The wind blows around the trees, through them and skates over her sweat, makes her teeth chatter. With trembling fingers Emily disengages the clip.

He stands. “What are you doing?”

She flings it into the deep dark trees. She points the gun at the ground and pulls back the slide, levering the remaining bullet out of the chamber. He moves in close, pine needles shifting beneath his feet. Their sweetness lulls in her breath. She reaches up, wipes his mouth with her palm. He gathers up her face, tilts her head back, and kisses her. She sighs into his mouth. The joints in her fingers tremble. The kiss deepens. The bullet falls, tumbling onto the pine needles. Emily tosses the gun to the ground. It lands with a heavy thump. Her arms move up around his neck. He leans the bridge of his nose into hers.

“Messes are hard to clean up on island.” George unzips her dress the rest of the way. “But you know that.”

“Do I?” The material skims her hips, cool on its way to the ground. “Do I know it as well as you?” She touches the hollow in his throat. “How’d you do it?”

He unbuttons his shirt. “A boat is an islander’s friend.”

“Did you cut him up?” She reaches for his belt.

“I think you’re too interested.” He shrugs out of the shirt. “If I said I did? Would that turn you on?”

Her chest rises and falls, pulling in the damp air. She unbuckles his belt and tugs it free, hands riding up on his hips and molding the shapes of his pockets, smoothing them into the heat of his body. She goes down on one knee. His hand falls to the crown of her head, playing with her mussed hair as she runs her hands over his buttocks, rumpling the khaki at his crotch. She gropes behind his balls. She follows his inseams with the backs of her hands and he brings her cheek against his hip. Her breath turns irregular. He curls his hand around the nape of her neck, rubbing. Her face turns into his crotch.

“Did you weigh him down?”

“Yeah.” He unbuttons and unzips. “I did.”

She pulls his pants down to his knees. His cock rises up, hard and red. He holds it against her face. She rests her forehead on the lowest slope of his belly, hands sliding up, fingertips first brushing and then reading the curve of a scar. His free hand massages the tingling roots of her hair. The texture of knitted skin opens up inside her and softens her inner thighs, murmuring a song of dreaming pain. The tension inside him shifts. She brushes her lips against it. She licks. The knot of flesh, unyielding, presses into her tongue. The fluttering of his breath struggles beneath hard muscle. The fingers in her hair get tight.

She whispers: “You don’t like it?”

His voice scrapes the bottom of his breath. “I like it.”

She traces the scar with her tongue and listens to his breath change. She purses her lips, blowing on the wetness, watching the hairs on his belly stiffen. He pushes her head down. Emily parts her lips, slides his cock into her mouth. She tastes long dark hours of sweat born in the stew of male chemistry and a trace of fabric softener. The velvet skin swells, taut veins pumping heat onto her tongue. He cradles the back of her head and pushes until she starts to gag. Spit builds at the corners of her mouth. He reaches down, wipes them with the edges of this thumbs. George brushes her bangs off her forehead and takes her cheeks in his hands.

“It goes in much easier,” he murmurs. “If you relax.”

The muscles in her throat jump and flutter. Her breath eases through her nose. She swallows.

“That’s it.” Low, rough, bringing her nerve endings up. He combs his fingers through her hair. “That’s right.”

He cups the back of her head and slides in and out of her throat. Each change in his breath brushes up against the inside of her skin. She sucks, her lips gliding up and down. The muscles in his thighs start to shake. She rests a hand on his belly. He covers it with his own, fingers curling tight into her palm. He draws up close to the quivering edge.

Emily pulls off him with a wet break of suction and he gets on his knees, spreading his shirt on the damp ground. He spreads the skirt of her dress and pushes her down onto her back. The ground prints its topography through the fabric. He moves her thighs apart and covers her with his body, heating her up, kissing the line of her jaw down onto her neck. Her arms wrap around his back. She arches up as he slides into her, thrusting hard. She braces her bare heels on the dew-slippery ground and moves, slow and firm, into his thrusts. He props himself up on his forearms.

“Say my name,” he pants.

The creeping fog does weird things to their breath. “George.”

He puts his face in her hair. “All of it.”

Her voice thins out, climbing a broken register. “Foyet.”

He pounds into her, breaking her breath into short puffs. She curls a hand around his sweaty nape, an image floating into her mind: flashlights slicing the darkness, her team running down into the clearing and she sees Penelope in something pink and sparkly and she says the lab tested the soil but they lost the samples and Morgan says I told you something was wrong dammit why didn’t you push it and JJ says look all the puzzle pieces are just waiting for the right hands and there’s only Hotch in this fantasy, only Aaron, the rest of the team is window dressing (even Spencer’s equal parts horrified, fascinated, bewildered expression), and Hotch squats down beside her and lays the backs of his fingers on her sweat-beaded cheek. His fingers are cool. I understand, he says. I understand why you need this. I understand why you need him.
“I want it in the ass,” she gasps. “Can you fuck me in the ass?”

He moves off her and she turns onto her knees, and he caresses her buttocks, spreads her cheeks and with a luscious hum he pushes his mouth into the split and licks her there, working her twitching hole with the flat of his tongue. Emily squirms down deep into herself, a wash of tingling rising up over her head. He scoops her steady pumping flood of wetness up around her hole, rubbing it in with his fingers.

The cold ground smells like deep water salt. Steam rises out of her cunt. George pushes his fingers in there, twisting them, pumping her as he tongue-drills her ass. The thick stride of his knuckles pushes the fantasy out of her, ripping it down. He straightens up on his knees and works the head of his cock between her cheeks, bearing down, pushing into her resistance. Her hands curl into fists. She groans, the sound tricked by the fog, echoing low inside her breath and her blood. He pops in and cries out. Sweet anguish flares in her clit, shivers through its internal structure. In her darkness there is only him. He fills her from coast to coast, sweeping up the landscape of her body, chasing flames that burn everything in their path. Electricity crackles between her vertebrae.

He thrusts like a landslide. Her jaw loosens on the forward motion, scooping up air. Her knees slide through the dirt. He knocks her bones. She moans his name.

George leans over her, takes her throat into his palm and pulls her head back. “Emily,” he breathes.

Her seams strain. He holds her like that, fucking her until the trembling in her voice cracks, the scream coming to life and rushing up out of her entrails. She gathers inward like the sea. Her orgasm rams through doors; the tension splinters one layer at a time, hurtling her through deep blood-scented darkness. He comes with a tight jerking of the hips and a long full-throated moan that makes her want to come again. She reaches down and rubs herself, fingers furious, wet and slicking. He hauls her into him. Another orgasm curls through her flesh, sharp and raw. She shivers in her cocoon of sweat like a newborn thing. The strength pours out of her, a rushing tide. She tightens up then slumps, weakened, onto the ground.

Now he’ll do it. Now he’ll kill me.

He turns her over, gathers her up, and carries her back to the car.