Chapter 5: The Morning After
He had lain beside her for an hour, listening to the digital clock tick through the minutes until the first gray light of dawn bled around the edges of the blinds. Carefully, he extricated himself from Elena’s sleeping form, pulling the sheet up to cover her naked shoulder. He dressed in the gloom, his clothes smelling of her, of sex, of guilt. He managed to sneak back into his own bed without waking Beth, sliding between the cold sheets with the stealth of a burglar.
He didn’t like sleeping next to another woman. The thought was a concrete block in his gut. Beth’s sleeping scent, the familiar shape of her under the covers, it all felt like a violation. A betrayal of the girl down the hall. He needed to kick Beth out. He needed to put his girl in his bed, where she belonged. He fell asleep to the phantom sensation of Elena’s skin, thinking about her smile, her laugh, and the desperate, muffled moans she’d made into his palm.
He woke to the soft rustle of fabric. Beth was at the foot of the bed, standing in her bra and panties, pulling a dress from the closet. The morning light was unkind, etching the faint lines on her face, the softness of her stomach. He couldn’t help but compare. His mind superimposed the memory of Elena bent over the guest bed last night, the flawless, heart-shaped curve of her ass, the taut, unmarked skin of her back. The vivid, hungry perfection of her. A visceral revulsion tightened his throat. He could never be attracted to Beth again. The realization was absolute, and it felt like freedom.
They went downstairs. He made coffee, the routine movements autopilot. Beth talked about a source for her next segment, a political scandal, her words a buzzing drone. He nodded, but his entire consciousness was strained toward the ceiling, listening for the creak of floorboards, the rush of water in the guest bath, any signal that Elena was awake. Silence.
He cracked eggs into a pan. The sizzle was loud in the quiet kitchen. Beth leaned in, her hand on his arm, her mouth seeking his for a goodbye kiss. He flinched. He tried not to cringe, but the disloyalty to Elena felt like a physical wound being reopened. He turned his head away, pretending to cough into his shoulder.
“What’s wrong?” she asked, her smile fading.
“Throat’s tight,” he muttered, his voice gravelly. “Maybe a cold coming on.”
She studied him for a second, then nodded, accepting the lie as she always did. Just then, small, precise footsteps sounded on the stairs.
Elena entered the room.
She had changed. Gone were the borrowed sweatpants. She wore a tiny, tight pair of black spandex shorts that hugged every curve and a simple white t-shirt that stretched across her small, high breasts. She looked like a dream, tousled and fresh and devastatingly young. Hotch took a slow sip of his coffee, devouring her visually over the rim of his cup before setting it down with a soft clink. Her ass was on perfect display, the black fabric clinging like a second skin.
“Morning,” Beth said, her voice bright, professional. “Sleep okay?”
“Like a rock,” Elena said, her blue eyes flicking to Hotch. A ghost of a smile touched her lips.
Beth grabbed her toast, packed her bag. “I’m running late. Have a good day, you two.” She pecked the air near Hotch’s cheek and was gone, the front door clicking shut behind her.
The sound was a starting pistol.
Elena moved to the counter, picking up the coffee carafe. She stood close to him, her arm brushing his as she refilled his mug. She set the carafe down. The front door shut fully outside, the latch engaging with finality.
Before Beth could even have reached the bottom step of the front porch, Hotch had Elena pressed against the counter. His hands were on her hips, spinning her, his mouth crashing down on hers. It wasn’t a kiss; it was a consumption. She met him with equal ferocity, her fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him closer. He tasted coffee and a sweetness that was uniquely her.
“I’ve been thinking about this all morning,” he growled against her mouth, his hands sliding under her shirt, palming her bare ribs, thumbs stroking the undersides of her breasts. “Dreaming about it. I need you. Now.”
He lifted her onto the cold granite countertop, knocking his forgotten coffee mug aside. It skittered, spilling a dark pool. He didn’t care. His fingers hooked into the waistband of her spandex shorts and the flimsy lace beneath, yanking them down her legs in one rough motion. She kicked them off. He pushed her thighs apart, stepping between them, and dropped to his knees.
