A Room of One's Own
Title: A Room of One’s Own
Rating: NC-17
Fandom: Criminal Minds
Characters/Pairing: Rossi/Prentiss
Genre: Romance/Drama
Summary: David Rossi is running out of time
Author’s Note: For the 2009 R/P Christmas exchange. This is for smittywing. Betaed by yellowsmurf6.
Prompts: Libraries/books/stories, finding the perfect gift, interior decoration
A Room of One’s Own
He comes home to find her in the guest room, staring intently at the wall, as though there’s some secret there that he isn’t privy to. He almost thinks that she’s distracted entirely before she says, ‘Blue?’
He wraps his arms around her from behind, planting a kiss on her neck. ‘No, it’s David. I’m here to foil whatever you’ve got going on with the pool boy.’
She wrinkles her brow at him. ‘What kind of name is “Blue” for the pool boy? Besides, that only works if you - we - have a pool. We don’t have a pool.’
He gives a slight shrug. ‘We don’t need to have a pool for you to be sleeping with the pool boy.’
She gives a short laugh. ‘How about violet? You can make jokes about me sleeping with the non-existent maid, then.’
He pretends to consider the matter. ‘That one I’d be okay with.’
‘Seriously, though,’ she grins. ‘Blue? Or do you want something that will match the linen?’
‘Let’s back up for a moment here, Em. Why are we painting the guest room?’
She gives him a look - the kind that’s usually reserved for people who have pissed her off in some way. He’s been on the receiving end of that look more than once, though usually there’s a sense of endearment behind it.
‘Have you forgotten already?’ she asks, giving him a playful nudge. ‘Maybe we should get you tested for early onset Alzheimer’s.’ The tone of voice tells him that she’s not entirely kidding - there’s a family history of the disease, and he isn’t getting any younger.
‘When did we talk about painting?’ he says with a frown. He thinks that surely he would have remembered something like this.
‘Last night, when I was…’ she trails off, a blush coloring her cheeks. He finds it amusing that she’s still the slightest bit shy about their sex life, even though there’s no-one else around to hear.
‘I think we should probably have a moratorium on verbal contracts made when you’re doing that thing with your hands,’ he says, which serves only to make her blush even further.
‘I just made the suggestion,’ she starts, voice slightly tinged with embarrassment, ‘That now we’re living together, you would finally let me help redecorate your house.’ She gestures to the walls, ‘I mean, have these actually ever been painted?’
He shrugs. ‘I just kept the base coat.’
She gives a short laugh. ‘Right. Negative color linked to loneliness and the desire to escape from the world? Ring any bells?’
‘It’s the guest room,’ he argues, ‘I don’t think anyone will be judging me based on the color. Besides.’ He pulls her in a little closer, her back tight against his chest. ‘I’m fine with escaping the world, as long as I’ve got your company.’
He can almost feel her rolling her eyes at that comment. ‘I didn’t realize I was dating such a cheeseball.’ Her tone softens. ‘A warm and fuzzy cheeseball, but a cheeseball nonetheless.’
He considers the possibility of stripping her down and fucking her right there, but he doesn’t think he has the physical endurance to handle up against the wall anymore, and he doesn’t want to sully the guest bed for any potential future visitors. The floor’s an option, but that too will probably be pretty uncomfortable. He lets his hand sneak under her shirt anyway, skirting the edge of her bra.
‘I think blue’s good,’ he says eventually, his thumb rubbing across her nipple. She closes her eyes, letting her head fall back against his shoulder.
‘What was the question again?’ she murmurs.
He grins, pressing a kiss into her neck. ‘I can’t even remember.’
It’s a couple of hours later when they managed to pull themselves out of the main bedroom, and only then it’s because Emily’s stomach is growling like an aggressive species of tiger.
They’re three weeks out from Christmas Eve, and a two and a half weeks out from the extravagant holiday bash that Garcia had insisted on throwing this year. Dave had somehow found himself in charge of several side dishes, so the fridge is filled with the less perishable ingredients for three different kinds of salad. While his lasagna is fantastic, it’s not the most appropriate dish for the festive season.
