A/N: It keeps getting longer LMAO Thank you for reading and for the messages and comments I’ve gotten about continuing this fic. I’ve fallen in love with this little world so I’m glad you’re enjoying exploring more of it with me. Shout outs to @lifeinahole27, @intolerably-struck, and @the-lady-swan for their eyes and input and flails and cheerleading!
Word Count: 5,817 | Rating: MF for More Fluff | ao3
Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | ao3 (from the start)
She doesn’t ground Henry. But she definitely ignores the triumph dancing in his eyes and the self-satisfied smirk curving his lips when she gets home a few hours later, marching straight past his place on the couch without so much as a ‘hey, kid’ and retreating directly to her room.
She doesn’t meet Killian the following Saturday for ice cream either. But she gets really, really close to doing it, making it about halfway down the walkway of her house before chickening out and spinning on her heel to make a hasty retreat.
(It’s something she can’t stop thinking about the rest of the day, distracted even when he calls to wish her goodnight. While he doesn’t mention anything about the missed meeting, the fact that she’d been intentionally absent weighs heavily in the forefront of her mind. She’s still mulling over it a few days later when she picks up Henry on Tuesday, stubbornly waiting in the car instead of picking him up from the classroom like she usually would.
Killian makes no comment about that either.)
The next time they see each other is that Saturday, under the cover of night, with no cold confections in sight. She shows up to his place just past 8:00 PM, fusing her mouth to his the second he lets her in. The door shuts firmly behind her with a swift kick of her foot and she wastes no time walking him backwards all the way into his room. Her foot hooks around his leg she tumbles them into his bed with practiced ease, his breathless laughter ringing in her ears and her own giggles muffled from where she’s buried her face in his neck. When he rolls over her, pinning her beneath the hard lines of his body, it’s so easy to lose herself in that – in him – his eager lips and impatient hands acting as a beacon to guide her way.
Hours pass after, time irrelevant in the aftermath of their passions. Emma doesn’t mind, remaining snuggled up into his side while he dozes, legs tangled with his as she shares his warmth beneath the thin sheet he had drawn over them earlier. The rest of the blankets lay on a heap across his floor, both of them too lazy to leave the comfort of the bed to retrieve them. Skin-to-skin contact and body heat will just have to suffice, but she suspects that he doesn’t mind one bit.
Her fingertips lightly trace nonsensical patterns into his skin – swirling loops just beneath the line of his collarbone, figure-eights over and over on the space above his heart, charting zig zags across his torso so the dusting of hair there tickles her fingers.
She counts each solid beat of his heart between the measured rise and fall of his chest. It’s steady, and Emma finds it difficult to ignore the symbolism in that – too dazed from his attentions, too comforted by the weight of his arm curled around her and his hand resting possessively over her hip, too vulnerable with her cheek pillowed against his shoulder.
It’s much later when she leaves, the moon low in the sky and the light of dawn very, very faintly chasing after it. Killian lingers with his dreams instead of waking to her quiet shuffling around the room as she gathers her belongings. There is an unhurried air to her movements, like a reluctance almost, and she keeps sneaking glances at him while she dresses. Hoping he doesn’t wake. Hoping that he does.
Before she goes, she brushes the hair back from his forehead and leans over him to kiss his brow.
One part of the sky is a lighter shade of blue than the other by the time she makes it outside. Not very much, but enough to make her tread along her ‘no-overnights’ rule questionable. Surprisingly, she feels rather calm about the whole thing. But that could also be a result of having a lot of other thoughts that are crowding her head that morning, the main one being that maybe it wouldn’t be so bad if she were steady for him too.
If it was something they could figure out how to be…together.
—–
She’s got impeccable timing.
It’s nearing the end of the school year and the start of Summer break by the time she works up the courage to maybe-kinda-sorta ask Killian out on a date. A date date.
(Jesus Christ.)
She hadn’t been expecting that the impending seasonal shift would thwart her plans, though.
