They fall against each other in the elevator, Reid laughing softly in Rossi's ear and sliding an arm around his waist. "I was hoping you'd ask me that."
Rossi chuckles back, high on the feel of Spencer Reid laughing against him and holding onto him. "I didn't think I ought to just drag you away and have my wicked way with you. Though I somehow don't think you'd mind much, would you?"
"Not at all," Reid murmurs in reply as he pulls away -- only a little, only enough to lead Rossi out of the elevator, down the hall, and into their room. "I am particularly not averse to the idea of you, ah, having your wicked way with me," he says as he pulls Rossi close and leans him up against the wall by the door, "so long as you let me have my wicked way with you, too."
Rossi grabs Reid's shoulders and spins them around, so that Reid is against the wall. "Psh, you don't have a wicked bone in your body."
"Are you certain of that, Dave?" Reid's voice goes low and throaty on Rossi's name, though his cheeks have flushed a very nice shade of pink, and Rossi smirks and cants his hips against Reid's. Reid gasps and twitches his hips in reply.
Rossi smirks. "Prove me wrong, then."
"Gladly." Reid begins with enthusiasm, his hands sliding up Rossi's chest, rubbing little circles until he finds Rossi's nipples through his shirt. He hums in satisfaction when Rossi takes a sharp breath, and then he bends his neck to whisper in Rossi's ear. "I've been thinking about doing that for years. Practically since we met."
Rossi groans. "You nuts? I was a middle-aged asshole when we met."
"You're still a middle-aged asshole, but I don't mind," Reid says amicably, pressing a kiss to Rossi's earlobe. "And you're brilliant and witty and good-looking. I had a, um, a crush on you when I was nineteen."
"You are nuts." Rossi runs his hands over Reid's upper arms -- Reid's too skinny to call them "biceps" -- and wonders how in hell he managed to pull this off.
"I was working on my BAs and had a class that read one of your books. Your memoir of your career. The way you talked about what you did in those days -- how passionate about stopping evil and saving the innocent you were. It made me think that maybe there were still heroes in the world." Reid's face is buried in Rossi's neck as he speaks, his breath warming him almost as much as the words do.
Rossi brings a hand up to touch Reid's face. "I hope I didn't disappoint you," he whispers. He thinks he must have, repeatedly.
"Do you remember Las Vegas?" Reid murmurs, pulling back to meet his eyes. Rossi nods, and Reid continues, "You stayed. We hardly knew each other, and you stayed."
There's something almost shy in Reid's gaze, and Rossi wants to kiss him. "I'm not a hero," he protests.
"You're you, though." The sentence doesn't make any logical sense, but Rossi understands, and it kind of scares him; this is the kind of steady, unwavering confidence that, though Rossi is a middle-aged asshole with three failed marriages and decades of mistakes to his name, Rossi is still worthy of Reid's trust. It is quiet, and strange, and beautiful.
Rossi isn't sure how to deal with it. None of his wives ever felt this for him -- but they were normal women who knew nothing of death the way Reid does, who never spoke of compassion to men incapable of it.
"Thank you," he finally manages.
Maybe Reid can read the fear he's feeling, because he moves his hands from Rossi's chest up to his face, thumbs skimming his cheekbones, and then down again, to cup his jaw. It is a soft, intimate gesture, and he is still looking into Rossi's eyes.
The moment hangs as Rossi becomes aware that they are pressed against each other from shoulder to knee. He makes a decision then, and leans in to kiss him.
Reid seems to have made the same decision, though, and they both tilt their heads in the same direction and they bump noses. Rossi chuckles and Reid flushes bright red before visibly steeling himself and trying again, pulling Rossi's face in the right position and fitting their lips together with purpose.