Looking at those ingredients reminds him of the upcoming event, and he realizes that he still - still - hasn’t found the right Christmas present for Emily.
As a rule, he’s never really celebrated the event - Indianapolis had cinched that, but even before, he’d never been a particularly festive person. Last year, though, he’d seen the light in Emily’s eyes at the annual BAU Christmas party, and while excessive egg-nog consumption had been partly to blame for that, he knows he won’t be able to get away with ignoring the holiday season this year.
The problem is, every single potential Christmas present just doesn’t seem enough. He’d been in Barnes and Noble for just ten minutes, seeing half a dozen books that he knows she would have loved. Last Christmas, before they’d started dating, a book or two would have been a suitable gift. Now, though, it doesn’t quite seem personal enough.
They make Beef Stroganoff, and Emily decides that it’s the prime opportunity to start speaking Russian, and he feels himself getting hard all over again. The thought of what to buy her for Christmas drops out of his mind completely.
They pick up a case in North Carolina, which means it’s another four days before he can start thinking about Christmas all over again. He’d tended to buy his wives jewellery, but he’s pretty sure that Emily wouldn’t be interested in that; even when they go out, she usually wears simple pieces. Nothing flashy - the complete opposite of the kind of jewellery he usually ends up buying. In any case, it feels like a cliché. Not as much of a cliché as a wedding ring, though, which is the next possibility that he crosses off the list.
It’s not that he’s not interested in marrying her - he just feels that proposing at Christmas makes it seem less meaningful. As though marrying him is her gift, when in actual fact, he thinks that having her as a wife would be his honor.
It’s later that night when an idea finally hits him. He finds her in the second guest room, searching through one of the boxes from her apartment. It’s been over a month since she’s moved in, but the prevalence of work in their day-to-day life means that most of her stuff is still in boxes, and they still haven’t decided what to do with the excess furniture. The box she’s searching through is filled with books, and it’s one of over a dozen. He’d never really realized just how many books she owned until they’d been packed away.
A collection of that size deserves better than boxes.
He gets the tape measure out while she’s in the shower, making a mental list of things that he needs to pick up from the local Home Depot. Keeping this a secret will take a bit of finesse, but he can get most of the job done in the workshop and then put it all together in the days leading up to Christmas. Though he’d been upset at the idea at first, right now he’s grateful for whatever person had decided to reschedule the first aid refresher course for one of the most inconvenient days of the year.
‘What exactly are you doing, David Rossi?’ she asks, three days later. He’s been spending most of his time in the workshop out back, sawing and sanding the wood into shape.
‘It’s a surprise,’ he says, drawing her in for a long, slow kiss to the lips, because he knows that her frustration of knowing, but not really knowing is much more entertaining than his outright denial.
He paints one of the guest rooms blue, with all the furniture pushed to one side, and newspaper covering the floor. She thanks him fairly enthusiastically for that, to the point where he can barely breathe after, but he doesn’t let on that the painting had been as much for his own nefarious purposes. It’s been a long week, and Emily seems a bit stressed out, so he isn’t surprised that she hasn’t picked up on his ulterior motives.
They both get suitably drunk at Garcia’s Christmas bash, and she not only kisses him under the mistletoe, but starts feeling him up as well. Hotch had seemed horrified at the sight, but not in a bad way, whereas Garcia had found it hilarious. He’s not really surprised when the pictures end up posted around the bullpen. Emily laughs, but she’s not disappointed - their relationship has been public for a good long while now, and any scrutiny from the higher ups around this time of year will be diluted by the Christmas spirit.
They catch a cab home, and he’s so fucking hard, he doesn’t want to wait the thirty seconds or so it would take to make it to the upstairs bedroom. He fucks her right there in the entry hall, hard and fast. They’re both panting heavily, and she gives a soft scream when she comes.
