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"Elle, I-"
She cuts him off. She cuts him off with tugging hands and gnashing teeth and a tongue that doesn't ask for permission first.
He's startled, to put it lightly. But she needs this. She needs to think about something else, something other than the bullet hole in her shoulder and he's here, he's concerned and he's nervous and he's perfect.
She probably ripped a button off of his shirt. But he has a closet full of sweater vests, he won't miss it, she thinks.
He had barely entered her room when she jumped him and maybe she was being unfair. Maybe she was being cocky and brash and presumptuous. She'd apologize later.
She pushes him against the wall and probably rips another button, bites his neck and splays her hands across his pale chest. He squeaks and he's still absolutely, positively perfect. He hasn't stopped her yet.
She never noticed his cheekbones before. She kisses them and he's beet red, emitting heat, stammering and stuttering over words that aren't quite there yet and he won't ever get out.
His vest and shirt had sagged around his shoulders without the support of his buttons and she helped them both along, slid them slowly down his arms and made direct eye contact which he refuses to reciprocate. His glasses are lopsided.
She gets him topless and he's all sharp angles, pale skin and an occasional freckle. He's perfect.
He's wringing his hands together and staring at the carpet, wide-eyed and confused and apprehensive. When he finally does speak she doesn't cut him off this time. He's quiet and his voice cracks.
"What are you doing?"
He finally looks at her and she's not sure how to decipher what's there, so she doesn't. She asks him instead.
"Please."
In that moment he knows, she thinks, and he gives in. He lets her take what she needs and he'll give as much as he can in return even if it isn't much at all, and it's fine, it's perfect.
She kisses his cheekbone again and sucks on his earlobe while he busies his hands doing absolutely nothing at all. They hover. They move up and down, they shake in different directions while not going anywhere at all, really. She doesn't mind.
She forces herself away from him for just a moment, she forces herself to be quick lest he think twice about what they're doing, should he start feeling guilty. And he would, too. So she's quick, pulling her polo up and over her head and indiscriminately throwing it aside.
She kisses his mouth and she's rough and bruising, knocking teeth and dragging tongues. He doesn't seem to mind. He tries to give a little in return and he's hesitant and tentative, too soft, too unsure and she pulls at his belt buckle and tells him to "man up, Reid," with a sneaky smile on her face. She thinks for a moment she gets a small one in return.
She bites his throat before she takes his hand and pulls him over to the bed, which only required a little tugging, which makes her think that he's okay with all of this, that he's more willing and ready than he appears.
She pushes him.
He squeaks again and she quite likes that, she thinks. She smiles and drops to her knees and goes to work on his belt buckle. He's quiet and embarrassed and that's just fine.
He's hard and she drags his cock out of his boxer briefs and he's perfect. He's long and slender and pale like the rest of him.
She kisses the tip and he looks like he's about to die, and he's stuttering and making noises, he's squeezing the bedsheets and he's perfect.
He's inexperienced. He doesn't have to tell her, she knows. She doesn't treat him on her knees for long. She drags her tongue up the length of him and he moans at her before she stands and removes her jeans. This is about her. He's got to last and she knows he won't if she waits much longer. He'll regret it. He'll be embarrassed. He'll never look at her again. She makes sure that doesn't happen.
She's ready and eager and when she's rid of her clothes she climbs on top of him. His pants and briefs are pooled at his ankles and she doesn't care to remove them, she hasn't got enough time, she needs to do this and it has to be now.
She takes charge because she knows he wouldn't.
She presses her hands against his chest and pushes him down like a ragdoll. He looks surprised and frightened and excited all at once and she's not sure how that's possible, but it's there. He looks like he's going to ask her if this is appropriate, if they're doing the right thing, if this is okay, if he's doing it right. If he's good enough. He opens his mouth and she knows and she reassures him, shuts him up with her mouth on his.
She reaches behind her to grab his cock and his entire upper body jerks and she ignores him. She lines him up and wastes no time, she sinks, she crashes on top of him with a satisfied groan and drags her nails down his shoulders.
She's using him, she knows she is and she thinks he probably knows too. They won't talk about it later. They won't talk about it ever. She'll probably do it to him again on their next case when she's feeling sad and lonely and desperate. But he's here. He's staying. His mouth his open and his cheeks are red and he's squeaking and perfect and he's there for her when no one else cared to be.
She knew he wouldn't last long, and that's fine. She rides him until he comes undone beneath her and jerks his hips and makes a pleasantly startled noise before going limp on the mattress. It was all she needed and she gets herself off with her hands and she lets him watch.
She pulls herself off of him when she's done and he's soft and slick and she feels empty, still.
They find their way to a side of the bed, each of them, like an old married couple. Like this was routine. Like it was something they did frequently.
She sighs and they lie there for a while. She craves a cigarette. But she won't, she decides, she knows he doesn't like the smoke and she knows he wouldn't speak up for himself if she did.
She catches him staring at her scar and she doesn't call him out on it, she doesn't snap, she doesn't get angry and confused and kick him out of her room. She might have, if circumstances were different. If it wasn't Reid.
She spots him from the corner of her eye nursing a swollen lower lip, twiddling his thumbs, looking at everything and nothing at all.
He speaks up after an eternity of silence, which she didn't mind but she knows probably drove him mad.
"Was it ... was I..?" He can't find his words and she's sure he never will.
So she cuts him off.
"It was perfect."