Angels don't start singing the Hallelujah Chorus in Rossi's head. Their mouths are closed and Reid's lips are chapped, and Reid's arms are bent up between them in a way that Rossi's sure can't be comfortable for Reid, but the pure force of will behind it and the emotions trapped inside it have him kissing back almost instantly. He doesn't move his lips, really, just presses against Reid's. He stays there, wondering at the way Reid can kiss him like this, like he's never kissed anybody, but have it still be absolutely fucking brilliant.
They pull apart for air, and Rossi looks up into those tawny eyes and thinks that, yeah, he's screwed. There's no way in hell those eyes will ever stop making him think of this moment.
He doesn't give a shit, though, and leans back up for another kiss, this time moving gently against Reid's lips, as gently as he can. He has obviously lost his mind, because he thinks that, despite the fact that he wants more, wants everything, he'd be fine if he spent the whole night like this, trading soft, middle-school kisses with Dr. Spencer Reid.
"My God," he whispers when next they part, breaths mingling between them.
Reid licks his lips nervously, as though he didn't hear the awe in Rossi's voice. Rossi almost laughs, but instead brings his hands up to Reid's and pulls those long slender fingers down so he can lace them with his own. He smiles and squeezes Reid's long white hands, and Reid's face splits open into a wide, joyous grin. Rossi loves that smile, and euphoria threatens to overwhelm him as he promises himself he'll do whatever he can to make sure he sees it as often as possible.
"Dave," Reid says, as though he can hardly believe this is happening. "Dave, when did you...?"
"Fall for you?" Rossi finishes, and Reid nods, looking curious and just a little insecure. Rossi pulls Reid toward the bed and they sit, hands still interlaced. "Not really sure. I figured out I liked your mind almost immediately, once I realised you weren't trying to show everyone up. As for your body" -- he lets himself run his eyes down Reid's body as he pauses -- "In Philly, on the case with the storage bin. You kept leaning over my shoulder, and I found myself wondering what it would be like to touch you."
"Really?" Reid squeaks, as though he can't believe it's been that long since Rossi first thought of him that way.
"And," Rossi says, letting go of one of Reid's hands to curl one of his own in the hair that's as soft as he'd always imagined it would be, "When we did that case with the doll collector, and you tore her father a new one, that -- God, that was something."
Reid blinks, leaning his head into Rossi's hand. "Really?" he repeats.
"When you let yourself take charge, you look like you could take on the world and win." It's true, and Rossi punctuates it with another kiss, softer and slower and wetter, though he doesn't open his mouth.
"They say confidence can be extremely attractive," Reid whispers, and his free hand comes up to gently touch Rossi's goatee. "When you interrogated Henry Grace, it was a lot like reading that book again -- but with more...when I read your books, I didn't think about you, uh, pushing me up against a wall and...and c-claiming me."
That sends a primal surge of want through Rossi, and he unlaces his hand from Reid's. He slides his hand up his arm and shoulder, and then stands, his knees touching Reid's; he pushes his fingertips against Reid's chest and then asks, "Do you want me to claim you?"
It's a stupid way to phrase it, but he means it. He wants Reid, has wanted him for over three years now, has loved him for at least one of those years. He wants to "claim" Reid, and wants Reid to claim him back. "Spencer..."
The sound of his given name makes Reid's eyes snap to his. Reid's breath has gone ragged. "Do you want to?"
The question is almost plaintive, heartbreakingly so, because how many times has Reid been hurt, been abandoned? Too many; enough to make this harder than it should be.
"No. I want you to do the claiming."
Reid's eyes go wide and his face flushes again. Rossi leans down and kisses Reid again, this time opening his mouth and waiting.
Reid seems to know, now, just what to do, because his tongue is in Rossi's mouth, sliding over lips and teeth and tongue, and he is careful and sensual and Rossi wonders for an instant where he learned this.
Rossi reciprocates, licking at Reid's tongue in invitation. This has all been about invitation, about asking. So, wordlessly, he does.