‘Merry Christmas,’ she laughs, because they’re both still fairly inebriated. He pours them both a glass of water before they go to bed, because while they’re not technically supposed to be in tomorrow, Emily’s hangovers are among the most epic he’s ever seen, and he’s learnt to take appropriate measures. Vegas is just the tip of the iceberg.
Christmas Eve rolls around quicker than he’d expected; there aren’t any cases, but there’s paperwork, and consultations, and the ruefully unspiked egg-nog and festive cookies that Garcia pushes upon them. The technical analyst is nothing if not persistent, which means that Rossi finds himself in a much more Christmassy mood than he had intended.
It’s 6am when he hears Morgan’s horn beep outside, but they’re both already wide awake, seated at the kitchen counter. She tips the rest of her coffee into the sink and gives him a quick kiss on the cheek, which somehow evolves into a full makeout session that’s only punctuated by a second beeping of the horn.
‘Enjoy yourself,’ he says, not even bothering to hide the humor in his voice.
‘Sure.’ She rolls her eyes. ‘I’ll bring you back a box of disposable latex gloves. Enjoy the quiet while it lasts.’ She tips him a wink and heads out the front door, bag slung over her shoulder. He finishes his coffee, because it’s going to be a long day, and then heads out to the workshop.
Now, more than any other time in his life, he’s grateful that his Nonno had been a carpenter. He remembers the days of his youth, the smell of sawdust, the feel of rough wood beneath smooth, young hands.
He’s come a long way.
He takes the brackets in first, laying them on the floor in the far corner of the room. It’s been empty of furniture since he’d painted - it’s gathering dust in the empty space of his three-car garage. It’ll be gathering dust for a little while longer.
He brings the shelves in carefully, careful not to ruin the weeks of work that he’s put into them. With the measurements that he’d figured out, he gets to work. It takes most of the day, and by the time he’s done, he’s sweaty and exhausted, but it’s not over yet; there are still those dozen boxes of books that need to be put away.
He thinks back to how they’d been arranged at her apartment; divided by type and then alphabetically by author, which hadn’t surprised him in the least. Most of her college textbooks are in a shelf in the office they share, but that still leaves a good few non-fiction, about a wide variety of topics. Fiction takes up the majority of space, with a small section dedicated to what she insists he call “graphic novels,” but they’ll always be comic books to him.
It’s almost six p.m by the time he gets that finished. He’s glad as hell that Hotch had given him the day, otherwise he’s not really sure what he’d have done. He’s also glad that they’d put together most of the food for their Christmas dinner the previous night, because he’s sure as hell not up to cooking tonight. He’s heating up leftovers from two nights ago when she walks in, looking drained. Her cheeks are red from the cold, and she slips her coat off and hangs it on the hook by the door.
‘Have fun?’ he asks, pulling another bowl from the cupboard.
‘Yeah,’ she sighs. ‘Morgan broke the CPR dummy, and we didn’t really learn anything new, but it went well.’
She nuzzles up behind him, face pressing into his shoulder. ‘You smell good. Manly.’
It’s probably the sweat, he thinks. He hasn’t showered yet, but if she’s that turned on by it, he’s willing to wait a little bit longer.
She yawns into her bowl of reheated ravioli, and immediately looks guilty, which clues him into the fact that she’s much more tired than she’s letting on. They both are. It’s good news for him - if she wants to fall straight into bed, then she won’t be too suspicious about the uncharacteristically closed doors of the guest room, or any of the other signs that might reveal his secret. Part of him wonders if she already knows, and she’s just playing along. He doesn’t really mind either way.
He falls into bed, and they’re both asleep within minutes.
He feels some kind of immense satisfaction when he wakes up with his arms around her. He’s content to just lie there for a while, taking in her warmth.
‘Merry Christmas,’ she smiles, drawing him in for a kiss.
‘Merry Christmas,’ he replies, adding, with impulse, ‘I have something to show you.’ He pulls her out of bed, to which she doesn’t protest much. He sees that beautiful light in her eyes - the one that tells him just how happy she is right now.
