Chapter One
"I normally don't—do things—like this."
She hates the way her voice trembles betraying how good it feels, this, the soft press of his mattress against her back and the heat, pure heat, that is his hands on her hips, fingers flexing over her curves, and his mouth hot and insistent against her neck.
"I'm happy to be the exception, love," he murmurs as one of his hands slides up and cups the nape of her neck. She knows what he wants—because she wants it, too—and as soon as she tilts her head to the side, he takes full advantage of her exposed skin with a languid, open-mouthed kiss. And closer, more, his mouth on her neck feels amazing, but she just needs more.
As if his thoughts are exactly her own, he sits up and in an endearingly uncoordinated move, pulls his shirt over his head, shaking his arm a couple of times in his haste to get the sleeve off. Her fingers move quickly over the buttons on hers, and soon her shirt is lying in a heap somewhere on the floor, too, and she's raised up a bit, awkwardly trying to unclasp her bra with her arms restricted in their reach and the damn thing won't come undone and it's hard at this angle and when she's shaking so much and—
He chuckles, his arms circling around her. Seconds later, her bra joins their shirts.
"What's so funny?" she asks, starting on getting rid of his pants, too.
He's returning the favor. "Let it never be said I didn't come to the aid of a damsel in distress."
She'd roll her eyes, but they're both so tangled up, jeans stuck on feet, feet battling socks, that the last thing she really wants to think about is how cheesy that was or how his accent made it sound sexy anyways. She just needs to feel him, wants to enjoy one night of recklessness with this incredibly hot guy she picked up at a bar, wants to know that at least one person wants her, even if all either of them can commit to is this one night.
No sob stories, no sentimental of-all-the-gin-joints talk, no names.
Just tonight.
Only her buying him a drink, him reciprocating, a smirk over his shoulder on his way to the restroom, her pushing him up against the wall as he comes out, the kindling, the spark, their fumbling exit.
And now, this five alarm fire.
He crushes himself back to her, their hands everywhere, mouths everywhere. It thrills her, her own greediness—it must be the daring of it all (or the alcohol), but even more so, because he can't seem to get enough either.
He trails his way down her torso, goosebumps erupting over her skin in the wake of his kisses and touches. When his breath blooms warm against her thigh, his whispers of "Beautiful"—his palm running over her knee—"So beautiful"—the brush of his cheek against her other thigh—"You should be painted in shades of moonlight and lines of shadow," she can't help it: screw foreplay. Her fingers lace through his hair and give a not-so-gentle tug back up. "Impatient, aren't we?"
"Do you always talk this much, Picasso?" she pants against his mouth, nipping at his lower lip.
A moan. His eyes briefly go wide before they search her face. "Only when it's true."
And her retort surrenders into a gasp as he finally just shuts up and oh god.
Oh god.
The light. Her head. Ugh, last night.
Hopping up and down on one foot to yank on her last shoe, she tries to be stealthy and not to curse from the throbbing headache. Though, if it's from a hangover or from totally pulling the sneak-out-before-he-wakes-up routine, she can't tell. She's never done a one night stand before, but Mary Margaret's made her watch enough romcoms to know what the guilty party looks like trying to flee the scene without getting caught. And that's exactly how she feels: guilty. Well, and like crawling into a cave.
What was she thinking? Those shots must have hit her harder than she thought. And she certainly didn't mean to sleep here, at this guy's house.
She rubs at her face, trying to take it all in.
She'd actually had a one night stand, slept with a total stranger, waking up an hour before her first class of the new semester, and hell, she's gonna have to figure out where she is and get to class on time. Her—Emma Swan—this is the crazy plot of her life right now.
She tiptoes by him on her way out the door and takes one last look. Arm thrown over his head, his hair deliciously disheveled, he breathes the steady rhythm of deep sleep. The stubble across his jaw is more pronounced in the daylight—a touch of red in it—and there's a swooping feeling in her stomach as she remembers the feel of it against her skin, surprisingly soft but still just…perfect. In fact, everything about him is perfect. His voice, the silkiness of his mouth, and how he seemed to just get what she wanted without her having to say anything.
She wishes she could sketch him.
Wait—what?
And that thought—the fact that she wants to give permanence to any of this, to any of him or even the hint that she knows what it's like to see his devouring eyes—were they cobalt? azure?—peer up at her through those lashes…well, that's exactly why she needs to get the hell out of here. Now.
