You try to care about your phone. You really do. But the room keeps rearranging itself around Emily.

She’s next to you, tucked into the corner of the couch beneath the lamp, ankles crossed, hardcover balanced in one hand. The light loves her—catches at the silver in her hair, warms the line of her mouth—and she reads the way she savors everything good: unhurried, precise, it’s like she is letting each sentence melt on her tongue before she turns the page.

And then there’s the damn lip. 

Every few paragraphs her teeth find her bottom lip for a thoughtful beat—catch, consider, release—and the smallest shine is left behind. You feel each one like a pulse under your ribs. The second time, heat slips low in your belly. By the fourth, you’ve forgotten what you meant to do with your evening.

Your phone lies heavy and useless in your palm, screen dimming and waking and dimming again because you keep lifting it and setting it down without doing anything at all. Next to you, Emily sips her water without looking up, turns a page with that neat little snap of paper, and does it again: catch, release. Your thighs press together on their own. You picture that mouth on your throat, on your breast, lower—your breath stutters; you look away; you look back.

She knows. Of course she knows. She lets the chapter have her anyway, finishing the paragraph with her eyes steady, thumb lingering at the corner of the page, rereading a line that pleased her. Maybe twice. Only then does she reward you.

“You’re staring,” she says, still reading.

You arrange your face into innocence. “I’m reading.”

“Mmm.” She lets her gaze travel one more line, because she can. “Your phone… has been on the same empty email draft for the last seven minutes.”

“I’m thinking,” you say, somehow dignified.

How does she know?

A small, satisfied hum. She is finally looking at you now. Her chin tips down just enough that her eyes find you over the rim of her glasses, steady and dark and knowing. There’s the faintest curve at the corner of her mouth, polite on the surface but full of heat underneath, the kind of look that makes your pulse stutter because she knows exactly what she’s doing.

Her voice comes low and unhurried, that soft, velvety tone she uses when she’s both amused and slightly aroused.“About words,” she asks, the pause deliberate, “or my… mouth?”

Your mouth opens, then closes like a fish. “That’s entrapment.”

Her smile tugs at the corner of her mouth. “Is it?”

The older woman exhales softly through her nose, then closes the book with quiet finality. She slips off her glasses, sets both on the coffee table with that neat, absent precision that’s so her, and reaches for her water again. A slow sip. The glass clinks gently back against the wood. 

“Come here.”

Your phone is on the floor before you realize you’ve let it go; a blink later, you’re settled over her thighs. Oversized shirt, bare legs straddling her lap in a way that was not an accident. Her hands go under your shirt almost immediately—warm palms, and a deliberate drag of her fingertips up your ribs. There are ragged edges to some of those nails; she’s a nervous picker, a biter, and you love the way the imperfect edges catch on your skin, scratching just enough to make you arch.

“You’re distracted,” she murmurs, amused, thumbs brushing the sides of your breasts.“Apparently you can’t focus with me in the room.”

“Allegedly.” You press into her hands as she teases, breathing going unsteady when her rough nail skims a nipple. “Your lip is a menace.”

Her smile is small and wicked. “I’ll put it to good use later.”

She lets her palms slide higher, thumbs brushing slow circles that make you forget what you were saying. You lean forward, chasing her mouth; she catches your chin instead, holding you just shy of a kiss. Her eyes are calm, amused, the kind of quiet confidence that makes your pulse trip.

“You’ve been staring at me all night,” she says softly. “You could’ve just asked.”

“For what?” you ask, pretending innocence even as you grind once against her thigh.

“That,” she murmurs, the word half a laugh. Her fingers tighten at your chin, keeping you exactly where she wants you, not too close, not too far. “You’re already worked up.”

“You started it,” you whisper. “With your lip. With that little sound you make when you like a sentence you’re reading.”

“Did I?” she asks, feigning thought, though the corner of her mouth betrays her deliciously. She lets go of your chin, her hand sliding down the side of your neck instead, fingertips tracing the edge of your pulse before she leans in. She kisses the spot beneath your ear, then another just below your jaw. “I suppose I could make it up to you.”

Her tone drops, velvet and certain. “How intense do you want it… exactly, darling?”

