Blown Fuses 2
The next morning, Emma woke up maybe fifteen minutes earlier than her usual time – not because she was excited about the prospect of going sailing with Killian Jones, not at all; but she had just an engrained inner clock that never failed her. Yes, exactly, that was the reason. She showered, woke up Henry and made breakfast. While he was getting ready, she packed the sandwiches, a tupperware box with the leftovers of the fruit salad, and a few bottles of water into a cooling bag and hummed a little tune while she did so. Henry grinned to himself, but was wise enough not to comment on the fact that Emma Swan normally didn't hum.
From the kitchen window she saw Killian coming back from his morning run, and twenty minutes later she ushered Henry out the front door, and right – Killian was just leaving the house too, carrying a large kit bag over his shoulders. He smiled brightly at them, maybe also a little relieved that they had shown up?
"Ready to set sails, mates?" he asked in a teasing tone and unlocked his rental car, motioning for Henry to climb in the back seat.
"Aye, Captain!" the boy replied enthusiastically, and Emma threw a fond glance at her son, then smiled a little shyly at Killian.
"Hi," she said and handed him her cooling bag. "Sandwiches and fruit salad, as requested."
His eyebrows twitched. "That's a good sailor," he teased, and for some reason that made Emma blush; she quickly turned her eyes away. He took the bag and stowed it in the trunk along with his kit bag, then they got both into the car and drove off to the nearby mole.
The boat Killian had rented was a modestly dimensioned, pretty little sloop, as far as Emma could judge. They got on board, he quickly showed them around and explained a few things, and in no time they were heading for the open water as the wind was, according to Killian's words, just right to gather enough speed, but not too strong so that it would become uncomfortable for newbies like Emma and Henry.
She'd been secretly afraid of the whole situation turning out to be a little awkward, but much to her delight, Emma found it wasn't like that at all. Killian was pleasant company and easy to talk to; he showed genuine interest in her life, asked about Henry's school and what he wanted to be in the future, about her job and their home; but he also seemed to instinctively sense whenever she was getting uncomfortable because she didn't feel like revealing too much of herself. Then he stepped back and asked something random like what her favorite food was or told them something about himself instead. All the time he was answering the helm, adjusting the sails on occasion and keeping an eye on the horizon, but that was all done so casually that their conversation felt really intense.
They learned quite a few things about him – about his origins (he came from England, hence the accent, and had come to New York for a job opportunity), and his work (he was a graphic designer and worked for a prestigious publishing house). He also talked about loss and loneliness, but again – whenever he felt it was getting too personal and making Emma uncomfortable, he quickly cracked a joke or explained some random nautical term to Henry. It was really amazing how easy it was to be with and around him.
After a while, Killian beckoned Henry over to him. "Try your hand at the helm, m'boy?"
Henry's face lit up even more, if that was possible – and it was obvious that he was having a really great time. "Really? May I?"
Killian chuckled at his enthusiasm. "Of course. Come here." Henry eagerly rushed over to him, followed by his mother's fond smile, and Killian stepped to the side to make room for him, showing him where to put his hands. "Just keep her steady. See the compass here?" He tapped his finger on the glass. "Keep an eye on the needle. This is where we're going."
The boy nodded and grasped the helm with serious determination. "Okay."
"Easy, lad," Killian said softly and loosened Henry's fingers a little. "No need for a grip that tight. She's not a bike, she won't keel over if you let loose a bit. Your touch should be firm, but gentle."
Emma averted her eyes at his words, at the same time a little flustered and annoyed at herself because they'd made her heart beat a little faster, which was completely ridiculous. He was talking to her son about the right way to handle a ship, for fuck's sake. Firm but gentle. She drew a deep breath and blew out her cheeks a little cluelessly, not really sure what to think about her own reactions to Killian Jones. Was she starting to feel attracted to him? Not that she'd need that in her life – it was uncomplicated as it was, and she was happy. No, you're miserable, Henry's words rang in her ears, and she frowned and shook her head to cast them away.
She looked at the horizon and squinted her eyes against the late morning sun. It was getting really hot by now, and Emma took off the short-sleeved blouse she'd put on over her halterneck-top, then she pulled up her hair in a loose bun on top of her head, using an elastic she'd been wearing on her wrist. That was much better.
"Careful, you'll get burned," said Killian's low voice and made her jump; he was standing right beside her and smiled apologetically.
"Sorry, love." He pointed vaguely towards the sky. "Sunburned," he explained. "The sun's very strong here on the open water. Have you applied protection?"
Emma bit her lower lip, feeling a little silly. "Only to my legs and face..."
He tilted his head with a smile that didn't look condescending at all. "I have some here for you, wait." He went for his kit bag that he had deposited on a wooden trunk on deck and fetched a plastic bottle of sun milk. "Here you go."
"Thanks," she murmured and threw a doubtful look over her shoulder. The halterneck-top left half of her back bare, as if she were wearing a bikini top. There was no way she'd be able to apply the sun protection to all the crucial parts.
