Her toes are already screaming for relief and she hasn't even left her bedroom. This is going to be a very long, and painful, night. The only solace she can muster is the knowledge that by the end of it, she'll be a few thousand dollars richer (and might have gotten in a punch or two). If these stilettos help to distract this idiot, she'll just have to endure the torture.

Making her way down the hallway she hears a voice, his voice, and she almost trips (because of the shoes, yeah, the shoes) before steadying herself against David's closed bedroom door. Why is it that he manages to be exactly where she doesn't want him to be, exactly when she really can't deal with it? She's fucking cursed. Or he's just really fucking persistent. Or both. Definitely both.

So yeah, two Saturdays ago (and too many shots of rum ago) they might have, maybe, made out (clothes mostly on, I'm drunk but not so drunk that I won't remember every second of this and how goddamn good he tastes kinda making out that she's been replaying in her head every night since) a little. And yes, he's texted and called and she's ignored and freaked out and ignored a bit more. She's a runner, he knows this. Everyone knows this. Goddammit, why won't he just let her run?

"Emma, you're gonna be late!"

She can do this.

Stepping into the living room she feels his eyes on her immediately, internally blaming the warmth building between her thighs on her too tight dress. Maybe if she avoids looking at him directly she can continue to fool herself that any semblance of that thought is actually true?

"Yeah, thanks Dad, I'm leaving now."

David, yes, David is safe territory, her roommate and partner, someone she has never and will never have a drunken makeout session with (ewww), ever. She likes to joke about the Dad thing, cause it's kinda close to the truth, as protective and nurturing and just, just really there for her he has been for a long time.

"Don't want to leave your date waiting, now do you?"

"Date?"

How can so much be said with just one word? She can detect hurt, confusion, jealousy…all of it, and she still hasn't looked in his direction.

"Yeah, Emma's got a…"

She hates herself immediately after doing this.

"A date, and I'm running late, so…"

Catching the question in David's eye, she does her best nonverbal communication, hoping he sees her need to have him play along. She doesn't wait to find out, instead grabbing her purse off the counter and her keys as quickly as her stilettos will allow, not stopping until her forehead is pressed against the cold metal on the outside of her door. Her breath feels trapped inside of her chest as her heartbeat pulses out of control.

Hurting him is easier, right? She knows the answer to that question but she can pretend not to for the next few hours until this job is done. She can do that, right? (nope)

She thought about turning back all the way to the elevator.

She thought about it on the drive to the restaurant, cursing under her breath each time she had to maneuver her heeled foot over the clutch causing her too short hem to ride even further up her thigh. He even came to mind as she parked and tiny raindrops began to splash on her windshield, reminding her of the time they got caught in a downpour and he convinced her to just keep walking, and talking, as if the sun was still shining. They both ended up with colds after that.

As she sat across from her mark, doing her best to flirt, she couldn't help but think about how easy this would be for Killian. His natural demeanor, saucy, effortlessly sexy, his uncanny ability to lock you in his brilliant blue gaze and make you feel as though you were the only person in the room. Yeah, he would be good at this, pretending to be someone else.

She even thought about him as her fist connected with the douchebag's jaw, sending him stumbling backwards into their table, heels over ass. His ass was nothing like Killian's, not that she was an expert on it or anything. (the fact that she knows his favorite jeans by the tiny hole in his back pocket means absolutely nothing, nothing at all)

As she's turning the key to her apartment she knows without a doubt that she will continue to think about Killian until whatever they are or are not on the verge of comes to pass. She just wishes she wasn't so scared to admit to him what she wants. (him, she wants him)

Bright light behind his eyelids wakes him suddenly, the uncomfortable position in which he'd fallen asleep on her couch leaving a tinge in his neck as he lifts his head and blinks back into semi-consciousness. He can just make out the back of her, the long blonde curls slightly knotted just above her waist and the supple backside he still remembers the feel of as he'd urged her deeper into his lap as he licked a path from her ear to her collarbone. Gods above, he wants her. Mixed signals and dates with other men, he can't help it, there's no one else but Emma Swan.