His schedule is packed to the brim with work-related things: finalizing lesson plans and end of the year projects, grading assignments, organizing the school’s talent show, and a slew of other things that has kept them diligently – and annoyingly – apart. The only time they’ve really had to see each other is when she picks Henry up, and even then, she gets no more than his fingers twisting around a lock of her hair, his mouth sweet and gentle on hers. Well, sometimes sweet, other times rough and eager and demanding (she likes those days a lot), but always a quiet apology for the time they haven’t been able to carve out for just the two of them.
No one is more shocked than she is, when she wakes one morning and realizes that she…she misses him. Not just for the sex, which, to be honest, she definitely misses. But she misses his jokes too, and his laugh, and the way his eyes crinkle around the edges when he smiles. She misses his wit and his charm and how his hand always has a knack for finding her’s. The way their fingers twine together. She misses his scent. His warmth. How thoroughly he kisses her so that her breath expels in short, ragged puffs of air against his lips when they break apart, and his name turns into some sort of mantra in her head.
She just…she misses him.
And it’s not like he’s been completely absent, really it’s just mostly been in the physical sense. They still talk every single day. He messages her song recommendations for her workout playlist or long patrol days, and she emails him astrology articles she thinks he’ll find interesting or enjoy reading during his lunch hour. And he always calls before bed to ask her about her day, to wish her goodnight and tell her sweet dreams (only ever of him, of course, and the sentiment regularly pulls a snorting laugh from her).
Despite all of that, it’s still not the same as when they’re together, so she can hardly be blamed when by the second week of this, she’s reached the end of her rope. After numerous sleepless nights and this unsettled feeling in the pit of her stomach that’s been making her edgy (Henry would argue ‘cranky’) and constantly restless, she randomly shows up to his classroom one day – during his lunch break – to finally ask him out on a proper date.
His back is to her when she gets there, and the sentence he’d been writing on the chalkboard promptly loses the period at the end in favor of a long squiggly line that appears in its place when the shock of her question makes his hand jerk on the board.
And promptly snap the piece of chalk in half.
He pauses for a breath, then turns to face her with squinting eyes and a scrunched nose. “Shouldn’t I be the one asking you out?”
“I should have known you’d be old fashioned. What are you, like three hundred?”
Piercing eyes of blue study her for a long while, his gaze flitting across her face in a deliberate sweep that makes her want to wring the hem of her shirt with her hands. She doesn’t, but it’s a near thing.
It takes him a second, probably due to being temporarily stunned by the momentousness of her offer, but she has to give him credit for a quick recovery. As soon as he regains his bearings, he shuffles over to her, all confident swagger and playful eyes. His tongue pokes into his cheek as he leads with his hips like he always does when he sees the perfect opportunity to flirt with her. It’s amazing how swiftly that puts her at ease.
“Fine,” he says. “I’ll happily accept on one condition: you let me plan the evening.”
“Hey, I know how to plan a date!” she argues.
“You know how to keep the town orderly, I know how to plan an evening out.”
“Well, for your information, I’ve already got the evening planned, Mr. Jones. So, apologies, as you would say. But this round goes to me.” Her smile is immensely pleased.
“Oh?” His brow quirks at that, never one to resist a challenge. “Been thinking about this for awhile, have you?” The teasing lilt to his voice makes her cheeks flush just a bit. Makes him reach out and stroke the back of his index finger along the curve of it, eyes following the line of color and making the corners of his lips tug up. “Well, you’ve officially piqued the interest of the class, Ms. Swan. Please, enlighten us. I should warn you, though. I don’t pillage and plunder on the first date.”
They both know that’s a lie, given their first- ah, evening out (or rather, in), and this time she’s the one that shuffles a bit closer. “Dinner.”
He smiles again, making an approving little hum in the back of his throat. “Where?”
Emma doesn’t answer right away, the pause as much for dramatic effect as it is to allow herself the opportunity to take in his ‘before and after’ faces once she drops another bomb on him. “My place.”