You pause, dizzy from the nearness, and swallow a laugh that comes out as a sigh. “Medium,” you say, voice rougher than you mean it to be. “I want to feel it tomorrow, but not, you know… end up limping through work.”

Emily hums approval, low and knowing. “Reasonable. Wait here.”

She lifts you off her lap with gentle hands and stands. You watch her go down the hall and try, futilely, not to squirm.

When she returns, your brain short-circuits. Silky maroon robe, loosely tied—no bra underneath, you can tell by the way fabric brushes and the soft, mouthwatering, sway beneath. Her hair is more mussed now, a deliberate ruin. Her hands are behind her back.

She stops in front of you, that sensual, private smile you know too well, and shows you what she’s holding: a length of dark silk.

“Emily…” Heat hits all at once, low and greedy. “That’s—”

“Mine,” she says, gently pleased. “And I plan on using it.”

You swallow. “Okay.”

“Are you okay with that?” She waits, steady. Warm eyes, complete patience.

“Yes.” You can hear your own heartbeat. “Yes.”

She sits beside you and turns, knee to knee. You mirror her, a little smile tugging at your mouth because this is already intimate. “Shirt off,” she says softly.

You peel it over your head. The air kisses your skin; her gaze does worse. She lifts the silk so it grazes your cheek first—cool, soft, a preview—and then leans forward and ties it around your eyes, slow and careful, knot secure. The world goes warm and dark, edged in her breathing.

“Lean back for me,” she murmurs.

You do, head finding the armrest as she slides with you, long body settling horizontal along the couch so you’re a line of heat from knee to shoulder. She kisses your mouth once—unhurried, present—before she begins the long, teasing descent: your throat, your clavicle, the hollow above your heart. Her tongue is a warm swipe; her mouth is a patient claim. When she reaches your breasts, her breath ghosts over skin that still tingles with the light scratches from her earlier touch.

Then she bites you.

You gasp, half-shock, half-need. “Did you just… bite me?!”

“I sure did,” she says, perfectly mild, and does it again at the soft edge where your breast lifts—firm, careful, just enough to put a bright little sting under your skin. She follows it immediately with a quick, gentle lick and a soft seal of her mouth, sucking just enough to smooth the ache before she takes your nipple in— a slow roll of tongue that lifts your spine off the cushions. Her other hand teases the twin, another jagged nail skimming, and it’s exactly the push-pull you ache for: her elegant mouth paired with that small, imperfect edge

“Still okay?” she checks, warm against your skin.

“Ruin me, woman.” You’re already wrecked.

“Good.” She licks lower, nips your sternum, mouths a slow path across your stomach, teasing the dip of your navel, your hipbone, the top seam of your panties. “As much fun as using up the couch would be,” she says, amused, “I need more room to move.”

“Then—bedroom,” you offer, dazed.

You reach for the blindfold on reflex and she tsks, light but definite. “Ah-ah. I’ll guide.”

You nod and let her pull you up. Her arm comes around your waist; she walks you down the hall with a steadying hand on your lower belly and an unhurried confidence that makes your knees sillier than they already were.

The bed takes you in a soft fall. Emily eases you back, smooths your hair off your cheek, and adjusts the pillow under your shoulders. She kneels in front of you, warm hands sliding to your knees to guide them open. Then she leans in—kisses the inside of one thigh, then the other, slow and deliberate—before settling her forearms along your hips to keep you steady.

She catches your wrist and brings it down with her, guiding your palm to the crown of her head. “Here,” she says, low. “Hold me.”

Your fingers slide into her salt & pepper hair; she presses into your hand, a quiet, pleased sound against your skin, and you tighten your grip just enough to make her hum.

She stays there for a beat, her breath warm against the inside of your thigh, almost touching, almost merciful. “You’re trembling,” she murmurs. “And I haven’t even—” her lips curve “—started.”

You try for a retort and manage only a breath that’s half-word, half-plea.

Emily chuckles softly, tracing a lazy fingertip along the edge of your underwear. “These should be a crime,” she says, voice low. “Look how they hide you.”

“I would, but I can’t see, remember?” 

“That is what makes this fun,” she whispered softly. The fabric slides down, unhurried, the feeling of it soft against your skin. She breathes in like she’s been waiting for this, then plants a kiss at your knee as she draws the last inch free and throws them aside.

