"Don't," Killian admonishes gently. "Not that one, love. Try this one first. That's the control group." Emma's hand hovers over the second batch of hors d'oeuvres that Killian has just finished plating, but after a moment where he thinks she's going to defy him and grab one of the variations he's testing out, she grabs for the original plate that's closer to her.
It's after-hours at the country club and Emma is standing in the kitchen with him as he preps from hand-scrawled notes, the pages of his notebook covered in various spots from cooking debris. The new menu is due for tasting to the owner next week and this is the last round of test batches Killian intends on making. He has turned to his most trusted taste-tester, as Emma happily demanded ages ago that she be his guinea pig for anything and everything he makes.
He grabs for a control sample after she's already taken a bite of one, barely sparing a moment to think about it as he pops the whole thing in his mouth. He hears Emma make a happy little noise, and he smiles as he chews, pleased that she seems to be enjoying the small creation. When he turns his head to look at her to ask a question, though, she's staring at his mouth and her tongue peeks out to swipe at her lips; he has no idea if she even realizes she's doing so, either.
After what feels like an hour of her staring, Killian clears his throat, catching her attention once more.
"Yeah, sorry, what?" She blushes as she stammers, and Killian laughs quietly as he goes back to putting on the last touches. "So what am I eating?"
"That is just a spaghetti squash cake. That's the base I'm working with. These," he emphasizes as he carefully spoons sour cream onto one, "are the variations I need to decide on for the menu. This'll be one of the new appetizers."
With everything finally cooked, he makes sure the burners are all turned off, placing the hot pan off to the side to be dealt with when they're finished. He urges her to sip at her water before he points out the next one.
"This is the same base, except it has sour cream and chives on top. There's a sprinkle of fresh tarragon on there, as well."
Following along, Emma daintily picks up the sample with her thumb and middle finger and eats this one a little slower than the previous one. There's a dab of sour cream still on her middle finger when she's done, and Killian watches with rapt attention as she licks the pad of her finger before popping the whole digit into her mouth and sucking it clean. It could be minutes that he goes without blinking, or hours, for all he knows.
As the flavors mix together and she notices the nuances he's added in, she closes her eyes and moans softly, finger still in her mouth, and Killian is dangerously close to doing something, anything to relieve the tension that has coiled up so tightly inside of him that he's surprised he's not vibrating from the pressure.
"Swan," he croaks, immediately catching her attention. Her eyes fly open and she looks at him apologetically, slowly pulling her finger from between her lips and swallowing harshly.
"Sorry," comes her husky murmur, but he's not sure either of them are sorry at all. She's back to staring at his lips, and a part of him worries about how much longer their resolve will hold out, how much longer until one of them cracks and just dry-humps the other into next Tuesday. He's both terrified and elated.
The morning after he got rip-roaring drunk with the boys, he woke up on her couch feeling like some monumental shift had occurred between them. He remembers pressing against her in the doorway, and being the one to ask about a possible situation that would lead to the more enjoyable activities he likes to partake in whilst on his back, but she told him they would talk about it later and covered him up. He thinks she kissed him on the cheek, but shortly after the Captain Hook joke he was damn near gone, so that's a little fuzzy still.
He woke up feeling that shift, with Emma staring at his mouth, while he tangoed with the mother of all hangovers. Apparently whatever magical healing properties he thought her couch beheld, he was quite mistaken.
They've lapsed into silence again, having a stare-down without even looking in each other's eyes, just staring at each other's lips, and Killian is beginning to think their friendship, in whatever way the term can be defined, may officially be the most bizarre thing in existence.
"Bloody hell, love. You're making it extremely difficult to be a gentleman right now," he finally says, and it snaps them both out of it just the tiniest bit. She snorts inelegantly, rolling her eyes even as a pretty little blush tints her cheeks.
"Yeah, that's the word that comes to mind. Since when are you a gentleman, Jones?"