Whatever smartass retort he’s already got on his tongue abruptly disappears at her revelation. Whatever playful smugness had been on his face quickly vanishes, replaced by an expression of surprise and quiet wonder. “Oh.”
“Oh,” she nods her head in agreement, her own grin full of amusement as her fingers dance up his shirt to wipe imaginary chalk dust off his chest.
“What about Henry?” he asks quietly.
Emma hasn’t forgotten what he’d said a while back, about wanting to have dinner with them both. It certainly was tempting, but she’s trying for baby steps, wading into the pool instead of diving in headfirst. On the deep end. Without a flotation device. Besides, she selfishly wants him to herself for an evening before they start adding Henry into the mix.
(Jesus Christ.)
“Sleepover,” she replies casually, hoping that her little burst of anxiety remains her little secret. She inches forward until the tips of her boots bump lightly into the tips of his, loving the way his Adam’s apple bobs when he swallows hard and absolutely does not miss the way his eyes flicker to her lips. “So it’ll just be you…and me…and a table for two.” And whatever happens after, but she doesn’t say that, simply lets it dangle unspoken and enticing in the air.
“Oh,” he breathes again, softer this time.
“Oh,” she whispers back, leaning up on her toes to brush her smile gently over his lips in a chaste little kiss. “Does 7:00 PM work for you?”
All he can do is nod, dumbfounded, and it makes the corners of her mouth tug up wide and happy. He’s always been so good with words, and she likes that she’s able to render him speechless for once.
“Great. See you then.”
She kisses him again, and this time, it’s not chaste. It’s the complete opposite of chaste. It’s voracious and impatient. Passionate. Full of all of her frustration and everything she’s missed about him in the last few weeks. It’s full of her courage, and just enough of her nerves for it to be a little desperate. To make her grip at his shirt and wrinkle it while she tries to anchor herself to something. To him. He lets her take, lets her set the pace, lets her press against him so that not a scant bit of space exists between them.
She leaves him with a parting little nip to his bottom lip…and maybe an extra sway of her hips on her way out the door just for good measure – a silent promise of what’s to come.
—–
Emma goes all out for the evening, taking her time to get ready, indulging in a luxurious bubble bath then rubbing sweet-smelling lotion all over her skin. She takes even greater care to select the perfect outfit too. Initially, she had wanted to go with something sexy, a black skin-tight number that left little to the imagination, reminiscent of the red dress she’d worn that first night they’d been together. It didn’t feel right when she put it on, though, her lips pursing and eyes narrowing in thought while she stared at her reflection and studied herself from different angles – over her shoulder, side-view, full frontal.
In the end she surprises herself, picking something soft and more feminine instead. So unlike her normal day-to-day and even previous date nights long before him. It’s a pale pink dress that flows past her knees, miles of silky chiffon accented by a v-shaped neckline and nude heels.
She piles her hair up high at the top of her head, curling the ends, and smoothing out the bumps with hairspray. Perfume is dabbed onto her wrists and inside her elbows, then just below her ear where he likes to nuzzle his nose and press his lips. She’s even got a surprise for him underneath the dress, one she knows will knock him off his feet and one, she hopes, he’ll never be able to resist: absolutely nothing.
None of the other details are overlooked either – candles everywhere, glowing warm throughout the house, quiet romantic music to set the mood, and her best dish simmering on low atop the stove.
He knocks on the door promptly at 7:00 PM and she takes a breath on the other side before she answers. She’s got butterflies in her stomach, jittery hands that tremble slightly and palms that are just a bit damp when she grasps the doorknob. But she feels good. This feels good. (She could even argue that it feels right.)
She’s delighted to discover, upon pulling the door open, that he doesn’t skimp out on any details either. He looks dashing in his dark jeans and deep blue dress shirt, his black vest beneath the leather jacket completing the ensemble. He looks more rockstar than teacher tonight, a callback to the evening they’d first met, perhaps, and she wonders if he intends to seduce her the same way he’d done then.