“Leg,” she murmurs, guiding one over her shoulder. The other she taps, and you fold it out and up, opening for her as she settles in close.

“Stay just like that,” she tells you, tone calm but sure. “I want to take my time.”

“You’re talking too much,” you manage.

A low laugh. “Am I now?” She leans closer; her breath brushes where you’re most sensitive. “Tell me if you still think so in a minute.”

She uses both her index and middle finger to spread your folds wider, then wets the fingertips of the other hand with her mouth. She lazily spreads out the saliva over your throbbing cunt. 

With that devilish grin on her face—that you really wish you could see right now—she blows some air directly onto your swollen clit. 

“You’re evil,” you breathe.

“Mmh.” She noses in closer, but not where you want—her mouth lands to the side, warm and deliberate. “You’re adorable when you try to boss me around.”

The first lick is slow and lazy, tasting more than claiming. The second is narrower, deliberately missing your clit so you chase. The third lands you—sealed, warm, the exact pressure—and the little sound you make is obscene. She laughs, soft and pleased, and does it again, settling into a rhythm that’s all patience: long, savoring strokes, the occasional spiral, her mouth opening to pull, then going light again so you mutter a complaint you won’t remember later.

You don’t know how long she keeps you there. Time goes weird when she gets like this—sensual, methodical, teeth just a threat. When you buck, she slides a hand to your lower belly and presses down, firm and grounding, keeping you open under her mouth. The weight pins the range of your movement perfectly; the message is gentle and clear: I have you. Stay.

“Emily,” you breathe, helpless. “Please.”

“Medium intense,” she reminds you, amused, and shifts from languid to focused in the space of one breath. Her tongue narrows, flicking where you’re soft and desperate; she seals her mouth around you and sucks, slow to deep and back again until speech is just a texture.

“Still good?” she asks into you.

“Fuck,” you gasp. “God—yes.”

“Language,” she says, and you whimper, because her dry humor goes straight to your nerves.

She eats you like she loves you and like she’s starving, alternating tease and intent until your thighs shake. You try to be good. You are also bad at being good when she’s like this.

“Can I—Emily, can I please see you?”

There’s a pause, a kiss against your thigh that feels like yes. Fingers lift the knot; silk loosens; the world blooms back in warm light. She’s between your legs, hair ruined and gorgeous, mouth wet, eyes soft and intent like you’re her favorite meal and her favorite person at once. She looks up through dark lashes; your heart drops right through the mattress.

“Hi,” she says, sweetly wicked.

“Hi,” you manage, and tug her up your body with greedy hands. The maroon robe ties give up with a sigh. She shrugs it off and you help, palms mapping shoulders, collarbones, the slope of her breasts. She presses her knee between your legs again and the blunt, deliberate pressure makes you yelp quietly. You mouth at her, kiss her, lick into the taste of yourself on her tongue, and roll a perfect nipple between your fingers until her exhale goes ragged.

“Not done with you,” she says against your mouth, smiling into your kiss. “Lie back.”

You do. She slides down again with that unhurried surety and sets herself to you like a discipline. This time there’s no warm-up: she closes around your clit and sucks while her tongue flicks, unerringly, and her spare hand slips down and disappears between her own thighs. The tiny hitch in her breath wrecks you.

“Emily,” you say, wrecked and adoring. Your fingers slip back into her hair and you give a careful pull at the nape; she makes a noise you feel all the way through your spine and presses closer, the bridge of her distinctive nose grinding where you’re soaked. It’s filthy, perfect, reverent. Her hand on herself stutters, picks up, syncs, and somehow that makes her mouth meaner.

“You taste so good,” she manages, still moving.

“Prentiss.” It’s a prayer. “Please.”

She answers by flattening her tongue and dragging up through you, then sealing again and pulling, the pressure building like a fuse running. You clutch the sheets, then her hair, then her shoulder, and she lets you keep both because you’re asking nice and because she likes when you hold her there.

It tips fast. She feels it and pins your belly again to keep you from launching, mouth never leaving you, the rhythm turning ruthless. You fall apart on a gasp that turns into her name, shuddering, held open by her hand and her mouth and the terrible kindness of her steadiness.