"Need a hand, love?" Killian asked in a slightly amused voice, and when she looked at him she saw a little glint in his eyes that looked a particularly deep blue today, reflecting the color of the ocean. Teasing? Flirting? She wasn't sure and blushed a little, cursing herself for it.
But she shoved the sun milk into his offered hand. "If you'd be so kind..."
"Of course." He opened the bottle and squeezed a respectable amount of the smooth lotion into his left palm. Then he put the bottle aside and rubbed his hands together slowly. Emma watched them move, her eyes glued to them suddenly, and all she could think was: firm but gentle.
He stepped behind the chair she was sitting on, and she swallowed, embarrassingly aware of his nearness. She had the impression that her skin was tingling from the anticipation of his touch. Without being aware of it, her fingers curled around the edge of her seat on either side of her thighs. Killian started to apply the sun milk on her shoulders, putting one hand on each, moving them over the curve of her shoulders in circular motions.
"Henry is good at the helm," he said in a conversational tone. "Has he ever been on a boat before?"
Emma let out a breath she hadn't been aware she'd been holding. She could deal with this. "No, never," she replied, relieved at the distraction. "But he's always liked everything connected to the sea and boats and such..." Killian's hands glided over her shoulder blades and applied the lotion on and between them, and it made her a little nervous that she couldn't see his face. She cleared her throat and went on a little hastily: "I mean, at the age of five, six years every boy loves pirates, right?" You're rambling, for fuck's sake. Stop rambling! "But he was always fond of the sea," she finished lamely.
"He's a natural," Killian replied and spread the balm neatly between her shoulder blades with circular motion of his thumbs; it almost felt like a massage. Firm but gentle. "Look, Swan," he went on, and it hit her again how intimate it sounded when he called her that, "this boat is at my disposal for the rest of my vacation. Feel free to join me whenever you like." He put his right palm flat against her back and swept his fingertips underneath the clasp and elastic of her bra, spreading the smooth liquid there too, and she bit back a gasp. With horror she registered that her body started to react to his touch in the most inappropriate way and that – almost like a reflex – she leaned back a little into his touch, pressing her back the tiniest bit more against his palm. Fuck. She shifted on her seat.
"Ah... oh no... no," she almost stuttered, "we... we can't possibly bother you."
His hands stilled for a moment. "Emma, it's no bother, really," he told her in a serious tone, "otherwise I wouldn't have offered it." His hands slid up again, fingertips brushing under the neckholder, applying protection there too. "I mean," he went on, "I don't have a problem being alone on a boat, just me and the ocean. I'm used to it." She could have sworn she'd heard the tiniest melancholic undertone in his accented voice. "But when the company is enjoyable, being alone loses its appeal," he added soberly and slid his hands up her neck now, his thumbs smoothing out the lotion along her hairline while his fingertips slightly massaged the spots behind her ears, undeniably sending a shiver down her spine. Firm but gentle. Suddenly, he leaned a little forward and brought his lips closer to her left ear. "Most people forget to apply protection behind their ears," he murmured in a husky, low voice, "and the skin is so delicate there." His breath brushed the side of her neck; Emma gripped the edge of her seat tighter and, holy Mother of God, she felt fucking goosebumps spread on her forearms despite the heat. She couldn't help but wonder – and she really shouldn't – how it would feel if he ran his hands all over her body – firmly but gently – with another purpose than to apply sun protection, if the latter already evoked such physical reactions from her. Killian patted her lightly on the shoulders, shaking her from her reverie. "There you go. Now you're good."
Emma cleared her throat again, her mouth very dry now. Damn, what was wrong with her? "Thank you..."
Killian stepped aside to face her again, and once more she was mesmerized by the sight of his hands spreading the remnants of the lotion on his own forearms. He tilted his head and raised a teasing eyebrow, that little glint in his eyes again. "A good captain always takes care of his crew." She was glad he obviously didn't expect an answer but turned his attention on Henry again, leaving her to recover from her hot face and dry mouth.
"How's it going, First Mate?" he called, and Henry grinned.
"Smoothly, Captain," the boy replied, and Killian chuckled.
"We shall hoist anchor now," he said and went over to the helm, "and then have some lunch. After that, we'll provide dinner."
Henry's eyes grew wide. "Dinner?" he echoed. "How?"
"With these," Killian announced and pointed to two fishing poles fixed to the wall of the cabin.
"How cool is that?!" Henry exclaimed with fresh excitement, and Emma jumped up from her seat.
"Whoa, boys," she called, "cool it down. I'm not killing or cooking anything you pull out from the water," she announced, and Henry grimaced. "I told you I'm not a good cook," she added in a severe tone, directed at Killian.
"I know." He tilted his head. "But I am."
Emma couldn't help but grin and folded her arms, her earlier embarrassment and confusion already forgotten. "Is there anything you're not good at?" she asked in a mocking tone.
Killian smirked, and it was the most teasing grin she'd ever seen from him. It made her stomach flutter – pleasantly, as she realized to her surprise. "Oh, there surely is, love," he replied, "but you don't expect me to spill all my secrets just yet, do you?"