The sight of her, bare and exposed on his kitchen counter, in the sharp morning light, was the most obscenely beautiful thing he’d ever seen. Pink, swollen, glistening. He didn’t hesitate. He buried his face between her thighs, his tongue finding her clit with a firm, flat stroke.
“Oh, god, Aaron!” she cried out, her hands flying to his head, not to push him away but to hold him there.
He feasted on her. He licked and sucked, probing deep with his tongue, drinking her in. The sounds were filthy, wet, and loud. Her hips bucked against his mouth. He gripped her ass, holding her open, his stubble scratching the tender skin of her inner thighs as he worked her. He could feel her tightening, hear her breaths becoming short, punched-out gasps.
“Come in my mouth,” he ordered, his voice muffled against her. “I want to taste it. Let go.”
She shattered with a sharp, keening wail, her body bowing off the counter. He rode out her climax, gentling his tongue, lapping at her until she was trembling and oversensitive, pushing weakly at his shoulders.
He stood, his own breathing ragged, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. The taste of her was still on his tongue, metallic and sweet. He looked down at himself; the hard line of his erection strained obscenely against his gray sweatpants.
He didn’t bother undressing. He simply pushed the waistband down, freeing his cock, which stood thick and angry and already leaking. Her eyes widened, her lips parting in a soft ‘oh’ of pure want. He moved between her spread thighs again, the head of his cock nudging against her soaked opening.
“No one to hear you now,” he breathed, his voice a dark promise. “Let me hear it.”
He slammed into her.
It was a brutal, deep stroke, no finesse, just possession. The force of it drove her back against the cabinets. A shocked, glorious scream tore from her throat, loud and unfiltered, echoing off the hard kitchen surfaces. It was the sound he’d been starving for.
“Fuck,” he grunted, pulling out and plunging back in. “Just like that. Scream for me.”
He set a punishing rhythm, each thrust a deliberate, grinding invasion. The counter was cold and unyielding against her back, a stark contrast to the savage heat he stoked inside her. Her cries were a continuous soundtrack, broken by gasps, each one driving him deeper into a frenzy. He watched her face, her perfect features contorted in ecstasy, her mouth a wet, open circle.
“You take me so good,” he snarled, his hands gripping her hips hard enough to bruise, holding her in place for his pounding. “This tight little cunt was made for my cock. Tell me.”
“Yours!” she wailed, her head tossing side to side. “It’s only yours, Aaron, god, please!”
He wasn’t gentle. He wanted to break her apart and put her back together just for the pleasure of doing it again. He wanted to see the limits, to find the raw, animal core of her. He fucked her with a single-minded violence that had her shrieking, her nails scoring his forearms. Tears streamed from the corners of her eyes, cutting shiny paths through the blush on her cheeks. The sight of those tears, born of impossible pleasure, thrilled him with a primal, dark satisfaction.
Sex had never been this. Not with Beth, not with anyone. It had never been this all-consuming, this electrically perfect. The raw feedback loop of her screams fueling his thrusts, her exquisite tightness milking him, the complete ownership in her tear-filled eyes—it was a narcotic. He’d never been this attracted to another human being; it felt less like attraction and more like a fundamental biological rewrite.
“Come on,” he urged, his rhythm becoming erratic, frantic. “One more. Give it to me. Scream when you come.”
Her body locked, her back arching impossibly. A raw, ragged scream ripped from her throat, loud enough to disturb the birds outside the window. Her inner muscles clamped down on him in vicious, rhythmic pulses, pulling his own climax from the base of his spine.
He came with a guttural roar, pumping into her, his own vision whiting out at the edges. He kept moving through it, drawing out every last spasm until he was spent, hollowed out, collapsed over her, his forehead damp against her shoulder.
The kitchen was silent save for their harsh, mingled breaths. The spilled coffee formed a dark continent on the granite. Slowly, he softened inside her. He didn’t move to pull away, just pressed a kiss, surprisingly tender, to her damp throat.
