First Comes Love

by emn1936

She is done telling herself she doesn't believe in happy endings; done with hiding behind her carefully constructed walls.

First Comes Love…

A/N: (Let's pretend Hyde didn't show up right away and there were a few days of peace and quiet in which the inhabitants of Storybrooke have a chance to catch their breath before facing the next villain du jour. )

0o0o0o0

"I love you."

His lips tip upward in response to her quiet declaration and she is struck by the array of expressions contained in one smile – disbelief, joy, desire and triumph – before he covers her mouth with his in an achingly tender kiss.

The world tilts around her in a dizzying rush when he boosts her in his arms and she revels in the novel pleasure of looming above him as they kiss over and over, mindless of passersby.

"Let's go home," she murmurs against his mouth.

"Aye, love." He presses his forehead to hers, eyes closed in an attempt to regain a modicum of control.

"Let's go home."

0o0o0o0

They spend the better part of a week holed up in the house he had chosen for her. Five days pass in which they do their very best to remove themselves from the outside world, including muting the ringers on their cellphones.

(Though she cracks on occasion to check in with Henry who has glued himself to Regina's side.)

(And once to order a pizza.)

They putter about the house – he dressed in little more than jeans or cotton pajama bottoms riding low on narrow hips – she in an array of oversized t-shirts or the pajama tops he disdains to wear.

They eat.

They sleep – long luxurious naps in the afternoons and nights curled together in the center of the wide bed in their room.

They hold each other when the nightmares come.

They make love. In that bed. In the shower. In front of a low, crackling fire warding off the unexpected chill of a cool spring night. Atop the sturdy farmhouse table in the kitchen. They christen every room in the house except for the one which will be Henry's –

(no need to traumatize the lad)

– taking advantage of the rare days of peace enveloping the town.

They can't stop touching. Can't stop kissing.

When she finally introduces him to Netflix and the art of binge-watching, they find they must restart countless episodes over from the near beginning, so often are they distracted by wandering hands and searching mouths.

(They don't really mind.)

They make messes in the kitchen trying to prepare meals. Emma has never been much interested in cooking – though she can whip up a fair breakfast. Scrambled eggs and blueberry pancakes are her specialties.

Killian, it turns out, is a fair cook though he's somewhat befuddled by modern appliances like microwaves and convection ovens.

"All you need is an open flame, Swan," he sneers.

(She introduces him to the gas grill on the back patio and his face lights up.)

"Now this," he waves a hand over the gleaming stainless contraption, fiddles with the dials, raises and lowers the lid, "is a bloody marvel, love."

0o0o0o0

She awakens one day after a late afternoon nap to the sound of rain pattering against the windows. A low-burning lamp casts an amber glow over the room, cutting through the gloom and she indulges in a long, satisfying stretch before pushing to her feet and following the delicious scents drifting from the kitchen.

(The rain has driven him away from his beloved grill and into the kitchen.)

She shuffles into the kitchen and links her arms around his neck, leaning tiredly against him. "I woke up and you weren't there." A faint whine underlies her words as she blinks at him sleepily.

"Aye." He pushes a tangled hank of hair away from her face and drops a kiss on lips pursed into a sullen pout. "I awoke hungry and wanted to get our supper started."

She boosts herself onto the counter, stifling a yawn behind her fist. Tipping her nose into the air, she takes a deeply appreciative sniff.

"Something smells good," she says, peering over his shoulder where pork chops, quartered potatoes and green beans gently sizzle in an oversized cast iron pan. "I can't believe you know how to cook."

He casts a slightly affronted gaze over his shoulder and casually bats away the hand she tries to sneak around him to steal a bite.

"And why is that, love?" He spears a chunk of potato onto a fork and blows on it gently to cool it. "A man has to eat."

"Yeah, sure." She eyes the potato hungrily. "But you're a fearsome pirate captain," she reminds him. "I'd assume you had a crew to do the cooking."