Emma pressed her lips into a smile and slightly shook her head. Then she fetched her cooling bag and brought out the sandwiches while Killian showed Henry how to hoist the anchor. They sat down at the small wooden table on deck and enjoyed their lunch in the sun while the waves were slowly, gently rocking the boat. After that, Killian took the two fishing poles and first explained, then showed Henry how to use them. When Henry had cast his rod – a little clumsily at first, but after a few attempts to Killian's satisfaction – Killian showed him how to hold it, to move it from time to time.
Emma watched the scene with a smile. She delighted in how happy Henry obviously was, how excited, how much fun he had. She hadn't seen her son that boisterous in a long time. Killian seemed to be a natural with kids, which of course made him even more attractive. He was focusing to 100 % on the boy, and Henry seemed to have forgotten everything around him. They were meticulously working on getting the little basin Killian kept aboard filled with fish and thereby enjoying themselves, while Emma enjoyed watching.
It was late afternoon, and the shadows were already stretching when they moored again at the little port. Henry even dozed off a little on the short drive to their houses and grumbled a little when Emma woke him.
"In about one hour and a half the barbecue should be ready," Killian said as he unloaded the trunk.
"Can I do anything?" Emma asked, feeling a little guilty. "Bring anything?"
"Just good mood," he replied with a wink. "Your son provided the best part of the dinner, so it's all well-balanced."
She averted her eyes for a second and smiled, perfectly well knowing that wasn't entirely true, but didn't comment any further. "Okay, so we'll see you later then."
When Emma and Henry climbed the few steps to the neighbor porch almost exactly ninety minutes later, Killian had already the barbecue going that every one of the beach houses was equipped with, and the porch table was neatly, but casually set with plates and cutlery. Killian came out of the back door carrying a huge dish with fish. He flashed them a welcoming grin when he saw them and called out to Henry: "Ah, just in time. Come here, lad, and give me a hand!"
Henry ran eagerly over to the barbecue, and Killian threw Emma a look over the boy's head that somehow made her heart beat a little faster. "Swan, I told you to bring nothing but good mood," he teased and raised an eyebrow. "Isn't your mood good enough?"
"It's very good," she replied and meant it. "I just didn't want to come empty-handed." She raised the bottle of white wine she'd brought along. "Got a corkscrew?"
He motioned his head in the direction of the back door leading into the kitchen. "Top drawer, I think," he told her, "be my guest."
Emma nodded and walked past him towards the back door. She hesitated for the tiniest bit before pushing it open. In a weird way, it felt like she was entering so much more than just the kitchen of his vacation home; also, his invitation had sounded pretty all-encompassing, hadn't it? Or, she scolded herself mentally, you're over-interpreting things again. Stop that.
When she stepped inside, the first thing she noticed was the smell. Like their own beach house, it smelled of old wood, aged linoleum and the salty sea air. But there was more. Of course, there was the perfume perfume of the garlic, the lemon and the herbs Killian had used on the fish. But above all lingered an enticing mixture of a faint smell of spiced body wash, leather and an undefinable scent that was Killian's very own. Emma blushed at the sheer fact that she even recognized it.
"Found it, love?" his voice brought her down from her reverie, as he called after her through the open door. Quickly, she opened the top drawer of the nearest cupboard and spotted the corkscrew. She grabbed it and headed outside again.
"Not a problem," she replied and opened the bottle while Killian and Henry were busy with the barbecue. Not long, and a delicious smell of grilled fish wafted across the porch.
It tasted as good as it smelled, and they relished their meal. Watching Henry's zeal made it even better for Emma. He didn't seem to be able to stop rehashing their sailing adventure over and over again, almost like an actual five year old instead of his grown-up, wise-ass twelve, and finally asked almost casually: "Maybe we can go again one day?" He looked almost pleadingly at Killian who tilted his head.
"Look," he replied carefully, "I have the boat at my disposal for the rest of my vacation. You and your mother are welcome to join me any time you like. Unless you have other plans, that is."
Henry's eyes flew to Emma's. "Can we? Mom?"
She smiled at his eagerness and loved him more than ever in that moment; this wasn't about Henry wanting to set her up with the cute neighbor; this was Henry, normally far too grown-up and mature for his age, finally acting like the kid he was. She made a quick decision. "On one condition." Unnoticed by her, Killian scrutinized her closely.
Henry bobbed up and down on his seat with excitement. "Which one?"
She pointed a severe finger at him. "You'll help with the sandwiches."
"Yes!" Henry gave a fist pump and jumped up from his seat. "I'll start right away!" And before a flabbergasted Emma could say anything, he darted from the porch, throwing a quick "Night, Killian! See you tomorrow!" over his shoulder before sprinting over to their own back door.
"Wow," she commented dryly, "I guess he really wants to go sailing again."
"Ah, about that, Swan..." Killian scratched behind his ear. "I hope you didn't feel pressured. It wasn't my intention, but your boy asked, and I..."
