Overruled ⚖️
pairing: Aaron Hotchner x afab!fem Lawyer Reader! (no y/n)
Rating: NSFW, Explicit Content 18+
synopsis: After Hotch and his team are brought in for a trial case in Washington DC he quickly learns the defense lawyer he’s up against on the stand is you. He worked with you when he was a prosecutor. You were younger, brighter and he mentored you. But now you are using his teachings against him and he’s impressed. After you both ‘catch up’ at a bar you both realise your feelings for each other were never platonic.
wc: 8.9k (And most of it is smut.)
warnings: NSFW | MDNI | season 2 hotch | Mutual Cheating | Semi-public fingering | unprotected p in v | dom! Hotch | Rough | Praise kink | Slight breeding kink | Desperation on both sides | Horny Hotch | Horny reader |
Masterlist request rules
The request came late on a Sunday evening. Washington D.C. prosecutors had reached out to the BAU about a trial finally going to court. An unsub they had helped catch over a year ago, a man named Daniel Sykes. Sykes had been methodical in his violence: a series of abductions across Virginia and Maryland, women held for days before being released beaten but alive. He’d staged elaborate “games” of control in his basement, and it was one of those survivors who had finally identified him.
Hotch remembered the case well. It had been messy— jurisdictional disputes, a slippery suspect, and evidence that was largely circumstantial until Garcia had dug out Sykes’ online footprint. They had arrested him in his home, but the defense had fought every piece of the Bureau’s evidence since. Now, it had come to trial, and the prosecutor’s office wanted the BAU on the stand to solidify the narrative of how he’d been profiled and ultimately caught.
Hotch had testified before. He knew the rhythms of the courtroom, the ways a defense lawyer would try to twist words, turn confidence into arrogance, professionalism into supposed bias. He’d been a prosecutor once, before joining the FBI. He knew the game.
Still, as he adjusted his tie and filed into the courtroom with his team. Gideon at his side, with Reid, Prentiss, and Morgan behind them. Hotch felt the familiar tightness of anticipation.
The room was crowded: the jury attentive, reporters lining the back rows, the unsub himself sitting stone-faced at the defense table. Sykes didn’t look at Hotch, but Hotch didn’t need him to. He’d already spent weeks studying that man’s pathology. He could conjure it in an instant.
The bailiff called for order, and the judge asked for the prosecution to begin. They announced their first witness.
“Supervisory Special Agent Aaron Hotchner,” the prosecutor said.
Hotch rose, buttoned his jacket, and strode toward the stand with measured steps. The oath was perfunctory—he raised his right hand, swore to tell the truth, then took his seat, his posture straight, calm.
The prosecutor began with background: his credentials, his position as Unit Chief of the BAU, his role in the arrest of Daniel Sykes. Hotch answered each question in his clipped, even tone, careful to keep his voice steady and his words precise.
Then the prosecutor nodded, satisfied, and said, “Defense may cross-examine.”
The defense lawyer rose.
And Hotch’s breath caught.
You.
Hair pinned up in a professional but imperfect bun, dark strands slipping loose against your cheek. Glasses sliding slightly down the bridge of your nose. White blouse, fitted pencil skirt, black heels that clicked softly as you stepped toward the stand. For a moment, you didn’t look at him, your eyes on your notes, flipping through papers.
Then you lifted your head.
Recognition hit like a punch.
You blinked, startled, then schooled your expression into a professional mask. A small, restrained smile tugged at your lips, the kind lawyers gave witnesses before they tore them apart.
“SSA Aaron Hotchner,” you said smoothly, acknowledging him for the jury.
Hotch swallowed, fighting the flicker of memory. He knew you. Not just from the case file, not from the present moment—but from years ago. When he’d still been in the D.C. prosecutor’s office, before Quantico, before the BAU. You’d been fresh out of law school then. Young, determined, burning with ambition. He’d taken you under his wing—mentored you through your first hearings, late nights drafting motions, explaining trial strategy over bad courthouse coffee.
Now here you were. Opposite him.
He shifted minutely in his seat, adjusting his posture. “Counselor,” he replied, voice level.
Inside, though, the profiling had already begun. Your attire: polished, deliberately sharp. Your eyes: unwavering, confident. And the ring—plain, gold, glinting on your left hand as you adjusted your notes. Married. He didn’t know why his gaze lingered there. He was married too. Always had been. Hailey, his high school sweetheart. His wife. His anchor.
Still—thinking back to those mentoring sessions with you always stirred something. A what if he had never allowed himself to dwell on.
You cleared your throat, drawing the jury’s attention back. “Agent Hotchner, you testified that your team arrested my client at his home, correct?”
“Yes.”
“You arrived without a warrant?”
“We had a warrant, Counselor,” he said, his voice clipped, precise. “Signed by a federal judge. It’s included in the evidence packet.”
You nodded slowly, lips pursed as if considering, though Hotch knew that look. You weren’t surprised—you were setting up your next move. “And prior to that arrest, you had interviewed several individuals who lived near Mr. Sykes, isn’t that true?”
“Yes.”
“Neighbors, colleagues, his ex-wife?”
“Yes.”
“And each of those individuals provided statements that were later found to contain inconsistencies?”
Hotch inhaled through his nose. He knew this tactic. Undermine the reliability of witness testimony, then cast doubt on the agents who relied on it. He’d taught you this. Damn it.
“Witness testimony is often inconsistent in traumatic cases,” Hotch replied evenly. “That’s why the Behavioral Analysis Unit focuses on patterns of behavior and corroborating evidence, not just statements.”
You tilted your head, as though weighing the answer. “So you’re admitting those statements weren’t reliable.”
“I’m saying they were consistent with the profile we developed of the unsub.”
A few jurors scribbled notes. You didn’t smile, but there was a spark in your eyes—Hotch caught it, even if no one else did. The same spark he’d seen years ago when you’d cornered him in a moot court exercise, proving him wrong for the first time.