"I did." He takes an experimental bite of the potato, teeth cutting through the crispy brown exterior and deeming it cool enough, offers her the rest. "But I wasn't always a captain… and eventually I was a captain without a crew. I spent more years than I can count alone on Neverland. A man's got to eat," he repeats and runs the backs of his knuckles along her jawline, smiling in acceptance of the apology shimmering in her eyes.

"I'm sorry." She chews the bite of potato quickly and swallows. "I wasn't thinking. I…"

"No need to apologize, lass." He waves a careless hand and waggles his brows to lighten the mood. "The question is – do my cooking skills live up to your expectations?"

"Hmmm." She reaches out and twists a hand into the collar of the white t-shirt he wears, hem hanging loosely over his jeans and pulls him toward her. "I have to admit… all your skills live up to my expectations."

He meets her smirking grin with his own and steps closer, pushing her legs apart to stand between her knees.

"Is that so?"

She nods and slides a hand into his hair, tugging his mouth to hers.

(And thinks privately that his skills actually exceed her expectations.)

(She keeps that thought to herself; his ego needs no priming.)

He takes the kiss deep – a fevered tangle of lips and tongues. It's the hissing splatter and pop of oil in the pan on the stove that interrupts them and they reluctantly part.

"To be continued?" she whispers, flushed and out-of-breath.

"Aye," he growls against her mouth. "Most assuredly." He punctuates his promise with a hard kiss and turns his attention back to their meal.

0o0o0o0

"I would ask you to marry me if I thought you would say yes."

The softly spoken words and a whisper of a kiss are reverently pressed into the smooth skin of her shoulder and she knows he thinks her asleep. Panic wells quickly and instinctively in response to his murmured declaration but just as quickly is followed by a sense of peace and joy.

(She is done telling herself she doesn't believe in happy endings; done with hiding behind her carefully constructed walls.)

She rolls onto her back.

"I didn't mean to wake you, love." He pushes up on one elbow. "Go back to –"

"Why don't you ask me?"

" – sleep… I… what?"

"Ask me."

She lifts one hand and trails the tips of her fingers over his cheek, pushes a stubborn lock of hair away from his forehead. Moonlight streams through the sheer curtains at the windows, bathing the room in an ethereal glow, illuminating the expression of disbelief and joy battling for supremacy on his face.

"Ask me," she encourages, stroking a thumb soothingly over his jaw.

"I…" He hesitates, swallows hard, his Adam's apple bobbing with his uncertainty. "I would take you to wife, Emma," he says slowly. "If you will have me."

He curls his thumb and forefinger beneath her chin. "Will you?"

"Yes."

Tears spring into her eyes in response to the love shining in his and then suddenly laughter – joyous and pure bubbles up and out.

"Yes," she laughs, her cheeks rounded into a grin of sheer happiness. "Yes. I love you and I want nothing more than to marry you."

Disbelief widens his eyes and then he lunges toward her, his mouth covering hers in a blistering kiss.

"I want you," he pants, burying his lips against her throat and sucking his mark onto the soft skin where neck meets shoulder. "I need you."

She wraps her arms around him; winds her legs around his hips possessively.

"Then have me. I'm yours, Killian. I think I always have been."

0o0o0o0

"Two weeks!"

Snow has been bubbling with excitement since Emma and Killian emerged from their cocoon to share their news with Henry and her parents. The men have left, Henry in tow, to round up a bottle or two of champagne to celebrate the happy announcement.

"We can't plan a wedding in two weeks, Emma," Snow protests. "There's too much to do. There has to be an announcement first –"

"No announcement," Emma cuts in.

"And you need a gown! Flowers. A menu has to be planned. Killian will need a formal suit… I wonder if we can convince him to wear some kind of naval uniform," the petite brunette wonders.

"Mom…"

"Why, the invitations alone will take forever – everyone is going to want to attend."

"No." Emma slowly shakes her head back and forth. "We want a small wedding."