"No, it's fine, really," she interrupted him, "Henry had a great time." She paused only for the blink of an eye before she added a little shyly: "And so did I." Killian flashed her a pleased, toothy grin, and she went on quickly: "If I didn't want to come, I'd find an excuse to chicken out, trust me."
"Oh?" He cocked that vivid eyebrow and tilted his head. "I feel truly flattered then. Looks like I've come a long way from a potential axe murderer."
Emma blushed a little and slapped his arm with the back of her hand. "How long are you gonna hold that against me?" she demanded to know.
"Until I find something better," he replied in a low voice, and a quiet shiver crept up her spine. His eyes were fixed on hers, and she saw that little glint again she'd noticed already a few times before. The one that definitely said he was teasing her, maybe even flirting; but it could also mean more – an innuendo, a promise; danger.
Killian was pleasantly surprised that Emma had agreed so easily to go sailing again the following day; he'd indeed felt a little guilty that the lad had asked him directly in front of her and thus been leaving her very little opportunity to decline. But he hadn't found it in him to find vague excuses – it had been such a pleasure to watch the boy's enthusiasm. On the one hand, he'd wanted to be honest with the boy, on the other hand he'd had the impression that also Emma had enjoyed herself, the sea and his company. More than that, he sensed that his beautiful, mysterious neighbor definitely seemed to be developing an interest in him. When he'd welcomed the lucky occasion to help her with the sun protection, he'd hesitated at first, because he hadn't been sure if this would be too much and perhaps make her back off; and that was a risk he didn't want to take, because Killian Jones – as guarded as he too was – had already admitted to himself that he'd started to fall for this woman. Once his offer had been out, he'd been afraid to have overstepped a line, but her reaction had encouraged him.
And then, of course, when he had laid his hands on her perfect skin... without being aware of it, Killian absentmindedly rubbed his thumbs over his fingertips in a slow, elliptic motion, recreating the feeling of her warm, silky, sun-kissed skin against his fingers. He'd had to muster every ounce of willpower not to make it too obvious a caress; how awful would it have been if she'd thought him to be a creep. But then he'd noticed her muscles twitch under his touch, and when he'd seen her fingers curl so tightly around the edge of her seat that the knuckles grew white, he'd understood that his touch had affected her – and not in an unpleasant way. She hadn't seemed to try and avoid his touch; he'd even had the impression that at one point she'd kind of leaned into his touch somehow. That had made him bold, and when he'd caressed his fingertips over the spots behind her ears and whispered to her about the delicate skin there, it had been purely deliberate, and bloody hell, he had seen the little hairs at the back of her neck bristle and felt the little shiver that ran down her spine. And that had done things to him, had conjured pictures before his eyes that weren't appropriate for this time and place but required a quieter moment, a more secluded place... and his hands on her body for other reasons than applying sun protection.
After Henry had disappeared so abruptly and Emma had openly assured him that she didn't feel forced to go sailing again the next day, but that she actually wanted to, he felt a solid confidence build inside him, and he couldn't resist to throw a little tease and flirt her way. Oh, he would surely love to find something better to hold against her than the tease about the axe murderer, and if he was lucky, he would.
It was a cherished habit soon: by day they went sailing together, and they never came back without something to throw on the barbecue for dinner. But sailing wasn't all they did; and they didn't go in the same direction every day. Some days, Killian would take them a little more out on the open water where they could see the dancing flukes of whales from afar. One day, they just made their way along the coast and hoisted anchor in a quiet, secluded little bay where they dived into the ocean for a swim. That was the occasion when she almost betrayed herself, realizing she was gaping at Killian with her mouth actually hanging open when he took off his t-shirt to jump into the water. She had to tell herself like a mantra: do not stare at his body. Do not stare at his body. Oh my God.
Henry must have noticed something, because he grinned at her when Killian climbed up the ladder again. Thankfully, he didn't comment.
Emma never forgot to bring her sun protection, but what could she do – the spot between her shoulder blades was impossible to reach, so she always gladly accepted Killian's generously offered help. Enjoying the feeling of his hands on her skin – firm but gentle – , secretly daydreaming of him caressing her, was her guilty pleasure; she had very soon given up pretending that she wasn't attracted to him. Because she was: aside from his overall handsomeness it was his voice that made tiny shivers run down her spine when he talked to her in that enticing accent; and when he looked at her and did that thing with his eyebrows that could express everything from light teasing to unmistakable flirting – and she was never really sure what it was – , her stomach did a backflip.
Then, in quiet moments, when she watched him minding the helm in earnest, his sea blue eyes fixed on the horizon, or talking to Henry, she felt a little concerned, because she had to admit to herself that she wasn't indifferent towards him anymore. This was becoming more than pure physical attraction; this was Emma Swan beginning to fall for a man who seemed so perfect that he had to be too good to be true. And in those moments she tensed and wished she was somewhere else, not in his presence where everything he said or did distracted her from doing the reasonable thing and not allowing herself to feel more.