His jaw tightened, but he kept his composure. Outwardly calm. Inside? Impressed. Intrigued. Caught somewhere between admiration for how sharp you’d become and frustration that you were using his own lessons against him.
The cross-examination continued, your questions pointed, professional, circling like a hawk around its prey. Hotch deflected each one with steady precision, refusing to give ground, but he could feel the tension coiling between you. The courtroom wasn’t just a battlefield. It was a reunion.
And for reasons he didn’t care to analyze, the ring on your hand was the only thing he couldn’t stop noticing.
Hotch sat back slightly as the defense lawyer concluded the cross-examination. You were precise, sharp, deliberate with each question, forcing him to thread every word carefully. The jury scribbled notes, the judge tapped a pen thoughtfully, and Hotch felt the old spark of admiration flare inside him—though outwardly, he remained stoic.
“No further questions, Your Honor,” he said, voice calm, controlled, betraying nothing. Inside, however, he was impressed. That little upward tilt of your chin, the measured tone, the way you didn’t flinch even as you pressed him—it was all you. The lawyer he had once mentored, now standing opposite him like an equal… no, like a challenge.
The judge called recess for the day. Hotch rose, gathering his papers and straightening his jacket. His team filed out behind him—Reid already muttering to himself about some forensic detail, Morgan grinning and shaking his head, and Prentiss giving a professional smile that barely hinted at amusement.
As they stepped into the foyer, bustling with court staff and observers, Hotch caught sight of you again. You passed by, carrying a slim folder, hair slightly loose from the professional bun you’d tied that morning. Your eyes flicked briefly to him, and a small, professional nod of recognition brushed across your lips.
Hotch’s gaze followed, unbidden. Subconsciously, his eyes dipped to the curve of your hips under the pencil skirt, tracing a line he knew he shouldn’t. Morgan, walking a few steps behind, noticed.
“Uh… Hotch,” Morgan said, voice low but teasing, “you following someone with your eyes, man?”
Hotch’s jaw tightened. “I—no, I’m observing for procedural reasons.”
Morgan raised an eyebrow. “Right… procedural. Sure. Uh… that’s her, isn’t it? The lawyer from the D.C. office?”
Hotch nodded once, tight. “Yes. I know her from years ago, when I was a prosecutor. That’s all.” He downplayed the recognition carefully, masking the sudden tightness in his chest. Already he felt guilty—his composure had slipped just slightly, and he hated that he even noticed.
Morgan shrugged, unconvinced, and moved on. Meanwhile, Reid, hearing snippets of the exchange, whispered something to Morgan about profiling body language. Hotch didn’t hear it; his focus had already drifted.
Across the room, you had paused near a wall-mounted directory. Hotch moved a few steps toward you, trying to appear natural, though his normally precise control felt slightly shaky. He cleared his throat.
“Counselor,” he said, careful, formal, though the weight behind his eyes betrayed more than words.
You turned, your expression shifting from professional neutrality to the barest flicker of warmth. “SSA Hotchner,” you said, a faint smile curling your lips. “I wasn’t expecting to see you here.”
“I—” he paused briefly, then exhaled softly, regaining control. “I’m impressed with how you’ve come along. You’ve… sharpened considerably since we last worked together.”
You tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, eyes curious. “That means a lot, coming from you. What about you? How’s… the BAU? Must be a different world from D.C. prosecution.”
Hotch allowed a small, rare smile, the one few people ever saw. “Different, yes. Challenging. The work… it’s demanding, but I manage.”
A moment of silence passed, filled only by the murmur of distant court staff. Hotch’s gaze lingered on you longer than he intended. Then he asked, carefully, deliberately, the question that hovered between them like a loaded pause.
“So… you’re married?” His voice was steady, but the underlying curiosity was palpable.
You gave a faint, composed smile. “Yes. Samuel. Been married for a few years now.”
Hotch nodded once, slow, almost reluctantly. He didn’t press further, though part of him wanted to. He caught the faint glint of your wedding ring, a reminder that this moment—this sudden proximity—was dangerous. Yet the pull of old familiarity, of the person you had once been, and the tension of who you were now… it was magnetic.
“Samuel… that’s good,” he said finally, voice low, careful. His eyes studied you, memorizing the way you carried yourself, how your poise had sharpened over the years. Every calculated gesture, every inflection of your voice, spoke of someone who could have rivaled him even back then.
You inclined your head slightly, nodding. “And you… still married?”
Hotch’s chest tightened briefly. “Yes. Hailey,” he said simply, precise, leaving no room for debate.
There was a pause. both of them aware of the subtle tension in the air. The past had collided with the present in the most unexpected way, and for a fleeting second, neither could ignore the pull beneath the layers of professionalism, marriage, and years of unspoken what-ifs.
You’d once seen Aaron Hotchner as untouchable. Brilliant, sharp, endlessly composed. Back when you were green, when your motions were clumsy and your arguments too wordy, he’d sat with you in cramped conference rooms and guided you through every draft. Patient, meticulous, his eyes softening in rare moments of encouragement.
You knew he was married. Everyone knew. Hailey—his high school sweetheart, the kind of woman you could tell he’d worshipped from the very beginning. It never stopped you from developing a crush you buried deep, convincing yourself it was nothing more than admiration. After all the hours you spent together, how could you not?
Nothing had ever happened. You wouldn’t have let it. You weren’t that kind of woman. At least, that’s what you told yourself whenever the thought crept in.
Now, you’re married too. Samuel is… good. Solid. Kind. He provides stability, he cares. He’s everything you should want. Everything you told yourself you needed. He’s great.
Yeah. Great.
Aaron’s voice pulled you out of your spiraling thoughts.
“Would you want to grab a drink to catch up?” His tone was even, almost casual, but you’d worked with him long enough to hear the subtle cracks. A quiet effort to sound detached, when he wasn’t.