When you come back down, blinking, she’s still there, mouth softened into lazy licks, hand between her own thighs moving with intent now, eyes half-lidded and dark.

You prop yourself on your elbows and watch, greedy. She doesn’t look away.

“Are you just going to sit there and stare at me like I’m some porno,” she asks, dry and breathless, “or are you going to help me?”

It’s not even a question. “Oh, I’m going to help. Definitely.”

She eases onto her back, spreading for you with a gracious sort of surrender that makes your mouth water. You settle between her thighs, palms on her knees, and take one long second to look: the gorgeous grey at her hairline, the flushed skin, the steady rise and fall of her chest, the way her pupils blow when your breath hits her.

“Touch me,” she says, voice warm and low, and you do—thumbs sliding to open her wider, your mouth lowering to taste her like she taught you: slow first, then focused, listening for each hitch, mapping the pathway to that caught breath and back again. She’s slick and salt and familiar, and when you drag your tongue just so she makes a sound that will live in your bones forever.

“Good,” she says, and it shivers through you. “Just like that.”

You work her with your mouth and your hand, fingers circling where she’s swollen, drawing lazy patterns you tighten when her thighs flex. When you look up, her head is tipped back, throat offered, that sensual, private smile ghosting her mouth. You slide two fingers lower, gather, and bring them to her clit, working in time with your mouth until her hips try to chase and she grips the sheets hard enough to crumple them.

“Okay?” you ask, because she always asks you.

“More than,” she says, and then, amused even now, “don’t you dare stop.”

You don’t. You add a little pressure, a little speed, and when her hand finds your hair you press into it, let her guide the angle. She comes sharp, precise, a gasp that dissolves into a laugh, hand tightening and then loosening in your hair as the waves taper.

You kiss the inside of her thigh, the edge of her hip. Her palm slides to your cheek, warm and steady, pulling you up. You sprawl over her, both of you boneless and grinning.

“Medium intense was an excellent choice,” she says, dry and affectionate, thumb stroking your jaw.

“Practical,” you echo, smug and dizzy. “Also: your lip is still a menace.”

She leans in and takes it between her teeth again, play-bite gentle. “I’ll keep weaponizing it responsibly.”

“You’re very responsible.” You nuzzle under her jaw, happy. “Also, never stop biting your nails.”

She huffs a laugh against your hair. “I’ll tell my therapist you said that.”

Both of you laugh; who is she kidding here? Everyone knows Emily Prentiss doesn’t do therapy. 

You breathe with her for a while—slow, sated, the blindfold now a cool ribbon under your palm. After a bit she shifts, kisses your temple. “Shower, then tv?”

“Mm.” You bite her shoulder, soft and smug. “And maybe I write one email draft that actually has words in it.”

“About my mouth,” she suggests, deadpan.

“Purely academic,” you say, and when she laughs you decide you could live inside the sound forever.

Chapter 11 – Thank You

Your heart pounded in your chest waiting for Emily to open the door.  Each second felt like an eternity.  Would she look through the peephole and ignore you?  Would she think you were there for work?  Even worse, had she moved on and found a new sub?  It wouldn't have been unfair for her to have done that.  Would she laugh in your face?  Your thoughts raced as fast as your heart.  You were about to tuck tail and run when you heard the click of the lock.  And everything stilled.

She pulled the door open, a smirk on her face.  "You held out a lot longer than I thought you would.  What makes you think I'm just going to let you in?"

Your stomach plummeted.  It was a fair question.  You had been the one to tell her this wasn't right, and that the two of you shouldn't be doing this anymore.  You didn't have a good answer for her.  You should have prepared a reason for why she should let you in her room.  Instead, all that came out was a pathetic, whimpered "Please Ma'am."

She looked at you for a beat longer, eyes locked onto yours in search of something.  After another eternity, she took a step back and let you in her room.  But she refused to move further back into the room; you were forced to stand just in front of her as she let the door close behind you.  She stepped forward, trapping you against the door.  You stopped breathing, unsure how to start this.  You hadn't thought this through – you hadn't made a plan.  If you were being honest with yourself, you hadn't even let yourself believe she was going to open the door.   So you stood in front of her, transfixed by her heady gaze.

