So I write for Downton Abbey. It's my comfort zone, my passion. I never counted on one Killian Jones showing up and messing with my head, giving me another couple who would stalk me and demand that I sit and write about them. I never expected that Emma and Hook would begin to stalk me in the same manner as Mary/Matthew and Mary/Charles. I really don't need this in my life. I'm a wife, a mother, a teacher...in other words a busy woman.
But daggum...this is just so much fun! And how do you say no to Killian Jones? ;)
I hope you enjoy this tale I anticipate will have 3 parts to it. And thanks ever so much for reading!
She feels before she sees him, a hot gaze stroking her spine, a stool occupied beside her, the wafting scent of leather and spice too potent for her own good.
"Buy you a drink, Love?"
The words are half-spoken, half-purred, and she finally turns to face him, struck by sapphire and ebony and glorified stubble just too damn attractive for comfort.
"I already have one, in case you hadn't noticed."
Her response presses his lips together, instigating a lethargic nod from which she makes herself look away.
"But two is so much preferable to one, wouldn't you agree?"
His grin is full of himself, and she exhales a small laugh, wondering how a guy in this dive can appear to be swashbuckling.
"But one is safer," she retorts, seeing a flash of acknowledgement in eyes looking her over from top to bottom. "Wouldn't you agree?"
"Safety can be highly over-rated," he states, signaling the bartender to give them both another round. "Boring, even. Where's your sense of adventure?"
"I buried it a long time ago," she responds, knocking down the rest of her drink and setting her glass audibly on the bar. "It brought me nothing but pain and trouble."
"Ah," he returns, turning to face her head on. "So you've chosen to bury your face in the sand, then?" His chuckle reverberates uncomfortably into her ribs as he leans in too close. "And such a pretty face at that."
"Listen, Blackbeard," she tosses back. "I came here tonight to be alone, and you are quite obviously invading my space. Why don't you just swagger back to the Jolly Roger and mind your own damn business."
The way he licks his lips shouldn't be so engrossing, shouldn't make her breasts tingle, shouldn't make her want to slap the hell out of him after kissing him hard.
"I wish I had a pirate ship right now," he murmurs, moving directly to her ear. "I would be more than happy to offer you a private tour."
It's her turn to chuckle, and she stares at him incredulously, irritated and intrigued that he won't take no for an answer.
"I'll bet you do," she retorts, biting her lower lip. "But you're not getting your hands on my booty, Long John Silver."
It's an out and out laugh this time, the whiteness of his teeth catching her off guard.
"That's quite out of the question," he throws back at her. "Seeing as I only have one hand, Love."
It is then she sees a stump well concealed, hidden under the bar, making her swallow down pangs she can't quite identify.
"I'm sorry," she gushes, feeling suddenly unsteady. "I didn't know…I mean…"
"Don't bash yourself," he instructs softly, returning his arm to the shadows. "I've learned to live with it."
She can't get past the knot in her throat, the lump in her chest, so she takes another drink.
"What happened?"
"An unfortunate boating accident," he shrugs, turning from widening eyes burrowing in places he has sealed off for years. "I have a prosthesis, but sometimes it just gets in the way."
His observation hits home with a precision that hurts.
"I can understand that."
Her own words surprise her, and he flicks a brow in her direction, clearly waiting for her to continue.
"Living under false pretenses is exhausting," she expounds, not understanding why she keeps talking to this man she should shove off his stool. "That's all I meant."
"So what disguises do you wear, may I ask?" he queries, seeing a flash of fear in her gaze. "Do you employ a trunk full of them or just stick with one?"
God, he has some nerve.
"That's my business," she fires back, feeling the need to distance herself. "And who says I hide who I am?"
"I do," he challenges with a lop-sided grin crawling up his cheek. "Prove me wrong if you like."
She angles her body towards him, unable to walk away for reasons she won't entertain.
"I don't play games," she insists, her voice dropping decidedly. "What you see is what you get."
"Is that a suggestion or a promise?" he questions, licking his lips much too slowly.
"You're unbelievable," she retorts, shaking her head. "One minute we're discussing your accident, and the next you're making another pass at me."
"Would you rather I kiss you and be done with it?" he asks, something tempting and dangerous flashing from his gaze straight to places she can't think about.
"You wouldn't dare," she challenges, staring at him hard.
"I lost a hand, Love," he replies smoothly. "Not my balls."
Did he really just say what she thought she heard?
"I'd protect those crown jewels if I were you," she breathes roughly. "Trying to flash them around me could be more dangerous than you realize."
Her chest rises and falls at a tempo that makes her uncomfortable, but she keeps her expression fixed, eyes narrowed, mouth tight.
"I already know how dangerous you are, believe me."
There is something raw in his reply, something that doesn't fit with what she wants to think of him.
"Then why are you messing with me?"
He shrugs again, turning away quickly, but not before something exposed hits her from depths of blue.
"I don't know, honestly," he answers softly. "I keep telling myself just to walk away, but I can't for some reason." He then faces her, too close, too transparent, too masculine. "Why don't you just walk away from me?"
She fears her ribs may crack from the force of her heart pounding against them.
"I'm planning to," she argues, despising the waver in her voice. "Make no mistake about that."
"When? Now or after we go to bed?"
Her laugh is audible, and she leans back in semi-shock.
"You weren't kidding about your balls, were you?" she exclaims. "They're obviously bigger than your brain."
His resulting smile targets her nipples directly.
"There's only one way to find out, isn't there, Love?" he smirks. "And I'm willing if you are."
She should walk away…now, while her feet are still touching dry land.
"Please," she sighs, rolling her eyes as she stands. "You couldn't handle it."
He stands beside her, making her want something she has tried to forget, tugging on a need too dangerous to entertain.
"Perhaps you're the one who couldn't handle it."
His gauntlet falls to her feet, his challenge blowing on kindling that came out of nowhere.
It is on. Damn.
She tugs on his jacket, pulling his face to hers, mouth to mouth, tongue to tongue, tasting and savoring what she knows to be delicious poison. Everything about him skims over her pores, tickles dormant nerves, awaking an inner-siren that frightens her even as she kisses him in a frenzy. Heat pools, senses ache, his teeth tug her lower lip in a gesture that makes her arch into him. She can't breathe, can't reason, doesn't want to think about what she is doing, knowing she will hate herself in the morning, unable to stop this wanting sweeping her under.
"What was that?" he manages, staggering under the weight of something that may be his undoing, his mind spinning in a whirlpool of need.
"A one-time thing," she insists raggedly, not recognizing her voice as her own, her legs much too unsteady for her own good. The truth is she has no idea what it was.
And that scares the hell out of her.
"If you say so, Love," he whispers, all arrogance gone as he stares back at her in a fog from which he is uncertain he wants to emerge.
Ever.
"Yes, I say so," she returns, taking his hand and pulling him towards the exit, plunging over a slippery slope both of them choose to ignore.
Your thoughts are always most welcome.