You met his eyes, felt that flicker of something burn in your chest, and nodded.
“That sounds nice. Sure.”
The corner of his mouth softened, not quite a smile, but close. Without waiting for further conversation, he walked with you out of the building, keeping an even pace at your side.
The streets of D.C. were familiar, buzzing with late-afternoon foot traffic, the courthouse looming behind you. The two of you didn’t need to ask where to go—you both already knew. There was a bar, only a few blocks away, where you’d spent too many evenings bent over files together, arguing over strategy, sipping whiskey while waiting for the copy clerk to run depositions.
Back then, it had been professional. Mostly. There were moments you’d caught yourself staring too long at the line of his jaw when he loosened his tie. Moments when his sighs about Hailey had stretched too long, heavy with fatigue, and you’d wanted to reach across the table to touch his hand. You never did. But the wanting never quite left.
The short walk to the bar was quiet, filled only with the rhythm of footsteps and the weight of memory pressing between you.
When you stepped inside, the smell of wood polish and whiskey hit you, achingly familiar. It was the same as you remembered—dim lighting, leather booths, dark-stained floors. You could almost see your younger self at the corner table, notebook open, Aaron across from you in a crisp shirt and weary expression.
Without speaking, you both headed to that very booth, sliding into your usual places like no time had passed at all. You sat opposite each other, your bags set aside, your posture deliberately professional, though your body thrummed with awareness.
A waitress approached, smiling politely. Aaron didn’t look at the menu. “Scotch,” he said, his voice firm, low. “Neat.”
You hesitated only a second. “Same.”
When the waitress left, silence stretched between you. Comfortable, and yet not. Heavy. You traced your finger idly along the rim of the glass of water already at the table.
He was the one to break it. “You’ve done well,” he said quietly, his gaze steady on you. “In there today. You had me cornered twice.”
You let out a small laugh, though it came out thinner than you intended. “That’s only because you taught me half my tricks. Honestly, I was just waiting to use them on you someday.”
His brow ticked up a fraction. “And you did.” He lifted his glass when the drinks arrived, fingers long and deliberate against the cut crystal. “You always were persistent.”
You clinked your glass lightly against his, your eyes catching his. “You never made it easy.”
The scotch burned as it went down, sharp and smoky, loosening the tension in your shoulders, though it did nothing to soften the way Aaron’s gaze felt pinned to you. He was studying you—like always—profiling, cataloguing, dissecting.
You tried to match it, even though it made your chest ache. “And you?” you asked. “You left prosecution for the Bureau, then the BAU. That’s… not the path I thought you’d take.”
His lips pressed together before he answered. “It was the right choice. Most days.” A pause. “The job’s… consuming.”
You tilted your head. “And Hailey?” The name came out gently, careful, as if you weren’t supposed to say it.
Aaron’s gaze flickered, just for a moment, to the condensation on his glass. “She’s good,” he said finally, his voice low, firm. “Jack’s two now. She deserves more than I give her, but she’s patient.”
You nodded, unsure how to respond, your chest tightening at the quiet guilt in his tone. He shifted, his eyes returning to you, and the air between you thickened again.
“So,” he said, voice softer now, “you’re married.” He asked again.
Your fingers brushed unconsciously over the band on your hand. “Yes. Samuel.” You smiled faintly, trying to make it sound full. “We’ve been married for a few years.”
Aaron nodded once, measured. “That’s good.”
But you saw it—the way his throat worked, the faint twitch of his jaw. He was trying too hard to keep his face neutral.
And under the table, your leg bounced restlessly, betraying the storm building inside you.
The first drink disappeared too easily, the burn of scotch warming your chest and loosening your tongue. By the second, conversation flowed like it used to—fluid, effortless, the old rhythm between you resurfacing as if no years had passed at all.
You swapped stories—cases you’d handled since you’d parted ways, ridiculous moments from the courthouse, the kind of nostalgia that made the corners of his mouth soften in ways you rarely saw.
Aaron Hotchner smiling was… dangerous. The weight of his usual composure meant that even the faintest curve of his lips hit harder than a belly laugh from anyone else. You watched it unfold slowly, his expression unspooling with each sip of whiskey, until you realized you were staring.
He leaned back in the booth, tie loosened, jacket folded neatly at his side. His shoulders—usually tight with tension—looked broader without that perpetual rigidity, and it hit you how different he seemed in this dim, amber light. Less SSA Hotchner. More Aaron.
You weren’t drunk. Not really. Tipsy, maybe. Just enough to feel bold, to let your guard slip when he asked, “Back then… did you ever resent me? For pushing you so hard?”
You blinked, startled by the question, then laughed lightly. “Resent you? No. If anything, I probably admired you too much.” The words slipped out before you could stop them. “Hell, I had such a crush on you it was embarrassing.”
The air stilled.
You immediately froze, heat rushing to your cheeks, your fingers tightening around your glass. “I—forget I said that. Scotch makes me honest. Too honest.”
But Aaron didn’t frown, didn’t look uncomfortable. He only watched you with that piercing steadiness of his, the ghost of a smile tugging at his lips. Not mocking, not cruel. Understanding. Confirming. Like you’d just proved something he’d always suspected.
Your heart thudded.
He didn’t say the words, but the flicker in his dark eyes said enough: maybe it hadn’t been one-sided.
“You always did underestimate yourself,” he murmured finally, voice low, almost intimate despite the crowded hum of the bar around you. “You were better than you gave yourself credit for.”
You exhaled, trying to ground yourself. The words weren’t overtly suggestive, but with his gaze steady on you, they felt like a caress. You tried to joke it off, swirling the amber liquid in your glass. “You’re deflecting. I just admitted a crush, and you’re giving me a performance review.”
That earned the faintest chuckle, and God help you, it was warm, rich, and nothing like the clipped tones you usually heard in a courtroom.