The shared dinners were filled with laughter and pleasant talk, and soon, Henry started to always try and find excuses to leave them alone. One evening of the second week, he made an early escape, and again, Emma found herself left alone with Killian. She insisted on helping him emptying the table and loading the dishwasher, but when they were done, she didn't find it in her to end the evening already and say good night right away, and so they sat down again, enjoying the soft evening breeze, until the bottle of white wine was empty. That was when Emma realized how late it had actually gotten, and she hastily murmured that she really should go home now.
Killian got up as well. "Very well," he nodded, "I shall walk you."
She chuckled, feeling a little dizzy from the wine. "But you don't have to," she replied, "you do realize I only have to go next door?"
He tilted his head in that typical mixture of a shrug and a nod. "I know. Still, it would be bad form." Before they reached the steps leading down to the sand, he offered her his arm, and she glanced at him with amazed eyes before linking her arm through his. "Wow, you're really old-fashioned, aren't you?" she teased.
He looked down at her with an unreadable expression in his cobalt blue eyes. "Why yes, in some things I am," he told her in a low voice, and she quickly averted her eyes with a smile, feeling her cheeks heat up, not even understanding why.
Carefully, she set one foot in front of the other and was actually relieved to be able to hold on to Killian's arm while descending the stairs of his porch; the long day under the hot sun and especially the three glasses of wine took their toll, and the slight dizziness in her head matched the wobbliness of her legs. They climbed the stairs at the back of her house, and he accompanied her across the porch lit only by a dim light above the back door. When they had reached the door leading into the kitchen, Emma stopped to look at him and pulled her arm from his, almost a little reluctantly. She looked at him and found his eyes resting on her face, quietly studying her. There was something in the air between them, something vibrating – maybe it was only her impression, because she was a little dizzy from the wine... but then, whom was she trying to fool? She swallowed and licked her lips nervously. "Thank you for walking me home," she said a little formally, "like a true gentleman."
Killian tilted his head again, and this time it was the hint of a bow (boy, she was getting really good at distinguishing what his little gesture meant). "It was my pleasure," he replied and surprised her by taking her left hand in his right and pulling it gently to his lips, brushing a feather-light kiss on it, in a very old-fashioned, endearing way that totally blew her off of her feet and left her open-mouthed. His eyes though never broke the contact with hers, which made the moment strangely intimate. "And I'm always a gentleman," he added in a husky voice.
When the hold of his fingers loosened a little and he was about to let go of her hand, she instinctively curled her fingers around his, not letting him go, and he looked at her with a question in his eyes. For a heartbeat Emma hesitated, then she raised herself spontaneously on tiptoes and, before she could stop herself, kissed him lightly on the lips. Obviously, that took him completely by surprise, because he seemed almost a little paralyzed. It wasn't that he didn't respond, but it was very brief and soft. His lips were as warm and sensuous as they looked, and even the short touch sent a bolt of electricity coursing through her veins, making her crave more – but the moment was over, and he already pulled back. Of course, the damn gentleman thing; he thought she was tipsy – well, she actually was – and didn't want to take advantage of that.
Emma blinked, a little confused about herself and what just had happened, what she'd done – and about her burning wish to do it again. She looked at his lips, and then up into his eyes. Those were soft and warm and smiling.
"Goodnight, Swan," he said after a moment and squeezed her fingers gently. "See you tomorrow?"
Only now she noticed that she was still holding on to his hand and let go of him reluctantly with a nod, suddenly embarrassed by her own boldness. "Tomorrow," she murmured and hastily turned around to open the door and dart into the house.
Inside, she leaned against the door with a moan and a soft thud of her head against the wood, closing her eyes. "What the hell was that?"
When Killian had closed his own door behind him, his – belated – reaction was very similar to Emma's. He slumped down on a kitchen chair, let his breath out with a huff and touched his lips with the tips of his right index and middle finger. It was as if he could still feel the soft, tentative brush of her mouth there, something he hadn't expected at all, although he'd been dreaming of it lately. There was no denying it, and he'd never been the one lying to himself: he knew he was falling for her, probably had already fallen. He also was sure that his first instinct about her had been right: she had feelings for him, too, definitely. It was more than just the way she bit her lips sometimes when he raised his eyebrows at her or how she leaned into his touch when she let him apply the sun protection to her back. Yes, the air between them was often buzzing with electricity, but that was more a sign of the unmistakable attraction between them. Yet, there was more than that.
It was the earnest concern and compassion in her eyes when she listened to his stories about loss and pain in his life; the trust and naturalness when she told him episodes from her childhood in various foster homes that had made her want to help other orphaned kids when she'd grown up.
It was the way she smiled at him when she caught his look over Henry's head while he was teaching the lad how to use a sextant or tie a sailor's knot; the soft, thoughtful expression in her eyes when he looked up to find them resting on him.