"Emma, I know we're not in the Enchanted Forest, but like it or not, you are a princess. These people are your people. Our people. And after everything we've been through, surely it's not too much to ask to give them a reason to celebrate."

"Mom." Emma reaches out and takes her mother's hands between her own. "The point is we're not in the Enchanted Forest. I wasn't raised to be a princess. I don't know how to be one. And Killian certainly wasn't raised to be a prince." She grins and rubs her thumbs over her mother's knuckles.

"Oh, Emma, I had so many dreams for you…"

"But wasn't the most important one that I love… and that I be loved? That I be happy?"

"Yes." Snow deflates and a soft smile trembles on her lips, a tiny dimple winking near the corner of her mouth.

"And I am. I am so happy. I found you and Dad; I have Henry. And now I have Killian." She clutches her mother's hand tightly. "I have everything I need. I know it's not the life you imagined for me once upon a time, but it's turned out to be a good life, even if I do make for a poor princess." She smirks when her mother rolls her eyes in exasperation.

"Killian and I don't want to make a big production of our wedding."

"Emma! You're marrying the man you love – your true love. It is a big deal," Snow protests.

"But the timing is wrong, Mom." Emma's shoulders rise and fall on a shrug. "With everything that's happened… losing Robin… It would be inappropriate. And I just don't want to rub Regina's face in it."

"You're right, of course. But if we took the time to plan a real wedding," Snow begins to say in a wheedling tone, "enough time will have passed…"

"I don't want to wait, Mom. I've already let my insecurities and fears hold me back for too long. I want to marry him, Mom. I just want to marry him. I don't care about the how's and when's."

"Oh, Emma. Sweetheart. If that's what you want, then that's what your father and I want for you."

"Good. Because even though I don't want a fancy, formal wedding, I want it to be special – and I want you to help me plan it."

0o0o0o0

Though not a traditionalist, Emma finds herself bowing to superstition and so she spends the night before the wedding with her family at the loft while Killian stays behind at their house.

She sits patiently as Snow fashions her hair into long flowing curls, pinning the center section at the crown of her head with a jeweled comb.

"It's not exactly a tiara," Snow comments wryly with a glance at the accessory purchased in a costume jewelry store. A wistful expression crosses her delicate features before she shakes away the melancholy and smiles at her daughter's reflection in the mirror. "But it's pretty."

She gathers the heavy mass of Emma's hair into a loose tail and drapes it over her left shoulder, securing the end with a bit of lace ribbon.

"You didn't wear a tiara, either," Emma points out, calling up a mental image of her parents' wedding portrait in Henry's book.

"No," Snow remembers. "You're right. I didn't. After so much time living out in the woods, it didn't really feel like my style any longer," she admits with a wrinkle of her nose. She stares at her own reflection in the mirror for a long moment and Emma knows her mother is looking back on her own wedding day.

"I wore flowers in my hair." Snow shakes her head, returning to the present. "Snowbells."

Emma thinks about this for a moment and then with a graceful wave of her hand, conjures up a mass of small yellow flowers.

"Buttercups!" Snow exclaims, plucking up one bud from Emma's lap and twirling it beneath her daughter's chin. The two women share a giggle before Snow begins to weave the sunny blossoms into the flowing tail of Emma's hair.

"Time to get you dressed." Snow takes the dress from its hanger and helps Emma step into it. Sliding the zipper closed, she hooks her chin on Emma's shoulder and studies her daughter's reflection in the mirror. The dress she and Emma had settled on during one of their hurried shopping forays over the last two weeks is beautiful, she concedes silently. Made of white eyelet cotton, the dress has a scoop neckline and cap sleeves. The skirt has a hem that stops above the knees, a pale yellow ribbon woven through the lace at the waist and a single layer of crinoline to elevate it from a simple summer dress to something special.