Reid makes a noise that's halfway between a gasp and a moan, and suddenly his hands are on Rossi's face and in his hair, pulling him down toward him. He overbalances and then they're flat on the bed, their legs dangling off. Rossi makes an 'oof' noise and their teeth clack together painfully when they hit the bed.
He pulls back, levering himself up to look down at Reid, who looks confused and embarrassed. He smiles and leans down again, gently kissing Reid before rolling off of him.
"Christ," he says, grinning. "That was good."
Reid leans up on an elbow, smiling now. "Good. Because, minus the falling over, I'd like to do it again." He turns over, kicking out of his shoes and wriggling up so that he's kneeling on the bed. "Come on."
Rossi sits up and shakes his head, his grin turning wicked. "Are we startin' off vertical or horizontal?"
"Which would you prefer?" Reid sounds almost clinical as Rossi works his feet out of his boots. "I mean, I don't exactly wind up in this situation often, so I haven't really developed a preference."
"We're gonna have to work on that 'not getting laid' thing you've got goin' on," Rossi counters, smiling. "And it depends on how fast you wanna go tonight -- start vertical if you want to take it slower." He gauges Reid's body language and thinks about kicking himself; how does he know if Reid wants to have sex tonight? They've only just admitted to three years of romantic tension, after all.
Phenomenal foot-in-mouth, David, says his Inner Critic, who sounds remarkably like his mother.
But Reid doesn't seem to notice the sudden inner conflict, because he fucking pounces, and that leonine comparison from yesterday? Totally apt. Now Rossi is flat on his back underneath Reid, who proceeds to splay his fingers over Rossi's face, tracing each line and contour and crease, his eyes half closing.
His fingers linger in Rossi's beard, and Rossi connects the dots. "You have a thing for facial hair?"
"No," Reid answers, dropping a quick, close-mouthed kiss to Rossi's lips. "Just yours. It suits your face." He smiles. "And I like your face."
Rossi grins, and then hooks a hand behind Reid's neck for a hot, wet kiss. They are chest-to-chest, and Reid is humming into Rossi's mouth, and it makes Rossi think of Walt Whitman, inexplicably. He dredges up a memory and quotes the poet, "Only the sound I like, the hum of your valved voice," when Reid pulls back to breathe.
"Whitman," Reid breathes, lips quirking. "This is the press of a bashful hand, this the float and odor of hair,/This the touch of my lips to yours, this the murmur of yearning." He punctuates the quote by dragging his fingers down Rossi's jaw.
Rossi's breath quickens. "Only you would not only recognise an obscure Walt Whitman quote, but go on to turn me on with more of the same," he says, shaking his head in wonder.
"Whitman turns you on?" Reid leans down and kisses his way up Rossi's throat.
"You turn me on," Rossi counters. "I like that you know all the crazy shit you know, and that you can quote Whitman and Shakespeare and practically every famous dead poet."
This admission earns him another kiss that burns, and he moans. Reid seems to react instinctually to that, his hips shifting against Rossi's, and Rossi shifts right back, lifting his hips off the mattress to press against Reid from lips to groin. "Oh, fuck," Reid murmurs against his mouth.
Reid doesn't swear, and hearing the word fall absently from his lips is quite possibly one of the sexiest things that has ever happened to Dave Rossi.
Rossi moans and flattens a hand on the small of Reid's back, slipping it up underneath the white t-shirt. Reid gasps at the touch, arching up into it and scrambling with his hands to start in on the buttons on Rossi's shirt. His hands are shaking, and Rossi takes the opportunity to start pressing kisses to Reid's face and neck.
"Stop that," Reid whispers. "I'm, ah, trying to undress you, and you're making it difficult for me to --"
Rossi yanks Reid down into another kiss, and then slides his hands up to brush Reid's hands out of the way. He begins unbuttoning the shirt himself, having successfully distracted Reid, and tries to fathom how in hell he wound up in Tennessee being undressed by Spencer Reid. Turns out it's fathomless, and he gives in, guiding Reid's hands back to his chest, letting him shove the parted cloth aside and touch bare skin.