His hand rests on the door to the former guest bedroom. It’s a little unorthodox, but he really doesn’t care. ‘Merry Christmas,’ he says again, this time a little more seriously, as he turns the knob and pushes the door open.
She’s speechless for a moment, and then, to his surprise, she whacks him on the arm. ‘This is what you’ve been hiding all month?’
He gives a sly grin, which only causes her to hit him again, this time harder. She’s smiling though, which means she definitely does like it. ‘You ass.’ She runs a hand along the nearest shelf. They span the two side walls, and he’d pulled a sofa from the living room and put it up against the outside wall. He’s found that when she reads, she likes the privacy.
‘I can’t believe you did this,’ she says. ‘Thank-you, I-…It’s wonderful.’ Their lips catch in a kiss, and she repeats softly, ‘You ass.’ He can’t believe how turned on he is. There are a few moments in which neither of them says anything at all, and he’ll be damned if he can remember how he ended up naked, on the sofa, and pinned beneath Emily Prentiss.
‘I still haven’t given you your present,’ she breaths, and he admits, he’s more than a little distracted by the sight of her breasts, and the fact that her fingers are trailing unforgiving patterns along the length of his cock.
‘Is this it?’ he asks, only half joking, because right now, he could really ask for no greater gift than Emily Prentiss.
She gives him a knowing smile. ‘You kept your secrets,’ she says. ‘Now it’s my turn.’ She shifts her hips slightly, and he thrusts upwards to meet her. ‘You do realize we’re going to have to redecorate the rest of the house now,’ she breaths, and he slides his hands to her ass, feeling the vibrations as she rides him.
It’s a little hard to talk, but he needs to get this out. ‘If you’re planning on thanking me this enthusiastically for every room, I don’t really think I mind.’ It’s another ten minutes before she says anything to that; they’re both collapsed against the sofa, breathing heavily.
‘Merry Christmas, Rossi.’
He smiles. ‘Merry Christmas, Prentiss.’
Rating: NC-17
Fandom: Criminal Minds
Characters/Pairing: Rossi/Prentiss
Genre: Romance/Drama
Summary: David Rossi is running out of time
Author’s Note: For the 2009 R/P Christmas exchange. This is for smittywing. Betaed by yellowsmurf6.
Prompts: Libraries/books/stories, finding the perfect gift, interior decoration
A Room of One’s Own
He comes home to find her in the guest room, staring intently at the wall, as though there’s some secret there that he isn’t privy to. He almost thinks that she’s distracted entirely before she says, ‘Blue?’
He wraps his arms around her from behind, planting a kiss on her neck. ‘No, it’s David. I’m here to foil whatever you’ve got going on with the pool boy.’
She wrinkles her brow at him. ‘What kind of name is “Blue” for the pool boy? Besides, that only works if you - we - have a pool. We don’t have a pool.’
He gives a slight shrug. ‘We don’t need to have a pool for you to be sleeping with the pool boy.’
She gives a short laugh. ‘How about violet? You can make jokes about me sleeping with the non-existent maid, then.’
He pretends to consider the matter. ‘That one I’d be okay with.’
‘Seriously, though,’ she grins. ‘Blue? Or do you want something that will match the linen?’
‘Let’s back up for a moment here, Em. Why are we painting the guest room?’
She gives him a look - the kind that’s usually reserved for people who have pissed her off in some way. He’s been on the receiving end of that look more than once, though usually there’s a sense of endearment behind it.
‘Have you forgotten already?’ she asks, giving him a playful nudge. ‘Maybe we should get you tested for early onset Alzheimer’s.’ The tone of voice tells him that she’s not entirely kidding - there’s a family history of the disease, and he isn’t getting any younger.
‘When did we talk about painting?’ he says with a frown. He thinks that surely he would have remembered something like this.
‘Last night, when I was…’ she trails off, a blush coloring her cheeks. He finds it amusing that she’s still the slightest bit shy about their sex life, even though there’s no-one else around to hear.
