.” You hum distractedly, turning your head to the glass doors. Still no sign of raven bangs or meticulous suits.
“Huh. Any relation to our Unit Chief?”
“Yes, well, that’s why I’m looking for her—”
“Hi.” A soft touch at your lower back uncoils every muscle under your skin. You relax into Emily’s minimal touch, smiling as her hand flattens on your back, turning to catch her dark eyes and the mug of coffee held in her hand. “Is that for me?” She points to the bag.
“Mhm.” You nod, handing it over. “Forgot it on your way out.” You murmur.
Emily’s eyes gleam. You know if you were somewhere private you’d have gotten a sweet kiss for your troubles, sweeter murmurs into your mouth about how thankful she is, how you spoil her even though, really, you’re doing the bare minimum.
You grow warm at the thought.
Her soft smile tells you she sees through to the spool of thoughts in your head, knotting into a flustered mess as her chest presses into your side.
“You know Y/N?” Luke asks, breaking your eye contact with your wife. Emily’s hand curls around to your waist; she lightly palms the clothed curve, leaning in just enough to close the distance between her front and your back.
“Of course I know Y/N,” she says dryly, “do you know Y/N? She’s my wife.”
Luke’s mouth hangs open. He stares, eyes darting between the two of you, then to Emily’s hand, searching for the lack of a ring. You know it’s strung on the chain around her neck, a gold band pressed warm against her heart.
“I was getting there.” You murmur, scratching behind your ear.
“I know you were, hon.” Emily says fondly. Her tone undeniably drips sugar, flirtation in itself.
Luke snaps back into action. It’s honestly a bit comical, the way he suddenly backs away, head dipping respectfully.
“Ma’am.”
“Please don’t try to flirt with her again.” Emily throws over her shoulder as she leads you away to her office. “You’re already on thin ice.”
“Emily,” you admonish, fingers knotting together even as her dimple winks at you. “He wasn’t flirting. Just—uh, being friendly.”
You slip through her office door as she holds it open for you. Emily shuts it with a soft click, her brows arching. “Is that why you were looking so flustered, then?” She sets everything down on her coffee table and wraps her arms around you, still safely behind the privacy of the door.
Your skin heats further as she smiles, her eyes knowing. Her knuckle comes up to smooth over your cheekbone; you lean into it, missing the contact. “He was being too friendly if you ask me.” She murmurs.
“Just a touch,” you agree. Her chin tilts and you meet her kiss, tasting coffee on her tongue. “But don’t tell him off.”
Emily blows a drawn out, dramatic sigh. “As you wish.” She drawls reluctantly. She kisses you again, hand slipping under your neatly pressed clothes, “I’ll just cut it from his paycheck.”
pairing: f!reader x emily prentiss
summary: after pining for too long, reader and emily decide it’s time they get down to business (and emily gets down on her knees).
c.warning: mdni (+18), oral sex (reader receiving), bit of a biting kink, bit of bruising too, i guess, wet kisses, emily eating box like a pro and praising you every two seconds.
a/n: first time posting smut in here #scared #embarrassed i hope this is good if not i fear i’ll have to disappear forever 🤟🏻 also notice the ts reference? yeah. enjoy!!
hope you enjoy it <3 likes & reblogs are appreciated !!
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the club is packed, electronic music blaring, people dancing all around you. your hips sway to the beat, a thin coat of sweat making your skin gleam under the purple and pink lights. jj says something and you tilt your head back and laugh at something jj just told you. emily doesn’t catch it, though, she hasn’t been paying attention to anything but you all night.
from the moment she saw you step out of your apartment in that tiny black dress that hugged your figure so damn well. it clings to every single curve, tightening in all the right places. garcia, sitting next to her in the passenger seat, had to snap her fingers in front of her face just to bring her back down to earth and remind her to unlock the car door for you.
from that moment on, emily hasn’t been able to take her eyes off you, sipping her drink as she follows every single move you make. the way you raise your arms above your head, flipping your hair back and forth, the slow show you make of circling your hips. that damned dress has started riding up, and up, and up… and now she can almost see the curve of your ass peaking from underneath.
and if she can, that means anyone else who looks at you can too. sure enough, a couple of guys were ogling you from where they leaned against a tall table. they elbow each other, as if daring the other to go dance with you.
emily turns her body in their direction, sending a glare in the direction of the one who has dared to walk towards your group. the look in her eyes is enough to make him throw his hands up and turn away in defeat.