"It's not a ball gown," Snow states the obvious. "But it's lovely and perfect," she decrees, meeting Emma's gaze in the mirror. "Just like you, my beautiful, beautiful daughter." Tears sheen her eyes as the two women embrace, Snow murmuring her hopes and dreams for Emma's happiness into her daughter's ear.

(They break apart, in tearful laughter, carefully knuckling away tears and inspecting their faces for any traces of damage done to their makeup.)

"There's only one thing missing." Snow reaches into a pocket hidden in the full skirt of her floral sundress. "When the curse brought us over, I was wearing my wedding ring and these." She opens her hand to reveal a pair of earrings. Sapphires teardrops dangle from diamond posts in a delicious explosion of light and color.

"They're beautiful." Emma pokes at one with a tentative forefinger. "Borrowed and blue?" She glances up at her mother with a smile. Snow shakes her head and fastens the earrings to Emma's lobes.

"Old and blue," she gently corrects. "Not borrowed. These belonged to my mother – to your grandmother – and now they are yours."

"Mom, no," Emma automatically protests. "I couldn't…"

"Of course you can." Snow folds her arms across her chest in a gesture Emma recognizes as her mother stubbornly digging in. "At one time in my life, there were velvet lined drawers filled with the jewels belonging to our foremothers. Now, there are only these. They're your birthright and I want you to have them."

Emma flicks a finger against one dangling teardrop; watches the light catch on the faceted stones to send a shower of sparkles against her cheek.

"Thank you, Mom. I love them."

Snow picks up the bridal bouquet – a simple collection of white daisies and yellow roses tied up with a length of white lace.

"Are you ready?"

Emma smiles, excitement dancing in her eyes, and lays a hand over her stomach to calm the butterflies fluttering about.

"Let's go."

0o0o0o0

Emma climbs the gangplank, flanked on either side by her parents, her baby brother cradled in their mother's arms, and finds Killian eagerly awaiting her. A brilliant smile spreads over his face when he sees her and he hurries to help her step onto the deck of the Jolly Roger.

"Hi," she breathes, resting her open palms against his chest.

"Swan." His gaze roves hungrily across her face. "You are…" He swallows and shakes his head in wonderment at his good fortune. "You're absolutely beautiful."

"So are you." She steps back to admire the picture he makes in his wedding attire. Gone are the trademark leather and tight jeans, replaced by khaki-colored chinos. A crisp white shirt is unbuttoned discreetly at the throat, a hint of the silver chain glinting around his neck. The sun teases out traces of red in his closely-cropped beard and a navy blazer deepens the summer blue of his eyes to indigo.

"Well, my love?" He spreads his hands out to either side and gives her a sheepish look.

(She knows he's uncomfortable without the armor of his everyday wardrobe.)

"Do I pass muster?"

"You're perfect," she says, eyes scanning him from head to toe. "I like your shoes." They both glance down at the brown crocodile patterned loafers which replace the heavy boots he perpetually wears. He meets her grin with one of his own.

"It's not the real thing," he drawls softly, a glint of the pirate in his eyes, "but I live in hope."

She wrinkles her nose at his allusion to his lifelong enemy, then laughs.

"Very stylish," she pronounces, grinning as he preens a bit beneath her admiring gaze. "And very appropriate as this is what passes for 'nautical' in this world."

"See? I told you," David exclaims from nearby.

(Emma notices her father preens a bit himself as he was tasked by her mother to take the groom out and to make sure he "shows up at the wedding in something appropriate!")

"Why don't we get started?" Snow instructs and shoos everyone into place before the waiting officiant. Henry has brought Violet and he holds her hand as he moves to Killian's side to serve as best man.

(Regina, as the only other person invited, sent her regrets and hopes that Emma would understand.)

For all that they are displaced princess and fairytale pirate, savior and reformed villain, Emma and Killian are, at heart, rather conventional and their vows are a traditional exchange of promises to be true to one another, to love and cherish till death parts them.

"And beyond," Killian amends, lifting her hand in his and pressing a kiss and the whispered pledge into the soft skin of her palm. Emma closes her fingers in a tight fist over the spot still tingling from his lips and presses it against her breast as the ceremony continues.