‘I think we should probably have a moratorium on verbal contracts made when you’re doing that thing with your hands,’ he says, which serves only to make her blush even further.
‘I just made the suggestion,’ she starts, voice slightly tinged with embarrassment, ‘That now we’re living together, you would finally let me help redecorate your house.’ She gestures to the walls, ‘I mean, have these actually ever been painted?’
He shrugs. ‘I just kept the base coat.’
She gives a short laugh. ‘Right. Negative color linked to loneliness and the desire to escape from the world? Ring any bells?’
‘It’s the guest room,’ he argues, ‘I don’t think anyone will be judging me based on the color. Besides.’ He pulls her in a little closer, her back tight against his chest. ‘I’m fine with escaping the world, as long as I’ve got your company.’
He can almost feel her rolling her eyes at that comment. ‘I didn’t realize I was dating such a cheeseball.’ Her tone softens. ‘A warm and fuzzy cheeseball, but a cheeseball nonetheless.’
He considers the possibility of stripping her down and fucking her right there, but he doesn’t think he has the physical endurance to handle up against the wall anymore, and he doesn’t want to sully the guest bed for any potential future visitors. The floor’s an option, but that too will probably be pretty uncomfortable. He lets his hand sneak under her shirt anyway, skirting the edge of her bra.
‘I think blue’s good,’ he says eventually, his thumb rubbing across her nipple. She closes her eyes, letting her head fall back against his shoulder.
‘What was the question again?’ she murmurs.
He grins, pressing a kiss into her neck. ‘I can’t even remember.’
It’s a couple of hours later when they managed to pull themselves out of the main bedroom, and only then it’s because Emily’s stomach is growling like an aggressive species of tiger.
They’re three weeks out from Christmas Eve, and a two and a half weeks out from the extravagant holiday bash that Garcia had insisted on throwing this year. Dave had somehow found himself in charge of several side dishes, so the fridge is filled with the less perishable ingredients for three different kinds of salad. While his lasagna is fantastic, it’s not the most appropriate dish for the festive season.
Looking at those ingredients reminds him of the upcoming event, and he realizes that he still - still - hasn’t found the right Christmas present for Emily.
As a rule, he’s never really celebrated the event - Indianapolis had cinched that, but even before, he’d never been a particularly festive person. Last year, though, he’d seen the light in Emily’s eyes at the annual BAU Christmas party, and while excessive egg-nog consumption had been partly to blame for that, he knows he won’t be able to get away with ignoring the holiday season this year.
The problem is, every single potential Christmas present just doesn’t seem enough. He’d been in Barnes and Noble for just ten minutes, seeing half a dozen books that he knows she would have loved. Last Christmas, before they’d started dating, a book or two would have been a suitable gift. Now, though, it doesn’t quite seem personal enough.
They make Beef Stroganoff, and Emily decides that it’s the prime opportunity to start speaking Russian, and he feels himself getting hard all over again. The thought of what to buy her for Christmas drops out of his mind completely.
They pick up a case in North Carolina, which means it’s another four days before he can start thinking about Christmas all over again. He’d tended to buy his wives jewellery, but he’s pretty sure that Emily wouldn’t be interested in that; even when they go out, she usually wears simple pieces. Nothing flashy - the complete opposite of the kind of jewellery he usually ends up buying. In any case, it feels like a cliché. Not as much of a cliché as a wedding ring, though, which is the next possibility that he crosses off the list.
It’s not that he’s not interested in marrying her - he just feels that proposing at Christmas makes it seem less meaningful. As though marrying him is her gift, when in actual fact, he thinks that having her as a wife would be his honor.
It’s later that night when an idea finally hits him. He finds her in the second guest room, searching through one of the boxes from her apartment. It’s been over a month since she’s moved in, but the prevalence of work in their day-to-day life means that most of her stuff is still in boxes, and they still haven’t decided what to do with the excess furniture. The box she’s searching through is filled with books, and it’s one of over a dozen. He’d never really realized just how many books she owned until they’d been packed away.