Reid's fingers are gentle, and Reid pulls back, looking almost shy. He rocks back onto his knees and scoots forward to straddle Rossi's hips, and he groans when he makes contact.
"Oh, god," Rossi moans back. "Oh god."
Reid drops down for another kiss, hands dragging gently down Rossi's chest, his tongue making slow circles inside Rossi's mouth. When he pulls back, his pupils are blown so wide that his eyes are more black than hazel. He is looking down at Rossi, and Rossi doesn't think he's ever seen anything quite as erotic as Spencer Reid straddling him, lips reddened from kissing.
"You're wearing too many clothes," Rossi points out, not too sure he really cares about the amount of clothing Reid's got on, as long as Reid keeps looking at him like this.
Reid tilts his head to the side. "So're you." He punctuates the statement by grinding down on Rossi's hips.
"You gonna -- hahh -- do somethin' about that?"
"Maybe," Reid replies, a smile pulling at his lips. "But maybe not. Maybe you should take that into your own hands?"
Rossi raises an eyebrow, shifting up onto his elbows. "Y'know, you can be damn evil when you want to be," he grumbles affectionately, and starts in on Reid's fly. Reid only groans in response, so Rossi continues, keeping as much of his head as he can.
His knuckles brush against the bulge in Reid's jeans and he wonders when it was that he last felt fucking sparks during sex. He decides not to think about it and refocuses on what he's doing, because Reid has just whimpered at his touch. God, that's hot, he thinks, but he's completely tongue-tied and he finally finishes with the fly and pushes at the jeans, palming Reid's erection, which elicits a moan and a jerk of Reid's hips --
-- Which, due to their position, sends a jolt of arousal through Rossi's own (and, up to now, rather neglected) erection. He moans, and Reid's eyes snap to his.
"Good?" Reid asks, the word halfway to a gasp.
Rossi nods and flicks his thumb over Reid's bulge. After Reid finishes a noise in between a whine and a groan, Rossi moves his hand away and asks, "Good?"
"Evil," Reid retorts, grinding down again. "But yes, actually, good."
Rossi grins. "Glad I get to be the one to drive you to say things that don't make sense." He slides his hands around to grope Reid's ass, which makes Reid's eyes widen. "Now tell me how I can make you say things that don't even have actual words."
"What languages?" Reid asks, leaning back down close and whispering, “I'm fluent in several, and passable in others."
"If I can't make you forget English, I'll have been doing something wrong."
Reid's already ragged breath catches, and he catches Rossi's lips with his own. "I'll admit to being fascinated by how one man could be the reason the Bureau has no-fraternization rules -- is the sex really that insanely good?"
Rossi raises both eyebrows. "Was that a challenge, Dr. Reid?"
"If you'd like it to be, Agent Rossi," Reid replies, voice low and husky, rolling his hips. Rossi groans and reaches between them, rubbing at both of them through their clothes and Reid whines becomingly.
"That's a good start," Rossi gasps.
Reid looks at him with lidded eyes. He pushes down, pinning Rossi's hand between them. "Didn't you say I'm wearing too many clothes?"
“I might’ve,” Rossi replies, giving Reid his best challenging expression.
A slow, Cheshire grin spreads over Reid’s face. Slowly, he starts pulling up his shirt, exposing the white plain of his stomach inch by inch. Eventually he yanks it over his head, despite the buttons, and discards it. “Better?” he asks, his hands dragging down his chest and stomach.
“Hell yes,” Rossi gasps out. He reaches up to touch, and the difference in their complexions his striking – Reid looking like he’s never seen the sun, and Rossi’s hand tan and Italian against that white skin. It’s a heady contrast, and Rossi quickly decides he might never tire of it. He gently brushes his fingers over Reid’s stomach and up to his nipples, which are already hard pink nubs. Reid whimpers when Rossi touches them. He grins. “Like that, don’t you?”
