"You're freezing, Swan. Even your hair is chilled." He frowns again, taking a step back before running his hands along her leather clad arms. "This jacket is absurdly thin for this weather. Haven't you got something warmer?" There's annoyance in his voice, as though he can't believe she would be so foolish, and Emma can't help but be relieved. This is the source of the look he's given her; this is why he's pulled back. She's cold. Obviously he isn't going to get her out of her clothes while she's still freezing.
"Never got around to buying one."
"You should remedy that before it snows. Let me fix you something hot to drink." He tugs on her arm, removing her from the door and leading her back toward the bar.
She follows, unsure of what she's allowing to happen. She doesn't know what to make of him, offering her a hot beverage when her chilled flesh is practically begging for him to offer to warm her up in deliciously dirty ways. Sure, it may be a bit cold to take the clothes off right away, but there's plenty they can do before they get to that point.
They walk behind the bar into a small kitchen, obviously already cleaned up for the night. Killian gets down a small saucepan and some milk, setting it to heat before rummaging around in the cupboard. He produces a tin of hot chocolate, and Emma feels something tug in a place it shouldn't.
"Hot chocolate?" He shakes the tin at her, grinning like a child. "Not very manly, I'm afraid, but a delicious treat for a cold night."
She nods, not trusting herself to speak. She should leave. This is not what she bargained for when she decided to step inside the bar, to soothe the sting of Graham's rejection with this man who has made no secret of wanting her. She expected to be pressed up against the bar door by now, maybe even on the bar itself, not standing in the warm kitchen while Killian fixes her some hot chocolate to ward off the night.
He continues on in silence, almost as if he doesn't wish to speak and break this fragile thing between them. She studies him while he moves, the light in the kitchen much brighter than that in the bar. He moves easily, light on his feet and graceful. But the light also shows heavy scarring on his left hand, a web of pale lines and angry pink skin she hadn't noticed in the darkness of the bar.
"Aye, an ugly thing that," he says casually when he notices her stare, shoving the offending hand into his pocket.
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean…"
He waves her off with his good hand before returning to his stirring, the rich scent of chocolate beginning to waft from the saucepan. "Ancient history, love. No sense in apologizing. Still makes me cringe to look at meself, and it's been a good many years."
"What happened?"
He doesn't answer her curious question right away, intent on his task of stirring their drink. She's beginning to regret asking, the sensation that she's pried into deeply personal space too strong to ignore, but answer he eventually does.
"Foolish mistake on my part," is all he gives as an explanation. He laughs that bitter laugh again, the one that makes her ache to soothe him, but it morphs into the leering grin she's come to expect. "Don't you worry, Swan. It'll get the job done."
She can't help but flush. She knows why she came here tonight, and he knows why she's darkened his doorstop, but for him to say it so bluntly is unexpected, especially as he's standing in a bar kitchen making her hot cocoa.
She's still struggling for something to say when he's putting the mug into her hands, the warmth seeping into her frozen fingers. Her gloves are in her coat pockets, put away as she followed him earlier into the kitchen, but she's otherwise still bundled quite tightly against the cold.
"So why tonight?" he asks as he sips his own mug, left hand still shoved in his pocket. His eyebrows lift in challenge at her stare, mischief gleaming in his eyes. "What's it about this eve that's so different from the others?"
"I was walking home from Gold's by the water. Figured I'd say hi since I was going to walk right by."
"After avoiding us for weeks, you thought to say hi in the middle of the night?"
"Us?"
"Aye, me and the Jolly."
"How do you know I haven't been in when you're not working?" It's a poor lie and she knows it, but her confidence is wavering and his is still rock solid. It makes her feel uneasy, her footing slipping, and she's grasping.
"I know everything that happens in my bar, love."
"Your bar?"
"Aye. The Jolly is mine. Not what you were thinking, eh? Assumed me a lowly bartender."
"I didn't…"
"Aye, you did." He isn't angry, but there's a sadness in his eyes that tugs at her. "No worries, lass. Not the first time I've produced low expectations."
She can feel the hurt in the words, feel the history of pain and loss he's hiding with such a blasé attitude, and she wants to reach out for him. But that's not how people like her – and she suspects, people like him – handle their pain. Instead, she reaches for the thing sure to cure them both this night.
"I'd say you've set some pretty high expectations." She lets her voice go low, seductive, as her eyes make a very obvious perusal of his body. His black jeans are quite tight, tight enough to help her imagination along nicely. She lets her gaze linger on his crotch, ignoring the burning in her cheeks. Emma isn't usually this forward, but something about this man is making her act differently tonight.
When she drags her eyes to his, he's burning. He takes another long sip of his beverage before setting the mug down on the counter, advancing toward her. Forgetting his reluctance, he's got both hands on her now, the left tangled in her hair to hide the ugly scars.
"Care to test them? I assure you, I'm not a bluffing man."
He's so close, but still not touching his body to hers, still keeping his distance. He's waiting on her, she understands in a flash of awareness, waiting for her to make the final decision about what happens here this night.