Judging by the expression on his face, however, it’s he who is ultimately seduced.
His gaze is full of awe as he takes her in, head shaking slightly before he meets her eyes and tells her she looks stunning. It makes the butterflies in her stomach dance, wings beating fiercely to time with the pounding of her heart against her ribcage. It’s almost too much, the way he looks at her. Like she’s something special, something precious.
She hides her shy smile behind a sniff of the single red rose he suavely presents to her, and steps aside to welcome him in. It’s been a long time since she’s gotten any flowers and she feels stupidly giddy over the bloom. The flower is not the only gift he’s brought with him, though, he’s got her favorite bottle of wine by the neck in his other hand and she chuckles lightly. “You really went all out.”
“You’re one to talk, love,” he replies, following her into the kitchen and setting the alcohol on the counter before casually looking around. There’s an adorable expression on his face, a smile full of secrets as he stands leaning against the counter with his hands tucked into the pockets of jeans.
“What?” she asks, taking a bud vase down from one of her cupboards and moving to the sink to fill it with some water.
“Nothing,” he replies, shaking his head. But his smile remains in place. “You have a beautiful home, and it smells wonderful in here.”
“Thank you, on both counts.” She beams with pride as she sets the flower in the vase and the vase near the window. It’s the perfect spot for it to catch the sunlight and unfurl in its warmth tomorrow. (She’s sure there’s a metaphor in there somewhere, but she tries not to think too much about it.) “And you’re in for a treat. Henry tells me it’s my best dish.”
“Well, we’ll have to toast in his honor then, for recommending the menu,” he grins at her when she looks over at him again. “Shall I- ah- pour us some libations?”
“Please,” she nods. “That would be great. Wine opener’s in the drawer to your left and the glasses are in that cupboard behind you. Who told you about the wine?”
“Who do you think?”
It’s his amused tone that makes her turn to face him. “Leroy,” she says.
“Leroy,” he agrees, a mixture of nerves and mild irritation causing his nose to wrinkle adorably. “He caught me at the store.”
She knows why he gets that particular look on his face, though. The uneasy/worried one. The entire town probably already knows that she’s got him over for dinner by now, and if not, they’ll know by the end of the hour.
It won’t be a secret anymore, the two of them.
“Well…it seems your reputation is ruined now,” she comments lightly, hoping to coax his smile back into place.
He gives her a curious stare, but picks up on the teasing lilt to her voice. “Is that right?”
“Oh yeah. Cozying up to the local law enforcement? They’ll say you’ve gone soft. Lost your edge. That you couldn’t handle it.”
His brow arches at that, high on his forehead. “Perhaps you’re the one who couldn’t handle it.”
She makes a noncommittal hum in the back of her throat, accompanied with a mischievous smirk and an easy shrug of her shoulders as she turns back around. It’s a challenge if there ever was one and she fully intends to make good on it.
She’s going to annihilate him tonight. No mercy. But first, dinner.
The conversation shifts with ease, the two of them making small talk as they effortlessly maneuver around the kitchen together. They take turns sharing stories about their day while he pours them drinks and she fusses with the appetizers. She is mid-tale about David and – hah! – Leroy and their adventures with a weedwacker earlier that morning when she absentmindedly waves him over to the table.
He steps up to her instead, right into her space, chest warm against her back as he catches her off-guard and noses at that spot just below her ear. Promptly making every other thought slip from her mind. She turns her head and feels her stomach swoop when her nose brushes across his temple. He appears to have had the same thought as her: No. Mercy.
Killian hums, an appreciative sound that sends a shiver across her shoulders. “You smell divine,” he murmurs, lips grazing over her skin with his words.
Her head reflexively cants to give him better access and the sigh that slips past her lips is one of complete contentment when she feels him press a kiss over that same spot. Both heat and desire coil languidly in her belly, a sweet jolt of anticipation fluttering down her spine. She turns and they move in tandem, her hands sliding up his chest to grip at his shoulders while he cups her face with both of his hands.
