A/N: I don't normally write smut, but I also don't like losing bets, so something had to give. Ergo smut. This rates about a minus three on the plot scale, but hopefully marginally higher on the hotness scale. No guarantees, though (this really isn't my area of expertise). If you're looking for something particularly filthy-dirty-nasty, you're probably going to be disappointed.
Regina smiles to herself as she hears the sound of hurried footsteps, verging on an outright run, echoing in the hallway outside her office. Her smile widens as the footsteps stop outside her door and she counts a full minute before the door opens. Emma Swan is in a hurry to get here, but doesn't want to appear that way, and this pleases Regina on some level. She schools her features into a more neutral expression as the door opens.
"Ahh… Sheriff. Please, have a seat."
She suppresses a sigh as Emma ignores the chair, deliberately chosen to be low and uncomfortable, and stands, arms folded. Emma Swan is actually a worthy opponent, and as much as that irritates Regina, it also excites her.
Partway through the meeting, the ubiquitous leather jacket comes off, thrown casually onto the chair beside her. They're discussing budgets, and as much as Regina loves numbers and loves using them to terrorise the townsfolk, suddenly she can't concentrate on the figures in front of her. The sight of Emma Swan in a tank top is entirely too distracting, and she's finding it very hard to breathe.
"This is ridiculous, Madam Mayor. How do you expect me to keep the town safe when you won't even give me enough funding to run the department?"
Emma leans over, palms flat on the desk, invading Regina's space. It's a classic power play, but it doesn't quite have the effect that Emma perhaps intended. Instead of being intimidated, Regina finds herself crossing and uncrossing her legs, uncomfortably aware of the way that Emma's pose displays toned arms to their best advantage.
It's strange the details that the mind fixates on in a crisis. In between the pain and the fear and the fury, she remembers the smell of smoke, the heat of the flames and the hard muscle of Emma's arm supporting her. It's just over a week since the fire, since Emma had half-carried her to safety, and try as she might, she just can't shake these memories or the feelings they arouse. It's started to spill over into her dreams; the last three nights, she's awoken bathed in sweat, a frustrating ache between her legs, and fragments of dreams of Emma Swan tickling the edges of her waking mind.
It's not the first time she's thought about Emma this way. There's always been this undercurrent between them, a subtle counterpoint to the anger and the rivalry. But this is the first time Regina's felt like she's losing control, like this attraction is threatening to overwhelm all sensible thought.
She's dimly aware that Emma has asked her a question and is waiting on a response. To cover her confusion, she snaps the budget folder shut and walks around to the other side of the desk, into Emma's space. There's a moment when she thinks about taking an extra half step forward until she's pressed against Emma, thinks about pushing her back onto the desk, thinks about how she'd like to tease her until she begs. Thinks about Emma's physicality, her strength, about how she'd like to feel that strength pressing her down, about how she'd like Emma to fuck her, hard. She catches her hands, clasps them together, before they can reach up to grasp Emma's arms. The moment passes.
She swallows, her voice suddenly husky. "This is pointless, Sheriff. Perhaps we can resume this when you're in a more reasonable mood."
Emma frowns, looks at her strangely for a moment, and then turns on her heel and walks out.
She knocks at the door, and hears footsteps on the other side. There's a pause before Emma answers the door, wearing nothing but a tank top and panties and Regina wonders if Emma ever wears pants when she's not in public.
"Is your roommate here, Miss Swan?" She knows she isn't; she'd watched Mary Margaret sneaking off to meet David before deciding to drive over. She steps into the apartment, pushing past Emma, not waiting to be invited in.
"No, she's out for the evening. And sure, why don't you come on in, Madam Mayor," Emma says, sarcasm lacing her tone. She closes the door and walks into the centre of the living room, folding her arms and regarding Regina curiously. "So what brings you here?"
She'd come here with a plan, a conversation scripted in minute detail, but as she stands drinking in the sight of Emma Swan, she knows that plan was nothing more than an extremely flimsy excuse designed to be discarded straight away. And she knows that she's been caught staring when she sees that lips that normally have a downward cast are ever so slightly upturned, a hint of a smirk playing about them. It's a smirk that Regina desperately wants to wipe away, but all her thoughts keep leading her back to one method, a method she's determined not to try.
Emma repeats her question and Regina tries to shake off the trance-like state she's entered. She finally manages to speak. "I want you out. Out of my life, out of my son's life and out of my town, Miss Swan." There's an edge of desperation in her voice and she's trying to push away the thoughts running in counterpoint through her head. I want you in my bed. I want you inside me.