“emily! there you are!” you yell over the music when you return to your table. you immediately throw an arm over her shoulders, and the touch alone makes emily shiver.
get your shit together, prentiss. she just touched your shoulder, for fuck’s sake.
“where the hell were you?” garcia asks.
“i needed a breather. sorry, girls.”
“well, you’re back now. let’s dance,” you chirp, finishing your drink in one gulp and setting the empty glass on the high table.
emily groans. “you know i don’t dance.”
“tonight you do.” you give her your best pout when she starts shaking her head. “for me?”
and because she hasn’t been able to say “no” to you since the moment she met you, she takes your hand and walks with you to an the same open spot on the dance floor where you’ve been dancing with the other girls for the past hour. this time, when you sway your hips, she tries to mirror you with her own. when you throw your hands in the air and tilted your head back, she takes her time shamelessly staring. she traces the curve of your nose with her eyes, biting the inside of her cheek when her gaze falls on your bright smile. that lipstick you were wearing really suits you. and now all she can think about is how good it would feel to kiss it off your lips.
this longing had gone on for far too long. always staring from afar. drinking up every single one of your laughs, but always as a friend. she wanted—no, needs—for every touch to mean something. she wants to be the first thing you think of in the morning, and the last name you whisper before falling asleep.
emily has never believed in love at first sight. instant attraction, sure. she has felt that before. but never what she has felt the first time she laid eyes on you. one night, jj introduced you as an old friend of hers, and when you lifted your eyes to hers and let out a soft nice to meet you, emily’s heart skipped a beat.
it might sound ridiculous, but it felt exactly like one of those cheesy romance movies, when the protagonist sees their love interest for the first time. the scene playing in slow motion, inexplicable wind blowing in their hair. that’s what meeting you had been for emily.
that night, when she finally got home, she went to bed thinking of you and your smile. and that was exactly when she realized exactly how screwed she was.
“i’m so glad jj convinced me to come tonight. i almost stayed home watching tv and eating my weight in candy.”
that made emily smile.
“i’m glad you came, too.”
before she can even register it, you step closer, closing any distance between you. now your hips press against hers, and when you look at her, your mouths are only a breath apart. emily’s eyes darken, heat flashing in them.
the hands on your hips tense, restraint clear in every line of her body. she’s trying to be polite. but you aren’t looking for politeness tonight. no, tonight is all about seeing how far she is willing to go with you.
taking her hands in yours, you push them a little lower. she mutters a curse under her breath, but doesn’t pull away. slowly, her slim fingers trace the hem of your dress, barely brushing the curve of your ass.
leaning down, she nuzzles your ear and, with a voice that sends goosebumps racing over your arms and neck, whispers, “we’re playing a dangerous game.”
“are we?” you shoot back, one hand sliding up until it tangles in her hair, tugging gently until she’s facing you again, so close that when you speak, she can practically taste your words on her lips. “good thing those are my favorite kind.”
this time, you can see it more clearly, the way her dark eyes light up with fire. her tongue sweeps across her lips, slow and deliberate, and you follow the movement. emily notices, and grins.
“well, then…”
“girls, i think it’s time to call it a night.” penelope’s voice comes from behind emily’s back. she’s holding up a very drunk jennifer under one arm.
“i don’t wanna go,” jj complains, trying to wriggle out of garcia’s grasp.
“you’re gonna regret that last extra-large margarita in the morning, mark my words.” penelope turns her attention back to emily, her eyes apologetic. “sorry to ruin your fun.”
“no, that’s okay.” emily sighs, pulling away from you. your hands drop to your sides, curling into fists as if to stop yourself from reaching for her again. “i promised i’d drive you home the moment you asked. it’s fine. are you ready to head home too?” she asks, turning to you.
you nod, mouth dry and hands still shaky. “yeah, totally.”
you all get into emily’s car. this time, you take the passenger seat, while penelope stays in the back with jj, who is now cuddled up against her friend, head resting on garcia’s shoulder while she stroked her hair. glancing back, you smile fondly at the sight. garcia smiles back at you, though hers looks a little more mischievous, a little too knowing. your cheeks flame red as you turned back forward.
the silence in the car is thick, charged. and it only grows heavier after emily drops jj and garcia off. she drives without a word, humming faintly under her breath to a song only she can hear. at a red light, her eyes drift to your bare legs. when you shift slightly, your dress riding up higher, you hear her breath hitch.
you decide to take your chance when you see her turn onto the avenue where your apartment building is.