She leaned down in slow motion, her face growing closer and closer until you were one breath apart.  "Any new limits?"  As if her words pushed you off a cliff, you felt yourself free fall into subspace.  All you could think about was getting her hands on you again.  She grabbed you and pulled you flush against her, hips to hips.  You gasped at the feel, that familiar electricity zapping you back to life.  "Answer me."

"No, Ma'am.  No new limits."  You tried to lean up to capture her lips in a kiss – the kiss you had been fantasizing about for the last three months.  Emily pulled away, evading your efforts.  "Please," you gasped, trying to pull her back.  

With your final plea, her lips crashed against yours, and her fingers kneaded into your flesh, pulling you as close as she could.  You moaned into her mouth, lost in the feel.  She pulled you back deeper into the room, her hands tugging on your robe impatiently.  She pulled the tie as if it were burning you, and pushed the robe down your shoulders. 

Emily eyed you appreciatively for a fleeting moment before she threw you down onto the bed.  Your eyes closed in ecstasy, in anticipation of how she was about to ravage you.  When her body weight didn't follow you to the bed, you opened your eyes slowly, curious.  She stared down at your heaving chest with a predatory gleam in her eye.  Seeing that desire light her eyes emboldened you.  If she wasn't going to touch you, you would have to touch yourself. 

You slid your hands up your torso, cupping your boobs gently, teasingly.  Not for you – you couldn't care less about touching yourself.  You hadn't come here to touch yourself.  This show was for Emily.  To bait her.  She had once asked if  you would masturbate for her sometime because she liked to watch.  Yes, this was all for Emily.  "What are you doing?" 

"Touching myself."

Indecision flickered over her face.  You wondered what she was debating.  "Why?" she finally asked.

"Because you obviously won't."  Anger flashed in her eyes; she was incensed you were talking back.  Briefly you wondered if it was a mistake to goad her like that.  What if she sent you back to your room?

Your stomach plummeted when she turned her back to you.  Maybe it had been a mistake to start this without first having a full conversation about what you were doing.  As your thoughts raced, you saw her turn around, the metal of her duty cuffs glinting in the low light.  Your stomach flipped in excitement.

She walked around the side of the bed, grabbed your wrists and dragged you further up the bed.  Her harsh movement caused your clit to pulse between your legs.  You wondered if this was how she handled unsubs when she was detaining them.  Your heart pounded in your chest.  The metallic click echoed around the room as she locked one wrist in place with the cuffs.  

"Think you get to come in here and be a brat?" she asked.  Before you could answer, she continued, "You're such a desperate slut.  You think you can come in here and touch yourself better than I can?"  She threaded the cuffs through a slat in the headboard and locked the other wrist into place.  "Well?"

You were beyond being able to respond.  "Didn't you come in here because you can't touch yourself like I can?"  She started running her own hands down your arms, and you shivered under her touch.  "I know you came to my room because your fingers just weren't cutting it anymore."  Still you said nothing, too lost in her electric touch.  "Isn't that right, baby?"  She removed her hands from your body, and your eyes flew open.  "Answer me," she demanded.

You were incapable of deciding whether you wanted to continue teasing her.  Without thought, you panted, "Yes.  That's right."

"Tsk tsk tsk."  She gripped your jaw roughly and tilted your chin towards her.  "Pathetic," she sneered against your mouth.  You tried to raise up to meet her lips for another kiss, but she pulled away.

"It's a shame you surprised me away from home."  She trailed her fingers down your neck and over the swell of your breast.  Her voice softened.  "You'll need to be careful, angel.  Don't tug too hard," she warned, caressing where the cuffs rested against your wrists.  "Can you do that for me?"

"Yes."  Her fingers continued to tease you with light touches, but never where you needed her.  Electricity hummed over your skin, super-charged.  If she didn't touch you soon, you worried you'd ignite.

"What color are you?"

You panted under her hands.  "Green!"  

"Are you ready to play?"  Your nipples tightened at that slow, measured voice.

"Fuck yes.  Please touch me," you begged, desperate to get started.  You'd spent months wishing to get back underneath her but fighting the urge.  And now that you were giving into the desire, she was teasing you.  Didn't she understand just how much you ached?