Then Henry is digging about in his pockets and the ring Killian slides over her finger is both familiar and not. She had been disappointed when he had taken Liam's ring back, insisting it was too large and inappropriate for the hand of a princess. Now she sees that he has had it refashioned to fit her. The ruby is bezel set in gleaming silver, the scrollwork on either side of the stone reminiscent of the original and she stares at it for several long seconds before lifting a watery gaze to his.

"I love it," she mouths before pushing a narrow band fashioned of the remaining silver of his brother's ring over the knuckle of Killian's fourth finger.

"I now pronounce you husband and –"

Before the officiant can finish, she grabs the lapels of Killian's jacket between both fists and hauls him down to meet her mouth in a hungry kiss. Lost in one another, they don't hear the cheers of the others and only break apart when her family falls onto them in a group hug.

0o0o0o0

When the officiant has offered his congratulations and has disembarked the ship, Killian turns and claps his hand on Henry's shoulder.

"Release the lines, lad."

"Aye, captain!" Henry grins and dashes off a snappy salute. Grabbing Violet by the hand, the two hurry away. As the teens work at their task, Killian closes his eyes and raises his face to the sky, testing the wind. He nods to David and the two men make a few quick adjustments to the sails. When the ship is freed of its moorings and the wind gently fills the sails, Killian takes his place at the wheel and slowly guides the Jolly from the harbor. When they reach the open sea, Snow settles the sleeping baby into his carrier in a shaded spot and she and Emma join the others in following Killian's instructions, hauling on ropes to raise the mainsail.

Everyone laughs excitedly as the oft-mended sail reaches its zenith, billowing and snapping in the breeze. Hook calls out to David to make an adjustment to trim the sail and then it catches the wind and the Jolly leaps to obey her captain's commands, skimming over the waves.

The sky is a cloudless blue expanse and the sun is warm overhead, the temperature climbing in a preview of summer and the men strip out of their jackets to roll up their sleeves in deference to the heat. Emma wanders over to her husband's side –

(her husband!)

– and lays a hand on the leather cuff strapped to his blunted arm, running her fingers suggestively over the gleaming silver appendage of his namesake.

(She wishes her family was gone.)

(She's always been a sucker for the sight of a man's strong and tanned forearm exposed beneath the rolled up cuff of a shirt-sleeve.)

(Couple that with the strangely sexy leather brace with its deadly weapon and complicated system of straps disappearing beneath the crisp, white modernity of the cotton shirt and…)

(… she really wishes her family was gone. Even if only for a few minutes.)

She makes a disgruntled sound and buries her face against his throat, fingers working to open the next two buttons of his shirt so that she can slip her hand inside and toy with the soft dark hair covering his chest.

"Love." He groans and presses himself against the jut of her hipbone. "You're killing me."

"I know." She twists slightly so that she can rub against him, hoping the wooden housing to which the wheel is attached will give them a modicum of privacy. "I'm killing myself."

He seals his mouth over hers in a blistering kiss, pushing her back against the wheel and plastering his body to hers.

"Whose bloody brilliant plan was it to have a party?" he grouses, nudging at the scooped neckline of her dress with his nose to lick a tantalizing path over the swell of her breast.

"I think it was mine," she groans, threading her fingers through his dark hair. "I'm a stupid, stupid girl."

He laughs and nips at the plump flesh with his teeth before lifting his head and taking a step back.

"A couple of hours," she murmurs hopefully.

"A bit more than that, love," he says, looking at the sun overhead and estimating the time left before they can decorously offload their guests. They share a pained grimace and a quick kiss before smoothing their clothes and hair and rejoining the others.

0o0o0o0

For all their complaining, they spend a happy afternoon with the family. Snow has arranged for a veritable feast of lobster rolls, cold chicken, potato salad and fresh fruit washed down with crisp, bubbling champagne and sparkling cider.