“actually, i was hoping we could head to your place instead,” you say, your voice trembling now, all the bravado from the dance floor gone. “if that’s… if that’s okay with you?”
emily lets out a low chuckle, a cocky smile tugs at her lips. “that is more than okay with me, princess.”
you are embarrassed to admit to yourself what that pet names does to you. biting the inside of your cheek, you push your thighs together, tightly.
the drive to her place feels agonizingly long, every minute weighed down by the static between you. in her head, emily keeps repeating don’t fuck this up, don’t fuck this up. she’s been waiting too long to waste the chance now. in yours, you can only think of all the places you want to kiss her.
when you finally make it to her door, emily fumbles with her keys, hands shaking and missing the keyhole a couple of times. it makes you laugh, and emily shoots you a glare over her shoulder, although you can see a smile start pulling at her lips.
“don’t tell me i make you nervous, prentiss,” you whisper next to her ear.
the lock finally clicked, and emily pushed the door open with her shoulder, stepping aside to let you enter first. as you walked in, she stole another glance at your ass, biting her lip as she closed the door behind her.
there was something about having you here, in her hallway, looking deliciously shy as you glanced around, that lit something primal inside her. before you could take another step, her hand circled your wrist, pulling you flush against her chest, her mouth hovering just above yours.
“you make me nervous,” she admits, your name rolling off her lips like something sacred. “i’ve been craving you all night. ever since you walked out of your door in this dress.”
she tugs at the fabric, fisting it.
“you like it?” you whisper, leaning closer, so close her lips grazed yours when she answered.
“do i like it? baby, i should send whoever designed it a thank you card. you look absolutely stunning.”
“good, because i bought it just for you,” you confess. “i wanted to look hot for you.”
“hot?” emily chuckles, cupping your cheek. “hot doesn’t even cover it. you look like a dream.”
her fingers trace the neckline of the dress, following the soft fabric as it clings to your chest. slowly, she cups one breast, brushing her thumb over your hardening nipple. you let out a shaky breath.
“though as much as i like this dress, i think i’d like you even better without it.”
you huff out a laugh. “good. because i bought it hoping you’d end up taking it off.”
emily’s breath catches. this was really happening. you are in her arms, wanting this just as badly. she believes she might explode with happiness.
“i need you to understand something,” she says suddenly, pulling her hands back a little. “this will change everything for me. i don’t think i could go back to just being friends after tasting you.”
you reach for her hands, holding them gently in yours. your eyes spark as they lock with hers, a wide smile spreading over your lips. “i don’t want to be friends, emily. i want to be yours.”
those words are enough to tear the walls of the small room where she had storage all her desire for you since the day she met you. her lips come clashing into yours like a wave in a stormy night. with her body pressed to yours she pushed you into the nearest wall, hands traveling all over your body with need.
instantly, you become a mess of hands in hair, teeth and tongues clashing. emily’s hands grip your hips pushing you against the wall with an urgency that has you moaning. she swallows it, her own groan of pleasure vibrating from writhing her chest.
you’re the first to break the kiss, gasping for air, and emily takes the opportunity to turn her attention to your neck. she leaves open-mouthed kisses all over your skin, biting at your collar bone and tracing the spot with the tip of her tongue right after.
“em…” her name slips from your lips like a prayer. she hums in response, kissing you again.
the kiss is ravenous, the clash of two souls that have waited far too long. she bites your lower lip, tugging until sparks race down your body, pooling hot between your thighs.
“that color looks good on you,” you murmur when she pulls back, her lips stained with your lipstick.
grinning, she runs her thumb slowly across your mouth, wiping the smudge but lingering, taking her time. you squirmed under her touch. she nuzzles the crook of your neck, decorating your jaw with kisses, leaving behind a mark of your own lipstick. meanwhile, her hands busy themselves tracing patters across your belly, up your sides. when her thumbs trace the undersides of your breasts you arch your back, as if offering them to her. emily chuckles.
“can i?” she asks, pulling at the straps of your dress.
“please.” it comes out as nothing more than a sigh.
