His apartment is too quiet.

It's the first thing he notices when he steps over the threshold, hears the door close behind him. Jessica has Jack for the evening – easier than worrying about timing, getting Jack settled and into bed or up the next morning – but he actually feels the silence. It's deafening.

He hasn't had silence all weekend. Not really. Emily'd been in town, their standing arrangement when they can finally schedule a weekend. She'd flown in Friday afternoon and met him at the Ritz-Carleton in Georgetown.

And they'd spent the weekend together.

. . . . .

He steps in to find her there already, curled up in a chair by the open balcony doors. Washington's been lucky with summer this year, the right mix of hot and cool. She's taking advantage of it, it seems, her hair fluttering in the gentle breeze from the open balcony doors. Her smile is this wide, beautiful thing that he will never get used to and he's across the room before he knows he's moving. The book in her hands falls soundlessly to the plush carpet, her chin tilting up to accept his kiss.

He has every intention of making it gentle, greeting, but the moment his mouth touches hers he plunders. He can't help himself, he thinks. He hasn't seen her in too long and to finally have her here, to touch her, smell her, taste her… his control isn't what it should be.

Not that she really seems to mind. Her hand comes up to wrap around his neck, slipping into the little hairs at the base of his skull. His body relaxes at the touch, one that is almost a habit. He breaks the kiss to draw her to her feet, to get his hands on her waist and her hips, down over her ass.

"I missed you," he whispers.

"I've missed you too," she replies, equally as soft. "Now take me to bed."

He had, of course. He can still feel her under his hands, taste her on his tongue. He leans back against the door his eyes closing.

He'd woken up without her. Which isn't all that normal when they have these weekends together. She has a habit of curling up next to him, staying there. But she's not there when he wakes. He panics, just a little, not a lot, but enough. Right up until she steps out of the bathroom, a cloud of vanilla and he has to catch his breath. Her eyes glitter as she chuckles, a low seductive noise. The bra is black lace, the panties plain black. But it's the garter belt and stockings that catch his eyes.

"Stop," she says. "We have reservations and I'm not going to miss them. The restaurant is supposed to be amazing and we've only had room service."

He'd anticipated feeling shame at the idea, the concept that their visits are basically weekends spent mostly naked around a hotel suite, expected to feel like there would be a confrontation following that moment of realization. But Emily doesn't seem angry about it, and it certainly doesn't feel like she's trying to push an issue. It feels like she wants to go out, she wants to show off. And as he watches her pull a dress from the closet, as he thinks about going down to the restaurant with her, as he thinks about eating with her, the people in that restaurant seeing them together.

A real couple.

His heart thumps hard the same time his blood starts pumping. The smiles blossoms wide and unrestrained over his face.

"What?" Emily asks, the laughter still in her voice.

He climbs from the bed then, wraps her up and kisses her. He plunders her mouth, allows his hands to spread over her back.

"Play nice," she murmurs. "We are going to dinner."

"Oh yes," he says. "Yes we are."

. . . . .

And it had been wonderful. Easy dinner, easy talk, knowing that the eyes were on them. They'd been every wonderful cliché, right down to the little old lady next to them leaning over to Emily to tell her they made such a wonderful couple.

He can see the sparkle in her eye, the smile on her face. He can feel the easy way she reaches for him, the gentle touch of her fingers over his. He can remember the mischief on her face as she stole a piece of asparagus from his plate.

It had been perfect. It had felt normal. Like they went to dinner all the time rather than sharing a meal in stolen seconds between rounds.

And then they'd taken the rest of their wine upstairs.

. . . . .

They mean to finish the wine. They really do. It doesn't happen that way of course – they end up naked and tangled on the couch first – but eventually she lifts herself off of him with a languid sort of movement that almost has him ready to go again. Instead, she slips into the bedroom. He hears the shower and lets himself drift until she drops sweatpants on his chest.