He's about to stand when she turns around. Ice cubes hit the floor seconds before her shriek rings out, the chipped nails of her hand clamping over her mouth as he assumes she realizes it's only him and not some burglar. Despite his grogginess, he's on his feet and on his way into the kitchen before she manages to find her voice.

"Sorry, Swan, didn't mean to startle you."

"What the fuck are you doing here?"

Used to her hostility and knowing he just scared the shit out of her, he tries to not let that sting too badly. (it does, he knows it does)

"Dave left to stay at Mary Margaret's flat and I…fell asleep."

"And you didn't leave when he did, because?"

He doesn't have a good lie and for fucks sake, one of them needs to be honest. He can't endure seeing her dressed like this to go spend time with someone else, not until he knows for sure that his chances with her are nil. And outside of the fervent desire he has for her, he truly cares about her and her well being and he could tell that something was wrong earlier. Hell, she pretended like he wasn't even there.

"You seemed a bit perturbed before you left, love, and I wanted to make sure you got home safely."

He's staring into her eyes now, daring her to look away, begging for her to see. She does, look away that is. But as she shrugs her hair over her shoulder and moves to turn back around, mumbling "I can take care of myself, Killian", he sees something that makes his blood boil with rage.

The strap of her dress is ripped in two, the pink fabric folded down to reveal a thin, bloody scratch across her collarbone. The bastard she was with tonight, whoever he was, is a dead man. With restrained fury, he steps forward, stopping her from moving further away by placing his slightly trembling hands on her upper arms. Her eyes dart back to his and she moves to speak, but he shakes his head and closes his eyes, trying to focus in on his breathing and the warmth of her skin beneath his fingers.

She's okay, she's here, she's fine…

"Emma, what happened?"

His voice sounds gravely to his ears and in any other situation he'd be embarrassed by the emotion he's displaying, but not now. She's hurt and whether she thinks she needs it or not, he wants to help.

"What? Oh…god, no…it wasn't…"

"Emma…"

"It wasn't a date!"

They're so close that her breath tickles his nose at her exclamation, distracting him momentarily before the weight of her words truly settle in. Her usually pale skin is turning the color of a ripe raspberry as a blush creeps up her neck and atop the apples of her cheeks, her eyes focused somewhere over his head as she tries to avoid his questioning stare.

"Swan? What is going on?"

With a huff, she shrinks a good five inches as she kicks her shoes across the kitchen and steps away from him until her back is pressed against the peeling linoleum countertop. Now out of his reach, her arms cross over her chest and he waits as she releases a deep breath from her nose.

"I lied, okay, I fucking lied. I didn't have a date. I had a mark to catch. And I did, thank you very much, but he went down fighting. He looks far worse than me, trust me."

He's speechless, which for him is a true anomaly, just ask the woman scowling at him a few feet away. She lied about having a date. Why? (God, he really hopes he knows why) He'll never get her to admit it, not outright. With a quick glance towards the half empty ice tray on the counter by her hand he decides upon another, more physical tactic to test out his theory.

Stepping forward until his knees are just inches from her pink spandex covered thighs, he reaches to the side and pops an ice cube from the tray, watching her track the movement of his fingers with wide-eyed interest. The ice cube slowly melting in his palm, he reaches for her right hand, the one he knows she would have thrown her punches with tonight, in search of telltale swollen knuckles. Wishing he could brush his lips over the injuries he finds, he settles for the ice, gently soothing her barely swollen skin (she really can take care of herself), one knuckle at a time. By the third, he feels her gaze and he lifts his eyes. He sees many things reflected in the gilded green; fear, desire, questions she needs his help in answering, questions she's too afraid to ask.

Letting the ice fall to their feet, he turns her palm so he can weave his fingers between hers, the gentle squeeze he feels in return giving him the courage he needs to continue. She shivers as his frigid fingers brush along the already scabbed over scratch along her collarbone, the wound not deep at all upon closer inspection. Standing this close, with the curve of her breasts just brushing against his chest, her knees knocking slightly against his, he's finding it impossible to hold back his body's reaction, the stiffening of his cock begging for his undivided attention.

