Emma Swan nods a thanks when the waitress places her order in front of her. Exhaling slowly, she can already feel a bit of the tension dissolve and seep from her shoulders, trickle out of her mind. She closes her eyes and blends out the cacophony of sounds in the dimly lit bar. A vague whiff of air brushing her skin and a familiar smell indicate that someone has slipped into the booth beside her.
"Hello, beautiful," says a low accented voice.
With her eyes still closed, she smiles and pushes one of the two tumblers over to the newcomer before she finally turns to look at him. "Jones," she greets back and reaches for her own drink, "pleasure."
He smirks. "That you can count on."
She snorts a little laugh and raises her glass to him. "I hope so."
He tilts his head and touches his tumbler to hers with a soft, clinking sound. They both take a sip, and their stares lock across their glasses. Suddenly Emma finds the temperature in the room has risen a few degrees; not that this is a surprise to her – that's what Killian Jones does. That's why she's meeting him here regularly. She hums as the spiced dark rum warms her throat, leaving that familiar sharp sweetness on her tongue. Raising an eyebrow at her sound, he puts down his glass and slowly runs his tongue across his full bottom lip, a move that's always bound to glue her gaze to his mouth, and he knows it.
"So," he finally drawls, "how... urgent is it?" The minute pause and the emphasis on the word urgent charge the air between them. Emma feels a blush rise in her cheeks and is very grateful for the dim lights.
"Why would you think it's urgent?" she replies with a well-practiced nonchalance she doesn't really feel.
"Well," he tilts his head, "your voice mail sounded pretty distressed. Besides..." He lets his hand rest on her knee under the table almost casually and quirks his eyebrow again, "You're wearing a skirt and your legs are bare, and we both know what that means."
Despite the heat slowly simmering in her belly, she manages to pry her eyes away from him with enormous willpower. "I'm not distressed," she contradicts, ignoring his last remark, "I just wanted a drink and some company." Her fingers are closing around her glass in a deliberately slow, controlled move.
"Is that so," he taunts and strokes the pad of his thumb along the curve of her knee. Automatically, her calf muscles flex.
"That is so," she replies and raises the glass to her lips again.
"Then let's converse by all means." He's not taking his eyes off her when he takes his tumbler in his other hand – actually, it's not a real hand, as Emma knows, but a prosthesis covered in a thin black glove. She feels the subtle heat in his gaze and the press of his fingers against her skin as he slides them up along her thigh.
"How was work this week?" he asks and swirls his glass slowly, watching the brown liquid intently.
"Stressful," she replies and concentrates on keeping her breathing normal and steady, but the anticipation flowing through her veins is tempting her to speed it up.
"The family?" He raises his glass to his lips again, without looking at her this time, and she watches his Adam's apple bob as he swallows; but it's only a vain attempt to distract herself from the goosebumps spreading on her skin when his fingers squeeze her flesh under the table.
"Demanding," comes her monosyllabic answer, and she gulps down her own drink impatiently.
He must have noticed some of her impatience in her voice, because he tilts his head to scrutinize her closely now and strokes his hand farther up her leg, his pinky finger resting in the crease of her groin.
"And your friends?" he asks almost casually and flexes his fingers to caress her inner thigh, his fingernails gently scraping over her sensitive skin. For a second, her eyes flutter shut, when she feels a rush of heat in her core, and she automatically clenches it.
"On my fucking nerves," she answers in a strained voice, and he smiles to himself in obvious satisfaction as the mask of her nonchalance slips a bit.
"You seem indeed tense, Swan," he comments and moves his hand to her pubic mound, cupping her through her panties in what feels like a possessive touch. She holds her breath and bites her lip, trying to brace herself against the next assault. Without further warning, he curls his middle finger and presses down on her clit.
"Fuck," she gasps, and he chuckles deep in his throat.
"Easy," he warns, "we don't want to draw attention now, do we?" He raises his glass to finish his drink and starts to lightly run his finger back and forth over her nub. "Do you need to... unwind, love?" His tone is playful, but when he turns to look at her again, the expression in his blue eyes and the devilish glint lurking in their corners are so lewd that they'd make her blush even without his hand between her legs. It doesn't help that she can see the tip of his tongue moving restlessly behind his teeth.
She inhales deeply through her nose. "Yes," she mutters under her breath.
He smirks. "How badly?" he wants to know and changes the play of his fingers, massaging her through her panties in lazy circular moves. Unable to respond, Emma suppresses a whimper and curls her fingers around the edge of the table, her knuckles going white. He raises his eyebrows at her in question. "Love?" he prompts.
She flares her nostrils desperately when he applies just that little bit more pressure. "Very," she manages to get out and lets her thighs fall more open to give him better access.