Emily stood up and started sliding her pants down her long legs.  When she stood up, she whipped her shirt over her head.  It left her bare, divine.  Before you were close to having your fill, she forced your jaw to the left – away from her.  Her lips descended on your neck softly, her hot breath raising goosebumps over your skin.  Without haste, she trailed hot, wet kisses up and down your neck.  "Ready for your rule for tonight?"

"Okay," you gasped.

She whispered one finger down the slope of your jaw before changing her touch to grip your chin harshly between her forefinger and thumb.  She jerked your neck back to look her directly in the eye.  "You will thank me for everything tonight."

"Yes Ma'am," you whispered.  That should be easy enough.

Without further discussion, Emily climbed on the bed and swung a leg over you to straddle your face.  "You think you're the only one affected?  Get me off."

"Yes, Ma'am," you mumbled against her thigh.  "Thank you, Ma'-"  She settled over your mouth, silencing any further words.  Had she given you any choice in the matter, you would have preferred to ease her into it, to tease her a bit.  To savor her.  But she was already soaking wet, and she started rocking against your mouth.  She used your mouth to get off, and you laid on your back and let her.

You tugged on the cuffs gently, not wanting to hurt yourself.  But you needed to see if there was any way to get out of them.  It had been weeks since you touched her, and you wished you could slip your fingers inside her.  She moaned quietly above you, her brow furrowed as she continued her pace against your mouth.  You pressed your legs together, desperate for any relief for yourself.  But none came.  

"Fuck," Emily panted as she continued to grind against your mouth.  She leaned back, holding her weight up on your thighs, thrusting her hips forward more forcefully.  "Come on, Angel.  A little faster."  You increased your speed, flicking your tongue back and forth.  "That's it," she hissed.  Her nails dug into your thighs as she continued to fuck herself against your mouth.  You didn't dare change anything else.  Crescent moons indented into your skin from her tightened grip as she came with a soft cry.  A small price to pay for her pleasure.

She hovered over you for a few more seconds as she caught her breath.  She lifted up and inched down your body, straddling your waist as she looked down at you expectantly.  "Thank you for cumming on my mouth, Ma'am."

She leaned down and kissed you passionately.  "I knew my good girl was in there somewhere."  She kissed you lazily, her tongue lapping against your own sensually.  "Always so good about following my rules, aren't you angel?"

"Yes, Ma'am."  You were quick to agree, hoping it would get her fingers inside you faster.

"But such a dirty mouth," she cooed.  She shoved her fingers in your mouth, slipping towards the back of your throat.  "Good girls aren't so slutty," she sneered.  Tears welled in your eyes as her fingers crept further towards the back of your throat.  You whimpered around her fingers.

She pulled her fingers out of your mouth.  "I'm feeling generous after that orgasm," she said caressing your cheek.  "How do you want to cum?"

Your mind reeled, racing between all the options.  "On your fingers, please Ma'am."

Emily trailed her fingers up your thighs.  "So naughty coming here naked underneath your robe," she cooed.  "Are you wet for me, angel?"  She swiped one finger over your slit to see.  The cuffs dug sharply into your skin – your skin softened from months of not being tied up – and you hissed from the soft feel of her gentle fingertip and the cold steel of her cuffs.

"Yes, Ma'am.  Because of you."  She slowly trailed her fingers through your wetness. Up and down.  Up and down.  Until you thought you would scream.  Your panting became more insistent as she circled her finger around your entrance.  She slipped the tip of her finger just past the entrance, and you couldn't wait any longer.  

"PLEASE!" you begged.  "I need you, Ma'am.  Please."  She slipped two fingers in you, pushing as deep as she could.  "Fuck," you moaned; your hips jerked involuntarily at the intrusion.  She pulled her fingers out, hovering just at your entrance.  You whined, desperate to feel her fingers inside you again.  "Please," you whispered.  Forgetting your hands were restrained, you tugged against the cuffs to try to grab her wrist.  To pull her back.  Anything to get off.  

Again, her fingers plunged inside you – deeper this time and with a flick of her fingers to hit that spot that turned your tummy inside out.  "Mmmmm, yes!"  And again, she pulled her fingers out and swatted your pussy.  You hissed at the burst of stimulation to your clit.  