Needing to test if her thoughts are anywhere on the same careening track, he opts for something less aggressive than his body is begging him for. Bending down, he replaces the touch of his fingers along the tiny scratch with the press of his lips, placing warming kisses along her chilled skin. The spicy scent of her shampoo fills his nostrils and he opens his mouth over her shoulder, needing to remind himself of the taste of her on the tip of his tongue. He feels her shudder against his lips and he moves to pull back, but her free hand suddenly grips his hair to hold him in place, silently, blissfully, (thank god) giving him permission to continue.

With a groan, he falls further into her against the counter, his mouth now relentlessly sucking a mark into her skin as he tries and fails to press his groin into the cradle of her thighs. Her wickedly sexy dress is too bloody tight, creating a frustrating barrier that his lust addled brain simply cannot contend with. He feels her chuckle more than he hears it, that and the gentle tug of his hair between her fingers urges him to reluctantly lift his head. The wide smile that greets him is a welcome sight. Her hand falls from his hair and curves around his neck and he moves to grip her hip, keeping his eyes clamped to hers and wondering if his expression is as dreamy looking as hers (it is).

"Hi."

Giving their still linked hands a squeeze, he leans forward until their noses brush before mimicking her "Hi" with one of his own.

He wants to kiss her so badly, has wanted to each day since he first got a taste of her lips and hell, each day that existed before that miraculous moment. Knowing he could sabotage his chance to do so, he acknowledges that he needs to say something first.

"Emma, we should talk."

Nodding and leaning forward at the same time, she turns her head slightly so their noses don't crush together as her lips hover in front of his.

"Later, I promise."

And then she's kissing him, and he's lost. Good intentions be damned. Her tongue darts past his lips and he welcomes it with a curl of his own, kissing her while sober more overwhelming than he ever could have dreamed. Instinct has him fighting against her efforts to wrestle her fingers free from his hand, but as soon as he relents and realizes her intention he can't hold back the sigh of relief that he breathes into her mouth. She's grabbed the hem of her dress and lifted it above her hips, allowing his erection to finally find it's home against her barely clad center. Holding her hip, he moves against her in a dirty grind, wanting her to feel just how badly he wants this, needs her.

Her head falls back against the cabinet at the contact and his lips slide to her chin, finding himself entranced with how her mouth falls open farther with each deep thrust of his hips. As much as his body is begging him to continue, he knows he can't, unless he wants to be responsible for ending this whole thing prematurely. In an effort to keep the look of ecstasy on her face, he slides his hand between their bodies, finding her panties already soaked as he tentatively presses his palm against her clit. Her eyes shoot to his and he wonders for a second if he's gone too far, but then she's grabbing his collar and pulling his mouth back to hers at the same time as her hips begin to move erratically towards his hand. As she devours him with her lips, he pulls the fabric aside and begins to work her clit with his thumb, knowing he's found the right rhythm when her kiss falters and she has to take a shuddering breath.

Somewhere in the midst of this delicious madness her hands begin to pull at the ends of his shirt, tugging harder until he leans back far enough for her to rip it over his head. That distraction is only momentary, though, and soon she's back to riding his hand with her forehead pressed tight to his and her lips just out of reach. The wet heat of her breath stuttering his name as her core spasms around his fingers, it has to be the most erotic moment of his life. He wishes he had thought to lift her to the counter, bring her to completion with his tongue instead. (next time, god he hopes there is a next time) Just the thought of that has him growing harder and he leans purposefully into the firm muscle of her thigh in desperate need of relief.

"Fuck, Killian…"

Before he can formulate a response, her tongue is back in his mouth and his hair is back between her fingers, holding him close as she kisses all sense out of what was left of his brain. Feeling blindly with his hand, he finds the corner of her dress that was ripped free from the sleeve and tugs it down, releasing her breast from its confines. Cupping the soft mound, he teases her nipple with his palm, the tight point already alert with arousal and begging for his touch. He tries to free his lips so he can lean down, but she's having none of that. The few hairs he loses in her effort to maintain control are worth the pain, especially when he feels her hand slide down his chest and dip into the front of his jeans.

