Oh, My Doves, because I love you so…
Songs: Gotta Be Somebody by Nickelback
September
One glance at her cell told Emma that she wasn't going to make it to the door dressed and ready. She grumbled and scrubbed at her teeth harder. What the hell was she thinking going on a date after so long? Solitude suited her. Solitude and Henry, the only person in the world she actually connected with and understood. Most everyone else seemed too frivolous, too material. It was almost disgusting.
"Mom! Did my new comic magazine come today? I want to take it over to show Nathan tonight," Henry called from the other side of her bedroom door.
"Eck on eh outer," she called back. By the grace of something holy, he understood she'd meant that the mail was on the counter in the kitchen.
A frustrated sigh vibrated in her throat when toothpaste spattered on the green top she'd spent hours picking out. Scratch that, she'd spent hours picking out other stuff, and Felicia demanded she wore the emerald green stretchy monstrosity of a thing that felt too tight despite the fact it would have stretched far enough to accommodate both her and Henry. Ripples of fabric covered her modest breasts and strings ran up each side just in case it wasn't tight enough. It was incredibly girly and incredibly un-Emma.
She rolled her eyes at her wild hair, spat and rinsed. She dabbed carefully at the white spots with a damp cloth and sighed in relief when they disappeared without leaving too much water on the shirt. She fucking hated dates. Shaking hands gripped the sink as green eyes studied the reflection in the mirror. Whoever stared back at her, she felt wrong, out of place and yet like this was where she was supposed to be. Tangled hair tickled her arms when her head dropped between her shoulders.
"Oh hey girl, I'm Darcy. Mr. Darcy."
A deep throaty laugh. A swell of awe and affection at the pure joy in the sound. "Emma Swan, you are utterly ridiculous."
Emma jerked and banged her elbow on the towel rack. A bitten tongue thwarted the string of curses bouncing around like bumper cars in her mind. Her bathroom freaked her out almost more than her bedroom. That voice. That fucking smoky female voice followed her everywhere now. It whispered in her dreams sometimes, and Emma woke in the middle of the night with the taste of tart lipstick on her lips and a throbbing wetness between her legs. Which would have been wonderful were she gay.
"Fuck," she sniped and stomped out of the bathroom. "I'm having a fucking mid-life crisis of sexuality. I'm 31," she whined to herself and slid into the gigantic green pumps and smoothed her black skirt.
"Kid, how do I look?" She asked her son as she moved a bit unsteadily through the dining room and into the kitchen.
"Uncomfortable," he said immediately and smiled. "But really pretty." Emma narrowed her eyes at the slick save. His grew comically wide, and he hid them in his magazine.
"Hey, what's this?" Emma asked as if her son had the answer. She touched the envelope with one perfectly painted green fingernail and pulled the letter over the counter.
"It was stuck inside my magazine," Henry shrugged and rattled the flimsy paper as he turned with page without looking up.
Emma swallowed thickly, snagged the envelop from the small law office in Maine, kissed her son, and then retreated to the privacy of her bedroom. Despite the creepiness of the poem she'd received last month, she'd read it over and over again until the page became limp and thin from over handling. She'd loved that poem since the first time she'd read it in high school, and someone knew it. Someone also knew that she loved Jane Austen and that her favorite heroine was Emma Woodhouse from the novel Emma. It gave her a twinge deep in her heart, a yearning to be known as deeply as someone obviously thought they knew her. That ache led her to this date tonight that she hadn't actually wanted.
She closed the door and slumped onto the bed. For a few minutes, she simply stared at the address on the envelope and then with shaking hands tore into it. Again, it held nothing more than a page torn from a book. This one contained a poem on each side, but one had a large X marked through it, making obvious which poem her secret admirer meant for her.
For your birthday, My Dearest Miss Woodhouse,
Still to be neat, still to be dressed,
As you were going to a feast;
Still to be powdered, still perfumed:
Lady, it is to be presumed,
Though art's hid causes are not found,
All is not sweet, all is not sound.
Give me a look, give me a face,
That makes simplicity a grace;
Robes loosely flowing, hair as free:
Such sweet neglect more taketh me
Than all the adulteries of art;
They strike mine eyes, but not my heart.
