"Breathe," he said, chewing the inside of his cheek to keep from smirking. "You can't expect to do it properly if you don't breathe."
Green eyes flashed at him before Emma turned away, bent double, and searched the shore. "That's ridiculous," she mumbled, picking up a stone and considering it with a pensive look. When it seemed to pass her inspection, she walked back towards him.
He chuckled. "Considering that you had no clue how to do this up until ten minutes ago, love, I'd say I'm the expert here." Perhaps it was showing off—but he'd always had keen dexterity, he tossed his own stone in the air and caught it with a flourish before throwing it across the lake. Twenty-one skips. Not quite his best, but a decent show nonetheless.
"Please," Emma huffed. "Skipping rocks hardly counts as an Olympic sport. I just wasn't standing right that last time." As if to prove her point, she shifted her feet, eyed the lake in front of them, readjusted, and flicked her arm. The stone hit the water and…
Sank.
"Don't. Even," came her terse reply, and he obediently swallowed down what he'd been about to suggest to improve the angle the rock hit the water. He settled, though, for grinning at her (surely that wouldn't earn a rock to the head) and watched as she stomped across the shore again. As she picked her way over the uneven landscape, her muttering carried on the wind. "You'd think that the lack of rush hour traffic and the general freedom from modern technology would mean you couldn't get pissed off here. But, no—stupid fairytale land, and its rocks and lakes and pirates."
"Oi!" he protested, watching her approach. "I merely suggested the idea. You didn't have to agree."
"Yeah, well, I thought this was supposed to be a relaxing trip."
Catching her arm as she made her way past, he pulled her to him and trailed his fingers down the length of her spine (he smiled at her shiver). "I'm surprised you feel otherwise, considering how we spent the entire day yesterday inside," he murmured, brushing his lips against hers teasingly, his own breath quickening at the feel of her hands suddenly in his hair, reminiscent of the hours he'd spent adoring her, tasting her, and quite willingly drowning in her (though he had blessed her name all the while). "I thought a change of scenery would be nice, don't you think?" He let his hand travel lower.
Her small hum was the only answer she gave before crushing her lips to his. The taste of her mouth and feel of her body against his, sweet as honey and scorching as the sun, were as addictive as ever. And even though he was expecting it—had felt it every time they kissed now—he trembled at the sudden pulse and the ripple following, binding that left them both grasping tighter onto the other. It was desire, it was love, but it was so much more, burned so much deeper. It was elemental. He would never tire of her, of this warmth, of wanting her so much that his very soul yearned to mould itself into her bones just so this beautiful, brave woman would know that he loved her loved her—gods above, he loved her.
With a gasp, Emma broke their kiss, her breath huffing against his face. "I love you, Killian."
And even though she'd said it before—both the sentiment and his name—he found that his heart still clenched it was so near bursting, and he couldn't—
"Breathe," she whispered, her smile soft and her next kiss softer.