She can’t be absolutely certain who had actually moved first, who gets the point for the imaginary scoreboard she’s keeping in her head, just knows that she doesn’t really care anymore. Not when their lips touch. Not when her eyes close and she allows herself to drown in him – his taste, his smell, the gentle push and pull of his mouth, the feel of his body pressing hers into the counter. Not when one of his hands finds its way into her hair, cradling the back of her head just below her ponytail.
He kisses her slowly, taking as much time as he wishes, igniting the fiercest of aches in her chest at his tenderness and breath-stealing thoroughness. He tilts his head, taking her a little deeper into the moment as swipes his tongue over her bottom lip. The gesture elicits some noise in the back of her throat, a quiet little moan that paints his smile against her lips. She makes it again when his tongue dips into her mouth, a little louder this time while it strokes deliciously against hers. She’s lost to him when he pulls away, so enraptured that she chases after his mouth and leans forward in an attempt to stay as close to him as possible.
“Apologies, love,” he says when he shifts further back to look at her, his hands a soothing caress that moves across her shoulders and down her arms until he can link their hands together. He doesn’t sound the least bit sorry at all. Hardly looks it either what with his eyes gleaming that way and the corners of his mouth curving up wickedly. “I couldn’t resist. I’d have been thinking of it all night otherwise.”
Something warm and delicate unfurls in her stomach – in her chest – and she grins at him, her nose crinkling in the process. He lingers just a moment longer, forehead touching hers as he bumps their noses together, and for a second she thinks he means to kiss her again. Hopes for it, even (and then some), counting the beats of her heart, waiting with baited breath for the sweet press of his lips once more. But instead he steps away from her, releasing her hands and angling slightly to offer her his arm. “Shall we?”
Emma shakes her head at his never-ending chivalry, but loops her arm through his, tucking her hand into the crook of his elbow and following just a step behind him as he leads her towards the table.
—–
He is charming and sweet at dinner, but that doesn’t surprise her. She even finds it endearing the way his hand never strays far from hers – if he’s not resting it over hers across the table, or beneath with his palm up and the tips of her fingers memorizing the grooves and lines of his palm, their fingers are simply intertwined. Conversation flows freely, never an awkward moment of silence. The time is filled with jokes and anecdotes, and random things that make them each smile in turn.
It’s apparent right away that there’s something…different about tonight. She wonders if it’s him, but she has a sneaking suspicion that it’s actually her. It’s a musing she doesn’t stray on for too long, though, much more focused on the way his eyes keep drifting across her face, making her cheeks pink and her ears warm with the open honesty and vulnerability in his gaze. It’s overwhelming at times, how he feels about her. How he just wears his heart on his sleeve. She thinks he doesn’t even realize the extent of it, and while it twists her stomach into knots, it also makes her own heart skip a beat (or two).
For dessert she finds herself moving to his side, dragging her chair over and sitting close enough to steal bites of his chocolate cake. He makes it a point to swipe huge spoonfuls of creme brûlée from her shallow dish, so she figures they’re even. Eventually, though, they end up swapping plates altogether, laughing over their antics.
Afterwards, they work as a unit to clear the table and then spend a few minutes arguing over who is on dish duty before compromising and agreeing to do them together (he washes, she dries). She kicks her shoes off, near his chair where he’s draped his jacket, and stands with her hands on her hips, watching him roll up his sleeves before they start their production line of two. He makes some cheeky comment about them making a good team and proceeds to steal kisses from her in between hand-offs. It’s hard to mind when she steals them right back.
Once they’re finished, dry and smelling of lemon, she pulls the towel from his grasp and traps him against the sink, endeavoring to kiss him senseless in exchange for his help. And to put them back on an even playing field after the kiss he’d laid on her earlier.
He’s not as quiet in manner this time, his fingers digging into her hips and his mouth giving as good as he gets, and when they come up for air – lungs burning and chests heaving, liquid heat simmering in her veins, the rich taste of wine and sugar on her lips – the question sits heavily on the tip of her tongue. The invitation to move things to the more appropriate setting of her bedroom. But he cuts her off, easing away and slipping off to go fiddle with the music.