Love always, Your Knightley
Air caught in her throat as she read the poem through a few more times. Apparently, the stalker/admirer/creepy as fuck and incredibly sweet lover of Emma Swan realized her messiness in appearance and personal space and found it endearing, found it beautiful even. Found her beautiful. She took a steadying breath and set the torn page in the drawer of her nightstand atop the other she kept there and left the envelope on top. Tomorrow, she intended to call the law office and ask about the mysterious and disconcerting letters. Maybe she really had a stalker. They knew her birthday? Henry hadn't even figured out her birthday yet.
Great. Fan-fucking-tastic.
Still, as she stared at the drawer hiding the poems, something soothed inside of her. Decision made, she slipped out of the skirt and donned instead a comfortable and stylish pair of slacks and a much smaller set of heels. She wasn't girly, and if Jason Moretti wasn't able to handle a woman in pants, then he could suck it and move on to the next piece of ass. Perhaps if her secret admirer wasn't insane, she'd ask him or her out on a date if and when they revealed their identity.
She jumped at the doorbell and sighed. If she'd been reluctant before, now she only wanted a bath, a book and her bed. Crap, Henry was still here. She was a terrible mother. She straightened her clothes, brushed away invisible lint, and listened to the cadence of her son asking Jason a thousand questions. She smiled when he asked Jason what his intentions were and then jerked the door open, deciding it kinder to save the man than to hear the answer.
"Hey, motor mouth, go get your stuff and head over to Nathan's," she commanded as she rounded the corner to the living room. Jason's wide eyes jerked to her in shock. Crap.
He shoved his hands into his pants pockets and waited. The air snapped tight with tension, and Emma squirmed and studied him as they waited in silence for Henry to return. He was handsome, and he was a cop, which meant he understood her job and its crazy hours. Olive toned skin, dark hair that Emma almost wished was longer than the short spikes on his head. An urge to bury her hands in dark, silky hair smacked her in the gut, and she gritted her teeth. This was not the time for one of her crazy flashes, not when Jason was completely freaked out by Henry. The boy clamored back into the foyer and hugged his mother, a hug which she accepted and returned wholeheartedly. He was her world, and if Jason took issue with that, screw him.
"I like the pants better," he confided and kissed her cheek. He was getting so tall.
"Thanks, Bud," she said with a smile and returned the kiss. "Be good and don't stay up reading all night just because it's a Friday."
"I won't. Love you, Mom," he said a little insecurely, and Emma's heart melted. He felt threatened by the man, worried that his presence ruined the date already. Screw that.
"I love you, too, Henry. I'll be back in a few hours if you don't want to stay. We can have ice cream and watch Harry Potter if you want." Emma set her son's mind at ease, and the natural joy returned to his eyes.
"Nah, have fun. Tomorrow night?" He checked, and she nodded. He scurried out the door with a "Bye Jason!" as his parting call. Emma took a deep breath and faced the music.
"He's, uhhh, lively," Jason said stupidly, clearly trying to come to terms with the fact that the blonde bombshell in front of him had a child that old.
"That he is. He's my whole world," Emma informed the man proudly.
"Emma, I… I really like you, but… This is a little more than I'm ready for. Maybe in a few years I'd be ready to take on someone else's kid, but…" Jason stuttered. Emma rolled her eyes and held up a frustrated hand.
"I've heard enough. I wasn't asking for your hand, Jason. I was asking for dinner and maybe a kiss goodnight. One date doesn't make us betrothed." Emma griped and kicked off her heels. Clearly, this was not happening, and her feet already hurt.
"Hey, Swan, look I'm sorry. I'll still take you to dinner if you want, and be a perfect gentlemen, I promise," he said and took a few steps towards her. Emma punched her hands to her hips, a completely different idea coming over her.
"How about we come to a different arrangement," she suggested and smirked. This night wasn't destined to be a complete bust. He froze and dropped his jaw. Was Emma Swan offering him sex, a friends with benefits sort of thing.
"Look, here's the thing, Jason," she started and took her earrings out. "I'm a loner. Always have been." Necklace and bracelet joined the earrings in the palm of her hand. "I mostly date because I need to get off and turns out guys don't actually work like light switches. It takes a few dates, more often than not. So, my question is," she pulled her shirt off and dropped it to the couch with her jewelry.
"How long does it take you?" Emma asked suggestively. His kind brown eyes traced her toned, scarred body. Emma Swan possessed far more badassery than anyone on the police force, except perhaps Jane Rizzoli. Already his groin twitched with the thought of the ride he was about to take.