“begging already?” emily taunts. “i haven’t even really touched you yet.”
her hands slide the straps of your dress down your arms. emily licks her lips when the fabric finally lowers enough to show your tits. your nipples already hard. she looks you in the eyes and you see it, the hunger, the plea. you nod slightly, leaning your head against the wall. and in mere seconds emily is lapping at your breasts like an madwoman. she bites and licks and kisses your skin. and you feel it then, in the way her hands caress you, the way she plays with one of your nipple as her tongue flicks the others.
this isn’t just sex, you realize. you’ve had enough of that to know the difference. the way emily touched you, kissed you. it’is full of adoration. she’s worshiping you.
“i’ve…” she mutters against your skin, dropping a soft kiss above your heart. resting her chin on your chest, she continues. “i’ve dreamt about this so many times. about touching you. tasting you. it feels unreal. i’m afraid i’ll wake up and it’ll just be another fantasy.”
you run your hand through her hair, and she sighs in bliss.
“it’s real. and tomorrow, when we wake up, it’ll still be real. i’ll still be here. i’ll still be yours.”
“oh, god.” the sound she makes is almost primal.
she leans down once more, tracing a wet line down your chest with her tongue. her hands start dragging the fabric of the dress down your torso as she lowers herself to the ground. and you’ve always thought emily is gorgeous, with eyes dark like the night and long eyelashes, a beautiful nose and her lips—god, those lips—. like her, you had dreamt of a night like this for a long time, and in those dreams her lips always seemed to be the main attraction. her mouth on your neck, teeth scraping the delicate skin; on your chest, leaving red marks behind; and between your legs, devouring you until you melted.
your dress hits the floor with a dull thud. emily’s mouth goes dry at the sight of you hovering above her in just your underwear.
“you’re so fucking beautiful,” she whispers, hands running up and down your thighs.
grinning, she slides her hands around to grab your ass, fingers digging in. before you know it, she has turned you toward the wall.
“this sweet ass…” her voice is playful. “i couldn’t stop staring all night. i’ve been dying to do this since i saw you dancing.”
before you can ask what she’s talking about, you feel the sting of a bite on your left cheek. you let out a low moan, resting your forehead against the cool wall. emily then kisses the skin that’s starting to redden, the soft mark of her teeth almost making her roll her eyes with pleasure. in all honesty, this is the most turned on she’s ever been. and she hasn’t even gotten to taste you yet. she fears the moment she finally gets her mouth on you she’ll combust.
she repeats her ministrations with the other cheek, this time making sure the mark will be visible tomorrow morning.
when she guides your body to turn again you look down at her at the same time she looks up at you. there’s a playful glint in her eyes as she bites her lips. and what emily sees are your blushed cheeks, your chest rising and falling with rapid breaths. she leans closer to your center, just to pull away again, teasing.
“emily…” you groan, eyes closing.
“what, baby?”
“i need you now.”
“oh, but i’m having so much fun taking my time.”
“em…” this time her name comes out in a ragged breath. “please.”
that makes her smile. she kisses you over the thin fabric of your thong. it’s not nearly enough, but still, it makes your legs falter. quickly, emily grabs your thighs securely, pushing them farther apart to make room for herself.
“holy shit,” you mutter with anticipation.
she drops another kiss, this time on the inside of your thigh. then a little bit higher, and higher, and…
she kisses your pussy again, followed by a single swipe of her tongue. she can already taste you through the fabric, and it makes her moan in unison with you.
“you’re so wet already, princess,” she says, voice thick with lust.
“emily, i need your mouth. now.”
but she’s decided she wants to savor this. instead, emily twists the fabric around her finger once, twice and pulls until it disappears in between your folds. you gasp, eyes fluttering closed again as she begins to rub the fabric against your clit, creating a sort of friction that has you seeing stars.
meanwhile, emily watches in awe as the fabric grows wetter and wetter, grinding her own hips against the seam of her jeans for relief
“fuck!” you cry. “emily… please.”
and because she can’t deny you, she finally pulls the thong down your legs. you then kick it with your feet, not really caring where it ends up. emily takes that same leg and quickly pulls it over her shoulder, opening up more space for her really explore.
“holy shit,” she echoes you, spreading you open with two fingers, staring at your glistening pussy. “you’re…”
she looks up at your flushed face, your lips parted in anticipation.
“fuck me, you’re gorgeous.”
and then she dives in. the flat of her tongue runs bottom to top, gathering all your wetness. her grip on your legs tightens when she feels them shake. emily continues lapping, groaning and moaning. she murmurs praises against your core, and every time she hums you feel the reverberations zap across your spine.
it’s entirely filthy, the wet sounds, her words. you never knew emily prentiss would be this dirty in sex, but fuck, she’s good at it.