"I'm always a gentleman, Swan. Or did you forget that time I split the last package of toilet tissue with you because you claimed it was your womanly time of the month?"
"And you fell for that, hook, line, and sinker."
"You're the worst, Swan. Now try the next sample. It's almost identical, with dill instead of the tarragon." He once again holds the glass of water up to her, and she sips before grabbing the next sample.
Killian grabs his own and tosses the whole thing in his mouth. He's tasted all of this before in some capacity, so he doesn't need to be as scrupulous as he's expecting her to be. Instead, he leaves her to gather her thoughts about the very slight differences in herbs and begins his clean up. The kitchen was already scrubbed down nearly ceiling to floor with the end of the work shift, so it's less than he might normally have to clean up.
Still, there's enough for him to do. The pans he used need scrubbing, there are dirtied mixing bowls and cutting boards and knives. The spoons and plates and... And he sighs, knowing that he's still going to end up cleaning most of the kitchen before he leaves here tonight.
For a half hour, he directs Emma's sampling in between batches of cleaning, and he doesn't join her at the island counter until all that remains are the plates that the last samples reside on. He leans up against the counter as she reaches for another cake with a garlic aioli drizzled over top.
"How long's it been, Swan?"
"Hmm?" She's scribbling something down next to his notes, her mouth still full, and he should really know better than to try opening this can of worms right now.
"You know," he says as casually as possible, his hand gesturing out in front of him as if she'll magically know what he's trying to say from hand-movement alone. "How long has it been?" Amazingly, she does figure it out.
"Oh! Um, Kilt Guy at Halloween."
"But that was the last Halloween, not this past one, wasn't it?"
She pointedly concentrates on whatever it is she's writing on the page while she tries and fails to nod as nonchalantly as possible. A year and a half is a long stretch for her, from what he can tell. Not that she parades partners in and out of her bedroom, just that she always operated on the same principles that he did: sometimes, you just need that release, and there's no shame in doing so without the hassle of strings or labels.
When they'd met, Killian was still having to reprimand his chefs when they called back "Yes, Chef Douchebag" after Tink had bestowed the name upon him before her swift exit from working as his Sous chef. Not only did it firmly place his rules about sleeping with other members of his kitchen staff, it also cemented his desire to stay as far away from relationships as possible. No one was ever going to be Milah, his first and lost love, so what was the point anyway?
And Emma. Well, poor Emma Swan, as he would find out later, had just had her heart smashed prior to moving to Storybrooke. It's what had facilitated the move, with a little help from David contacting her regarding the job in the sheriff's department. From there it was easy enough to just keep driving down to Boston for drill weekends while living up in Storybrooke. An hour and a half was just far enough, as she would eventually tell him. Just far enough away that she was okay with driving there, and didn't have to see the person that had broken her heart.
"Well, it's not like there haven't been opportunities, right? Drill weekends and all that?"
"That ship sailed when I made a vow to stop sleeping with any fellow soldiers," she replies quickly.
He's just taken a bite of another one of the options, this one with goat cheese and capers. One bite and he winces, plucking off the remaining capers and laughing as he sees Emma doing the same.
"It was a good thought," she tells him, taking a healthy sip of the water still by her hand.
With the last bite, Emma closes her eyes again and makes a contented noise. "That one is my favorite. But you know goat cheese is my biggest weakness."
"That I do. I'll keep it in mind." With the samples finished, he's able to finish the last of the cleanup easily while Emma wanders around the kitchen. She enjoys seeing the pots and pans gleaming, and the knives all lined up on their magnetic strips. It's something she's mentioned before when he first brought her here, and it's something he's noticed each and every time she's been here.
"So, what movies tonight?"
"Movie. Singular. I have to wake up and be productive tomorrow, since I have drill this weekend."
"Ah, I forgot that was coming up. That means I'm all on my own this weekend, doomed to a life of boredom and work." He ushers her up the stairs that lead to the main floor of the country club, shutting off the lights in the kitchen as he goes.