“Okay?” he murmured.
She nodded, her fingers tracing the sweat-slick lines of his back. “More than okay.”
He finally withdrew, helping her sit up. He fetched a dish towel, wet it with warm water, and carefully cleaned her thighs. The domesticity of the act, after the animal ferocity of seconds before, was its own intimate confession. He tossed the towel into the sink.
His phone, left on the breakfast table, buzzed insistently. The screen lit up with the name of the Bureau’s technical analyst. Reality, cold and bureaucratic, bled back into the room.
“I have to take this,” he said, his voice regaining some of its customary gravel. He answered, his eyes never leaving her. “Garcia. What do you have?”
Penelope Garcia’s voice was uncharacteristically somber, lacking its usual sparkle. “I’m so sorry to bug you, sir, but it’s about the Harbinger firewalls. The ones from Elena’s case. We’ve got a problem.”
Hotch felt the professional mask slide back into place, but beneath it, a new, cold fear ignited. It was no longer just about the law. It was about her. “Explain.”
“The code remnants we pulled? Someone is actively trying to erase them. And I don’t mean digitally. There was an attempted breach at the off-site evidence locker last night.” She paused. “Whoever framed her is still playing. And they know we’re looking.”
He ended the call, the phone feeling heavy in his hand. The quiet kitchen now felt like the eye of a storm. Elena was watching him, reading the shift in his posture, the tightening of his jaw.
“They’re not done,” she said softly. It wasn’t a question.
“No,” he replied. He walked to her, cupped her face. The threat clarified everything. “You’re not leaving this house. Not until I find them. And I will find them.”
He kissed her, a seal on the promise. The taste of her, of them, was still there, but underneath it now was the sharp, metallic hint of danger.
The taste of her, of them, was still there, but underneath it now was the sharp, metallic hint of danger. He broke the kiss, resting his forehead against hers. Her breathing was still ragged from his mouth and his cock. “We’re not done,” he whispered, and it was a vow that covered everything—the threat, the hunger, the day stretching empty and perilous before them.
They weren’t.
The phone call suspended the fear, transmuting it into a frantic, physical need. He needed to mark her, to feel her alive and screaming under him, a temporary antidote to the silent, digital threat Garcia had outlined. He took her right there again, bent over the same kitchen counter, her pleas for more echoing off the stainless steel. Then he led her by the hand to the living room couch, the bright morning sun painting stripes across her body as he laid her down and devoured her again, her cries punctuating the quiet suburban hum.
The shower was next. Steam fogged the glass enclosure. He pressed her against the cold tile, water sluicing over them as he entered her from behind, his hands splayed on her stomach, pulling her back onto each thrust. The sounds were different here, wet slaps and choked gasps bouncing off the ceramic. She chanted his name like a prayer, her voice raw.
He saved his bed for last.
Standing in the doorway of the room he shared with Beth, the act felt more significant than the others. A deliberate violation. The sheets still smelled vaguely of Beth’s perfume. He pushed Elena backward onto the navy duvet, her blonde hair fanning across Beth’s pillow. The erotic charge of it, fucking his girl in his girlfriend’s bed, was a dark current that tightened his gut and thickened his cock. “Tell me whose bed this is,” he demanded, shoving her thighs apart.
“Yours,” she gasped, her eyes blazing.
“And who do you belong to?”
“You. Only you.”
He took her with a possessed ferocity, the headboard drumming a relentless rhythm against the wall. Elena was gloriously, shamelessly vocal all day, every gasped “please” and shrieked “yes” a flaunting of their secret. He lost count of orgasms, his and hers. He was insatiable. He couldn’t stop getting hard, the sight of her used, wet, and willing pulling him back from softness again and again.
He used every part of her. He took her from behind on the stairs, her palms squeaking on the polished wood. He came inside her so many times, the sheer volume of it felt consequential; he wouldn’t be surprised if he’d knocked her up, the thought a possessive thrill with no regret.
