We're hell raising
And we don't need saving
'Cause there's no salvation for a bad girl
We're rock bottom
But there ain't no stopping
'Cause they don't know nothing about love
Growing up a lost girl wasn't all bad. Sure, it wasn't a happy thing by any means – Christmases without presents were exactly as depressing at eighteen years old as they were at eight – but it had its benefits.
Life as an unwanted orphan had made Emma Swan strong. Nobody saved her but her, after all. And a life without attachments, well that gave her near superpowers of lie detection and behavior prediction; if you didn't have people to sympathize with, to identify with, then you could actually think clearly and rationally, your judgment uninhibited by confusing things like love.
Her life took a sharp turn when she turned 28, though. The lonely sad little girl turned Boston PD star detective was spending a lunch break scarfing down a grilled cheese while flipping through case notes when she received a frantic phone call from none other than her biological mother.
Turns out Emma had been kidnapped by her mother's jealous stepmother, and her parents and little brothers Henry and Neal (oh the irony of that name) had been searching for her for decades, only to happen upon her through a few lucky breaks at an orphanage and a very persistent PI.
She'd met them all the next day, their happy tears and tight embraces confusing her all to hell. She was a lost girl. A force to be reckoned with. A badass cop without a weakness.
Her life from there became… different. So much better and yet so much worse. She'd never been so happy in her life. Mostly because she'd never really been happy at all. But playing videogames with her brothers and cooking with her mom and teaching her dad to shoot guns – she was going home to her once-sparse, now picture-lined little apartment with sore cheek muscles from the sheer amount of smiling she was experiencing. And at first she was almost ashamed of it. Realistically she knew that was nuts. Happiness was not a bad thing and love was not weakness (no matter what her psycho foster mom Cora had said), but she could see her job suffering. Perps that had eyes like her mom or floppy hair like her brother or a penchant for hot chocolate with cinnamon instead of coffee (a habit of her whole family) – well suddenly they were a little more human.
And a little more difficult to look at like stick figures in a comic book, easily categorized and manipulated.
(Look, Dr. Hopper, Emma Swan isn't a sociopath, after all!)
It was a rough first four years of balancing the lost girl past with the big happy family present (and future), but one June afternoon in her 32nd year, everything finally fell into place.
She was an excellent detective – unparalleled even since she'd "gone soft" (actual quote by her former partner Graham before he transferred to a small town in Maine) – but she'd never gotten to go undercover.
Until now.
Now was the moment when her two lives collided, when her 28-year run as Queen of the Orphans – owner of the shiny emerald I give zero fucks scepter – finally paid off. Hopefully.
You see, Emma Swan 1.0 was damaged and sad and not so great with that whole "emotion" thing. So she fucked instead of made love (God, who invented that phrase anyway?), used people and bolted, didn't give a second thought to a guy from a bar that was nothing but a means to scratch an itch (she was so much more for forking than spooning).
And Emma Swan 2.0 knew that had been an empty life. It was hollow and dark and a poor excuse for an existence, really, but it was all about her walls. If you had to choose between a thousand papercuts and risking a knife to the heart, you pick the paper cuts, right? It had been about survival.
But Emma Swan 2.5 (or something?) was a perfect mix of the two. She could pull off the behaviors of Lost Girl Emma while keeping a healthy guard on her heart and mind.
In other words, she could seduce the mark – the suspected criminal – without letting his piercing blue eyes or how-would-that-feel-scratching-my-thighs scruff distracting her from her job. She could detect all his lies while pulling off all of her own, and all of the sudden her misery wouldn't be for nothing. She'd catch the bad guy, get a few medals, and never ever tell Mommy and Daddy exactly how she went about obtaining the necessary information.
(Ever.)
Killian Jones was his name. It wasn't one she'd ever heard and her phone kept autocorrecting it to Jillian and she'd started picturing a short fitness instructor rather than a pirate (smuggler, whatever), until she'd finally received the surveillance videos and newspaper clippings.