If, on the way home, the thought that last night was the best sex she has ever had—not that, you know, she's been with a lot of guys, just two…and, and now him—makes her blush, she slides farther down in the backseat of the taxi, biting back a small smile.
"Psst!"
"Not now, Ruby," she hisses as she continues to rummage through her bag, gritting through the pounding in her head just so she can find her phone and put it on silent before class begins. She'd made surprisingly good time, making it back to her apartment and changing, popping some Advil, and getting to school and all, arriving seven minutes early in fact. And now, last night is out of her mind. No more crazy urges like that, no more alluring strangers fitting the tall, dark, and handsome stereotype to a "T." She is all business, here to learn, not provoke the wrath of her professors by having her phone go off in the middle of class; although in all her three years at Columbia, Dr. French has to be one of the least egotistical, I-am-God's-gift-to-teaching personalities she's ever seen, so it would probably be difficult to do in this case. (This is Emma's third class to take from her, she enjoys her teaching that much.)
The chatting around her gets louder as more students trickle in, and Emma knows class will start at any moment now. Another fruitless search through her bag, and the nagging thought tickles the back of her mind that she might have left it…no. No. Certainly not. She attacks the outside pockets, receipts and old gum wrappers falling out and onto the floor—seriously, where did she put the stupid thing?—when a hand reaches over and starts shaking her.
"What, Ruby?" she huffs, whipping her head up and glaring at her best friend and fellow art major.
Uncowed, Ruby just grins back and with a small nod to the front of the room (the two of them prefer sitting in the back…well, Ruby does), says, "Look."
And so Emma leans and looks around her easel, complete with pursed lips and an eye roll because Ruby is always being distracted by random things, and if this is just another one of those times, Emma would definitely prefer to just—
Oh.
She freezes.
Oh.
Dark hair, crazily sexy scruff to match, that lazy smile. Emma feels the blush climb from her neck all the way to her ears. What is he doing here? She panics and jerks back on her stool; but the movement is too hard, too fast, and it sends her bag falling to the floor, the contents spilling out and rolling in all directions. Crap. She hops down and scrambles to pick everything up and is grateful when Ruby helps her.
"What were you looking for in there anyways?" she asks, handing Emma her lip balm.
She snatches it. "My phone," she hisses.
"Where'd you see it last?"
Geez, does she have to talk so loud? "My bag, last night." She peeks to make sure he's nowhere near them and is relieved to see he's glancing at some papers. Maybe if she can get close enough to the floor, he won't see her. Or maybe she can even sink into the tiles and just disappear. But mainly: what the hell is he doing here?
"And you had it at the bar?"
What? Oh. "Yes!" she whispers.
"Had it after Victor and I left?"
"YES!"
Ruby makes a pensive sound as they both sit back down on their respective stools, Emma hunching over her bag. "Hmm. I'll call it for you, see if it's somewhere still in that Mary Poppins tote of yours."
Emma is momentarily distracted when he starts walking to a table at the front of the room, clearly getting ready to start talking and everyone is getting quiet and seriously, where is Dr. French? It doesn't even register what her friend just said until—
All the heads in the room turn towards his messenger bag laying propped up against the wall on the left side of the room, the noise coming out of it muffled but still easily recognizable.
Oh god. Is that her ringtone?
"Oh my god! Is that your ringtone?" Well, at least Ruby is whispering now.
Emma meets her friend's shocked expression with one of her own. She lunges for Ruby's phone. "Hang up! Hang up, hang up." Ruby quickly ends the call but snaps her head up and stares at Emma. Then she stares at the guy at the front of the room. Then back at her. A smile tugs at her mouth, slowly widening as Emma sees her connecting the dots, and now it's positively wolfish the way she's smirking. Like a predator ready to pounce.
Emma glances back towards the front where he takes a long look at his bag before facing the class again. Just as he's opening his mouth, Ruby's words fan against her ear, quiet but delighted. "Someone had some fun last night. And I want details." She wiggles her eyebrows as she sits back, and all Emma can do is pointedly turn away and face forward. So not the conversation she'd prefer to have today, let alone ever.
That is when their gazes lock across the room, twenty feet apart, and all she can think as his widen with the same surprise that struck her only moments before, is: sapphire.