“I suppose I am,” he said softly. “Old habits.”
The third drink arrived. Neither of you needed it, but neither of you stopped it. The nostalgia had become its own intoxication, pulling you closer to something you’d never dared touch.
By the time you set your glass down again, you realized his hand had drifted closer across the table, fingers tapping idly near yours. Not quite touching, but close enough that the heat of him brushed your skin.
Your chest tightened. You knew you should pull back. You were married. He was married. This was dangerous territory, the kind of blurred line that could unravel everything. And yet—
“Aaron,” you said, his name softer than you meant it to be, slipping past your lips like a secret.
His eyes flicked to yours, sharp, unreadable. He didn’t look away. “You haven’t called me that in years.”
“Felt strange not to,” you admitted.
The pause that followed was thick, weighted with everything unsaid. With every memory of late nights in this very booth, papers scattered between you, shoulders brushing when you leaned too close, laughter spilling out at hours you should’ve been home. With every unspoken thought you’d buried, and every one he might have buried too.
Finally, he leaned in, elbows resting on the table, voice quiet but firm. “If what you felt back then had been… different—if I’d crossed a line—would you have told me?”
The question hit you square in the chest. You swallowed, your throat dry despite the scotch. “Yes. I would’ve. But you didn’t.”
A flicker of something—relief? Or disappointment?—passed over his features. He sat back, but the tension didn’t ease.
Your knees brushed beneath the table, just barely, but the spark of contact made your stomach flip. He didn’t move away. Neither did you.
The lines were blurring.
And in the back of your mind, a single thought repeated, dangerous and insistent: maybe it was never just you.
The air had changed. Not in a bad way. In a dangerous way.
Aaron shifted his weight, lifting his glass and setting it down again before sliding across the booth. He found some excuse—too loud in here, or easier to hear you this way—but you both knew that wasn’t it. He settled beside you, close enough that his shoulder brushed the back of the leather seat, close enough that the warmth of him reached your skin. Still a sliver of space between you. Not nearly enough for professionalism.
Your pulse jumped.
His fingers tapped idly against the side of his glass, the sound barely audible over the low hum of the bar. Then, without warning, he said it. Quiet. Measured. Like he’d already weighed every possible outcome.
“I felt the same way,” he admitted. “Back then. Hell—” his jaw flexed as he looked away briefly, “even now.”
Your whole body went still.
Now? Back then too?
The words jammed in your throat. You wanted to demand he explain himself, to rewind and make sure you’d heard correctly, but all you could manage was a strangled laugh. “You’re drunk.”
It came out lighter than you intended, a half-joke, a plea to brush it aside.
But his eyes turned back to you, steady and unflinching, and you realized—no. He wasn’t drunk. Tipsy, maybe, his edges softened. But not careless. Not this.
“I’m serious,” he said, and his voice was low enough that you felt it as much as heard it. “It’s wrong. I know that. I’ve told myself that a hundred times. But being here with you again… it’s brought back every feeling I tried to suppress. All the what ifs.”
The air in your lungs thinned.
Your gaze darted to his hand—the one resting on the table, fingers flexing like he needed to hold something, ground himself. And then, slowly, carefully, he shifted. His hand slid beneath the table, over the edge of the seat, until his palm rested against your thigh.
Not forceful. Testing. Waiting.
Your heart pounded, every nerve alive under his touch. You could’ve moved his hand. Should’ve. But you didn’t.
And that was answer enough.
You didn’t look down. You looked at him. His face was a storm—brows furrowed, lips pressed in a hard line, like he was wrestling himself even as his thumb brushed, feather-light, against your leg.
“You shouldn’t let me do this,” he murmured, the words more confession than command.
“I know,” you whispered. Your voice cracked, and you hated how much you meant it. “But you’re doing it anyway.”
His throat worked as he swallowed, eyes darting to your lips for the briefest second before he forced himself back to meet your gaze. “You’re married. I’m married. If this goes too far—” He stopped, shook his head, the muscles in his jaw straining. “We’ll hurt people who don’t deserve it.”
His hand didn’t move. Neither did yours.
The silence stretched, full of every rational reason to stop and every irrational reason not to.
“Aaron…” You said his name softly, tasting it like it was forbidden.
He closed his eyes for a moment, like the sound alone was enough to undo him. When they opened again, the restraint was still there, but fraying at the edges.
“I should get us out of here,” he muttered, voice rougher than before. “Before I forget myself.”
But he didn’t move. Not yet. His hand stayed firm on your thigh, thumb tracing the barest circle, every pass more dangerous than the last.
The line was so thin now, you could barely see it.
And for the first time all night, you weren’t sure you wanted to.
His gaze dropped to your mouth. You didn’t even realize your own eyes had flicked to his until the air between you tightened, pulling you forward before either of you could think better of it.
“This is a bad idea,” you whispered, a final protest, weak and already crumbling.
“I know,” he breathed back—then his mouth was on yours.
The kiss was instant, searing, like it had been waiting years to happen. His lips pressed hard, parting yours, and the taste of him, scotch, heat, and something unmistakably Aaron—filled your senses. You pushed a hand against his chest, palm meeting the firm plane beneath his white shirt, not to hold him away but to steady yourself. His own hand clamped on your thigh, tight, anchoring himself to you, like he needed the contact just to stay grounded.
The kiss deepened quickly. Your mouths moving together like you’d done this a thousand times, like your bodies had always known the rhythm even if you’d denied it. His tongue swept against yours, coaxing, claiming. When his teeth caught your bottom lip, the sharp sting made you gasp, and his tongue soothed over it immediately, deliberate, possessive.
When he finally pulled back, it wasn’t far. His forehead rested against yours, both of you breathing hard, muttering against each other’s mouths.
“This is a mistake,” you murmured.
“Terrible mistake,” he agreed, his breath ragged. His voice dropped, rough and low. “But it feels too good.”
And you hated how much you agreed. “It does.”