Holy fucking shit. At least this was a job she'd enjoy doing.
(Stop that right now, Emma Swan.)
No, she wasn't actually going to fuck him. That would be "unprofessional" and she didn't actually want to get some disease passed through bimbos and criminals all for a pretty face and a little bit of sexual frustration. But. Goddamn it if he wasn't most tempting don't even think about it she'd ever laid eyes on.
Those were her thoughts as she sat in the dark bar, swirling cubes of ice around in her "scotch" (ginger ale), her eyes moving to the entrance as the leather clad walking fantasy swaggered to the bar.
His hair was haphazard and windblown; she could make out the color of his irises better than she could remember her own damn name. He was toned and grinning and god why did he have to go an be a criminal? That man belonged on billboards in Times Square, not in prison.
Except, no. Prison it was, because even an ass like that doesn't give someone a free pass to traffic drugs.
Emma gulped back the ginger ale, desperately wishing for the smooth burn of anything that would take off the razor-sharp edge threatening to slice through her reputation (and sanity).
And just as quickly as she could slam the glass back on the worn wooden surface, the bartender was sliding another one toward her, completely unbidden.
"It's from the gentleman at the jukebox, miss," the woman declared with mild annoyance (jealousy?).
Guess her princess curls and second-skin red dress were working for her because she didn't even have to make the first move.
All right, detective. Time to play. Wait - work.
The thing about men – especially ones that attractive – is that they were awfully predictable. They got what they wanted and they were used to a certain level of constant ogling and fawning. And no version of Emma was one to pine. Or beg. Or submit.
So she didn't even glance toward his painfully attractive face, despite seeing clearly in the reflection of the napkin holder at her side that he was smoldering at her over his shoulder from the corner of the room.
(They like the chase, you see.)
She spent the next three songs (all bass-thumping, bump-and-grinding, how-many-euphemisms-for-sex-can-we-make-in-three-point-five-minutes style) "transfixed" by the pattern of tiles on the floor, the melting ice in her never-touched drink, the manicure she'd specifically gotten done for this outing since she wasn't much for the outer appearance thing when she had better things to spend her time on.
She could practically hear the frustrated grumbling in his head. The man had probably never been ignored in his life, especially considering the groupies those drug runners often had crawling at their feet. It was only a matter of time before he'd approach her.
(And then brag about himself and probably his wealth and hopefully his side-dealings and if she was really lucky, his accomplices. Yeah it was going to be easy.)
Except it wasn't. He didn't approach her despite the (metaphorical) smoke blasting out his ears every time he glanced her direction only to notice she's still not impressed. Finally he seemed to get fed up with ignoring her ignoring him and he sat down at the bar just two stools away from her, his eyes flashing in her direction every few moments.
Now that he was closer, he was somehow even more impressive. Not because he was hot – that was basically a duh factor at this point – but because he seemed so warm. Hopeful. Expressive. So… not a slime ball.
Innocent until proven guilty, right? Maybe their leads had been wrong. He had the face of a man who fucked his way through Manhattan, yeah, but also the kind that coached his nephew's soccer team and truly enjoyed the little foam art those fancy baristas crafted atop lattes.
The first time Emma truly let herself glance at him (rather than using some kind of reflective surface to do it for her), he was giggling, his face entirely consumed by the glow of his smart phone in front of him. She could make out a tiny trumpeting noise amidst the testosterone-fest pumping through he speakers, and little fireworks were bursting across the screen.
She shouldn't have done it – it wasn't necessarily in line with the damaged piece of ass she was trying to play – but the words fell out of her mouth before her Detective of the Year trophy could reach through the space-time continuum and smack her first.
"What are you playing?" she asked him, genuinely curious. She threw in a half-seductive smile for good measure – and a nice view of her shoved-together cleavage – as she leaned his direction, hoping to make some part of herself believe this was intentional on her part.
He seemed to blush for a moment, his eyes squinting with embarrassment, before he leaned her direction. "Erm, it's Yahtzee. In app form. I just rolled my second Yahtzee of the game and my brother is going to be furious. He bet me a hundred bucks he'd win and there's almost no chance now."