"Emma, please…"

Yes, he's begging. (He has zero shame in that) She smiles against his lips as her thumb pops the button at his waist, the widening of her hand beneath the denim succeeded in lowering the zipper as she begins to explore. The moan he releases as her fingers finally wrap around his cock is too loud, his heavy breaths and the sinful sound of skin moving against skin soon to follow.

"God Emma…don't bloody stop…"

It's almost too much, her small, strong hand, stroking and squeezing, the pleasure of her touch almost blinding in intensity. There is an errant thought somewhere in the back of his mind about her swollen knuckles, but she doesn't seem to care, so he is finding it really easy to follow along here. (really, really easy) Her lips are sliding down his neck now, providing a minor distraction as he holds himself up with one hand on the counter and the other around her neck. Groaning in frustration when he feels the sudden loss of her hand, his hips move forward in seek of friction of their own accord. It's only when he feels the tug at the fabric at his hips does he realize what's actually happening, or about to happen. His jaw falls open as he watches her sink to her knees, her hands pulling his jeans and boxer briefs down further as her lips press wet, tongue-exploring kisses along the trail of dark hair of his abdomen.

"Emma, you don't, oh fuck…" Her tongue, her tongue and lips are driving him mad, causing his throat to close over the words he really feels he needs to say. "…you don't have to?"

Peering up at him from her perch, she sends him a look that will live on forever in his dirtiest fantasies. (seriously, until the end of time)

"Does it look like this is something I am not enjoying? Relax…"

Relax, right, sure. The woman he's been mad for since, well, just about the moment they met, is about to give him a blowjob, but he should relax? Not bloody likely. He's about to spill himself just thinking about it.

Placing his other hand on the counter, he braces himself for what's to come, hoping he won't make a damn fool of himself the second she touches him with those kiss swollen lips. He jumps slightly as her hand circles him once again, slowly stroking as her heavenly lips inch along his hipbone to where he's aching like a inexperienced schoolboy for her. The first touch of her tongue to his tip is like a brand, her permanent mark, an ownership he will gladly offer if she ever were to ask. That first taste seems to turn her on as her mouth quickly widens, sucking as much of him in as she can handle as her hand continues to work him at the base. It's the most exquisite torture he's ever endured, his effort to hold back his release just so he can feel every velvet lick of her tongue, watch as her free hand begins to toy with her nipple as the wet warmth of her mouth closes over him again and again.

"Emma, oh bloody fuck, I'm so close, love…"

He honestly doesn't know what to expect at his point, but when her lips clamp down tighter and she begins to suck at his tip in earnest, he's pretty sure he must actually be dreaming. Her fingers leave her nipple to grasp his hip, urging him to rock forward, deeper and finally let go. Her name and an array of colorful expletives fly from his lips as he comes, the pleasure so great he can't keep his eyes open as she takes everything he has to give. Collapsing forward onto his elbows, he tries to find his breath as she looks up at him with a flush to her cheeks and a sinful smile on her lips.

"You're a bloody marvel, Emma, you know that?"

Awkward positions be damned (her arms are actually resting in the crotch of his pants at his knees), they just take a moment to smile at one another, the air around them charged and full of possibilities.

"I'm ready to talk now."

Laughing heartily, he reaches down and tangles his hand into the hair at the nape of her neck, lightly stroking her chin with his thumb.

"Mind if I put my pants back on first?"

"Nah, just meet me in the bedroom, we'll take it from there."

With agility he would find alarming if this were anyone other than Emma Swan, she's up off her knees and out of his reach within seconds. She's grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge and is nearing the end of the hallway before he's untangled himself from his pants and able to follow. He passes her dress along the way, her panties by the foot of the bed. With all of his clothes already on her kitchen floor, he slides beneath the covers and pulls her now naked body close. Still blissfully sated, he kisses her lazily, slowly sliding his lips over hers as he seeks her hand beneath the covers to entwine their fingers. Ending the kiss with a tiny nip of her lower lip, he lifts their hands and places them just below the pillow between their bodies, giving her a gentle squeeze of assurance.

"Okay, let's talk."