"Drama queen. You have other friends, you know. Call David. Just remember that I won't be there to save you when you need a sober driver," she says with a lift of one eyebrow as she looks over her shoulder at him. He's trying his hardest not to stare at her rear end, which she pegged correctly all those years ago as one of his favorite assets of hers.
He edges out in front of her and pushes open the door, feeling the cool gust of April air rush over his skin when he does. "Of course, but if I get drunk, none of them will put me up on their couch and tuck me in with my favorite blanket." She huffs out a laugh and passes by him. She stands nearby while Killian resets the alarm and locks the door behind himself, pulling it a couple times to ensure it locked properly.
"Yeah, and I'm sure you won't kiss any of them, either." She mutters it under her breath, perhaps not intentionally loud enough for him to hear, but he hears it anyway.
"What's this about a kiss, then?" he asks as he whirls around to look at her. For once, he catches her staring at his behind and he lets the slow grin spread across his face, especially when she looks at him and realizes she's been caught.
"Oh, so you don't remember that part of the night? You remember everything else but not the part where I went to kiss you on the cheek and you turned into it?"
"Obviously, I remember no such thing, but I'm sure it was an accident." He notices that her face falls a little when he says this, so he hurries to continue. "Swan, if I'm going to kiss you, I'd damn well make sure we'd both remember it in the face of all other kisses we ever experience." He's walking backwards toward his car as he says this and stops short when she rolls her eyes.
She stops when he does, just a few feet away, close enough to reach out and touch but far enough away that he can't feel the comforting heat of her body. "Please," she says, crossing her arms and looking for all the world like she's readying for battle. "You couldn't handle it."
"Perhaps you're the one who couldn't handle it," he says, his eyebrow shooting up suggestively as he leans in closer, almost against his own volition. His blood is surging through his veins as his heart beats wildly, and it's only with intense concentration that it hasn't all pooled below the belt. In his uniform, erections are disastrous and unavoidably noticeable.
There's heat dancing in her eyes, and he knows it's reflected in his own. The big question is whether they'll light the match now or keep the fire burning low yet again. Honestly, if he'd meant to kiss her, he would've damn well made sure he was awake for it. Other than chaste New Year's Eve ordeals, he's wondered what it would feel like to kiss Emma without restraint.
Emma's the one to break their staring contest, making a noise of aggravation in the back of her throat before she spins on her heel and stomps toward her car.
"I want hot cocoa when we get to your place, asshole."
Low burner, it is then. "As you wish, Swan," he responds absent-mindedly, turning to his own vehicle and following her out of the parking lot.
-x-
Especially during menu re-works, Killian realizes that he has hired and cultivated the perfect staff for his kitchen. They're seamlessly working around him while Killian bends over the one square of counter to be spared. The pages of his notebook are almost unrecognizable as he scribbles and scratches out, covered in notes and arrows, blots and stains. He's almost done choosing the taste samples for the owner and the financier.
Ugh, just thinking about that meeting makes his skin crawl. Not for meeting with the owner. Well, one of them. The other owner, the Mysterious Mr. Gold, is a primarily silent partner who stays out of his kitchen. It's a good thing. Killian isn't entirely sure the old kook isn't just a crocodile in fine threads and sheep's clothing. Mostly, he just owns the land that the club is built on, and instead of full-out buying the property from him, Regina made him part owner. Thankfully, he has too many other properties and businesses to attend to, and spends little time at this one.
Surprisingly, Killian gets along with the other one in their own strange way. Regina is a tough lass, a woman who he reckons could give the evil queen a run for her money when she's angry, but is more interested in harmless banter any other time. They have a rapport that works well for owner and executive chef. Regina is the one that sought him out for his reputation via a recommendation from one of his teachers at culinary school. And thus he moved his life to Storybrooke.