"Aye, that much is obvious," he replies in a satisfied tone and quickens the pace of his skilled fingers while he leans towards her. He runs his tongue lasciviously through his slightly opened mouth and whispers into her left ear, "Your knickers are drenched."
She closes her eyes, unable to focus on anything else than on the feeling of his ministrations. Her whole upper body stiffens while from the waist down she's squirming against his hand. Finally, she presses through clenched teeth, "'Tcha gonna do about it?"
"Hmm," Killian hums, "obviously, there are two options. I can either make you come here, right at this table... like last time," he adds in an amused tone and stops his moves for a moment to lightly pinch her clit before he picks up his massage again. She endures his torture silently and waits for him to present his other option. "Or," he continues, his breath fanning hotly over the side of her throat, "we take this somewhere more private." He's giving her his full arsenal and pops the 't' a little before he tilts his head and adds, "More or less private, that is."
Emma forces herself to open her eyes and scan the room for observers, but no one seems to be aware that her date is about to get her off under the table. She's picked the darkest booth, and the other customers in this bar usually mind their own business; perfect circumstances for these trysts she indulges in when her daily life gets too exhausting and she needs to unwind, as he said. And with Killian Jones she has found the perfect accomplice, always eager and ready for these stolen moments, never asking questions when she calls and asks him to meet her here. The thrill in the danger of almost getting caught in the act creates just the right amount of adrenaline to make up for a period of exhaustion after particularly draining professional or familial tasks.
"Outside," she demands breathlessly and bites her lip hard enough to feel the pain, a welcome distraction from the delicious hell he's raising with his devious touches.
He tilts his head. "What's it gonna be, love?" he inquires, still continuing to massage her and work more wetness into the silk of her panties, "car park? Bathroom?"
Emma swallows thickly, her throat almost too dry to speak. "There's a storage room in the back," she all but pants, "it's never locked."
He raises an eyebrow. "Excellent." And just like that, his fingers are gone. She doesn't know if she should protest or be relieved. He slips out of the booth and motions for her to do the same, offering her his hand, always the gentleman. "Lead the way."
She needs a moment to tame the tingling in her whole body and stares at his hand that has just been between her legs, doing unspeakable things to her. She snaps out of her haze when he wiggles his fingers. "Love?"
When she looks up at him, the expression in his eyes has fresh adrenaline and desire rushing through her veins, the heat and the predatory spark in his gaze speeding her heartbeat up anew. He cocks his eyebrows and tilts his head in an encouraging way, and finally she takes his hand and lets him pull her out of the booth. Drawing a deep breath, she nods as she walks past him with new found determination. "Follow me."
Her legs do feel a little wobbly, but she has them under control as she traverses the bar, heading towards the door in the back that leads to the rest rooms, as a sign indicates. She pushes through that door, not even bothering to look if Killian follows her, because she knows he does, and strides through the small corridor behind it. When she walks by the two doors that lead to men's and ladies' room she blushes, recalling the memories of past encounters she had with Killian in either of those rooms, with his hand clasped over her mouth to keep her quiet as she was riding him in one of the ladies' toilet cabins.
A small door at the dimly lit end of the corridor is the one she's heading to. It's a small storage room where cleaning equipment, toilet paper, soap and other hygiene articles are kept. She grabs the doorknob and smiles when it turns easily. Quickly and without a noise, she pushes the door open and slips inside, Killian directly behind her. She turns the light on, and the moment the door clicks shut, she whirls around to pounce on him.
Emma shoves him against the wall, her hands immediately going to his belt in a fierce attempt to unbuckle and unzip him, while her mouth latches onto the scruffy side of his throat, right on the madly thrumming jugular vein. Not on his lips, mind you, because she knows from experience that kissing Killian Jones is a dangerous thing, very dangerous – and not a risk she's going to take. What she wants now – what she needs – is a quick, hard fuck, the dirtier, the better. Her clit is already throbbing for him, partly still from his earlier ministrations, partly in eager anticipation.
But he seems to have other plans, because he's stopping her right away with both his real and his prosthetic hand at her wrists, pulling her away from the waistband of his pants (she has already made quick work of his belt). Even though she groans in protest, he holds her almost at arm's length for a moment and makes a quick escape, whirling her around so that she's facing the wall now and he's behind her. A hard shove by his whole body against her back, and she's pushed against the wall, letting out a little surprised gasp at the sudden, very physical attack.
"Quiet," he commands, his voice barely more than a raucous growl in her ear, causing her eyes to flutter shut as she feels him press against her from shoulder to hip. "Hands on the wall."
She does as she's told and places her palms against the tiles while one of his legs is pushed between hers from behind. "Spread them."