Emma was tempted to ask if that brother had a son and if he coached his soccer team – Emma so enjoyed being on the money with her instincts – but she enjoyed catching criminals more.
"Seriously, dude, you're playing on your phone in a bar? Sounds like something is wrong with you," Emma chastised, swirling her finger in her drink before popping it into her mouth.
"Well the only interesting thing in this bar happens to be you, love, and as you've given no indication you were looking to bond I had to resort to silly phone games. You've only yourself to blame."
Ah, yes. Typical man. Blaming everyone else but themselves.
"Typical," she (accidentally) muttered aloud, thinking of the other foster kids in the group homes, the men in bars, the coworkers, the scumbags who'd ever let that old version of Emma down, who'd ever hurt her, used her, blamed her for their own bullshit.
(She couldn't think of her dad or Henry or Neal, no, because she desperately wanted Killian to be the exception to the asshole rule, and thinking of the men in the new Emma's life would give her hope that he could be.)
(And if there was anything worse than not getting a happy ending – it was giving someone false hope. That shit hurt. And brand new shiny emotionally stable as she might be, Emma Swan was still not about to let herself get hurt.)
"I'm guessing you've been bitten a time or two, ….?" Killian trailed off, his tilted head indicating he'd like her to finish the sentence with her name.
She'd had every intention of lying to him. Her "cover" name was going to be Elizabeth – a little because it was vague but mostly because she had a slight obsession with Pirates of the Caribbean – but Emma was fairly common, too. And god she wanted to hear her name in that accent.
"Emma. And yeah, you could say whatever sea of fish I'm swimming in must be full of piranhas. I'm not exactly bright and shiny as you can see." Emma trained her face into a vulnerable, sad expression, finally taking a sip from the glass Killian had sent her.
"Seem like my drink of choice is apropos then. Tequila for the dark and twisty Meredith Grey-esque Emma."
"Do you seriously watch that stupid show? It's so unrealistic!"
"It's unrealistic that I'd ever meet a woman as beautiful as you at this dive, and yet here we are." He winked that time – so expressively he looked like a goddamn emoji – and Emma rolled her eyes.
It was going to be work after all – trying to not be charmed by this ridiculous man.
This ridiculous criminal.
(Alleged criminal.)
(Fuck.)
Emma softened a bit after that, just to keep conversation going. He kept flirting and she kept deflecting and it was a good rapport they had going. She kept steering the conversation to his possessions, his friends, downplaying everything he said so he might try to one-up himself with something incriminating.
But there was just nothing. Unless you counted his brother Liam or his dear old mum back in England who was weirdly obsessed with the Obamas. There was his old dog, Duke, and his former career as a librarian (nope, that hadn't been in his file, but she'd googled it and it was a fact). The man didn't appear capable of smuggling a Pepsi into a movie theater let alone illegal drugs across a country's borders.
But it was her job to trap him, to figure him out, to break whatever stupid I'm-hot-but-super-goofy routine he had going. Seriously, dressed as she was and playing the damaged bar bunny, she didn't think he'd be playing it this honest and cute to try to win her special attentions. She was trying so hard to be the rock-bottom bad-girl, but it was almost like…
Almost like he knew she was a cop.
Like he was just faking it.
Like he was just like every other fucking man who'd ever charmed her and left her behind (here's looking at you, evil Neal).
No. Killian Jones was a criminal. Her files said he was the kingpin and those were based on evidence which are fact and her stupid feelings and observations and little butterflies in her stupid constricted belly were not going to negate that.
She was getting back to Killian's house and she was going to find something to prove who he was and she was going to end this shit before it turned sickly sweet and then sour, rotten, dead.
Whew. Emotions.
(Nope.)
Time to turn it up. Time for a classic: the Damsel in Distress routine.
Emma slumped down in her seat, her gaze defeated and her eyes sad. Of course white-knight-in-training Killian Jones noticed, because he was just that predictable (she told herself).