That was all it took for him to kiss you again—rougher, hungrier. The kind of kiss that made your stomach drop and your thighs tense. His hand shifted higher, sliding along the inside of your thigh, and you parted your legs without meaning to, a silent invitation that had his grip tightening.
His fingers grazed over your panties, right at the damp spot you didn’t have the strength to hide. The sound he made was guttural, breaking into the kiss as he pressed his mouth harder to yours.
Then he pulled back, lips trailing against your jaw until he found the slope of your neck. He kissed once, then again, slower, open-mouthed, his breath hot against your skin.
“So wet,” he whispered against your pulse, the words making you melt into him. “And I haven’t even done anything.”
Your laugh came out broken, trembling. “This is nothing?”
His reply was a groan, low and dangerous. He slid his hand beneath the lace, fingers slipping against you, and the heat of his skin against yours made your hips jerk.
“God,” he hissed, his restraint fraying audibly. “You’re soaked.” His voice dropped to a warning growl. “Tell me to stop right now… or I’ll show you exactly what I can do.”
Every rational part of your brain screamed to pull back. But your body, your heart, every reckless part of you—the part that had waited years for this—burned hotter than reason.
You didn’t say stop.
Instead, your hand fisted in his shirt, dragging him closer, your voice hoarse with want. “Don’t stop.”
For a moment, his whole body went taut. His mouth pressed hard against your neck, like he was punishing himself for what he was about to do, then his lips ghosted up to your ear.
“You have no idea what you’ve just agreed to,” he whispered.
His fingers slid deeper, teasing, testing, and you were already trembling beneath his touch.
His fingers grazed against the lace again, lingering, teasing. The pressure was just enough to make your breath catch, your thighs clenching before you forced yourself to relax.
He lifted his head from your neck, eyes dark, his voice dropping into that low, commanding register you’d heard countless times in a courtroom and briefing room—but never like this.
“Do you want me to touch you?”
God. He was so good. Even now, in this dim corner booth of the bar, his control was absolute. He didn’t move until you nodded, until you gave him permission.
“Yes,” you whispered, barely audible.
That wasn’t enough for him. His hand stilled completely, his stare burning into yours. “I need to hear you say it.”
Your pulse was racing, heat coiling tight in your stomach. “I want you to touch me.”
The faintest smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth—satisfaction, victory, restraint all tangled together. “Good girl.”
The words nearly undid you.
He slipped his hand back under the hem of your skirt, slower this time, deliberate, like he was savoring every inch of skin he uncovered. When he reached your panties again, his fingers slid beneath, and then—finally—inside.
You gasped, gripping the edge of the seat.
“Try to stay quiet,” he murmured, his lips brushing your ear, hot breath making you shiver. “Can you do that for me?”
You nodded frantically, opening your legs wider, giving him the access you’d ached for.
“That’s it,” he coaxed, his voice low and husky. Two fingers eased into you, stretching you just enough to make your body jolt forward against his hand. “So fucking tight.”
A whimper escaped your throat, and his other hand was suddenly on your jaw, tilting your face toward him, his eyes sharp even as his fingers worked you. “Shh. Eyes on me. Don’t give us away.”
The demand made your pulse throb harder between your legs. You tried to bite your lip, but it only seemed to please him.
“Already soaking my hand,” he muttered, curling his fingers inside you, finding a spot that made your hips jerk. “You came in here looking so put together, and here you are—falling apart on my fingers.”
“Hotch—” You choked on his name, muffling it against your hand.
“Say it again.” His tone wasn’t a request. His pace quickened, the heel of his palm pressing against your clit now, building pressure so fast it left you dizzy.
“Aaron—” The word broke out of you, sharper this time, and his eyes flashed dark.
“That’s better.” He leaned closer, his lips brushing your temple, his voice low enough for only you to hear. “Let me feel you come. Right here. Right now. For me.”
Your head tipped back against the booth, legs trembling, every nerve set on fire as his fingers moved faster, deeper, ruthless but precise. The sound of your breath came ragged, barely contained, and you felt yourself tightening around him, right on the edge of giving him exactly what he wanted—
You dug your nails into the fabric of his sleeve with one hand and the edge of the table with the other. His fingers curled just right inside you, stroking with deliberate precision that made your entire body tremble against the booth.
“God—” you choked out, your voice barely above a whisper.
“Quiet,” Hotch breathed against your ear, his lips grazing your skin, his tone equal parts warning and coaxing. The smirk tugging at his mouth betrayed how much he was enjoying your struggle to keep still, to keep silent. His pace didn’t falter, his fingers pumping, curling, pressing until your legs shook.
He angled his head closer, so close that his words seemed to settle inside your head instead of your ears.
“I used to think about this,” he said, low, filthy, confessional. “Back then… late nights in the office. You leaning over my desk, giving me that look. I wanted to bend you over it and fuck you until you couldn’t speak.”
Your whole body seized at his words, a wave of heat crashing through you so fast you almost lost it right then. You bit down on your lip hard enough to taste blood, muffling the moan clawing up your throat.
“That’s it,” he praised, curling his fingers harder, dragging the pads over that spot inside you that made your thighs clench around his wrist. “Good girl. Taking me so well. So damn wet for me already.”
Your head fell against his shoulder, eyes squeezing shut as you tried to breathe through it. “Aaron…” you whispered, desperate.
“Say my name again,” he demanded, his voice darker, filthier now. His thumb pressed against your clit, circling, rubbing in ruthless rhythm to the stroke of his fingers. “Let everyone else sit here drinking while you come apart on my hand. No one has to know.”
You whimpered, your nails digging into his arm. “Please—”
“Please what?” he pressed, almost taunting, though his hand never slowed. “Please don’t stop? Please make you come? Tell me what you want.”
“Please don’t stop,” you finally gasped, the words strangled between clenched teeth.