No, she definitely felt something, too... but he knew she was still very, very careful. From what he'd learned about her life, her past – the way she'd been let down by too many people in her life, including the men she'd let herself care about – he knew she had her walls; they were not insurmountable, but they were high enough, and he could watch her struggle with them. Sometimes she seemed to open up, but at other times she seemed to close down. That she'd kissed him now showed him that she was almost there, almost... but not completely yet, which was why she'd done it under the revealing influence of the wine.
Oh, he was sure he could have made her resistance crumble even before tonight, if he'd really aspired to; it hadn't gone unnoticed by him how the lad had made sure to leave them alone on occasion, little brigand that he was. It would have been more than easy for Killian to take advantage of such a chance... flirt just a little more, lean in just a little closer to whisper in her ear, to brush his breath or maybe even his lips over her throat and make her shiver. If he'd only tried in earnest, he could have made her go weak in his arms, putty in his hands. Sometimes it looked like she begged him to persuade her. But he also knew that persuasion was not the right way, it never was, and especially not with Emma Swan. She would have regretted anything she'd have done without being really ready for it. No, if they were to become something, it would have to be because she wanted it, wanted him – not because of any trickery.
Killian wasn't sure though where to go from there now – address the kiss? And risk she might be uncomfortable and retreat into her shell? Pretend it never happened to leave it up to her how to handle it – and risk she might feel rejected again? Damn, this wasn't easy.
He sighed and murmured: "It never is."
After a night of restless sleep, of tossing and turning, Emma was almost relieved to get up before seven o'clock. She was still confused by the events of the previous night and couldn't believe she'd actually done what she'd been dreaming of quite some time already and actually kissed Killian Jones. Not that she'd never made a first step, mind you – but never with a man she felt she could care about; normally, she avoided those like the plague and followed her first instinct: turn around and run like hell. Strangely enough, with him she'd never really had that instinct. When she looked at him, she felt the exciting tingling of danger along her spine – mixed with a strange feeling of safety. She really didn't know what to think about it, but spending all that time with him she'd discovered that she desperately wanted to find out. Henry was right. She was miserable. And she was tired of being miserable, of being alone, of not caring.
And she'd thought that Killian would understand that, would be eager to see her opening up to him – because she'd gotten the impression that he... he may care for her. Or had that been only wishful thinking? Suddenly, she was unsure. His reaction to her kiss hadn't been very enthusiastic, and she was afraid she'd made a mistake. Damn that wine. Had she made a fool of herself now?
Emma groaned and ran a hand through her hair. Maybe he wasn't even interested. Maybe she looked like a frivolous woman to him now. Or worse, desperate. Both wasn't what she wanted him to think of her. She paced around in her kitchen like a lioness in a cage. What to do now? Address the kiss? Try to explain? And risk he could tell her – sweetly, politely – that he wasn't interested in more than a pleasant acquaintance for a vacation? Or pretend she'd never kissed him? And risk he could think she'd only done it on a whim? If he cared about her, he'd be either disappointed and never approach her again, or he'd be put off.
No, she needed to explain. She didn't even know what the purpose was, because if he didn't care about her, it didn't matter what he thought about her. But she knew she wanted to make herself clear to him; if he'd politely decline, at least she wouldn't have to ask herself what if. Ask herself: what could have been if you'd only mustered enough courage, taken that leap of faith? She didn't want to remember this moment as the moment she'd almost had enough guts to give happiness a chance.
Nervously, she peered outside from behind the curtains of her kitchen window and saw Killian coming back from his morning run, and she knew in about twenty minutes he'd come out on his porch, freshly showered, to have his morning coffee. And right, just like every day, twenty minutes later, he came outside and sat down on one of the wicker chairs on his porch; the same chair he always sat in. He had his steaming cup of coffee in his hands, but he wasn't drinking; he looked thoughtful and far away. He looked confused – he looked like she felt. Somehow, that gave her hope.
Emma hesitated for the tiniest second, but then she took a deep breath and her own cup of coffee that had gone tepid by now (but at least it was something to hold on) and left the safety of her kitchen. She descended the few steps from her own porch to the beach, crossed the small distance he'd walked her the evening before, and climbed up the stairs to his porch. He was so deeply lost in his thoughts that he noticed her only when she cleared her throat.
Slowly, he got up from his chair, his cup still in his hands – as if he needed something to hold on, too. He smiled, but his eyes were a little wary, lacking the usual welcoming warmth, she noticed with alarm. "Good morning."
"Morning," she replied nervously and took a step nearer, feeling more agitated than ever, more than she'd have liked to admit. "I didn't want to disturb you..."
"You don't," he was quick to assure and swayed out his right hand. "Please do have a seat."
This doesn't sound right, she thought nervously, this is way too formal. Damn, things had gotten awkward between them, and it was her fault. She shook her head slightly and decided to plunge right in at the deep end. "Listen, Killian," she started and fidgeted with the cup in her hands, "about yesterday..." She stumbled over her own words, not really sure how to explain herself. "I'm usually not... I was a little dizzy. From the wine." He raised a questioning eyebrow, and she went on, feeling a little silly: "I'm sorry I kissed you." She saw his face fall a little and added hastily: "I mean, I'm not sorry I kissed you, but..." Damn. You're babbling again. You're gonna blow it.