The one that Killian has absolutely no desire to see is Mr. Hades (pronounced "hah-day," as he will remind anyone who even thinks of trying to pronounce it as the god of the underworld), the arrogant financier that has been the backer for the country club as long as it's been around. It took a long time for Killian to understand Regina's partnership with the haughty man, who he has honest-to-god seen wearing a cape and spats, but the vague backstory sounds a lot like running, which is something Killian knows all too well about.
Once, he was running from the emotional pain after Milah passed away, which led him to culinary school and almost immediately to the club. Nearly ten years later, he's thankful he landed here, even if he's still not keen on the events that led him to this point. Too much lost, too much heart break.
"Chef Jones, do you have a status report for me?" Regina's commanding voice breaks him from what could've been a terrible train of thought. If it were any other encounter, he would expect a comment about the amount of sweat running down his temple, about his disheveled appearance today, but she gets straight to business.
With one last word in his notebook, he looks up to see her striding across the bustling kitchen with purpose. His chefs all move around her without a single missed step, and he feels the pride surging through him at the sight. "Just about all set, your highness."
She ignores the title, instead glancing around at the kitchen staff all hard at work.
"Where's your pastry chef?"
"Called off. Again. The only malfunctioning screw in an otherwise smooth-running machine."
"Do you think it's time to send her packing?"
"We'll give her one more shot. Other than an unfortunate penchant to call off, she hasn't suggested putting children into pies or anything, and the guests like her whimsy." At Regina's skeptical look, Killian sighs heavily. "If you find a better candidate, I will happily interview them and test them out."
"That's something for another day. First comes the spring menu. Ready to cook for Hades?" She, of course, pronounces it wrong.
"Oh, as I'll ever be. Not looking forward to his sarcastic comments and condescending tone."
"The new uniforms are in, so you'll at least look good while he acts like an idiot."
Killian grins at that, and again when she says she'll leave the order in the office upstairs so he can grab it before he leaves. He'll dole out the new uniform coats over the next few shifts while they change around the linens upstairs to be the classier ones for tourist season. While it's still over a month away, the sooner they get into practice with all of it, the better.
-x-
He spends the next two days ironing out the last details of what he'll make for the meeting, sending and receiving texts with Emma that mostly consist of them nagging each other to eat food and sleep properly. He assures her that he'll have dinner ready for her when she gets back, and the continuation of their movie night rescheduled for Sunday evening.
Somewhere in the middle of the day Sunday, she goes quiet, and he knows it's just because they're finishing up everything that they need to do for the next month, so he lets it go and turns his attentions to his kitchen. The restaurant portion of the country club has just closed down when he gets her text message, the whole seven characters telling enough about her state of mind as she finishes up.
Swan: ETA 1930
It gives him plenty of time to supervise kitchen cleanup as he makes his final notes. When all that can be done for menu prep is complete, Killian finally clocks out. The kitchen is spotless, everything prepped for lunch service the next day, and he happily shuts off the lights and locks the doors behind him. Soon enough, the bar and golf course will be open later than his restaurant is, so this will be a superfluous step in his routine.
He's just pulling into his apartment complex's parking lot when he sees that Emma's bright yellow Bug is behind him. She pulls into the spot beside his and parks, only hauling a single rucksack out of the front seat despite the fact that he can see even more gear in the backseat. No doubt, she's only concerned about her shower necessities and a change of clothes, probably even pajamas if she's angling to stay in the spare room (might as well just be hers with how often she stays in it) for the night.
"The rest can wait 'til I get home," she confirms, following as he unlocks the door to the lobby. Normally, she's ahead of him on the stairs, racing to see who can get to the lock first, but tonight she's dragging, and if the can of Red Bull in her hand is any indication, she's fighting exhaustion tooth and nail.
"Hungry?" he asks, because while he's not had to drive an hour and a half to get back home, he has put in the work of a full day. This may be one of the few times they're on equal feet of exhaustion.