Reid nods, voiceless, and grinds down on Rossi again. Then he gathers himself and leans down, kissing him hot and hard. “Very much.”
Rossi shrugs out of his shirt and it lays crumpled beneath them. He starts in on his own pants, keeping one hand moving over Reid’s chest to distract him as he undoes his belt and fly. Reid catches on, though, and moves up onto his hands and knees over Rossi.
The smile on his face is positively predator-esque, eyes intense and shining. “You know what else I would like?” he whispers, leaning down to Rossi’s ear.
“For us to be naked. Right now.” There is something slightly hoarse in his voice, and Rossi finds his hands shoving at his pants and underwear until he is naked underneath a half-clothed, debauched-looking Spencer Reid.
The entire experience is surreal, but Rossi counts his blessings and pulls Reid’s face down so he can kiss him. You don’t kick a gift horse in the mouth, after all.
Reid shifts his weight so he can run a hand down Rossi’s chest and abdomen, stopping briefly to tangle in his chest hair. He doesn’t take his eyes off of Rossi’s, though, and the eye contact is searingly intense. His hand is slow and then he brushes his hand against Rossi’s erection. Rossi’s hips twitch reflexively, and Reid’s face splits into a grin again. It’s good, too good.
“That’s much better,” Reid murmurs. His hand slides along Rossi’s cock again, and Rossi groans. “Yes, much better.”
Rossi can’t help but agree, but he does his best to keep his head. “You’ve still got…you’ve still got pants on,” he breathes as Reid’s hand stills and then moves across his hip. “You might wanna fix that. Hahh…Or maybe you don’t.”
“Oh, right,” Reid says, chuckling. “I was a little…distracted.”
He shucks his pants and underwear like a pro – oh, Rossi did not have to think of that – and then drapes himself over Rossi. His eyes are still dark, and the lights are still on, and they are naked together in a bed in Tennessee. “Hi,” he whispers into Rossi’s ear.
“Hello,” Rossi replies, shifting under him just a little. They brush against each other, and then they both gasp in unison.
It feels like the world is changing. It honestly does, and Rossi faces the change like he faces everything else – with a steady heart and sharp tongue. “You gonna do that again?”
“Y-yeah.” Reid kisses him, and grinds down, straddling Rossi as he presses them together.
Rossi gasps in a breath at the simple, unassuming motion and responds, rocking against Reid. He moves his hands up to clasp Reid’s hips, slender as they are, and Reid tangles his hands in his hair.
They roll over, and then Rossi finds himself above Reid. His hair is flopping in and out of his face as he squirms, and Rossi brushes it out of the way. He leans down and presses another kiss to his lips, wondering at his luck – because, with all he’s managed to achieve in over half a century of life, all of the things and people he’s known and saved, there’s no way he could have ever planned for something like this.
Pinned beneath him, Reid rocks up, grinding them together. It’s perfect and wanton, and finally they are beyond words.
The next few minutes are spent in a breathy near-silence, broken only by the slide of skin on skin and their occasional groans. Rossi feels his arms straining as he holds himself up and Reid snakes a shaking hand between them, groping them both blindly until he has them both in hand.
It takes three exquisite tugs before Rossi comes, groaning out Reid’s name like a litany. Reid follows him soon after, and as his hand falls away, Rossi moves onto his side and drops onto the bed.
They are slick and sweaty, and now they are too exhausted to move.
Reid turns to face him and give him a kiss that is satisfied and warm, and Rossi finds himself beginning to fall asleep.
He wonders, briefly, as he drifts off, what the morning after will be like.
Somehow, he thinks it will be the best he’s had in a very, very long time.
[end Chapter Three]
“Whoa, oh, come take my hand;
We’re ridin’ out tonight to case the Promised Land.
Oh, oh, oh Thunder Road, oh Thunder Road.”
~ “Thunder Road” by Bruce Springsteen
Link to Chapter 2