He groaned softly at that, his lips brushing down your jaw, kissing your neck like he’d been starved for the taste of you. “I knew you’d sound like this when you begged. Knew you’d be this tight around me.”
The coil in your stomach snapped tight, unbearable, and you felt your climax rushing up too fast, threatening to spill over right there in the corner of the bar.
He felt it—of course he did. His smirk deepened against your throat, and his fingers drove harder, faster, mercilessly precise. “Come for me,” he ordered, voice ragged but steady. “Now. Let me feel it.”
That was all it took.
You bit down on his shoulder, muffling the sharp cry that tore out of you as your body convulsed, your walls clenching around his fingers, pulsing, soaking his hand. He held you through it, arm steady around your waist, keeping you from falling apart completely in public as he worked you through wave after wave.
“Fuck—” you gasped against him, shuddering, your thighs trembling violently under the table.
“That’s it,” he soothed, pulling his fingers out slowly, obscenely slick. His voice dropped again, that mix of dominance and tenderness. “You did so well. Came so hard for me.”
When your eyes finally fluttered open, his gaze was locked on you—dark, hungry, and still not satisfied. He brought his glistening fingers to his mouth, tongue sliding over them slowly, deliberately, like he was savoring every drop.
“Tastes even better than I imagined,” he murmured, low enough for only you to hear.
Your whole body burned, the bar around you suddenly spinning. Because this was only the beginning.
His voice was low, steady, but his eyes betrayed him—dark, unguarded.
“We should get out of here,” he said, not a question but a quiet command. His hand squeezed your thigh once before slipping away. “Together. My hotel room.”
The weight of the words settled heavy in your chest, dangerous and thrilling. You nodded, breathless. “Okay.”
You shifted in the booth, smoothing down your skirt, making sure you didn’t look like someone who’d just been finger-fucked into silence in a bar corner. Hotch slid out first, his hand brushing yours in a fleeting touch, and then you both slipped outside into the night.
A taxi waited by the curb as if it had been conjured for you. He raised a hand, flagged it down, and opened the door, letting you slip in first. He followed immediately, his thigh pressed to yours as the cab pulled away from the curb.
The ride was a cage of tension. The hum of the engine, the city lights streaking past, the driver oblivious—none of it mattered compared to the heat between you. His hand found yours again, his thumb flexing over your knuckles like he couldn’t let go. The other hand rested on your thigh, deceptively casual, though the strength in his grip betrayed his restraint.
Neither of you spoke. Every word unsaid filled the silence, charged the air. You tried to steady your breathing, but the pulse in your throat gave you away. He felt it too—his jaw tight, his gaze fixed on the city outside like he was forcing himself not to look at you.
Luckily, the hotel wasn’t far.
When the cab stopped, he paid quickly, the bill folded and shoved toward the driver with barely a glance. Then his hand slid into yours again, this time more deliberate. He didn’t just hold it—he claimed it, tugging you out of the cab, up the steps of the hotel, through the lobby.
It was late, and the desk clerks barely looked up, but even if they had, there would’ve been no mistaking it: the purposeful stride of a man on a mission.
In the elevator, the silence became unbearable. His hand stayed locked around yours, his palm warm, his grip firm, flexing every so often like he was testing his own restraint. The hum of the elevator was the only sound, but the tension was deafening.
You finally broke it with a whisper. “Aaron…”
His head turned, his eyes sharp, unreadable. “If you tell me to stop now, I will.”
Your breath caught. You searched his face for hesitation, but there was none. Only hunger and restraint, at war inside him. “I don’t want you to stop.”
His hand squeezed yours, hard. “Good.”
The doors opened with a ding, and then it was a blur: his key card, the click of the lock, the push of the door. He barely got it shut before his mouth was on yours.
The kiss wasn’t tentative like in the bar—it was hungry, commanding. His hand fisted in your hair, tilting your head to deepen it, while the other flattened against your back, dragging you into him. You gasped into his mouth, your fingers scrambling against his chest, the crisp white shirt already wrinkling under your grip.
He pressed you to the door, his body caging yours in, the sharp line of his arousal already hard against your hip. His kiss was consuming, his tongue sweeping into your mouth like he’d been starving for this.
You broke the kiss for a breath, panting. “Aaron—”
“Do you have any idea,” he cut you off, voice low, rough, “how many nights I imagined this? How many times I thought about pulling you into my office, locking the door, and having you like this?”
Your knees buckled, but his grip held you up, his hand sliding down your body to clutch your ass, pulling you against the hard length straining against his trousers.
“Tell me,” he demanded, his lips grazing your jaw, hot against your skin. “Tell me you thought about it too.”
Your head fell back as his mouth traced down your neck, teeth grazing just enough to make you shiver. “I did,” you whispered, breath hitching. “I thought about it all the time.”
A low groan rumbled in his chest, vibrating against your throat. His hand slipped under your skirt, fingers gripping your thigh possessively. “Then tonight,” he growled, “you’re mine.”
He kissed you again, rougher this time, tongue and teeth and desperation. His hands roamed like he couldn’t decide where to touch first—your hips, your waist, your breasts—like he wanted all of you at once.
And you let him. You wanted nothing else.
You were both desperate. The air between you was thick with need, the scent of him—the crisp, sharp tang of his cologne, the warmth of his body pressed against yours—driving your senses wild.
“God, you’ve wanted this as much as I have,” he growled, fingers gripping your hips tightly, dragging you closer. “Look at me… tell me you’ve wanted me.”
“I’ve wanted you,” you gasped, arching into him. “Every single day.”
A low, guttural noise rumbled from his chest, vibrating against you. His lips crashed down on yours again, teeth grazing yours in a rough, possessive kiss. You moaned into his mouth, the sound muffled, and it only seemed to fuel him.
“You feel so good,” he whispered against your neck, lips nipping and sucking along the sensitive skin. “So wet, so tight… God, I’ve thought about this for years. About bending you over my desk, about making you mine when no one else is watching.”