They laze away the afternoon, sprawled out on thick cotton quilts, talking and laughing, sipping from cold bottles of beer and soda fished from a stuffed cooler.

They play with the baby, keeping a careful eye on him as he rolls onto his knees and crawls a few inches across the blanket before collapsing in a disgruntled heap.

(She feels a pang of something – a quickening of her womb – when Killian holds out his arm and offers the rounded curve of his hook to the tiny prince who pulls himself up and then promptly clamps his mouth on it, the cool metal offering sweet relief to swollen gums.)

(And she realizes – though she's not given it much thought till now – that she very much wants a child with him.)

(But not yet, she thinks… She wants to keep him to herself for a little while.)

They take turns manning the wheel – David and Henry ever eager to play pirate captain, it seems, though Snow quietly admits when her own hands are clamped around the wheel that there is something rather thrilling about controlling all the power harnessed in the enchanted ship.

They dance. Henry pulls a portable docking system from his backpack and pulls up a playlist of music he and Violet had curated. Snow and David fall easily into a waltz – long, twirling, gliding steps that carry them gracefully across the deck. Henry and Violet sway and rock in the modern world's version of dancing.

Emma and Killian fall somewhere in between as she cuddles close to him, her head resting comfortably against his chest. She closes her eyes and relaxes, his strong arm wrapped securely around her. She falls into the music and the attunement and familiarity of his body pressed to hers and allows him to guide her through the steps of the dance.

From somewhere in the depths of the cooler, Snow produces a cake. Twin layers of yellow sponge filled – and topped – with freshly whipped cream and raspberries. They do not make a big deal of feeding cake to one another, though Killian does nip a morsel from her hand, his tongue curling around her fingers to clean them of every bit of cream.

0o0o0o0

The day grows late and they come about, back toward home. Snow sits on a blanket and lifts her head toward the sun, enjoys the sweet salt air and the breeze ruffling the dark cap of her hair. Lowering her chin, she opens her eyes and looks about in utter contentment.

Henry stands at the wheel, tall and proud, Violet at his side. She is too far away to hear what he is saying but she watches him gesture and point and knows that he's explaining his growing knowledge of the seas. Sprawled out on the blanket next to her, David reclines on his side, playing with the baby and running tickling fingers over the rounded tummy, eliciting squealing laughter from the tiny boy.

And there, at the bow of the ship, the newlywed couple stands, lost in one another. Emma is facing the sea, her husband crowded close behind, caging her between his strong body and the thick wooden rail. Snow watches as Emma twists, turning so that she can rest her cheek against Killian's chest, her fingers creeping up to slide inside the open collar of his shirt. He hooks his chin atop the crown of her head, staring out as the bow of his ship cleaves through the water, his legs spread wide to ride the rise and fall of the ship over the waves with an easy familiarity, his arms wound securely and protectively around his wife's waist.

Snow wants desperately to imprint this moment into her memory forever. She hopes that Henry's book has captured this day – this blissful, perfect day – for posterity's sake – so that when the darkness comes again –

(and she knows it will)

– she can pull out the book and remember.

She has played unofficial photographer all day – recording the moments, big and small, to the memory card of her camera and she lifts the camera to her eye now, snapping a picture of David nuzzling his face into the baby's neck and then taking one of Violet and Henry at the wheel.

The sun is on its downward slope and it is that golden hour of perfect light. She shifts onto her knees and trains the camera on Emma and Killian, zooming in to bring their faces into clear focus. They are ethereal, gilded gold by the sun and she keeps her finger down on the shutter release, firing off picture after picture capturing the moment for eternity.

0o0o0o0

Evening has fallen and they are finally alone. They will spend the night docked at the harbor, restock supplies and then set sail again tomorrow, two more days in a bubble alone together before they must return to reality and the responsibilities of their lives.

Killian clatters down the steep ladder which leads to the captain's quarters with practiced ease and reaches up to guide her, grasping her 'round the waist when she has descended halfway and swinging her to the floor with a giddy twirl.