"As far as your doorstep," he said as they collided in a tangle of searching hands and heated kisses.
She grabbed his shirt and pulled him towards the bedroom, and he followed willingly. They made it inside the door before she pulled back. She'd never actually had sex in this house. They usually rented a room or went to his place for the night.
"Rules," she said and shoved him roughly against the wall.
"Rules," he repeated and allowed her to do what she wished.
"If you're cop buddies find out," she threatened, and he shook his head.
"This is a ride I definitely want to take again, Swan," he said thickly and then sighed when her hand rubbed his already hard shaft through the fabric of his boxers and pants.
"This is the first and last time it happens at my house. And you better be creative because we won't be using the bed tonight." Emma replaced her hand with her hips, rolling them against him as she worked the buttons of his shirt.
"Done," he agreed.
"Nonexclusive," she said and pushed his shirt over his shoulders.
"Not a problem," he agreed easily and shrugged out of the shirt when she moved to his belt.
"I don't cuddle, and I don't stay the night. The second you ask, I'm done," she said finally. The air grunted out of her lungs when he switched their positions. Her pants suddenly pooled at her ankles.
"Noted," he said and nipped at her neck. Huge hands covered her breasts and she sighed.
"I didn't bring any condoms. In the nightstand?" He said and pulled away to retrieve one without waiting for an answer.
"Stop!" She pushed him away from it and hid the drawer from his sight with her body as she gently moved the letters, snagged the prophylactic, and slammed the drawer shut.
"You're some kind of fucked up, aren't you, Swan?" He said before he thought too much about his words. He'd removed the rest of his clothes while her back was turned. She raked his body with her eyes, pleased to see that he was ready for her.
"That is why we're doing this instead of having dinner, isn't it?" She answered his question with a question and pumped him slowly. He was so ready. She slid the condom down the length of his shaft.
"Anything else?" He asked, not wanting to miss any of her strict rules. She squeezed him almost painfully in her frustration.
"Yeah, today's my birthday. Make it good," she hissed and pressed into him bodily.
He took the hint, shut the hell up and slammed her into the wall again. She weighed next to nothing as he hefted her off the floor and slid into her tightness. It'd obviously been a while for her, so he waited until she moved, not wanting to hurt her. At least not until she asked. She took a moment to adjust to his length filling her. Her head thumped against the wall, eyes wide open, chest heaving.
The pause lasted only a few seconds. Hips rolled. Nails scratched painfully. Jason gathered his sexual prowess and prayed he still walked in the morning. They ended on the floor with her riding him for all he was worth. Her head was thrown back, eyes closed. She squeezed around him, cried out, paused, fell forward and caught herself with hands on his chest. A moment later she moved again. He grunted and came a few moments later.
She laughed and scrubbed her hands over her face, content to recover with his softening member still inside of her. She was an odd person all around, he decided. Painted fingers grabbed his chin and held his head in place as she pressed a dominating kiss onto his mouth and then slapped his face gently as if to say 'Good boy.'
"What are you doing next Friday?" She asked, her face an inch from his. He swallowed roughly.
"If I don't have a case, you," he answered breathlessly. She smiled, kissed him in the same way, and then patted his face again.
"Brawn and brains. I'm impressed," she teased, and then she was gone. "Let yourself out before I get back. Lock the door behind you." She ordered.
He heard the shower a moment later and allowed his head to thump and lull against the soft carpet. She apparently took the no cuddling, no staying longer than necessary rule very seriously. He laid there a few minutes and listened to the shower. His hands shook with spent adrenaline and pleasure endorphins as he redressed and walked to his car on quivering legs.
Emma stood beneath the cool spray, face tipped up. The water soothed her heated body but not the burning ache in her heart. Physically, she felt satisfied, but her soul searched and yearned for something missing from their night of passion. When tears burned her throat and eyes, she slid down the wall, hugged her knees to her chest and hid her face in her knees.
The reaction confused her. Jason was perfect. He knew what he was doing. He was considerate without being doting and sickly sweet. He was the ultimate fuck buddy. She'd searched a long time for someone with his qualities, and now that she'd found him, she felt dirty and emotionally unsatisfied. She replayed the evening over and over in her mind, looking for what he'd done to make her feel like she'd been punched in gut with the end of a ball bat. She came up empty. It wasn't him.
So, what the hell was wrong with her?