Your hands went under his shirt, gripping the firm planes of his chest, nails digging in as you pressed yourself fully against him. He groaned, a deep, dark sound that sent shivers down your spine, and tugged at your hair, tilting your head back to expose your throat.
“You’re mine tonight,” he growled, voice low and dangerous. “Do you understand me?”
“Yes,” you breathed, your body trembling with need. “Please…”
He smirked against your skin, and the hand that had been on your hip slid down, rough and demanding, slipping under your panties, fingers teasing and pressing against your core. The friction alone made your back arch off the bed.
“You’re so fucking wet for me,” he murmured, thrusting one finger inside, curling it expertly to make you moan into his mouth. “All this time… and you were thinking about me too. Every night. Huh?”
“Yeah,” you choked out. “Always… you.”
His mouth trailed lower, teeth grazing your collarbone, tongue flicking over the spot that made you gasp. “Tell me how much you need me,” he demanded, hand working faster, curling and pressing with a rhythm that had your knees threatening to buckle.
“I… need… you,” you whispered, trembling, voice breaking, fingers clawing at his shoulders.
“That’s it,” he growled, thrusting two fingers in deeper, curling them expertly, making your hips lift off the bed. “So tight. So perfect for me. You feel so fucking good. God, I want to bury myself inside you.”
The desperation in his voice, the way his eyes darkened with hunger, made your body shiver uncontrollably. You were his. And he was yours in every sense.
He pulled back for a breath, his mouth inches from yours, eyes blazing. “Do you want me inside you? Tell me—say it. Tell me you’re mine.”
“Yes,” you gasped. “Please. I want you. I’m yours.”
A sharp grin tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Good girl,” he murmured, thrusting two fingers in harder, curling inside you, thumb circling your clit with merciless precision. “God… you’re going to come for me, aren’t you? You’re going to let me make you come like this?”
“Yes,” you moaned, body arching, walls tightening around him as your climax threatened to take you.
He groaned, brushing his lips across your jaw, teeth grazing your earlobe. “Then come for me,” he whispered, voice low and filthy. “Come all over my fingers. Let me see how good you are for me.”
Your body shuddered, back arching, legs trembling as you teetered on the edge. He watched you, smirk dark and possessive, as he drove you harder, faster, expertly teasing you closer to release.
You felt the heat of his gaze as he withdrew his fingers, licking them clean with that low, guttural sound that sent shivers down your spine. The moment he freed himself, you saw him fully—thick, hard, heavy, straining with need. Your breath hitched, your chest rising and falling as your body prepared itself for him.
Without a word, he positioned himself between your legs, and the first inch of him pressed against you. You tried to suppress a moan at the delicious stretch, the overwhelming sensation of him finally inside you, but his hand on your hip kept you pinned.
“Don’t hold it in,” he growled, voice low, dark, commanding. “I want to hear you. I want to know how much you want me.”
Your body betrayed you, shuddering as a soft, needy moan escaped. “Aaron… please…”
“Good,” he whispered, pressing deeper, inch by inch until he was fully seated inside you. “Feels so fucking good. You’re so tight, so perfect for me.”
You trembled beneath him, hips tilting, trying to adjust to the stretch, and he leaned closer, pressing his forehead to yours. His hands gripped your hips with unrelenting strength, fingers digging into your skin as he started to move.
“God, look at you,” he growled, thrusting in slow, punishing strokes. “So wet, so ready. All these years, I thought about this… about having you like this, and now—you’re mine.”
You gasped, your hands gripping his shoulders, nails digging in as he slammed into you with a rhythm that left you breathless. His pace was rough, relentless, and filthy, but every movement was calculated to make you feel stretched, claimed, and utterly his.
“You like that, don’t you?” he demanded, his voice rough, a low growl vibrating against your ear. “You like me fucking you like this?”
“Yes… yes, Aaron,” you moaned, hips meeting his with every hard stroke. “Feels… so good…”
“That’s it,” he hissed, thrusting faster, deeper, his hands roaming your body with control and dominance. One palm gripped your jaw, tilting your head so he could kiss you roughly, teeth grazing, tongue sliding, marking you in every way he could. “Look at me when you come… I want to see it. I want to hear it.”
Your body shuddered as the coil in your stomach tightened, the sensations building into something unbearable. He leaned even closer, voice low, harsh, filthy.
“You’re mine,” he growled, each thrust deeper than the last. “All mine. I’ve wanted this for so long. Take it—take me like you’ve always wanted.”
“I… I want… you,” you moaned, voice trembling as he slammed into you, his hips punishingly hard, dragging groans from deep in your chest. “Please… don’t stop.”
He smirked against your lips, thrusting one last time before slowing slightly, letting you feel every inch of him as he whispered, rough and dirty, “You’re driving me insane… so wet, so ready. God, I’m going to make you scream my name.”
Your thighs shook around him, every nerve screaming, and he leaned down, teeth grazing your shoulder, lips sucking, marking, whispering filthy promises. His hands gripped you like he couldn’t let you go, and each controlled, punishing thrust pushed you closer to that edge you couldn’t resist.
His hands gripped your hips and then, with a controlled push, he flipped you over, pressing you against the bed and positioning himself behind you. The moment he nudged inside, your body jolted at the stretch, the fullness, the relentless thrusting that followed.
“God, you’re so tight,” he growled, slapping your ass hard, making you gasp and see stars. “You feel so good. So fucking good, and all mine.”
You couldn’t stop the moan that tore from your throat, louder than anything you’d ever uttered, and it only seemed to fuel him. His hands roamed over your body, one palm gripping your waist, the other slapping, kneading, marking.
“Take it,” he hissed, voice low and commanding. “Take all of me. Don’t hold anything back.”
“Yes… Aaron,” you gasped, arching into him, desperate for more. Every thrust sent fire through your body, the bed squeaking beneath your movements, your nails digging into the sheets.