Emma is still smirking as she responds. "We've already covered this. I'm not going anywhere. You're just going to have to get used to having me around."
And therein lies the rub. She really could get used to having Emma Swan around, and that realisation is infuriating. The flash of anger she feels is enough to spur her to action, and she advances across the room, pushing Emma, who is no longer smirking, but looking surprised instead.
"I want you out." She punctuates each word with a hard shove, Emma stumbling in front of her towards the far wall of the living room.
She doesn't quite know how it happens, but their positions are reversed, and she's pressed against the wall, her face turned to the side, her arms pinned behind back, and she finds herself hating Emma more than she ever has at any moment before.
Emma leans in, close, and whispers in her ear. "I don't think that's why you're here. So, what is it that you really want, Madam Mayor?"
She hates the way that her traitorous body responds to Emma's breath, hot in her ear.
She hates that Emma Swan has somehow come to hold this power over her and that a part of her wants to say I want you.
She hates that when she opens her mouth to deliver a searing rebuke, all that comes out is a moan.
She hates the smug note in Emma's voice as she whispers in her ear, "I'm sorry, what did you say?"
She hates that there is an ache, a warm, insistent throb between her legs that only intensifies as Emma presses closer.
She hates the way that Emma laughs disbelievingly when she says, "I want you dead." At that moment, it's a lie; the only death she wants right now is la petite mort and she wants to die at Emma's hands over and over again.
She hates that when Emma's thigh slips between her legs, she can't stop herself from trying to grind down on it, wanting the pressure of hard muscle against her sex, pressure that is frustratingly just out of reach.
She hates that when Emma presses harder against her and whispers in her ear, "I don't think that's what you want right now, Madam Mayor. Tell me what you want," she finally says what Emma wants to hear.
And then there's no room for hate, or much thought at all, because Emma is kissing her neck and there is a hand kneading her thigh through her skirt and every cell in her body is screaming yes.
Emma is whispering in her ear again, "Do you think about me when you're alone at night? Do you think about me touching you when you touch yourself?"
She draws a shuddering breath and her response is more a gasp than a word. "Yesss."
A stray thought flits through her head and she smiles a little. She's glad she chose this outfit, as Emma's hand slips through the long slit in her skirt, stroking up her inner thigh. The thought is gone a moment later, lost to sensation.
"And when I touch you, is it hard or is it gentle?"
Her hips buck as Emma traces a line with her thumbnail from her cunt to her clit, through the thin fabric of her panties, and she gasps, "Hard."
"You're so wet. Do you want me to touch you now?" There's a hitch in Emma's voice and for a moment, Regina wishes her hands were free, wishes she could slip her hands down and touch Emma, glide her fingers through the wetness that she's certain she would find. Emma's breaths are harsh, faster in her ear, and she can feel the twin points of Emma's nipples pressing into her back through the thin silk of her shirt. But right now, more than anything, she wants Emma to fuck her, and so she says a word that rarely passes her lips.
"Please."
And then Emma obliges, pulling her panties partway down her thighs and then there are fingers stroking softly, teasingly at first, before they slip inside her. The angle is awkward and it's not nearly enough pressure, enough force, to satisfy her completely, but she's so turned on that within moments, she can feel her knees giving way and her hips are bucking against Emma's hand with what little leverage she has.
She slumps back against Emma, who holds her for a moment, slipping arms around her waist and pressing soft kisses to her neck, her collarbone, before turning her around, pressing her gently back against the wall. Emma kisses her, and it's soft and sweet at first, as she tries to catch her breath again. Soon though, it's harder, more demanding, and then she's pulling Emma against her and she wants, needs, more contact. Her hands find a thin strip of skin between the bottom of Emma's tank top and her panties and then she's pushing up Emma's top to explore the lean muscle of her back.
She slips a hand between their bodies, her hand seeking Emma's sex, but Emma catches her hand and pulls back, shaking her head. "Later."
Emma continues to hold her hand, kissing her again before leading her to the bedroom, pushing her down to sit on the edge of the bed. She feels a brief flicker of irritation when Emma rips some of the buttons off her shirt in her haste to remove it, but it fades almost immediately as Emma palms her breasts through the flimsy fabric of her bra. Exquisitely sensitive nipples harden and she arches up, wanting more, wanting firmer contact. And then her bra is gone and she's being pressed back onto the bed and Emma's hands are kneading her breasts. And one of those hands is replaced by a tongue, by teeth and she cries out as Emma alternates between tracing delicate curlicues around her nipple and biting just hard enough to cause the perfect amount of pain.