A shiver runs down her spine at his words, and she follows the order and shifts her feet apart. She knows this is gonna be good, while she mentally prepares herself for the sound of his zipper being pulled down and the hard grip at her hips to pull her to him, so that he can take her from behind – but that never happens. Instead, he leans heavily into her body with his pants still offensively in place, wraps his left arm with the prosthetic hand around her waist and murmurs into her ear, "That's a good girl."
Emma has no idea what he has in mind, but she knows it's not what she had in mind, and patience has never been a virtue of hers. She protests, "But I need–"
"You'll get exactly what you need, love," he assures in that damn cocky, almost arrogant voice of his, the voice that has been her downfall on various occasions. As if to confirm his words, he rolls his hips into her behind, and she can feel the hard promise pressing up against her ass. "But you're gonna come for me first," he declares almost sternly and adds, "I know you're already wet for me, but I want you slick."
And with that, he reaches around her and brings his hand to where it was before, between her legs, her short, flowy skirt not being a hindrance at all. He doesn't bother with any teasing but goes right down to business, massaging her throbbing nub with just the right amount of pressure and speed to bring her right to the point where she's been mere minutes before, like no interruption had ever happened. Emma presses the heels of her hands into the wall, but her knees are shaking uselessly beneath her; she knows her legs wouldn't be able to hold her upright, if Killian's strong arm around her waist wasn't supporting her.
"Please," she pants and tries to push against his hand, hoping for him to thrust his fingers into her, but he holds her in place with his left arm and rubs her clit in a maddening pace now, and she almost sobs with relief when she feels her core start to clench rhythmically.
"Come on, Swan," he coaxes, "I want you to ruin those panties for good."
Damn Killian Jones and his dirty talking, gravelly voice. Her climax approaches so fast that her head is spinning, and for a moment she can't even process what's happening here. Unable to hold back her moan when he pushes her over the edge with one last stroke of his devious fingers, she comes with an insane rush into her panties. She almost collapses, but he wraps his other arm around her, too, and maneuvers her away from the wall.
"There you go," he croons into her ear, "that wasn't hard now, was it?" With a firm grip at her waist and a swift move he lifts her on the edge of a steel table. "Now let's give you what you need."
She's still panting, the blood rushing in her ears, and her inner muscles aren't done yet fluttering, when he steps between her legs and finally unbuttons and unzips his pants. Emma's senses are alert again, and she automatically licks her lips in eager anticipation when he lowers his pants just enough to free his erection from its denim confines. She props her hands behind her back and arches her spine to push her hips forward and meet him. Noticing her move and the impatience it betrays, despite her very recent orgasm, he smirks as he pushes her wet panties aside with his prosthetic hand and guides himself to her entrance. Oh yes, this is going to be quick, hard and dirty. She bites her lip and hisses when she feels his hot tip nudging inside and looks down, mesmerized by the sight of his cock, thick and hard and ready to enter her.
"I knew it was urgent," Killian comments in a satisfied voice and nudges both of her thighs; she understands immediately what he wants and wraps them around his waist, ankles locking behind his back. "Hold on," he tells her and grasps her hips firmly.
She braces herself for the ride and isn't disappointed when he snaps his hips forward fiercely and enters her in one smooth, deep stroke that has her gasp for air.
"Bloody hell, Swan," he comments hoarsely as he starts to pound into her, "so slick and tight, just how I like it." He sets a murderous pace right from the beginning, hitting home with every thrust.
"Keep an eye on the door," he orders, "we don't want interruptions."
It's ridiculous, because keeping an eye on the door isn't going to help preventing any interruption, really, as the door isn't locked or blocked in any way, but Emma knows that's exactly what he wanted to remind her of. It's part of the thrill.
"You like the danger, don't you," he growls while he continues to ravish her so thoroughly it makes the blood sing in her ears, and the part of her brain still capable of remotely coherent thoughts whispers, open book. This man knows her better than anyone.
"Fuck," she pants, and the bastard has even enough breath to chuckle.
"Exactly," he replies, not less breathless than she is, "You like it when I fuck you on the bathroom sink. Or when I bend you over the hood of your car in the darkest corner of the parking lot."
He increases the speed and force of his thrusts, and Emma feels a prickle start in the soles of her feet and goosebumps run from the base of her neck down her spine. She knows when the two waves of unbound energy will meet in her center, she'll just explode into a ball of bliss.
Killian reaches around her and presses his hand on the small of her back to pull her even closer and aims for the kill with his last thrusts and words, "Or when you drop to you knees in the back alley, begging me to fuck your mouth, where anyone could see you."
She claws both hands into his shoulders and can't suppress a little cry when she comes again, and after two more final thrusts his hips begin to stutter in a rather uncontrolled way, and he follows her over the edge.