"Is everything OK, love? I know my jokes are somewhat dull, but I didn't think they'd work you into a depression."
"I'm sorry, Killian. Your jokes are good. Well, I mean they're ok. I just got a text that bummed me out is all. I kind of just found out my boyfriend was cheating. He's a total ass but I have student debt out the ass and I can't leave and I just… tonight was supposed to be an escape, you know? But I can't seem to get away from it."
Take the bait take the bait take the bait.
Killian's (excessively attractive) lips turned up in a smile and his eyes crinkled and he finally, finally shifted into the seat next to her and placed his own hand on hers. "Guess I'll just have to distract you then, Emma."
It. Was. On.
Two tequila shots and a handful of mostly-innocent touches later and Emma really was on. On him, that is. She'd complained of a sore shoulder (which was true actually – swimming laps in the mornings was turning out to be a bitch on her already exhausted body), so he'd offered a little massage, tapping his thighs to suggest she prop herself there for better access. She'd complied and proceeded to make little moany noises when he hit all the right places.
"A responsive one, are we?" he muttered gruffly, visibly holding himself back from pushing his body any closer to hers.
"Oh, if you only knew," Emma teased, tossing a sultry glance over her shoulder.
"Perhaps I'd like to know."
"Only perhaps?" She fluttered her eyelashes as non-cartoonishly as possible, but she still felt moderately silly.
(And also highly turned on, but that was so not the point.)
But instead of upping the flirting ante, Killian's fingers dropped from her back to his sides, his voice dropping low and almost sad. "I can't understand that git of a boyfriend you have, Emma. I know you're stuck. I know – I mean I don't know. But I recognize you're in a difficult situation. But you deserve to be worshipped, Emma," he said, tilting her chin up so she was facing him. "I would worship you."
She was a human fucking lie detector. It's what she was best at. It's what made her good at her job and what made her able to function in society without trust issues dripping out her ass and you know what? This man, this inexplicable, adorable, hot as fuck dork wasn't telling a lie.
She needed to get to his house. For evidence, obviously.
(That's how she'd justify her next sentence if anyone ever questioned her.)
"So worship me," she whispered, scooting up his thighs so her right hip was pressed against his belly, her nose buried in his neck. "Take me home and make me forget."
"As you wish," he mumbled into her hair before sinking his fingers in her curled tresses, shifting her head back far enough so he could look at her – the kind of looking that led to fucking and loving and melting into a puddle of goo and –
She surged forward and captured his lips in hers, his hot breath making her bottom lip tingle as it scraped over his teeth. The butterflies in her belly had shifted significantly lower and there was warmth and near-throbbing between her legs as he grasped her thigh and opened wider, his tongue running languidly against hers as she sighed into him.
Her breasts pressed against his chest, tingling in every spot that skin met skin (damn their low cut necklines all to hell), and her thighs fell slightly open, practically begging for some kind of friction despite the very public nature of their current setting.
Killian's hands ran all over her legs, her arms, up across her breasts, before tilting her head to the side so he could suck on her neck. Hard.
She about came right there, his tongue lightly flicking all the places he couldn't possibly know were her most sensitive (she barely knew, for fuck's sake). He was turning her into a writhing mess, an exhibitionist, a really fucking bad detective, and yet she didn't care.
Every hormone in her body about cried in relief when his hand returned to her thigh, brushing up higher and higher until it was beneath the hem of her very short, very tight dress – and suddenly she came back to herself (just a little).
"Easy, tiger," she giggled, shamelessly rubbing her chest against his as she nuzzled his cheek. "The first part of that request was take me home."
Killian fumbled around his hip, trying and failing to yank his wallet out of his pocket for the first five tries at least, before Emma reached down the front of her dress and tossed a twenty on the table.
"Emma! You're supposed to let the gentleman pay."
"And when I see one I will," she whispered into his ear, nipping at his lobe before hopping off his lap and heading toward the door. Killian scrambled up, not even trying to hide the bulge in his pants as he shuffled toward her.