A collection of that size deserves better than boxes.
He gets the tape measure out while she’s in the shower, making a mental list of things that he needs to pick up from the local Home Depot. Keeping this a secret will take a bit of finesse, but he can get most of the job done in the workshop and then put it all together in the days leading up to Christmas. Though he’d been upset at the idea at first, right now he’s grateful for whatever person had decided to reschedule the first aid refresher course for one of the most inconvenient days of the year.
‘What exactly are you doing, David Rossi?’ she asks, three days later. He’s been spending most of his time in the workshop out back, sawing and sanding the wood into shape.
‘It’s a surprise,’ he says, drawing her in for a long, slow kiss to the lips, because he knows that her frustration of knowing, but not really knowing is much more entertaining than his outright denial.
He paints one of the guest rooms blue, with all the furniture pushed to one side, and newspaper covering the floor. She thanks him fairly enthusiastically for that, to the point where he can barely breathe after, but he doesn’t let on that the painting had been as much for his own nefarious purposes. It’s been a long week, and Emily seems a bit stressed out, so he isn’t surprised that she hasn’t picked up on his ulterior motives.
They both get suitably drunk at Garcia’s Christmas bash, and she not only kisses him under the mistletoe, but starts feeling him up as well. Hotch had seemed horrified at the sight, but not in a bad way, whereas Garcia had found it hilarious. He’s not really surprised when the pictures end up posted around the bullpen. Emily laughs, but she’s not disappointed - their relationship has been public for a good long while now, and any scrutiny from the higher ups around this time of year will be diluted by the Christmas spirit.
They catch a cab home, and he’s so fucking hard, he doesn’t want to wait the thirty seconds or so it would take to make it to the upstairs bedroom. He fucks her right there in the entry hall, hard and fast. They’re both panting heavily, and she gives a soft scream when she comes.
‘Merry Christmas,’ she laughs, because they’re both still fairly inebriated. He pours them both a glass of water before they go to bed, because while they’re not technically supposed to be in tomorrow, Emily’s hangovers are among the most epic he’s ever seen, and he’s learnt to take appropriate measures. Vegas is just the tip of the iceberg.
Christmas Eve rolls around quicker than he’d expected; there aren’t any cases, but there’s paperwork, and consultations, and the ruefully unspiked egg-nog and festive cookies that Garcia pushes upon them. The technical analyst is nothing if not persistent, which means that Rossi finds himself in a much more Christmassy mood than he had intended.
It’s 6am when he hears Morgan’s horn beep outside, but they’re both already wide awake, seated at the kitchen counter. She tips the rest of her coffee into the sink and gives him a quick kiss on the cheek, which somehow evolves into a full makeout session that’s only punctuated by a second beeping of the horn.
‘Enjoy yourself,’ he says, not even bothering to hide the humor in his voice.
‘Sure.’ She rolls her eyes. ‘I’ll bring you back a box of disposable latex gloves. Enjoy the quiet while it lasts.’ She tips him a wink and heads out the front door, bag slung over her shoulder. He finishes his coffee, because it’s going to be a long day, and then heads out to the workshop.
Now, more than any other time in his life, he’s grateful that his Nonno had been a carpenter. He remembers the days of his youth, the smell of sawdust, the feel of rough wood beneath smooth, young hands.
He’s come a long way.
He takes the brackets in first, laying them on the floor in the far corner of the room. It’s been empty of furniture since he’d painted - it’s gathering dust in the empty space of his three-car garage. It’ll be gathering dust for a little while longer.
He brings the shelves in carefully, careful not to ruin the weeks of work that he’s put into them. With the measurements that he’d figured out, he gets to work. It takes most of the day, and by the time he’s done, he’s sweaty and exhausted, but it’s not over yet; there are still those dozen boxes of books that need to be put away.