Killian interrupted her by raising his hand, his expression unreadable suddenly. "You don't have to apologize," he replied, "I owe you my apologies if by any chance I gave you the impression that I didn't appreciate it."
"Uh... huh?" Emma's thoughts were whirling now, and his unique, sometimes verbose way of expressing himself didn't really help. She was trying to wrap her mind around what he meant.
Instead of answering her non-verbalized question, he tilted his head, bore his eyes into hers and asked matter-of-factly: "Are you sober now?"
"Yes," she replied instantly, almost a little defiance in her voice, and felt a little blush rising. But she raised her chin almost stubbornly. She'd started this, and now she'd go through with it, come hell or high water.
"Good. You see," he went on and crossed the porch, slowly approaching her, "the thing is... I have one rule." His voice dropped a few nuances, and without noticing, she curled her bare toes and pressed them into the wood of the porch.
"What rule?" she asked feebly, her mouth dry all of a sudden. He was standing at arm's length from her now, and part of her was internally screaming: too close! while the other part screamed: not close enough! And what the fuck was happening here?
He raised a devilish eyebrow. "When I kiss a woman, the only thing to make her dizzy..." – he paused and fuck, he ran his tongue along the inside of his teeth – "...is me."
Emma's stomach did a backflip, two, three – and she had no idea what was happening now. She'd come over here to clear things, to explain herself... she'd expected him to listen to her, to hear her out, then to answer her in some way... but here he was, talking about kissing her? "Uh... okay," was all she finally managed, not sure what to say, how to act now.
As it turned out, Killian didn't expect her to do neither. Holding her gaze with his own, he put down his mug on the little wicker coffee table, then he gently took her own cup from her hands and put it away, too. Emma swallowed, the look in his eyes almost frighteningly intense, and her gaze dropped to his lips for a moment. She wanted to say something, but for the life of her she couldn't think of the right words – more precisely, she couldn't think of anything at all that even remotely resembled a coherent sentence. Instead, she licked her lips. When he'd gotten rid of the cups, he closed the last bit of distance between them, stepping right into her personal space. She looked up into his eyes again and felt hypnotized for a moment, paralyzed even. The blue of his irises darkened a little, and Emma drew a deep breath when their stares locked. Her own pupils widened, and the feeling of mesmerization increased to the extent that she thought this is what it must be like for a prey being fixed by a snake – she couldn't have moved or averted her eyes, even if she'd tried, and the stronger that sensation became, the louder became the little voice in her head that told her to run, run, run – and then suddenly, the fine skin around his eyes creased a little, and there it was: the smile that coated her soul with the soothing calmness she'd come to associate with him. Gentle, open, honest. He blinked slowly, his long, sinful eyelashes distracting her for a moment, and she mirrored his gesture without being aware of it and exhaled all of her tension and panic.
Carefully, he slid his left arm around her waist, his warm palm coming to rest on the small of her back, while his right hand brushed a lock behind her ear and tenderly cupped her cheek. Emma leaned into his embrace and tilted her head a little back, lips slightly parted. She kept her eyes open and saw him come nearer, closing the remaining distance between them inch by inch, and the little voice in her head hummed an enchanting melody, and it sounded like stay, stay, stay. Her eyelids fluttered shut the same moment Killian's lips touched hers. She let herself sink against his body, his lips, and absurdly enough, it felt like coming home. It was so similar, yet so different from the previous night; the press of his mouth against hers was, like his hands, firm but gentle: firm enough to uncover a hint of the raw passion she'd always suspected was hidden underneath his calm surface; firm enough to express possessiveness, brand her as his. But gentle enough to turn that possessiveness into something safe and solid rather than dangerous and threatening; gentle enough to signalize that if she fell he'd be there to catch her, and that she'd land softly.
His hand wandered to the back of her neck, the touch of his fingers against her hairline familiar again, the spot where he'd always stolen a light caress when he was applying that damn sun protection. Emma's hands slid up his torso, feeling his firm body through the soft material of his t-shirt, until they were resting against his chest while she allowed herself to get totally lost in that kiss. His lips were soft and demanding at the same time, and she eagerly followed those demands and kissed him back, opening up for him and savoring the taste of coffee and sweet desire on his lips and his heavenly tongue. He took his time with her mouth, kissing her slowly, languidly and thoroughly; nothing could have prepared her for this. While the ever-present butterflies in her stomach were dancing like banshees, she heard her blood rush in her ears and curled her fingers into the fabric of his shirt without even noticing. She heard a soft sigh, and only when their lips finally, reluctantly parted, she realized that it had been her making that little noise.
Killian tilted his head back a little to look at her searchingly, questioningly, and let his right hand travel down from her neck to her waist where it found its neat fit. Emma didn't avoid his gaze, she had just problems focusing her eyes anywhere but on his mouth. She swayed a little and was glad to be still in his arms, because holy shit, she did feel dizzy, so his rule was obeyed obviously; her blood seemed to be everywhere in her body but in her brain, and so she just managed a feeble, stupid: "Okay..."