You looked down at her, a protest on the tip of your tongue.  But then you saw the look in her eye: an increasing annoyance that you had forgotten to thank her for finally touching you.  "Thank you, Ma'am.  Please fuck me.  Thank you!  Please!" 

Her eyes softened.  Appeased, she slammed her fingers back inside you and started thrusting rhythmically.  You lifted your hips in time with her thrusts, pleasure washing over you from the top of your head to the tips of your toes.  If it hadn't been so long, you might have been embarrassed by how quickly she raced you to the top. 

"Come on, angel," she encouraged before dipping down and licking your clit gently.

"Oh my God," you moaned.  "Thank you," you exhaled as if it were a prayer.  "Thank you!" you shouted.  Your muscles tensed, begging to release the mounting pressure in you.  "Yes, yes, yes!  Thank you!" you chanted as your orgasm crashed over you.  Her tongue slowed, as did her fingers.

As you panted, trying to catch your breath, she moved to hover over you.  She pressed a soft kiss under your ear while you came down.  You turned your head to catch her lips in a kiss.  "Thank you," you whispered, spent.

She trailed her lips up your jaw, and you wished once more you could pull her closer.  "Done already?" she whispered against your mouth.   You hummed, reveling in bliss.  She chuckled darkly.  "You're not done," she told you.  The control in her voice shot a shiver up your spine.  She plunged her tongue in your mouth, lips attacking yours ravenously.  You purred against her mouth, legs spreading for her involuntarily.  She pulled back with a smirk.  "We're just getting started."

it had been quiet. 

the apartment, your life, everything. it was all quiet since Emily had died. 

but it was the new normal, living in mourning and silence, all without Emily by your side. 

you’d gotten home from another lonesome day, not bothering with dinner and deciding on heading straight to bed when the apartments front door opened. 

to say it raised your alarm bells would be an understatement.

no one else had keys to your apartment, no one except Penelope, but she wouldn’t come over this late. 

carefully, you reached for your gun from your purse, heading into the hallway that led to the front door. 

the sight at the end of the hall made you pause, a rush of emotions erupting inside you. 

Emily Prentiss stood at your front door. your Emily Prentiss, was here and already closing the distance between you. 

“hey..”

you paused, lowering the gun but not letting go of it just yet. 

“you’re here?”

she nodded, pulling the gun from your hold and setting it aside. 

this was different. certainly not how you expected your night to go. 

hell you never expected to see Emily again, never mind be face to face with her, it was all a rush of sudden and mixed emotions. 

“how.. i mean, you died”

Emily sighed, shaking her head. 

“it’s a long story”

she told, but not to put it off, to by pass the truth, but to warn and try to prepare you for the truth. 

“i’ve got time”

so she explained, all of it. 

everything to do with Ian Doyle and her past with him, the team’s investigations into him, and the stuff she’d put together to keep you safe. 

Emily had explained everything, not daring to keep a detail hidden from you, not now that she was back in your life. 

once she was finished talking, you sighed. 

it was a lot to take in, would take a little to get used to the truth that Emily wasn’t dead. 

but it was nice, in an odd sort of way. 

with another soft sigh, you rested your forehead against hers, simply basking in the others presence. 

after a minute, Emily pulled back, her lips a hairsbreadth away from yours as she whispered. 

“can i?”

you nodded, humming into the kiss as her lips pressed to yours, pouring all of her love into the embrace. 

it was easy to lose yourself in kisses with Emily, but now they felt sacred, in case they’d never happen again. 

“let me get a good look at you”

she whispered after a minute, cradling your jaw in her hand to tilt your head from side to side, admiring you and taking in the features she’d missed over the past couple of months. 

god was this a breath of fresh air. 

“oh i missed this pretty face”

you preened at her words, instinctively leaning into her touch. 

“missed you more”

Emily shook her head, as if your words couldn’t be true. 

carefully, she sat you down on the couch before sitting down next to you and pulling you into her lap, her hands soothing across your sides as she gazed up at you. 

“not possible sweetheart, leaving you was the biggest mistake of my life”

her words made you frown, but it also made a warmth spread through your chest. 

“let me look at my girl and then i’ll answer whatever other questions you have”