He thinks back to how they’d been arranged at her apartment; divided by type and then alphabetically by author, which hadn’t surprised him in the least. Most of her college textbooks are in a shelf in the office they share, but that still leaves a good few non-fiction, about a wide variety of topics. Fiction takes up the majority of space, with a small section dedicated to what she insists he call “graphic novels,” but they’ll always be comic books to him.
It’s almost six p.m by the time he gets that finished. He’s glad as hell that Hotch had given him the day, otherwise he’s not really sure what he’d have done. He’s also glad that they’d put together most of the food for their Christmas dinner the previous night, because he’s sure as hell not up to cooking tonight. He’s heating up leftovers from two nights ago when she walks in, looking drained. Her cheeks are red from the cold, and she slips her coat off and hangs it on the hook by the door.
‘Have fun?’ he asks, pulling another bowl from the cupboard.
‘Yeah,’ she sighs. ‘Morgan broke the CPR dummy, and we didn’t really learn anything new, but it went well.’
She nuzzles up behind him, face pressing into his shoulder. ‘You smell good. Manly.’
It’s probably the sweat, he thinks. He hasn’t showered yet, but if she’s that turned on by it, he’s willing to wait a little bit longer.
She yawns into her bowl of reheated ravioli, and immediately looks guilty, which clues him into the fact that she’s much more tired than she’s letting on. They both are. It’s good news for him - if she wants to fall straight into bed, then she won’t be too suspicious about the uncharacteristically closed doors of the guest room, or any of the other signs that might reveal his secret. Part of him wonders if she already knows, and she’s just playing along. He doesn’t really mind either way.
He falls into bed, and they’re both asleep within minutes.
He feels some kind of immense satisfaction when he wakes up with his arms around her. He’s content to just lie there for a while, taking in her warmth.
‘Merry Christmas,’ she smiles, drawing him in for a kiss.
‘Merry Christmas,’ he replies, adding, with impulse, ‘I have something to show you.’ He pulls her out of bed, to which she doesn’t protest much. He sees that beautiful light in her eyes - the one that tells him just how happy she is right now.
His hand rests on the door to the former guest bedroom. It’s a little unorthodox, but he really doesn’t care. ‘Merry Christmas,’ he says again, this time a little more seriously, as he turns the knob and pushes the door open.
She’s speechless for a moment, and then, to his surprise, she whacks him on the arm. ‘This is what you’ve been hiding all month?’
He gives a sly grin, which only causes her to hit him again, this time harder. She’s smiling though, which means she definitely does like it. ‘You ass.’ She runs a hand along the nearest shelf. They span the two side walls, and he’d pulled a sofa from the living room and put it up against the outside wall. He’s found that when she reads, she likes the privacy.
‘I can’t believe you did this,’ she says. ‘Thank-you, I-…It’s wonderful.’ Their lips catch in a kiss, and she repeats softly, ‘You ass.’ He can’t believe how turned on he is. There are a few moments in which neither of them says anything at all, and he’ll be damned if he can remember how he ended up naked, on the sofa, and pinned beneath Emily Prentiss.
‘I still haven’t given you your present,’ she breaths, and he admits, he’s more than a little distracted by the sight of her breasts, and the fact that her fingers are trailing unforgiving patterns along the length of his cock.
‘Is this it?’ he asks, only half joking, because right now, he could really ask for no greater gift than Emily Prentiss.
She gives him a knowing smile. ‘You kept your secrets,’ she says. ‘Now it’s my turn.’ She shifts her hips slightly, and he thrusts upwards to meet her. ‘You do realize we’re going to have to redecorate the rest of the house now,’ she breaths, and he slides his hands to her ass, feeling the vibrations as she rides him.
It’s a little hard to talk, but he needs to get this out. ‘If you’re planning on thanking me this enthusiastically for every room, I don’t really think I mind.’ It’s another ten minutes before she says anything to that; they’re both collapsed against the sofa, breathing heavily.
‘Merry Christmas, Rossi.’
He smiles. ‘Merry Christmas, Prentiss.’