“baby, you taste so fucking good.” she glances up at you, her lips wet, they glisten as if she had just applied your favorite cherry flavored lipgloss.
with two of her fingers spreading you wide, she gives one full lick with the flat of her tongue again, only to finish by sucking your clit into her mouth.
“oh fuck!” you cried, nearly buckling. your scream serves emily as motivation to repeat it one more time. “holy fuck, emily. i’m—”
“no, not yet. i’m having too much fun.”
emily rocks her hips back and forth, having finally found the perfect spot for the seam of her pants to offer her the pressure and friction she needs right now. without her mouth ever leaving your core, she dives one finger into you, slowly pumping in and out. when she hears your soft moan, she dips a second finger.
“oh, god! emily!”
“i know, baby.”
with the tip of her tongue, she flicks your already throbbing clit a couple of times and the pression builds up, and up, and up… and you swear you’ve never felt this high during sex. the way emily keeps praising you every time you moan and whisper her name like a prayer. the way her free hand remains holding onto your thigh, fingers digging into your skin. only for that same hand snakes up your torso, landing flat over your belly, where you take the opportunity to intertwine your fingers with hers.
“emily, i can’t… i’m coming, baby. i… i can’t hold it…”
the two fingers inside twist and push at that soft spot inside of you, and you scream emily’s name at the top of your lungs. the tension building up inside of you finally snaps, a familiar sparkling feeling returning tenfold and washing over you..
“that’s it, baby,” emily whispers barely above your pussy. “come for me. just like that.”
your head falls back against the wall, eyes rolling to the back of your head. you grip her hand as you finally explode with her name at the top of your mouth. she grins against your skin, proud as ever, tongue lazily swiping back and forth as you come down from your high, drawing out your orgasm until you sag against the wall, twitching. finally, she pulls back, licking her fingers clean with her eyes locked on yours, and you swear it’s the hottest thing you’ve ever seen. when she gets up, she grips your jaw and, without a word, kisses you hard.
if your previous kisses had been frenetic and wild, this one is close to madness. emily devours you, tongues clashing and teeth nipping. she’s a starving woman who’s just been offered her favorite plate for dinner. you hum, tasting yourself in her tongue, digging your hands into her hair and gently pulling at the strands.
“that was…” you pant against her mouth when she finally pulls away.
“just the beginning,” she rasps, voice hoarse as she dives in once more, hands gripping your waist and pushing you towards the open doorway to your right.
her bedroom.
thanks for reading <3 likes & reblogs are appreciated !!
Demi Lovato's new album is living rent-free in my head. Here's a fic based on one of the songs.
Emily wanted to settle down, but no one ready to settle could keep up with her. Until she has dinner with you, someone willing to let her take control, and mean it.
The wine bar Emily had chosen was intimate without being cliché—exposed brick, low lighting, and a jazz quartet playing softly in the corner. You'd been on plenty of first dates, but none that had taken this particular turn.
"So you're telling me," Emily said, swirling her second glass of Malbec with an amused smile playing at her lips, "that you actually brought rope to a third date?"
You laughed, feeling the warmth of the wine and her attention. "In my defense, she'd been dropping hints for weeks. I was just... prepared."
"Prepared." Emily's dark eyes glinted with something that made your stomach flip. "I like that."
The conversation had started innocently enough: work, travel, the usual getting-to-know-you territory. But somewhere between the appetizers and entrees, Emily had mentioned a case involving BDSM clubs, and you'd made an offhand comment about the community being more safety-conscious than people realized. That had opened a door neither of you seemed interested in closing.
"Most people get weird when I'm honest about what I'm into," you admitted, meeting her gaze. "They either fetishize it or run for the hills."
Emily leaned forward, resting her chin on her hand. "And what exactly are you into?"
The directness should have caught you off guard, but instead, it sent a thrill down your spine. "Power exchange. Restraint. Sensation play. The psychological aspect more than anything. That space where you're completely present with someone, reading every reaction."
"Trust," Emily said softly.
"Exactly."
She was quiet for a moment, studying you with an intensity that felt like being catalogued, analyzed. You'd learned she was a profiler for the BAU, and you could practically see her mind working.