She lifts her hips as Emma pulls her skirt down, and this time when Emma's hand slides down between her legs, when fingers slip inside her cunt, it's exactly what Regina needs. The rhythm Emma sets is fast, and she's fucking her hard, deep, and Regina's hips are off the bed, thrusting up to meet Emma's fingers. And then she feels Emma's tongue swipe a firm line across her clit, and she feels like she might pass out, her nerve endings are so overloaded with sensation and pleasure. Emma is licking, a perfect counterpoint to the rhythm of her fingers, and Regina knows it won't be long. She's torn between wanting this feeling to last forever, and wanting the relief, the release that is oh so close. And then Emma sucks her clit into her mouth and she's seeing stars and her body is jerking like a marionette with tangled strings and Emma keeps going until finally she pushes her away.
She collapses back onto the bed, her heart pounding and every muscle in her body feeling like it's been used beyond the point of fatigue. Emma is still nestled between her legs, hands stroking abstract patterns on the skin of her inner thigh. Emma makes a move to touch Regina again, but she shakes her head. She's too sensitive.
That annoying, knowing smirk is back, and Regina, strength finally returning, sits up and pulls Emma up to meet her, kissing her hard, wanting to wipe that smirk away. She can taste herself on Emma's lips, on her tongue and as she kisses her, teases her, she can hear Emma's breath coming ragged, fast.
Regina finally has free rein to explore the body she's been thinking about, dreaming about for so long and she doesn't waste any time before she strips off Emma's top to reveal small, firm breasts and a body that is the perfect balance of long, lean muscle and softness. She laves Emma's nipple with her tongue, before moving to suck the swell of her breast into her mouth, drawing a cry from Emma. She smiles, pleased at the sight of the livid mark marring pale skin.
Her fingers are drawn to the faint, silvery lines marking Emma's abdomen and she traces them gently, strangely entranced. She realises that Emma is regarding her with a curious, almost vulnerable expression, and her fingers turn hard again, leaving red, angry lines running in a stark contrast, parallel to silver.
For a moment, she entertains the thought of walking out and leaving Emma there, wanting, frustrated, needing her, completely at her mercy. But just for a moment, because as soon as she slips her hand beneath the waistband of Emma's panties, as soon as her fingers dip into wetness, stroking a teasing pattern, as soon as she sees Emma with her head thrown back, she knows she can't. Because Emma Swan, head thrown back, chest flushed and princess curls mussed is a glorious sight and Regina didn't realise how much she craved it until she did. And right now, the power to bring Emma Swan undone feels like the greatest power in the world.
She slides Emma's panties down her legs, throwing them aside, before kissing her way down Emma's inner thighs. Occasionally she bites; she wants Emma to remember this, to be reminded of her. As she gets closer, she can smell Emma's arousal, can see it glistening on her sex. She stops, a few inches from Emma's centre and blows a focused puff of air. Emma nearly jumps off the bed, her hips questing towards Regina's mouth.
Regina pulls back and presses Emma's hips back down onto the bed. "Patience, my dear." She smiles at the frustrated noise that Emma makes in response and waits a moment or two longer before finally dipping her head down to trace teasing lines with her tongue along the folds of Emma's sex, around her clit, but never quite where she needs it, never with quite enough pressure. She knows that Emma is already close to the edge, but she wants to draw this out, wants to torture her a little.
Emma tries to shift, tries to force Regina to use her tongue where she needs it, but Regina pulls back. "Not yet."
She waits a little longer, holding back from contact until Emma has stopped squirming, before finally dipping down, thrusting her tongue into Emma's cunt. Emma's cries goad her on and then she's lapping at Emma's clit with a firm, insistent rhythm. The world narrows down to the sound of Emma panting, moaning, the salt on her tongue and the feel of Emma's hands tangled in her hair. Emma's hips are off the bed, bucking hard against her mouth, until finally Emma comes, Regina's name on her lips.
Regina moves back up the bed, propping herself up on one arm, watching Emma. With her other hand she traces patterns on Emma's abdomen, her arms, enjoying the feel of lean muscle under her hand.
Emma reaches out, traces the line of her jaw softly, a tenderness in her eyes that Regina doesn't want to see. She allows the contact for a moment, wants to continue to allow it, but she pushes Emma away. She sits up and starts to get dressed, her back to Emma and she doesn't turn when she feels a hand on her shoulder.
"Regina?" Emma strokes a hand down her arm, and she wants to turn, wants to lean into that touch, and hates herself for it.
She swallows, clenches her fists, trying to regain some sense of equilibrium. She finally speaks. "This changes nothing, Miss Swan."