Late afternoon found him standing by the bed, watching her kneel on the carpet. Her mouth was a revelation. She had no gag reflex, a pure, tight swallow that felt like fucking a virgin porn star. She took him all the way down her throat, her nose pressed into the coarse hair at his base, and held him there, tears leaking from her squeezed-shut eyes.
“You like that, don’t you?” he grunted, his hands fisted in her hair. “You like taking it all.”
She hummed in agreement, the vibration nearly ending him. He set the pace, a brutal, driving rhythm, skull-fucking her so hard he knew he was bruising her esophagus. He loved watching the tears cut tracks through her flushed cheeks, the helpless flutter of her lashes. The obscene, wet sounds filled the silent bedroom.
When the pressure coiled beyond bearing, he didn’t warn her. He pulled his slick cock from her abused throat with a filthy, sucking pop. She gasped, dragging in ragged whoops of air, her lips swollen and shiny.
He aimed himself at her face. The first thick stripe hit her cheek. The next landed across her forehead. He grunted, hips jerking, spraying his release over her face, her neck, her bare tits. It was a lot. She squeezed her eyes shut, sputtering, practically drowning as pulse after pulse painted her. She looked beautifully ruined.
When he was spent, he softened, dripping the last drops onto her collarbone. The reality of the hour snapped back. He checked his watch. “Beth should be home soon. Go shower. Now.”
She nodded, wiping cum from her eyelashes with the back of her hand, and padded, naked and filthy, toward the guest bathroom. He pulled on clean sweatpants and a t-shirt, the mundane fabric a stark contrast to what he’d just done. Downstairs, he moved through the kitchen on autopilot, pulling out onions and carrots, the knife hitting the cutting board with solid, rhythmic chops. The shower kicked on upstairs, a distant roar.
The front door opened.
Beth walked in, dropping her briefcase by the stairs. Her movements were stiff. He kept chopping. “Hey,” he said, not turning around.
“Hi.” Her voice was flat, a single, weighty syllable.
Something was off. He could feel it in the air, a static charge. He seasoned the sauté pan, the sizzle loud in the quiet. “How was your day?” he asked, his tone carefully neutral, his profile’s mind already analyzing her micro-expressions from the corner of his eye.
“Fine.” She lingered in the doorway. “The usual. Editing fights. Sponsor demands.” A beat of silence stretched, thin and sharp. “Got a call from Cynthia. You know, my friend who lives next door?”
Hotch stilled, the wooden spoon in his hand. “Yeah.”
“She said it was a very… loud day over here.” Beth’s voice had a calibrated calm that he recognized as controlled fury. “Said she heard a woman. Screaming. All afternoon.”
He resumed stirring, the muscles in his jaw tightening. “Didn’t hear anything,” he said, the lie smooth and effortless. “Maybe she had her TV up.”
“No.” Beth’s heels clicked on the hardwood as she moved into the kitchen. She crossed her arms, leaning against the counter opposite him, her gaze a physical pressure. “Cynthia was very specific. She said the woman spent the entire afternoon begging. Begging Aaron for more of his cock.”
The words hung in the steam from the pan. He turned the burner off. The metronomic ticking of the cooling metal was the only sound. He finally looked at her. Her face was pale, her lips a thin, bloodless line. The anger wasn’t hidden now; it vibrated in the set of her shoulders, the flare of her nostrils. There was no point.
“Did you fuck her?” The question was a razor blade.
He met her eyes, his own devoid of remorse. “Yes.”
She inhaled sharply, as if he’d punched her. “How many times?”
A cold, almost clinical part of him wanted her to feel the totality of his betrayal, to understand the scale of her displacement. “We fucked all day,” he said, his voice devoid of inflection. “I lost count after my thirteenth time filling her up.”
The slap was instantaneous. Her palm cracked across his cheek with a force that snapped his head to the side. The sting bloomed hot and immediate. He didn’t move to touch it. He just turned his face back to hers, his expression unchanging, accepting the mark as his due.
Beth’s hand trembled at her side. Her eyes glittered with unshed tears of rage. Upstairs, the shower shut off. The house waited, breathless, for whatever came next.