The room is bathed in the soft glow of tiny fairy lights strung from the rafters and the small bed is covered with plump pillows, sumptuous sheets and a thick, fluffy duvet. Snow had disappeared for a brief time as they made their way back toward Storybrooke and now they know what she had been about.

A bottle of champagne rests in a silver bucket filled with ice. Two tall crystal flutes sit on Killian's desk alongside the remainder of their wedding cake.

Dozens of candles are scattered about, their flickering glow warming the room.

(Emma is relieved to see they are flameless candles – fire and centuries old wooden ships do not make for comfortable bedfellows.)

"Wife." Killian's eyes are alight with joy as he strokes a finger over the apple of her cheek and she feels a tiny thrill shudder through her at the unfamiliar, but wholly welcomed new title.

"Husband." She rises onto the tips of her toes and braces her hands lightly on his shoulders, pressing a chaste kiss to his lips. Sinking back onto her heels, she turns and sweeps the thick tail of her hair to one side. Craning her head over her shoulder, she shoots a glance toward him from beneath the fringe of her lashes.

"Help me with the zipper, won't you?"

She feels his chest rise and fall on a long breath against her back before his hand insinuates itself between them, feels the long, slow glide of the zipper; the coolness of the air on her exposed skin. Pressing her hands against the bodice of her dress, she turns again to face him and then dropping her arms, lets the dress fall from her body with a little shimmy of her hips.

He swallows hard, transfixed by the sight of her. White lace molds itself to her breasts and then falls gently away to cover her midriff in a delicate froth of thread reminiscent of the corsets of his day, though of a construction so fragile and sheer he knows it is meant merely as adornment.

A pale strip of skin is exposed between the scalloped edge of the corset and the triangular scrap of fabric stretched over her hips. She props her hands on said hips and turns his words of earlier in the day back on him.

"What do you think, Captain? Do I pass muster?"

"Aye," he groans, tracing a finger over the rise of her breast swelling above the lacy cups. "Aye, indeed you do, madam." He bends to kiss her but she tips her head away so that his mouth falls instead on the arched line of her throat. She shudders as his teeth close lightly over the taut tendon running along the side of her neck, nipping sharply enough to send a jolt of pain through her before gently rasping his tongue over the same spot to soothe away the small injury.

She wraps both hands around his and raises it to the top fastening of her corset. He dips two fingers behind the lace and strokes them over the soft, rounded flesh beneath and she rises on her toes again, resting her mouth against his hear and whispers.

"There are fifteen little hooks," she breathes before nipping at the soft skin of his lobe. "Better get started or we'll be here all night."

He leans back, studies the row of tiny hooks marching down the front of the corset and tightens his fingers around the delicate lace, his intent clear in the glint of his eyes.

"Uh-uh." She shakes her head warningly and makes a tsking sound in her throat. "Don't tear it."

He squeezes the first hook and eye, so tiny that he fumbles and it takes three tries before he pops it free.

"Fourteen more, Swan," he whines against her throat, tugging pleadingly at the offending material separating him from his treasure. "Just let me…"

"Nope." She pecks a kiss against his pouting lips and covers his hand with hers again. But I'll help you." The pop and release of each hook from its mooring is amplified in the quiet room, but soon their ragged breathing eclipses it until at last the two sides fall open. He reaches out to trace his fingers over the rounded softness of her breast, teasing one pink nipple to life before rasping the flat of his tongue over it.

She shudders, her hands reaching out blindly to wrap around his forearms for support. She feels the heat of his skin and the smooth leather of his brace and draws away from his wandering mouth. Her hands land on his chest and she methodically begins to push each little white button from its hole until his shirt is hanging open. She smooths her hands over his chest, runs penitent fingers over the jagged scar just below his heart, and scores her nails lightly through the dark hair covering his abdomen before swirling her thumb around the whorl of his navel.