"Neither of us are ready for the next round," she tells him with a sparkle in her eyes that makes him think that's only true for one of them. "Put some clothes on, Agent Hotchner."

He chuckles but does as she asks, following her to the tiny table by the balcony. Washington shines out there, that breeze from earlier brushing against his bare skin. He sees her shiver, just a little in her camisole and panties and worries for a moment about getting her a robe before she shoots him a smoldering look.

Oh.

Not cold then.

He laughs, lets his hand brush over her ass as she pours the wine. Then he settles across from her, very much like they had been in the restaurant – with much, much less clothing – and they talk.

As much as he loves the sex, as creative as they can get, as amazing as it is to show her how he feels, he thinks he likes the talking best. He's still getting used to it in some ways, the ease of confiding in her, the way he doesn't have to, and just flagrantly doesn't, hide from Emily the way he'd started to hide from Haley during the later years of their marriage. They talk about the team, about the personality changes, the consistencies, the cases. She tells him everything she can about the cases she works, about Interpol and the people she meets there. She's thriving, of course, she always does and he is so, so proud of her.

It's her foot that starts it. It's a gentle brush, realistically barely even a touch, but it shoots through him. The thrill heats to arousal, even as he listens to her describe getting a rookie drunk. She tucks her toes beneath the elastic leg of his sweats, dances it over his anklebone. He feels the smile dancing at the corner of his mouth as he watches her, as he lets the arousal build with the slow climb of her foot along his calf.

He catches her hand as she waves it about, runs his thumb over her palm. Her eyes heat, spark, flare and he bites his cheek against the grin that wants to explode over his face. Instead, he dances his fingers over her wrist, up the sensitive skin of her inner arm. She slides her foot further up his leg in a sort of retaliation. He draws circles on her wrist, brings her hand to his mouth and watches the shiver skate down her spine. The arousal flares as he watches it rise in her, as his mouth brushes against her wrist, as he presses his tongue to her pulse point.

"Hotch."

He hums acknowledgement, but doesn't stop the way his mouth presses against her skin. Her foot drops from his leg, only to appear a moment later between his thighs, brushing just right. He gasps, can't help the way his eyes flutter for a moment. The triumph in hers is short lived as he grips her ankle with his free hand. He pushes her foot back to the floor and ignores her pout as he draws her to her feet.

He makes quick work of the camisole, leaves it on her chair as he pulls her close. Skin to skin, the press of her hard nipples against his chest. He spreads his hand along the bottom of her spine, draws it upwards just to watch her eyes close, her head tip back. He ducks his head down to press his lips to her shoulder, up her neck as his hand tangles in her hair. He waits until he can hold her head steady, then kisses her.

She groans immediately into the kiss, tucks her fingers beneath the elastic of his sweats. He catches that wrist, then the other one. They've done this enough that he knows what she's aiming for and he most certainly doesn't want this to be over before he's had the chance to explore every, single inch of her. She tugs against his grip, of course, groans when he pulls his mouth from hers to taste the skin of her throat.

"Hotch."

"Bed," he replies, letting go of her hands to catch her hips, steer her towards the bedroom. Emily has other plans, stops dead so he runs into her, presses the length of his body against hers.

"Minx," he murmurs into her ear, even as he wraps his arms about her. He slides a hand up her stomach, catches a breast and listens to her moan. "Should we take the edge off, sweetheart?"

She's nodding before he finishes the sentence. She likes her pleasure, he knows, and he takes advantage of it. Like now, sliding his other hand down her stomach to slip beneath her panties. She's soaked, like he'd known she would be. He teases her first, slips his fingers through her wetness, coats his fingers before brushing oh so softly against her clit.

She arches, her breath catches, just before her whole body shakes. He raises an eyebrow, despite the fact that she can't see it. The shudder means she's close, closer than he'd thought. He gets his mouth against her ear. "Emily."

She moans, arches her hips, all but begging with the movement of her body. "More," she says, head tipping back. "Hotch."