He drove into you harder, faster, each stroke deep and punishing. “So wet… so fucking tight. You’ve wanted this too long. You’ve wanted me like this,” he growled, his voice rough, every word dragging a shiver down your spine.
“I… I’ve wanted you… forever,” you moaned, unable to stop the words from spilling out. “Please… don’t stop.”
He smirked, gripping your waist, fingers pressing into the sensitive flesh of your ass. “Oh, I’m not stopping,” he muttered, each thrust grinding into you deep enough to make your toes curl. “I’m going to make you come all over me. Every inch of you belongs to me right now.”
You trembled, your body teetering on the edge, every nerve screaming for release. The force of him, the roughness, the filthy heat of his words, the way he controlled and dominated—it pushed you closer than you’d ever been.
“You’re going to feel me fill you,” he said, voice dropping lower, filthy, dark. “Feel me breeding you, taking everything you’ve been holding back. You feel that? You’re mine, and I’m not letting go.”
“Yes…” you whimpered, your walls tightening around him, hips pushing back to meet every punishing stroke. “Yes, Aaron… I’m yours… please—”
“Good girl,” he hissed, slapping your ass again. “You take me so well. God, look at you, moaning my name, taking all of me. You’re going to come with me.”
The sensation built faster, every thrust driving you higher, the intensity of him behind you, his hands gripping you with ownership, slapping and marking, while his words kept you grounded in the filth of the moment.
“I’m so close… Aaron—please,” you gasped, voice trembling, body shaking as the heat in your core coiled tighter and tighter.
“You feel that?” he growled, teeth grazing your neck, whispering filthy promises. “That’s me filling you… mine. Come with me. Come with me now.”
And then the world shattered.
Your walls clamped down, a shudder ripping through you, pulling him with you as your climax hit—hard, relentless, a tide of heat and trembling that left you breathless and trembling. He groaned deep in your ear, chest raking against yours, his own release following seconds after, thrusts deep, hard, breeding into you as he let out a guttural roar of need and dominance.
The two of you shuddered together, bodies entwined, sweaty, gasping, the bed shaking beneath the force of your shared climax. His hands stayed on your hips, chest pressed to your back, voice low and rough as he murmured, “You’re mine… all mine. God, you feel so fucking good.”
The room was silent except for your ragged breaths and the wet, heavy proof of everything that had just happened. Even after the release, his hands didn’t leave you—anchoring, claiming, Dom and protective in that way only Aaron Hotchner could be.
The heat of him inside you had barely faded when he pulled out, leaving you both trembling and slick, your bodies humming from the intensity. Instead of moving away, he immediately shifted, curling around you, pressing your back into his chest.
“Shh…” he murmured, one arm slung possessively across your waist, the other brushing your hair back from your face. His lips pressed to your forehead, soft, deliberate, grounding. “You’re okay. I’ve got you.”
You melted into him, the tension leaving your body in waves as his chest rose and fell against yours. You could feel his heartbeat under your cheek, steady and strong, the solid anchor you’d always known him to be.
“You’re… so gentle,” you whispered, breath still uneven. “After… that.”
His lips curved in a faint smile against your temple. “Gentle where it counts,” he murmured, voice low, warm. “I need to make sure you’re okay. That’s… important.”
You tilted your head back to meet his gaze. Even with his Dom, commanding side earlier, there was this… tenderness now. This care. It made your chest tighten in a different way than desire had. “Aaron… shouldn’t we… feel guilty?” you asked, voice small.
He pressed another kiss to your temple before letting it linger on your forehead. “We’re… married,” he said quietly, and there was a pause, a sigh that rumbled in his chest. “We should. But right now… I’m only worried about you. About how you feel. About making sure you’re safe. That you’re… okay.”
You nuzzled into his chest, inhaling the scent of him—the familiar, grounding cologne that had always reminded you of long office nights, mentoring sessions, late coffee-fueled talks—and shook your head. “I don’t feel guilty,” you admitted, the confession soft, almost ashamed. “Not even a little.”
He hummed, pressing his forehead to the back of yours. “I don’t either,” he admitted. “I… I wanted this too long. And I can’t pretend otherwise.”
Your hand found his, fingers intertwining with his as you rested against him. His hand on your hip flexed lightly, thumb brushing over your skin in absent-minded reassurance. “You’re mine,” he murmured, voice low, controlled, but still warm. “Even now, after… everything.”
“I’m yours,” you whispered back, breath shaky, heart pounding. “Even though we… shouldn’t be.”
He tightened his arm around you, holding you like you were fragile glass, like he could keep you from breaking apart if he just held you long enough. “Then we’ll just… enjoy this moment,” he murmured, voice almost reverent. “Because… right now, nothing else matters. Not the world outside, not the rules… just us.”
The room was quiet except for your breathing, the rhythm of his heartbeat, and the faint hum of the city beyond the windows. Your hands roamed over his chest, feeling the firmness, the tension still lingering in his muscles, evidence of the rough heat moments ago.
“You’re incredible,” he whispered, voice thick, his lips brushing along your temple again. “God… you’re amazing.”
You let yourself smile against him, feeling safe, cherished, and completely consumed at once. “You too,” you murmured. “You’re… everything.”
He kissed the top of your head, soft, grounding, and for the first time since the night began, there was nothing filthy, nothing commanding. Only warmth, care, and the shared understanding of everything you’d just done—and everything you both still felt.
“You’re okay,” he repeated, as if saying it would make it real. “And I’ll keep you okay. Always.”
And in that moment, lying tangled in his arms, both of you still caught in the aftermath of lust, desire, and secret longing, there was no guilt. Only the quiet, undeniable truth that sometimes what was forbidden could feel… exactly like home.
a/n: I’m soooo sorry Hailey Hotchner you don’t deserve this queen. But….Your husband’s so hot.