Impatient now, she pushes the white cotton from his shoulders and helps to work it over the leather cuff before tossing it onto the floor at their feet. Surging forward, she presses her bare breasts to his chest and winds her arms around his neck. Letting her head fall back onto her shoulders, she slowly slides from side-to-side, enjoying the soft abrasion of his chest hair against the tender skin of her breasts.

Her hands slide down his arms and again she encounters the leather covering his arm.

"On or off, I can never decide," she muses thoughtfully and runs curious fingers over the complicated series of straps and buckles securing the brace to his forearm. "Off," she finally chooses, and begins to slide one of the straps from the metal buckle.

"Before you do." He lays a staying hand over hers and then with a twist of his other arm, slices the hook through the lace at her hip, his hand tearing the scrap of fabric away and stuffing it into his pocket.

She's not sure if she's annoyed or aroused but quickly finds the answer when his thumb dips between her legs in a here-and-then-gone-again movement.

"Never mind. Leave it on!" she decrees, unwilling to waste any more time playing with clothing. Her fingers tug at the belt around his waist, popping it free of its buckle and whipping it aside to fall onto the floor with a dull clatter. He steps free and lifts her in his arms, dumping her onto the bed.

They roll as best they can in the narrow confines of the bed for dominance. Her mouth closes over his, small white teeth nipping at his bottom lip.

He flips her onto her back, the need to possess her a dark thing howling to get out. Panting, he pauses long enough to wrest the hook from its brace, tossing it to the floor with a clatter, terrified in his need that he'd lose control and hurt her.

She arches beneath him and he plumps her breast in his hand, closing his mouth over the tip, teeth and tongue worrying at one nipple before turning his attention to the other.

"Mine," he growls as she fights her way back atop him, rising up and then sinking down, down, down until there is no her or him, only them.

Mine, he thinks again. My mate. My wife. He wraps bruising fingers around her hip as he arches up to meet her.

Over and over their bodies rise and fall together and the tension builds, coiling tighter and tighter until she thinks she cannot take it for another moment. She bends forward at the waist, taut nipples scraping deliciously against his hair-roughened chest and it's that friction along with the words of love pouring from his mouth into her ear that sends her flying over the edge. Turning his face into her hair, he lets go and tumbles after her.

0o0o0o0

They come back to their senses slowly. She is sprawled over him, limp and satisfied as he smooths his hand along the shallow groove of her spine. She raises her head and cannot help but grin at the foolish smile curving his lips.

Her hair is wild and he reaches out to pull the limp ribbon free, smoothing his fingers through the snarled strands and scattering tiny yellow blossoms everywhere. He rolls her beneath him and continues to comb his fingers through her hair, spreading the golden mass over the pillows, enjoying the possessive thrill of finally seeing her here, in his bed.

She winces and shifts, her arm pinned by the strap of the corset still dangling from her shoulder and tangled in the sheets. He helps free her and props himself up on his bad arm, fingers idly smoothing over the delicate lace he still holds in his hand.

"I have two more," she says suddenly.

"Two more of what, love?"

She points at the lacy confection in his hands. "Two more of those. I also bought it in red and black," she admits. A sly smile curls her lips when she sees his eyes glaze over as he pictures all that pale skin contrasted against sinful black lace or highlighted in fiery red.

"And me just back from the dead," he murmurs, flopping down beside her to bury his face in her hair. "I'm going to have to take care of meself if I'm to keep up with you, love. Maybe start using one of those bloody walking machines that takes you nowhere."

She snorts a laugh against his chest at his description of a treadmill and they shift, kicking the covers about until they're settled comfortably in the bed.

"Don't worry," she tells him, stacking her hands atop his chest and propping her chin on them. "I'll take good care of you."

He tucks a strand of hair behind her ear and graces her with a tender smile.

"We'll take care of each other," he promises, smoothing his thumb over her wedding ring.

"Always," she agrees, resting her cheek against his chest.

"Always."