He reaches before he thinks, before he can so much as consider drawing this out, making her really beg. His hand spreads her thighs further, trails up. It's his last tease.

Two fingers slip inside her easily, his palm grinding against her clit. Her body bows into the touch, arm coming up to wrap around the back of his head. Her other hand trails along his arm until her fingers mix with his. He presses his mouth against her neck, watches their hands move together between her thighs. She's already fluttering around their fingers, breath short and interspersed with little cries. So he presses down with his palm, curls his fingers and sends her flying.

She all but collapses as the orgasm releases her. He catches her, of course, arms about her waist. It takes a minute before she turns, leans into him so he catches her weight as much as it gives her access to his mouth. This kiss is lazy, tastes a little bit like her satisfaction. It doesn't take long for the kiss to heat. The legendary restraint he's known for is cracking around the edges as she presses against him, as his hands slide over his chest and back, slip under his sweats to shove them down his legs.

He kicks them aside, returns the favour with her panties then gets his hands on her thighs. The little bounce she gives is the only warning he gets before she jumps. He catches her easily as she wraps her legs around him. He has to pause before carrying her to the bedroom to adjust the delicious press of her hot, wet core against him. She laughs in his ear and takes the lobe in her teeth.

"Bed," she murmurs. "Quickly."

He does his best. They stop twice because every step is a temptation. He leaves a bright red mark on her breast when he settles her on the arm of the couch and one on her neck when he presses her against the wall. When they reach the bed he tumbles her down with a laugh, lets her shuffle up the pillows. Everything slows as he takes a moment to just look at her, to absorb the sight of her, spread out and naked.

So often, it feels like these weekends are snatched moments, grasping at the precious free time they both take seriously. He's not complaining, really; he'll take any time with her they can manage to scrape together. But in the midst of all that desperation, it's these moments he treasures, these moments where the world slows and he can take his time with her.

And he does. He presses his mouth to every inch of skin he can as he crawls up her body. She kisses him in earnest when he reaches her mouth, curling her arms around his neck. Her nails scratch through his hair, over his neck, her knees coming up to cradle his hips. His hand cups her breast, strokes while she gasps and sighs into his mouth, little sounds of pleasure that he tries to commit to memory for the cold nights without her. She's still wet when he slides his hand down her body and between her thighs and he hears her breath catch as he strokes over her clit.

"Inside," she murmurs, sneaking a hand between them to grip his erection in her fist.

There's a moment of indecision on his part, because he wants more time to worship her, but her eyes are shining with such deep emotion he finds himself giving in to her guiding hand until he's nestled against her just right. He pushes in without conscious permission, too tempted by the feel of her and the knowledge of how she stretches around him, clutches him in the warmth of her body.

"Emily," he whispers, tearing his eyes from where they're joined to see the ecstasy overtake her face.

"Yes," she moans. "God, Hotch."

His world narrows when they're like this. It always has, since the first time. It narrows to the feel of her, the look of her, and he finds himself growing impatient, needy. He wants more of her, all of her, wants his hands and mouth all over her, wants to watch her. He wants so many things.

He buries his head in her neck when he's pushed in as far as he can go, when all he can feel and smell and taste is her. He pauses there, holds despite the way she shifts around him, trying to urge him on with these little circles of her hips.

"Hotch," she all but whines – and he'd call it whining if he didn't know better – her hands restless on his back. "Hotch."

He wants to watch her, he realizes, wants her moving over him. It doesn't take much to flip them, to spread his palm over her back. Her spine is an erogenous zone, he knows, and he loves the way she shivers as his fingers trail up her vertebrae. It's a glorious shudder that works through her, that has her hands clenching on his shoulders.

"Emily," he murmurs, low and hot, just a little bit commanding. She still responds to it, at least here, even though they both know she technically outranks him. "Move."