The results can go two ways: they'll fall asleep ten minutes after eating, possibly right where they're seated on his couch, or they'll go into that loopy state of being that comes from being entirely too tired.
"Starving. I forgot to eat lunch," she tells him as they round the landing and head for the last set of stairs. Living on the fourth floor is only occasionally a pain in the arse; this is one of those times.
As they reach the top, he can tell the exact moment she catches a whiff of the food that's been cooking and simmering away all day. She slows even further, rounding the handrail and seemingly following her nose the rest of the way down the hallway, speeding up until she passes him. She has the door unlocked and is standing over the crockpot when he finally gets inside and closes the door again.
"Food or shower first?" he calls out, knowing she'll hear him from her position hovering over the damn lid just inhaling. Sure enough, when he gets to the kitchen, that's exactly what she's doing. Her hat is the only thing she's removed, as a force of habit he knows.
"Food. Fuck the shower, I just want to eat and not move for a while."
"As you wish, Swan. Go sit down. Get your boots off, at the very least."
They splurge and use the table most nights they share a meal, but tonight is one of the rare times they'll go straight to the foldout tables to park in front of the television.
While Emma sets up the tables and settles herself in, Killian pulls out plates to accommodate the pot roast that's been cooking all day. He spoons out all of the vegetables first, making sure there's a generous helping of the carrots, potatoes, and green beans on each plate before setting the rest aside to be refrigerated. He grabs napkins and cutlery on the way, dropping off the plates before returning to the kitchen to grab them beers out of the fridge.
Killian's not the least bit surprised that the vegetables are half gone from Emma's plate when he gets back. He spots no less than two hairpins on the floor, and sees a set of blousers on one of the end tables. Her uniform coat is hanging up on the hooks by the door, and her boots are lined up beneath it. Even her socks are off and balled up, sitting next to her rucksack. Down to just her uniform pants and a tan, army-issued t-shirt, she already looks more relaxed than when she first pulled in.
"Good weekend?" she asks after swallowing another mouthful of food.
"Aye," he answers, enjoying watching her eat for a moment before turning back to his own food. He spears a carrot before elaborating. "Regina stopped in to see me on Friday. We're all prepped up for the meeting with the ruler of the underworld."
"Good. It'll be fine. Just don't let him get under your skin this time."
Instead of responding, Killian just hums and keeps on eating. It may be a running issue, but he will ignore his wrong-doing in the last meeting to the very ends of the earth, or the end of time.
When their plates are all but licked clean, Killian takes them back to the kitchen, with Emma following closely behind and chattering to him about her weekend. He's met a few of the other soldiers in her unit before, but mostly knows them by last names and vague descriptions. Still, he enjoys hearing about anything she can share, laughing over the antics they seem to get into. He knows Booth to be the dependable type, and Fa to be the stern NCO that keeps them all in line when it's time to get to work, but still has that touch of a soft spot, especially when it comes to talking to those she's closest with about her girlfriend, Ruby.
He can list off all the last names of the people Emma enjoys hanging out with, who causes the drama, who doesn't do what they're told, who annoys her beyond reason, and on and on. He may not understand everything there is to know, but he'll be damned if he doesn't try.
They make it half way through the movie they intended on watching before they realize they haven't watched a minute of it. Instead, they've been busy catching each other up on the events they've missed out on, even though it's only been three days since they last saw one another. Both of them are sunk into the corners of his couch, Emma's bare feet braced on his thigh. He can feel how chilly her toes are through the thin fabric of his uniform pants, and gets slightly distracted by the pink polish on her toes. Her fingernails must remain bare during these weekends, so she keeps her toes colorful enough to make up for it.
"Oh!" Killian sits up suddenly, the thought of uniforms reminding him of the new jacket sitting in his bedroom. "We got our new uniform coats in on Friday!" He springs off the couch to go grab the new one, as it won't premier until the spring menu does, outside of the meeting with Hades this week.