(Giving her a chance to catch her breath with her fist pressed tight to the spot just beneath her breastbone.)
She lifts her brow at his selection when he turns it up and meets her gaze across the room. Her knowing smirk causes him roll his eyes, cheeks turning a delightful shade of pink as he makes a show of scratching behind his ear.
“Come on,” he tells her, holding his hand out to her, gallant as a prince.
She doesn’t ask about his intentions. It was quite clear with the first bluesy piano notes of the unfamiliar song that he isn’t quite done sweeping her off her feet yet. So she slides her fingers across his palm, curling them around his hand and hanging on tight when he tugs her towards the back door. They make their way down the porch steps to the center of her yard, where the moon hangs low and the stars shine bright against a dark canvas of night sky.
For the first time that night, he surprises her, lifting their joined hands and expertly twirling her under his arm before drawing her in close into a relaxed dance hold.
“Are you kidding me?” she wonders, mock-exasperation in her voice. “You can dance too?”
“It’s completely unfair, I know,” he chuckles, resting his cheek against the side of her head when she tucks her chin over his shoulder.
Music continues to drift out through the open windows of the house – soft, melodic, charmingly instrumental – and between that and him and the moonlit grassy dance floor she’s swaying on, she is utterly enchanted. Especially by the closeness of their bodies, the warmth of his palm pressed against hers, how her skirt fans gently around her calves every time his legs brush hers. It is its own brand of intimacy, new and unfamiliar but…familiar at the same time and not at all unpleasant.
“I hate you,” she sighs, but it sounds more dreamy and wistful than anything else.
“I hope not,” he replies, a quiet murmur near her ear.
She could never. “This is a nice song,” she comments after a while.
He hums in agreement and she can sense the smile on his face without seeing it. “It’s by The Vince Guaraldi Trio.”
“What’s it called?”
“‘Since I Fell For You.’”
“Oh,” she breathes, a gentle puff of air against his chest from where she shifts to rest her forehead against his neck.
He must feel the sudden tension that comes into her body because he chuckles into her hair. “Relax, Swan. It’s just a song.”
“And a dance.”
“Yeah.”
But she hears the softness in his tone, feels the way his fingertips trail up and down her spine and how he settles his arm more firmly around her.
“It’s pretty,” she says, swallowing thickly when he places their clasped hands over his heart.
“So are you,” he comments.
“You said that already.”
“I know, but it’s worth repeating.”
“Shall you compare me to a summer’s day, Mr. Jones?” she wonders, tilting her head back and smiling up at him while he grins down at her.
Her eyes are full of mirth and his dance with amusement. He laughs lightly at her, lips brushing gently over her brow.
“Thou art more lovely and more temperate:
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And summer’s lease hath all too short a date:
Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
And often is his gold complexion dimm’d;
And every fair from fair sometime declines…”
It takes almost nothing for her to be completely mesmerized by the cadence of his voice and the captivating ebb and flow of the words he recites. She doesn’t understand all of it, but she definitely understands the feeling such old words are meant to convey and it’s staggeringly beautiful.
“By chance, or nature’s changing course, untrimm’d;
But thy eternal summer shall not fade
Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow'st;
Nor shall Death brag thou wander'st in his shade,
When in eternal lines to time thou grow'st;
So long as men can breathe or eyes can see,
So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.”
“Oh,” she breathes again, softly against his neck when he’s finished, and it suddenly feels like there’s magic in the air, tangible and settling around them, drawing out a myriad of emotions she wasn’t expecting to feel tonight – tranquil, enamored, cherished.
“Oh,” he agrees, his quiet little chuckle pleased beyond measure. “See, Swan? I told you, everyone enjoys a little romance now and then. Even you.” He moves their hands from where they rest over his heart so that he can boop her affectionately on the end of her nose with his index finger.