At first it's tiny bucks of her hips as she tries to hold herself back, as she tries to keep the pleasure from overwhelming them both. It gets like this sometimes, the odd time, when it's been too damn long since they've seen each other, too many nasty cases and cold lonely nights. She takes her time the same way he did, sliding her hands over his chest, dancing tempting fingertips over his hips as she moves slowly above him. He barely feels each touch if he's honest, too absorbed in watching her face, the pleasure and more than infuses those dark eyes.

God, he loves her.

They've never said the words, never needed them. Never wanted them and all of the heavy responsibility that comes with it. The way his heart swells with her is painful enough without having to add the distance to it, the painful absence of the only woman he's loved since Haley. It's not about the emotion, not about questioning what they have and everything to do with the fact that they live different lives. He'd never ask her to give up her job – he knows it's important to her, knows that she loves it despite the bad days, and she sure as hell deserved that promotion, maybe more than anyone – and he knows she'd never ask him to do the same – Jack and the team and the fact that she knows how important each member is to their coherent whole.

They're at an impasse, have been for months now, but it's never been a question of how they feel.

"Sweetheart," he urges, curls his hand around her hip. She moans, but then she's bracing her hands on his chest for leverage and she starts moving in earnest. It's all he can do to hold on, to stroke his hands across her skin, up her back to bring her mouth to his.

It doesn't take much once he's slipped his hand between them, pressing and circling her clit in quick, easy movements. She doesn't scream or cry out with this orgasm, just gasps and shakes against him, the way she does when she lets the pleasure just take her, overwhelm her. It sends him careening over the edge too, spreading a hand across her lower back to push himself as deep inside her as he can reach.

She's sprawled across his chest when he comes to, her breath slower, steadier, but her heart still jack rabbiting in her chest. He's gentle with his hand as he trails it up her back, tangles his hand in her hair to lift her face to his. This kiss is slow, languid, sated.

"Emily," he says when he releases her.

Her smile is everything as she feathers her fingers over his cheek. "Me too," she says. "Hotch, me too."

. . . . .

It hadn't been the last time they'd made love this weekend and he knows it's not the last time ever either, but he remembers the feeling of waking up beside her in the morning knowing it was their last handful of hours. He remembers the rain cloud that had hung over their suite, the desperation he had felt growing despite the fact that she'd never moved more than an arm's length away.

. . . . .

He takes her once more against the wall before they leave.

It's an accident, kind of. He doesn't mean to. They both have responsibilities and plans; she has a plane to catch and he, paperwork at home he's deliberately left to keep him from thinking of her leaving. But her face, their 'last' kiss… It all gets a little out of control.

And somewhere alone the line, he finds them both naked, her arms around his neck, her legs tight around his hips. He's going to pay for this in the morning, he knows that. Exertion beyond what his body can take, positions he's too old for, but she's close, he can tell. And maybe it's the emotion of it all, the desperation he feels in every buck of her hips.

Neither of them know when they're going to be able to do this again. Neither of them know when their schedules will match, if they'll make the plans only to cancel them. He knows each touch now is one they're trying to commit to memory, to take with them for the next who knows how many months.

And even as she flutters around him, as she sinks her teeth into his neck just beneath his collar, he knows they're both already feeling that loneliness settle in.

He knows that even though she's there, he misses her already.

. . . . .

The knock startles him out of his memories, but he heads for the door. A quick peep has his heart rate jumping, followed almost immediately by the frantic way he tries to flip the locks.

Emily is here.

Not on a plane.

Here.

Her eyes are warm and maybe a little proud. There are a million things he wants to do, but it's laughter that comes first.

She shrugs, just a little, and says, "I can get on a plane in the morning."

He pulls her close when they curl up later, as close as they both can stand and then just a little bit closer after that. He doesn't care, if he's honest, that she'll have to leave in the morning. Because they have tonight, a 'bonus night' and for now, that'll be enough.

Typos are mine. Eh, errors are mine, haha!

Hope you enjoyed!