The coats are a thing of pride to him, as Regina has let him choose exactly what he and all his chefs wear. Most of his chefs wear either the plain black on weekdays or white for special occasions, with black pants. Will gets an upgraded coat with gray detailing as the second in command. Killian's coat remains the same whether it's a special event or not. The black coat is pristine, unlike the rest of the coats he has around, now. Most have stains or rips or slight scorches, but this one is still crisp. A deep red accents the short sleeves and collar, and the tear-away knots match. He already can't wait to start destroying it, as he's enjoyed with every chef's coat he's ever owned. Thankfully, he has three of this one and they'll hopefully last through the summer.
It feels a little stiff when he slides it on, not having been washed yet, but it's still soft and definitely welcome compared to the one he spent all day sweating in.
He re-enters the living room with his arms splayed to show the details. Emma's expression goes from relaxed and smiling to something else when her eyes focus on him. There's hunger riding behind her eyes, and it has nothing to do with the full plate of food they each just consumed. It has everything to do with what they've been carefully side-stepping for weeks recently, but more realistically for years now.
Casually, he moves toward the couch, bending forward to grab her hands and urge her off the couch. It would be terribly easy to pull her the rest of the way, to taste her lips right then and there, but he wants Emma to start this. He wants, but this has to be as much Emma's choice as it is his.
But a little nudge never hurt, so he waits until she's on her feet in front of him before he guides her hands to the tail of each side of the coat and smiling. "Give her a tug then, love," he requests.
She's seen him rip off a uniform coat enough times to know what he's asking, this feature being one of his favorites in a vast majority of the coats he's worn over the years. So it's with little effort that she replicates the motion, the coat opening in one swift tug. He's grinning, one eyebrow up, because it's truly just an enjoyable thing to rip open a chef's coat, but also because Emma's eyes have gone wide and she's biting her lip so hard he's afraid she'll break skin if she doesn't stop soon.
Her hands are still on the coat, and she uses them to tug him forward, slow enough that he knows exactly where this is going but hard enough that they almost go tumbling back onto the couch before her lips connect with his in a hard kiss. This time, there's no doubting that this is a kiss, and with that in mind, Killian gives it his all. His hands splay across either side of her neck, his thumbs tracing her jaw.
She's clutching his jacket so tight that he already knows it'll be wrinkled when this is all over with, but he doesn't care. He especially doesn't when she tilts her head, her mouth opening up against his and her tongue meeting his, a gentle sweep across the back of his front teeth following, which has him moaning into her. He kisses across her cheek and down her neck, knowing there's a particularly sensitive spot behind her ear that he's longed to explore. She presses even closer when his tongue slides across that spot and he'd be content to spend several hours finding out which spots she likes best. The sensation must get to be too much, because she lets go of his jacket for just a moment to bring his lips even with hers again.
With a nip of finality, she pulls back, but not far. Her forehead rests against his as they both breathe heavily and Killian prays the hummingbird beat of his heart slows down soon. He's sure she must feel the effect it's all had on him, more than obvious in his chef's pants, but she's also all but riding his thigh where it's resting between her legs. They're equally wanton in this respect.
"Not with alcohol in our systems," she tells him, and he nods in agreement. The reason behind her stopping it from going further surprises him a little bit, and they're not drunk in any particular definition, but it's an echo of the night he stayed at her place. No alcohol, or illnesses, or sleep deprivation, or addled minds getting in the way. His hands trail away from her jaw as hers release the fabric of his coat, and he runs his down the length of her arms until he reaches her hands. He takes each of her hands in his and brings them to his mouth, kissing the knuckles on each one in turn.