"Lucky for you, I won't take offense to that. Even luckier, my place is closer than you think." And with one quick swoop, Killian had Emma in his arms and over his shoulder, barely making it out the bar exist before he was reentering the building through another door.
Shit. This was not the address they had listed for him.
Stop thinking.
Killian slapped her ass before sprinting up the stairs – somehow taking two at a time despite the added weight of her – and Emma tried not to find that painfully attractive.
(But it was.)
As soon as they were inside, he bolted toward what she assumed was his bedroom, not putting her on her feet until he crashed through the door and slammed it behind him. He switched on a small lamp next to his black sheeted bed and smiled at her like she owned his soul.
Usually that kind of intensity would scare her. Terrify her even. Especially considering the fact that she was probably better off faking drunk and passing out on the couch so she could case his apartment while he slept. Even if he wasn't the big bag, he might have info on who was – but something in his gaze made her feel powerful. Wanted. Happy.
She'd thought she could play the lost girl, but the truth was always going to be that she was lost. And now that she had her parents and brothers, the wound of orphan had certainly been reduced to nothing but a faint scar. But that part of her that had been abandoned at 17 years old, left to go to jail for a crime that wasn't hers? That scared little girl inside of her who just wanted a home and trusted a man to be that for her? That wound was still gaping open.
But Killian had the hands of a surgeon and she was dying to know what he could do with them.
Metaphorically and literally, if she were being quite honest.
Killian was still smiling like a fool, but his eyes were melting into something like panic and Emma was suddenly feeling very guilty for her little ruse that wasn't exactly a ruse. He felt like home and she should be running – she couldn't afford to lose anything else in her heavily miserable life – but the only place she wanted to run was into his arms.
Cheesy, but true.
"All right, buddy, are you going to take this dress off me or do I have to do it myself?" She faked impatience – even though she really was kind of impatient to have his hands on her – and his expression relaxed. He slowly walked toward her, staring her deep in the eyes in a way that should make her squirm but instead set every last nerve ending on fire. Her skin was tingling and her chest was swelling with desire and for a split second she worried she might be drugged because she'd never in her life felt something this strong.
That is, until he touched her. Really touched her, that is, His fingers ghosted down her arms and around her waist, working up her back until the zipper was pinched between his thumb and fore finger. He rubbed his nose against hers before wrenching her lips open with his own, sliding his tongue against her lower lip and then her tongue, stroking it to the rhythm of the throbbing of her clit as he dragged the zipper down her back.
She shivered when his hand met her ass and he just held her tighter, comforting her and turning her on all at once. He kept his touches light as his tongue plundered her mouth, and she rocked into him, so impatient to strip him naked and lick him head to toe that she whined – actually fucking whined – at his inability to get the fuck on with it.
He chuckled, reading her heightened desire and gently yanking on the straps of her dress. He drew them slowly over her shoulders, kissing every newly exposed piece of skin until the dress was bunched at her elbows. She was transfixed, watching his tongue lick circles around her freckles, heat spreading across her neck and down to her belly. Killian noticed, of course, and followed the spread of her want, kissing across her collarbone and down her sternum. His lips brushed against her bra and without ceremony she reached around and plucked the clasp, tossing the garment into the dark corner of his bedroom. Her patience was quickly rewarded with his teeth tugging on her nipple, his tongue soothing the angry red marks just as quickly as they appeared.
It was like Emma wasn't even a person anymore, just a mushy ball of nerves and hormones and incoherent moaning.
"God, Killian, can you please hurry it up a little?" She begged – yes, begged, one of those things she never does – as he dragged his tongue across her chest to the neglected nipple, sucking hard as he laughed at her state of desperation.
"So eager to have me inside you, love?"
"Yes, please!"
She might be insanely horny, but at least she's also polite.