"I spent years hiding that part of myself," Emily finally said. "The job, the expectations, the image I was supposed to maintain. I'd have these perfectly vanilla relationships with perfectly nice people, and the whole time I'd be thinking about—" She stopped herself, lips curving into a self-deprecating smile. "Well. Other things."
"What changed?"
"I stopped apologizing for what I want." She took a slow sip of wine, her eyes never leaving yours. "Life's too short to pretend you're satisfied with missionary and the lights off."
You nearly choked on your drink, and Emily's laugh was low and genuine.
"Sorry, was that too much?"
"No," you said quickly. "No, it's refreshing. I'm just not used to someone being so..."
"Honest?"
"Confident."
Something shifted in Emily's expression, a sharpening of focus that made you acutely aware of the space between you. "I've learned that confidence is attractive. Knowing what you want and being unafraid to pursue it."
The way she said "pursue" made it clear you weren't just talking about philosophy anymore.
"And what do you want?" you asked, surprised by the steadiness of your own voice.
Emily tilted her head, considering. "Someone who can keep up. Someone who understands that submission isn't weakness and dominance isn't cruelty. Someone who knows the difference between playing a role and being authentic." She paused. "Someone who looks at me the way you're looking at me right now."
Your breath caught. "How am I looking at you?"
"Like you're already imagining what I'd look like with my hand wrapped around your throat."
The restaurant suddenly felt very warm.
"I—" You swallowed hard. "That's a fairly accurate assessment."
Emily's smile was slow, predatory. "I know."
The rest of dinner passed in a haze of charged conversation. Emily told you about her time in London, carefully editing out classified details but painting a picture of someone who'd lived a dozen different lives. You shared your own stories, and found yourself being more honest than you'd been with anyone in months. Maybe years.
But underneath the words was a current of anticipation, a building tension that had you hyperaware of every movement Emily made. The way her fingers traced the stem of her wine glass. The flash of her tongue when she licked a drop of wine from her lower lip. The casual brush of her foot against your ankle under the table that was definitely not accidental.
"I should probably confess something," Emily said as the waiter cleared your plates.
"Oh?"
"I've been planning this since you made that comment about safety protocols in rope bondage."
Your heart hammered. "Planning what, exactly?"
"How I'd get you back to my apartment." Emily's voice was casual, but her eyes were dark with intent. "Whether you'd be the type to play coy or if you'd be honest about wanting it. What you'd sound like if I kissed you against my front door. How long I'd make you wait before I touched you properly."
The air between you felt electric.
"That's quite a lot of planning," you managed.
"I'm thorough." Emily signaled for the check. "It's part of the job description."
"And what conclusion did you reach? About whether I'd play coy?"
She leaned in close enough that you could smell her perfume—something dark and expensive. "I think you're going to look up at me when we get outside, and I'm going to see exactly how much you want this. And then I'm going to invite you home, and you're going to say yes."
Your mouth went dry. "You seem very certain."
"I'm an excellent profiler." Emily's hand found yours on the table, her thumb brushing across your knuckles in a touch that was both innocent and loaded with promise. "Am I wrong?"
"No," you admitted. "You're not wrong."
Emily paid the check despite your protests, and then you were standing, her hand on the small of your back as she guided you through the restaurant. The October air was crisp when you stepped outside, and you turned to face her on the sidewalk.
This was the moment she'd predicted, and you were helpless to do anything but fulfill her prophecy. You looked up at her—Emily was taller than you'd realized, or maybe you'd unconsciously shifted closer—and let her see everything. The want. The anticipation. The willingness to follow wherever she led. The slight part of your lips.
Emily's expression shifted, something hungry and satisfied crossing her features.
"Come home with me," she said. Not a question.
"Yes."
The ride to her apartment was an exercise in restraint. Emily's hand rested on your thigh in the back of the Uber, her fingers tracing absent patterns that were driving you slowly insane. Every time you glanced at her, she was watching you with that same focused intensity, like you were a puzzle she was taking apart piece by piece.
"You're thinking very loudly," Emily murmured.
"I'm thinking about what happens when we get to your place."
"And?"
"And I'm trying to figure out if you're the type to take your time or if you'll have me against the door like you mentioned."
Emily's fingers pressed slightly harder against your thigh. "What do you want?"
The question felt like a test. "Both. Eventually."
"Good answer."