Emma collapses forward, her front slumping against his sternum, while she's grasping his forearms to steady herself. With her vision a little blurred and her heart still racing, she tries to breathe calmly but fails miserably, so she just gives in to the panting for a little longer. It's not like she's the only one; she notices that his chest heaves just as much as hers, the movements filling her nostrils with his warm scent spiced up by fresh sweat. After a minute or so she lifts her face to look at him and sees that his head is tipped back, eyes closed and lips slightly parted, as he obviously tries to control his own breathing and regain his senses. She smiles to herself when she sees him swallow so thickly that his Adam's apple bobs.
Her own mouth is dry, she has to lick her lips before she can speak. "That was..."
The sound of her slightly croaky voice seems to bring him back to the here and now (he has been lost for a moment), and he looks down at her for a second before he cocks his eyebrow and tilts his head with an infuriating little smirk. "I know."
Emma snorts and slaps his chest with the back of her hand. "God, you're such a–"
"Gentleman," he cuts her off and places a few tissues into her hand he's pulled out of his pocket before he takes half a step back and slips out of her, leaving an aching emptiness. "Always a gentleman."
She shakes her head and snatches the tissues to clean herself just-so before sliding off the edge of the steel table. Just to be sure her legs work properly again, she steadies herself against him for a moment and lets go of him only when she's convinced she can safely stand on her own two feet. Finally she shoves the crumpled tissues into his prosthetic hand after he's tucked himself away again and smooths out her skirt. Taking a deep breath, she walks past him without even looking, feigning a nonchalance she doesn't feel. At all.
Almost haughtily, she throws over her shoulder, "Don't follow me. Wait five minutes."
Killian huffs an amused laugh. "Am I supposed to find some firewood in here, too, love?"
Hand already on the doorknob, she stops dead in her tracks and turns around to look at him. He's just standing there, legs slightly spread and thumb tucked into his belt, and throws her an almost challenging glance from underneath his raised eyebrows. After a few seconds, she lets go of the doorknob and walks up to him again with two long steps.
She stands on her tiptoes and whispers against his mouth, "I love you, Killian," before she presses a longing, lingering kiss to her husband's lips. Then she smiles brightly. "See you at home?"
He runs his tongue through his mouth and tilts his head. "Oh, you will," he promises.
With a pearly little laugh, she opens the door carefully, and, after a sneaky glance shows her there's no one in sight, slips out of the small storage room and returns to the main room. Traversing it without haste, she smiles to herself as she's aware of the vivid proof of her passionate tryst with her husband – dalliance, he would call it – between her legs; those panties are truly ruined, and the tender skin of her inner thighs is chafed from Killian's denim clad hips pounding into her. She feels sore and spent, but also alive and wonderful.
Looking left and right, she recognizes a few of the regulars of the Rabbit Hole, having broken up more than one bar brawl here over the last few years. But all they see is a short-haired brunette with glasses dressed in grey jeans and a black linen jacket, thanks to a well-practiced glamoring spell. It's an enticing game she plays with Killian from time to time, when the everyday life of a sheriff in a town with magic from multiple realms with fairytale parents and family ties that just make your head spin becomes a little too overwhelming and she just really really needs to blow off a little more steam than usual. It has started out as a silly post-sex afterglow pillow talk during which Emma admitted that having almost gotten caught once or twice by her parents had caused an insane, vitalizing rush of adrenaline in her system. She more or less joked about getting handsy in a public place, Killian challenged her that she'd never follow it up anyway, and two days later she lured him into the interrogation room in the sheriff's station with an excuse and gave him a blow job that left him wobbly-legged for twenty minutes. Without locking the door of the sheriff's station or the interrogation room. The thrill of the danger made her almost climax while she was vigorously blowing her pirate/law enforcing husband.
But on these occasions they nowadays indulge in from time to time, the stakes are higher, so she does use a safety net of precautions while still enjoying the thrill. The glamoring spell is a part of those, and their appearances never look the same. They haven't been caught once yet – even if a few times it was a close call – but if it ever happens and someone should witness a guy fucking a woman on the hood of a car in the parking lot or a woman riding a guy behind the steering wheel, the car better not be the sheriff's well-known yellow bug, and the couple better not be the sheriff herself and her deputy/husband.
Emma smiles to herself and heads for the exit with not even one single curious gaze following her. She leaves it up to Killian to pay for their drinks; he wouldn't have it any other way. When she's out in the open, she walks around the corner into the quiet side alley and then leaves the premises in the same way she got here before: with a little poofing magic. Killian will make it home soon, driving in her yellow bug glamored as an outdated Chevy – he's gotten better at it than anybody (himself included) ever would have thought.
At home, she immediately gets rid of her crumpled clothes and the ruined underwear and takes a quick shower, and when she exits the bathroom in her pjs, hair still damp, she hears Killian's footsteps on the stairs, and automatically, her lips pull into a smile.