He raised that damn eyebrow again. "Okay?" he echoed in an amused, fondly teasing tone that held a whole new quality of intimacy now. "Is that all?"
Suddenly, all the awkwardness was gone. She smiled right into his shining eyes. "Better than wine," she replied, "by far."
He loosened his embrace a little, but that didn't break the closeness between them. Emma liked the way his hands rested almost casually on her hips now, his thumbs grazing the delicate skin above the waistband of her sweatpants underneath her shirt. Goosebumps spread along her spine.
"So," he remarked nonchalantly and smirked a little, "you think I'm hella cute?"
She huffed and averted her eyes for a moment. "I knew it," she grumbled. "You did overhear what I said that evening. What else did you hear?"
He tilted his head in a shrug. "Well, on the plane I heard you say you like your life as it is, but I don't believe that." Emma swallowed and stared at the backs of her hands that were still resting on his chest, like they belonged there. Damn, when had the playful banter turned into something serious she wasn't even sure she wanted to talk about? "I don't believe it," he went on, "because I recognize a fellow poor unfortunate soul when I see one." Now, she hiked her eyes up to his again and found a warm, sincere smile there that caressed her heart. "We've all been bruised and battered," he said earnestly. "Listen, Emma – I'm not looking for a holiday one-time thing distraction. I want this to continue when we get back home."
Her heart skipped a beat at his words, but she also felt a weight on her shoulders. "Well, if you heard all that," she sighed, "you know already that I'm not... easy to handle."
For a moment, his eyes glittered with that devilish spark again, and she felt his thumbs press a little into her flesh. "We shall see about that," he replied in a voice that was a nuance lower now, darker... pulling heavily deep in her belly. "But," he went on, all serious and sincere again, "you see, me knowing about your issues and still telling you what I just told you, should be the best proof that I'm going to stick around." She frowned a little in question, and he added with a smile: "I'm not risking my peace of mind for someone I see as a mere pastime."
She blinked nervously, not used to letting someone come so close so soon. No, letting someone come so close, period. "You don't know me..." she reminded him reluctantly – reluctantly, because she wanted him to know her. To know her and still want to stay. "You might change your mind."
He frowned. "Why would you say such a thing?" He leaned back a little to scrutinize her and saw with alarm that she was tense again. "Besides," he went on almost casually, "I do know you."
"Oh, really?" Emma assumed a teasing tone, aiming to step back from these unpredictable depths of their conversation. "And what do you think you know about me?"
He pursed his lips thoughtfully, and tilted his head. "Let's see. You're beautiful. Fierce." That made her blush a little. "A good mother," he went on, and she pressed her lips together in that little smile of hers. "Strong and independent. Because you have to be," he added. "But sometimes you're tired of it." Killian paused, and her smile faded a little while she averted her eyes. "You can take care of yourself and your boy just fine," he said softly, "but sometimes you wonder how it would be to... let someone else take care of you." Emma bit her lip and swallowed nervously; this was far too close to home. She felt raw and unprotected. "But you never dare taking the risk to find out, because you've been let down too often," he continued his full-on analysis of her life, which was ridiculous, because the man had known her for how long, like two weeks? She was breathing heavily now, slightly shifting from one foot to the other like a horse ready to sprint away, as if she wanted to free herself from his embrace, her instinct to run almost overwhelming now. But as if Killian could sense her sudden restlessness, he spread his fingers and held her firmly, safely. She looked up at him with weary eyes and was amazed by his earnest, affectionate expression. "Your walls are up," he went on gently, and now her gaze was glued to his lips, hanging onto every word he was saying. "And you know they will keep you safe, but you also know they will keep everything else out, and you want to let them down, you really want to, but you're scared." He raised his right hand and took one of her locks between his fingers. "You don't know how."
Show me, she wanted to reply, but she could not speak. She could just look at him, amazed by his words. He had just stripped her bare and was looking right into the core of her very soul now, a man she had met only like two weeks ago, and she knew this should scare the living hell out of her. But it didn't. He was silent now, his gaze resting on her like a protective blanket, his barely perceptible smile soothing her soul and calming her down. She drew a deep breath.
"Wow," she finally said feebly, "am I that much of an open book?"
He tilted his head the tiniest bit. "Actually, I'm quite perceptive, love. Sometimes though..." – he smoothed her hair behind her shoulder – "...you're an enigma. Waiting to be solved."
She swallowed again, hard. The lump in her throat was almost to big, and she almost swallowed her words, too, as if they were too big to say. But then she drew a deep breath. "Care to give it a try?" she asked almost casually, her heart beating frantically now. She barely dared to look at him, but in the end she did and basked in his smile and the rays of sunshine that were his eyes. He laid his fingertips lightly on the side of her throat, his thumbs stroking her jawline.
"If you'll let me," he replied, "with pleasure."