Her building was in a nice part of the city, the kind of place that suggested a government salary went further than you'd expected. The elevator ride up was silent, tension coiling tighter with each floor. Emily's hand found yours, her fingers interlacing with yours in a gesture that was almost sweet. Almost.
Then you were at her door, and Emily was unlocking it with one hand while the other stayed clasped in yours, and you were stepping into a space that was so quintessentially Emily it made you smile. Books everywhere, art that looked collected rather than decorated, a leather couch that had clearly been chosen for comfort rather than aesthetics.
The door clicked shut behind you.
"So," Emily said, turning to face you. "I have a question."
"Okay."
"We've established that we're both interested. That we're both experienced. That we want similar things." She stepped closer, and you found yourself backed against the door. "But I need to know, are you interested in playing tonight, or would you rather take things slower?"
The fact that she was asking, that even in this moment she was checking in, made you want her even more.
"Tonight," you said. "Definitely tonight."
Emily's smile was sharp. "Then we should talk about boundaries."
And that was how you found yourself on Emily's couch, discussing limits and safe words with the same directness you'd brought to dinner. It should have been clinical, but instead it was incredibly hot: the acknowledgment of what you were about to do, the care being taken to ensure you both felt safe.
"Hard limits?" Emily asked.
You listed them, and she nodded, filing the information away.
"And you?" you asked.
Emily's list was short, and you found yourself noting the things she didn't mention, the vast territory of possibility that lay between you.
"Safe word?"
"Red for stop, yellow for slow down or check in," you suggested.
"Standard. I like it." Emily shifted closer, her hand coming up to cup your jaw. "And just so we're clear, I'm going to be in control tonight. I'm going to tell you what to do, and you're going to do it. But this only works if you're honest with me. If something doesn't feel right, if you need to slow down, if you want to stop, you tell me. Understood?"
"Yes."
"Yes, what?"
Your breath hitched. "Yes, ma'am."
Emily's eyes darkened. "Oh, I like that." Her thumb brushed across your lower lip. "You can also call me Emily. But ma'am works very well."
Then she was kissing you, and it was nothing like the tentative first kisses you'd experienced on other dates. This was claiming, demanding. Emily's hand slid into your hair and angled your head exactly where she wanted it. Your mouth fell open for her immediately, and her tongue swept into your mouth with a confidence that made your knees weak.
When she pulled back, you were breathless.
"Bedroom," Emily said. "Now."
You followed her down a hallway, your heart racing. Emily's bedroom was neat but lived-in, dominated by a large bed with a sturdy-looking headboard. She turned to face you, and the transformation was complete—this was Emily in her element, commanding and sure.
"Strip," she said. "Slowly."
Your hands trembled slightly as you reached for the hem of your shirt, but you forced yourself to move deliberately. Emily watched every movement, her gaze tracking the reveal of skin like she was memorizing it. When you hesitated at your bra, she raised an eyebrow.
"Did I say to stop?"
"No, ma'am."
"Then keep going."
By the time you were standing naked in front of her, you were already wet, already aching. Emily was still fully dressed, and the power imbalance was intoxicating.
"Beautiful," Emily murmured, circling you slowly. Her fingers trailed across your shoulders, down your spine, making you shiver. "And so responsive already. Tell me, how long have you been thinking about this?"
"Since we left the restaurant," you admitted.
"Liar." Emily's hand came down on your ass in a sharp slap that made you gasp. "Try again."
"Since—" You swallowed hard. "Since you mentioned the BDSM case. The way you talked about it, like you understood it from the inside."
"Better." Emily's hand soothed over the spot she'd struck. "Honesty is important. I need to know what's happening in that pretty head of yours."
She guided you to the bed, positioning you on your back with your arms above your head. From her nightstand, she produced a length of black rope, professional quality. You nodded with approval.
"I'm going to tie your wrists," Emily said. "You're going to keep them exactly where I put them. If you move them, I stop. Understood?"
"Yes, ma'am."
Emily's hands were skilled, the rope wrapping around your wrists in a pattern that was secure but not cutting off circulation. She tested the bonds, then secured them to the headboard, leaving you spread out and vulnerable beneath her.
"Color?" she asked.
"Green. Very green."
Emily smiled. "Good."
She took her time undressing, and you realized it was deliberate: making you watch, making you wait. When she finally climbed onto the bed, still in her bra and underwear, you couldn't help the small sound that escaped you.
