50 shades of Hotchner|| Aaron Hotchner x reader

♕ Chapter 23 ♛

For the first time, I voluntarily go for a run. I find my nasty, never-used sneakers, some sweat pants, and a t-shirt. I put my hair in a ponytail, blushing at the memories it brings back, and plug in my headphones. I can't sit in front of that fantastic computer and look at or read any more disturbing material. I need to expend some of this excess, enervating energy. Quite frankly, I have a mind to run to the Hampton Inn hotel and just demand sex from the control freak. But that's five miles, and I don't think I'll be able to run one mile, let alone five, and of course, he might turn me down, which would be beyond humiliating.

Chanel is walking from her car as I head out of the door. She nearly drops her shopping when she sees me. (Y/n) (L/n) in sneakers. I wave and don't stop for the investigation. I need some serious alone time.

I pace through the park. What am I going to do? I want him, but on his terms? I just don't know. Perhaps I should negotiate what I want. Go through that ridiculous contract line by line and say what is acceptable and what isn't. My research has told me that legally it's unenforceable. He must know that. I figure that it just sets up the parameters of the relationship. It illustrates what I can expect from him and what he expects from me – my total submission. Am I prepared to give him that?

Am I even capable?

I am plagued by one question – why is he like this? Is it because he depended on one person at such a young age? I just don't know. He's still such a mystery.

I stop beside large spruce and put my hands on my knees, breathing hard, dragging precious air into my lungs. Oh, this feels good, purifying. I can feel my resolve hardening. Yes. I need to tell him what's okay and what isn't. I need to email him my thoughts, and then we can discuss these on Wednesday. I take a deep, cleansing breath, then jog back to the apartment.

Chanel has been shopping for clothes for her holiday to Barbados. She will look fabulous in all of them, yet she still makes me sit and comment while she tries on each one. There are only so many ways you can say – you look fabulous, Chanel. She has a curvy, slim figure to die for. I know she doesn't do it on purpose, but I haul my sorry, perspiration clad, old t-shirt, sweat pants, and sneakers ass into my room on the pretext of packing more boxes. Could I feel any more inadequate? Taking the incredible accessible technology with me, I set the laptop up on my desk.

I email Aaron.

__________________________________________________________________

From: (Y/n) (L/n)

Subject: Social Security Administration

Date: 2011

To: Aaron Hotchner

Okay, I've seen enough. It was nice knowing you.

(Y/n)

I press send, hugging myself, laughing at my little joke. Will he find it as funny? Oh, shit – probably not. Aaron Hotchner is not well known for his sense of humor. But I know it exists because I've experienced it. Perhaps I've gone too far. I am waiting for his answer.

I wait... and wait. I glance at my alarm clock. Ten minutes have passed.

To distract from the anxiety that blooms in my belly, I start packing up my room and doing what I told Chanel I would be doing. I begin by cramming my books into a crate. By nine, I've heard nothing. Perhaps he's out. I pout sulky as I plug my phone earbuds in, listen to music, and sit down at my tiny desk to reread the contract and make my comments.

I don't know why I glance up. Maybe I catch a slight movement from the corner of my eye, I don't know, but when I do, he's standing in the doorway of my bedroom, watching me intently. He's wearing his black flannel pants and a white linen shirt, gently twirling his car keys. Fuck! I pull my earbuds out and freeze.