Killian released her breast and took the edge of her dress in his teeth, tugging it down the rest of her torso. It would have been incredibly sexy if it weren't for exactly how tight it was around her hips – AKA impossible to remove using one's teeth alone – but rather than break the mood with laughing, Emma simply yanked it down with her (shaking) hands, immediately using them to shove him to the bed right after.
"I don't do slow," she growled, palming the tented region of his pants with her left hand while her right one shoved off his leather jacket and undid the very few clasped buttons on the shirt beneath.
His chest was toned – she could tell that much from the deep V in the shirt, but my god the abs on this man. Either he did manual labor or he was a gym rat or he was a gift from the fucking gods because he was more perfectly sculpted than a damn Greek statue and entirely without her permission her tongue darted out to lick the ridges between each muscle. While her mouth was busy keeping Killian distracted, she quickly undid his pants and started to push them down his legs – only to be interrupted by the new impatient one, Killian, who simply couldn't wait the extra three seconds Emma would have taken to divest him of the dark jeans.
He sighed in relief as he was finally fully bare to her and she tried her damnedest not to smirk at his impressiveness, but of course he noticed.
"See something you like, darling?"
She didn't justify it with a verbal response; instead, she locked eyes with him, shimmied her underwear down her legs, and with absolutely zero finesse got on her knees above him and began to stroke.
His head fell back appreciatively and the space between her legs ached to be filled, but there was a tiny part of her that just felt good letting him watch her the way she was, letting him build her up and make her tingle and to just be. It didn't have to be about scratching an itch or proving commitment or any of the long list of reasons to have sex with someone. No, it was just nice. Better than nice – it was fantastic and maddening and addicting and wonderful. But it was far more than a physical connection. It was something deeper, something spiritual, something humming under her skin like magic or science or one of those concepts that only exists in another fucking language. God, she didn't know what it was except that it was good and that she'd deal with the fallout from this possibly catastrophic error in judgment in the morning.
Because right now she was just going to let go.
"Emma," Killian groaned, seemingly unaware he was even speaking aloud, and she'd never been so glad in her life she'd given him her real name, because hearing it practically sung to her, moaned to her, spoken like a plea or a prayer, was a memory she would never forget and never regret, no matter what came of this little… adventure.
Craving more of his delicious sounds, Emma eased her hands back up his body, bracing herself on his chest as she lowered her mouth down, down down, until she was swirling her tongue around him, laving up and down with teasing little strokes before taking him fully in. He gasped as he brushed the back of her throat, grasping at her hair so tenderly Emma wanted to fucking cry. Because once upon a time this would have disgusted her, would have made her feel demeaned and used and broken, but she felt nothing but warm and wanted as she sucked him. It was so different from any hit-it-and-quit-it experience she'd ever had – different even from the almost-loves – because she was receiving as much as she was giving (metaphorically for the moment, but she knew it would be literal eventually).
In one night – a few hours, really – this man had reduced her to nothing but feelings when that seems to have been the one thing she'd been running from her whole life without fail.
After a few more moments, another series of grunts and whines, Killian tugged on her hair and gasped at her to stop. "Please, love, not like this."
"Then like what?" she teased, still licking at his hips and thighs with the barest pressure.
"Do you want – I mean, can you… Um, my bedside table. Get a – god, can you stop that for one second so I can think?" he bellowed, clearly reduced to the same hormones and nerves as her.
And, yeah, that made her smile.
So she hopped off the bed and snagged the box she assumed he was trying to ask for, tossing it lightly onto his chest. "Looking for these?"
Killian ripped open the box and plucked out a condom, tossing the rest on the floor and flipping Emma over in the process. "God, yes. Do you want to – "
"Please," Emma begged before his question was even out.
Killian ripped open the small packet and rolled it on, leaning down to kiss Emma breathless the second he was capable. His tongue dipped in and out of her mouth as he intermittently pressed little butterfly kisses to her lips, her cheeks, her nose, and she would probably have thought it was weird as fuck before three hours ago, but somehow those little moments of non-sex intimacy are flooding her brain with chemicals she didn't know existed (along with ridiculous thoughts of forever) and god he was fucking her stupid before ever even entering her.