"Impatient?" Emily asked, straddling your hips, her weight delicious on top of you.
"Yes."
"That's not how we address me."
"Yes, ma'am. I'm sorry."
"Better." Her hands skimmed up your sides, deliberately avoiding where you wanted her most. "I'm going to touch you now. I'm going to learn exactly what makes you fall apart. And you're going to lie there and take it, and thank me for it. Understood?"
"Yes, ma'am."
Emily's touch was maddening, light enough to tease, firm enough to promise more. She mapped your body with her hands and mouth, finding every sensitive spot and exploiting it ruthlessly. When her mouth finally closed around your nipple, you arched off the bed with a moan.
"That's it," Emily murmured against your skin. "Let me hear you."
Her hand slid between your thighs, and she groaned at what she found there.
"So wet already. Is this all for me?"
"Yes, ma'am. Please—"
"Please what?"
"Please touch me."
Emily's fingers circled your clit with agonizing lightness. "I am touching you."
"Please, I need—"
"I know what you need." Her voice was dark with promise. "But you don't get to come until I say so. Understood?"
You whimpered, but nodded. "Yes, ma'am."
Her fingers pressed harder against your clit, her lips wrapping back around your nipple, humming against your skin.
"Fuck, thank you, ma'am."
She nearly growled against you, teeth grazing the flesh.
What followed was the most exquisite torture you'd ever experienced. Emily brought you to the edge again and again, reading your body with the same skill she probably used to read suspects. Every time you got close, she'd pull back, leaving you gasping and desperate.
"Ma'am, please," you finally begged, past the point of pride.
"Please what?"
"Please let me come. Please, I need it, I need you, please—"
Emily's fingers pressed inside you, and her thumb found your clit with perfect pressure. Her free hand wrapped around your neck, squeezing enough to claim. "Come for me," she commanded. "Now."
You shattered, crying out her name as pleasure crashed through you in waves. Emily worked you through it, her fingers never stopping, and before you'd fully come down she was building you up again.
"Again," she said. "Give me another one."
You came twice more before Emily finally relented, untying your wrists and pulling you against her chest. You were shaking, overwhelmed, and she held you through it with surprising gentleness.
"Breathe," she murmured, pressing kisses to your temple. "You did so well. So perfect for me."
When you'd finally caught your breath, you looked up at her. "That was—"
"Intense?"
"Incredible." You shifted, suddenly aware that Emily was still partially dressed, still untouched. "But I want—"
"What do you want?"
"To touch you. To make you feel good."
Emily's smile was soft. "Later. Right now, I want to take care of you."
She did exactly that, bringing you water and a warm washcloth, checking the marks on your wrists, holding you close. It was aftercare at its finest, and you found yourself falling a little bit in love with this woman who could be commanding and cruel one moment, tender and careful the next.
"Stay," Emily said eventually. "Tonight. If you want."
"I want," you confirmed.
You finally convinced Emily to let you reciprocate a few minutes later, the silence turning into tension. Your hands grew courageous, sliding across her waist gently until she found your eyes.
With a silent nod, you had permission, lips finding her jawline and hands sliding across her chest.
You found home between her legs, tongue lapping at her like you had been starved of this your whole life. She gripped your hair, eyes locked on you.
"Fuck, such a good girl." Slipped from her lips before she came apart on your tongue, your hands digging into the flesh of her thighs.
You kissed her thighs and then her chest, before lying beside her. She let out a breath and wrapped an arm around you, tugging you against her side.
"You are something else." Her voice was rough with lingering desire and amusement.
"So," you said. "Second date?"
Emily laughed. "I think we might have skipped a few steps."
"Maybe. But I'd still like to take you to dinner. Somewhere nice. Where we can talk about normal things."
"Normal things," Emily repeated, amused.
"Well. Normal for us."
She kissed you, slow and sweet. "I'd like that."
Outside, the city hummed with late-night energy. But in Emily's bedroom, wrapped in her arms, you felt like you'd found something rare. Someone who matched your energy, who understood the parts of yourself you usually kept hidden, who could be both fierce and gentle in the same breath.
"Hey," Emily said softly.
"Yeah?"
"I'm really glad you swiped right."
You grinned. "Me too."
And when you finally fell asleep, it was with Emily's hand in yours and the promise of more nights like this—more exploration, more trust, more of this perfect understanding you'd found with someone who was exactly as kinky as you were. Thank fuck.