She rolls her eyes and she scrunches her face at him, but there’s no heat in the gesture. “Alright, fine, Casanova. You were right.”
The grin that curves his lips makes his dimples crease in his cheeks, but instead of the smart retort she knows he’s got for her, he leans down to fit his mouth against hers. This time, when they kiss, it’s no less passionate, but it’s infinitely more soft. Tender. Full of the things they feel but never say.
She starts to ease him backwards, hands drifting up his torso and beginning to work at the buttons of his vest while they take careful steps across the lawn. Somehow, they make it safely up the porch stairs, stopping just inside the entryway of the kitchen. Killian uses her body weight beneath his to shut the door behind them.
The kiss shifts in tone, but still he doesn’t rush, he simply kisses her deeper, harder, mouth moving fervently over hers as lust blooms in her belly and begins to spark along her skin. “I’ve missed you,” she confesses, voice sounding rough and needy to her ears.
“Have you?”
“Mmhmm.”
He swears at that, entire body stilling above hers. “Bloody hell, love, I’ve missed you too.”
“Well…why don’t we put an end to our misery and un-miss each other?” She smiles, hand carding through his hair. “In my room.”
His forehead drops to her shoulder with another groan. “It’s getting late.”
Of all the things she’d been expecting him to say, that was definitely at the very bottom of the list. “What?”
“It’s getting late,” he repeats, gently wrapping his hands around her wrists and pulling them between them to keep her fingers from wandering. “I should take my leave.”
“You don’t want to…” she trails off, unable to finish the thought while she studies his face.
His expression looks pained and he steps back to give them both a little breathing room. “Not tonight.”
In her bewilderment, all she can manage to do is blink. It’s accompanied not long after by a weak and very despondent, “Oh. Um. Alright.”
Killian gives her a reassuring smile, bending his head to brush a kiss to the knuckles of both her hands. With a gentle tug, he draws her away from the door and makes his way towards the main entrance of the house. The walk to the car is silent, the quietest they’ve been all night, and a little ball of worry lodges into her throat.
“Perhaps next time we can try that new bistro that’s opened near the docks.”
“Next time?” She angles her head to glance over at him. Her incessant confusion tugs down the corners of her mouth into a pout. She hates pouting. “I don’t remember asking.”
“That’s because it’s my turn,” he retorts, mouth tugging up into another smile. He turns to face her and pulls both her hands up so he can lace his fingers through hers. “What do you say, Swan? Will you allow me the honor of seeing you again tomorrow?”
There is nothing but softness and vulnerability on his face. A smile so hopeful and affection so staggering she forgets to breathe for a second. The doubt that had worked itself into her head promptly dissipates at his sincerity, and in lieu of an answer, she kisses him again.
She keeps her forehead pressed to his when she breaks away. “Before you leave, I have a confession to make.” It’s playing dirty, but she doesn’t care. If she’s not getting any sleep tonight, she’s going to damn well make sure that he doesn’t either.
“Uh-oh, another one?” Her nod makes their noses bump together. “And what might that be, darling?”
Emma leans back so she can meet his gaze, then smiles widely as she trails her fingers down the leanly muscled planes of his torso. “I’m not wearing any underwear,” she tells him matter-of-factly, borderline smug.
“Emma,” he whines, tilting his forehead to hers once more. “You’re trying to kill me, aren’t you?”
Her arms sneak around him, looping across his neck, while she presses her body into his again. “Well, the night’s still young and there’s quite a bit of pillaging and plundering to be had if you wanted to change your mind. Just saying,” she shrugs, the perfect image of innocence.
The swear under his breath cannot be called anything other than frustrated, but she has to admit, she loves the way his voice sounds so wrecked and grumbly.
“Kiss me goodbye, Swan,” he sighs, leaning away to run his hand down the length of her ponytail. “And it’ll be tomorrow before you know it.”
She huffs in defeat but does as he asks, touching her lips to his a final time and already counting down the hours.
Fin