It's all he can really do when he wants to respect their friendship but he also wants to peel off the beige t-shirt and be the reason the rest of the hairpins fall out of her carefully constructed bun. He wants to see what she wears beneath the incredibly drab pants. He wants her, especially when her head drops back down and she's nosing along his collarbone, pressing up against him in just the right way, and they need to stop and head to their respective sleeping quarters, or else he's going to end up taking her right on the couch.
With one steadying breath, he finally steps back completely, immediately missing the feeling of her skin. He scratches behind his ear nervously, not entirely sure how to navigate from this spot back to their regular repertoire. Thankfully, Emma seems to have cleared a bit of the fog from her mind, enough to reach down and grab her ruck and rolled up socks.
"You want to clean up for bed first, or am I good to go?"
"I have to take a quick shower before bed," Killian tells her. She smirks when he says it, her eyes sliding obscenely down his body for a moment before coming back up to meet his. "Not for any other reason than I spent all day in a very hot kitchen and would like to remove the final scent of it all before climbing into bed."
"Well, then. I'll try to be quick. Maybe tomorrow we can head down to that kitchen supply shop you've been wanting to raid?" She's moving around him, heading straight for the bathroom with her stuff.
"We can always try, love," comes his delayed response, right before the door clicks shut and he's finally sure that his brain has enough blood to function.
-x-
Whenever she stays at his place, there's always a mess of hair pins the day after, as if they simply exploded from her head the night before and landed on the coffee table or scattered to the floor. He always dutifully picks them up and places them in a jar in the bathroom until the next round comes in. He's constantly in awe of the seemingly endless supply of the little buggers, because she never runs out. She stays over, there are hair pins everywhere, the sky is blue. These are the truths of his life.
But that just means when she wakes up and stumbles out of his guest room that her hair is down, the complicated braids or twists or buns, depending on the occasion, from the night before leaving her hair in various patterns. Waves or curls, it's all an artful mess of blonde that falls past her shoulders as she grumbles a morning greeting and reaches for the coffee he holds out to her.
She catches sight of herself in the microwave and Killian has to stifle the knee-jerk reaction of a chuckle due to the expression on her face.
"Not a word," comes her sharp reprimand as she struggles to tie it back with an elastic from her wrist. She wakes up grumpy, he teases her, the grass is green. Just more truths of his life.
It's as she succeeds in winding it up in a makeshift bun that he notices he left a mark just behind her ear, just along that spot that tasted like heaven and Emma and like the line between friendship and bed partners. Whether she just senses it or whatever it is that leads her to do so, she reaches up to rub at the spot, hissing when she feels the sensitive bruising he's left behind. She whirls on him so fast that all he can do is press himself against the wall and pray for a swift death at her mercy.
"For future reference, you need to mark below the collar. I can't have Mary Margaret or, heaven forbid, Ruby asking me about my sex life if we're going to do this, so take notes."
Before he can even respond, Emma is slowly descending his body, her fingers dancing across his chest and abdomen as she easily sinks to her knees on the linoleum. He watches with wide eyes as her hands meet at the hems of his clothes. One hand pushes his shirt up a little as the other drags the waistband of his sleep pants down just a touch. Her mouth is right there, then, her tongue teasing at his hipbone before her teeth nip once.
"Bloody hell," he wheezes out, as her mouth latches on. A cross between a moan, a sigh, and her name escapes his mouth as he attempts to melt into the wall at his back with his hands pressed flat against it. He'll be surprised if, when he eventually moves from this spot, there isn't a Killian-shaped singe on the wall.
With an audible pop, Emma leans back and inspects her handiwork. She smiles, satisfied and smug, before moving to stand again. In another smooth move, she slides back up, and makes sure to press close. His clothed erection goes right between her equally clothed breasts, and she leans up to speak directly in his ear when she's fully straightened.
"Work on it for next time," she tells him, and pats his cheek a few times before turning away, grabbing her coffee, and going back down the hall. "I'm taking my shower now. How about we hit the road before noon?"
Perhaps the truths of his life with Emma are about to very drastically change.