But a few more whispered pleases from Emma and he was lining himself up and pushing inside, slowly and reverently, his hands all over her and his eyes piercing into hers. It began lazily almost, just a steady drag, but once she wrapped her legs around his back all bets were off. His knees were planted between her own and he was fucking into her so hard she could hardly even get a coherent moan out, trying and failing to keep up with his rhythm.
Some part of him seemed to come back to himself as she started to falter – she did remember him saying something earlier about a "gentleman taking care of his lady thoroughly" – and he slowed his pace significantly, switching the angle with each thrust, swirling his hips and pulling her closer, kissing at her neck and shoulder wherever he could.
"Killian, stop – unh – teasing me," Emma whined as his thrusts got shallower and shallower until he was barely dipping into her at all. He chuckled and snaked a hand to circle her clit, earning him another string of babbles that she hoped conveyed approval.
"How flexible are you, love?"
"Enough for just about anything you want." She'd have laughed if he weren't completely draining her of her sanity with his slow circles and gentle rocking.
But something in her expression made him chuckle, so she figured he had the comic relief portion of the bedroom activities covered.
At that, he took each of her ankles in hand, lifting them so her legs were over his shoulders. Her hair must have been a damn mess at this point and there was no way her makeup had held up but Killian was still looking at her like she was pure fucking gold, so for once she threw all self-doubt out the window (yes, pretty people have self-doubt), and tugged at his neck to bring him down for a kiss.
With their mouths locked together, exploring and stroking and lavishing, Killian eased himself back inside her.
With this angle she felt so much more and there was no way she was going to last much longer, so she mustered all of her focus to match his steady rhythm, one of her hands at his back and the other threaded through his floppy hair.
He was starting to stutter and the coil in her belly was so tight it nearly hurt when their orgasms slammed into them together, the two of them rocking into each other slowly until they'd both come down from their high.
This is it, she thought. The moment the spell is broken.
But it wasn't. The tingling in her belly had never really gone away and the swell of heat in her chest only deepened as he looked into her eyes, his own sated and almost silly with happiness.
He eased her legs back down and she whined a little at the soreness – guess she was going to need to up the yoga if the sex gymnastics were going to be a regular thing – and Killian kissed all over her body in silent apology.
"Stop it," she mumbled, even though the attentions were certainly not unwanted. But what she wanted more was to curl up, to cuddle, to – gasp! – spoon, and sleep the night away.
Of course, just as Killian began lightly snoring, her phone sounded from across the room and her task and job and responsibility finally came flooding back to her.
God, fuck her fucking life.
But, funny thing: Killian was a heavy sleeper and not a great secret keeper. He'd known the police were looking into him and he'd taken notes and done his own little investigation – complete with a Castle-style murder (smuggler?) board – which easily gave Emma all the evidence she needed to prove that Killian really was nothing but a once-lovesick-puppy of a librarian who slept with the wrong man's wife – and was now paying for it dearly.
Killian Jones woke up the morning after the most delightful evening of his life sorely alone and feeling dejected. That woman was a force of fucking nature, a goddamn angel – something unearthly or maybe all-too-Earthly. He tried to make some eloquent exaggeration about her being the reason he was on this planet, but he was never one for hyperbole (lie) and honestly he was a little too fucked out to form coherent speech.
He thought seriously about drinking away his lonely sorrows, but settled on eating an inordinate amount of calories worth of French Toast, when he spotted a note on his shiny silver fridge.
Didn't mean to run away this morning, but I'm busy clearing your name of some serious drug charges. Meet me for lunch at 12:30 at Granny's and I'll explain? 3 Detective Emma Swan
p.s. sorry for snooping
p.p.s NOT sorry for snooping – you were so going to go to prison without me. Just kidding.
(Well kind of.)
I had a really great night and I can't think straight. Sorry for the babble! See you for lunch.
Aye, Killian thought. Angel it is.