It's oddly chivalrous, and for a moment, the urge to bolt seizes her. But it fades as she meets his eyes again. He isn't looking at her with that odd mix of emotion she gets from Graham, with concern and love and lust and worry all tangled into one. No, his eyes are simply on fire with lust alone, with desire for her, and that's all she needs.
She's the one to close the distance between them, to rise just slightly on her toes to press her mouth against his. That first brush is tentative, a test as to whether or not she's in, but as her arms wrap around his shoulders, Killian stops holding back.
Emma gasps against his mouth as the onslaught begins. His body molds to hers, pressing her into the counter as his mouth slants hungrily over hers. He tastes like chocolate and rum, and his lips are velvety soft even as they bruise hers with their intensity.
His hands leave her hair, roaming her body freely and then he's squeezing her ass, hauling her body against his and up onto the counter. He settles her on the very edge, humming with pleasure as she wraps her legs around his waist. Her hands move across his shoulders, down to the buttons of his shirt, popping one open after the other. The hair on his chest is soft and she shivers with anticipation of what it's going to feel like against her own bare flesh.
It's as she's pulling his shirt out of the waist of his jeans that her elbow knocks into her mug, sending chocolate and ceramic flying. The crash of the shattering mug startles them both and they pull apart breathing heavily. Killian's shirt is hanging from his shoulders, his hair wild where Emma has tugged on it, and his jeans are straining in what appears to be a nearly painful manner.
"And here I thought a swan a graceful creature."
His wry comment sends them both into a fit of giggles, and Emma clings to his open shirt to keep herself from falling off the counter, she's laughing so hard. They're both flushed, and his lips are a deep red from their kissing, but the mood is broken. The desperate intensity has given way to an ease she hadn't expected, and Killian doesn't bother to refasten the buttons of his shirt as he pulls away from her.
"Best be cleaning this up else Mr. Smee will have words for me in the morning." He grins, leaning forward to steal a soft kiss before he turns away in search of a broom.
"Mr. Smee?" Emma stays on the counter, her fingers lightly skimming her lips when he isn't looking. Her body hasn't quite come down from the high of kissing him, and she's not ready to call it a night, but in some ways this time out isn't entirely unwelcome. Kissing Killian is intense. She now understands what women mean when they say a man sets them on fire; she feels like she could burn the place to the ground. It's never been this way, not even with….never.
"Mr. Smee," Killian confirms, returning with a dustpan and a rag. He sweeps the broken pieces up first, chuckling as he does. "Mr. Smee is my cook. This kitchen is his domain. He's a might bit touchy about it."
"Do you even serve food?"
"Something like that." He winks at her, tossing the broken crockery into the rubbish bin and returning to wipe up the spilled liquid with the rag. Emma watches the ripple of muscle across his chest and abs, the open shirt doing wonderful things to her.
"I'm sorry about the mess," she apologizes belatedly as she watches him finish cleaning up. That should have been the first thing out of her mouth, she realizes with a flush of shame. He invites her into his kitchen and she isn't there for ten minutes before she's breaking things.
"Nothing to apologize for, love." He drops the rag into the sink, wrinkling his nose at it and wiping his hands on his jeans. "But perhaps we can take this to a less dangerous location."
She hesitates just long enough for his eyes to begin to cloud over, the warm blue turning stormy and dark. His expression closes, the once open grin tensing into a forced smile and tight jaw. "Though it is late," he continues, pulling his shirt closed. "You must be wanting to get home."
"Not really," she says without thinking, and the light comes back into his expression, though he's still guarded.
"I've an apartment above the bar." He points to a door at the back of the kitchen, licking his lips as he takes her in, disheveled and looking thoroughly kissed on the counter. There's a lingering question there, a chance for her to take an out and return to her own apartment.
Emma hasn't come this far to back down now.
"Sure you want to let me up there since I've already damaged your kitchen?"
She's doing the same thing, giving him an out. He can blame it on her clumsiness, or make a joke and send her on her way. They're both dancing around their insecurities, a fear of being unwanted so tangible she can nearly reach out and grasp it, but she can't put words to it. She knows a joke will get them past it, and so it's a joke she offers.
He grins, advancing on her. "Guess I'll just have to keep close watch on you then, my lady." He's got her over his shoulder, a surprised shriek escaping from her lips at the sudden change in scenery.
"Nice view," she tells him as she laughs, eyeing his denim-clad backside appreciatively up the stairs. His grip on her only tightens, one muscular arm wrapped around her thighs to keep her in place.
He laughs right along with her, depositing her on her feet once they've gained the second floor. It's warm in the apartment, the source of the heat a wood stove glowing with a low fire in one corner.
But the real surprise comes from a view of an entirely different sort. The entire eastern wall of the apartment is glass, facing out over the ocean. The view is something Emma has only ever dreamed of, the ocean spread out beneath a moonlit sky as far as the eye can see. Specks of light dot the scene, ships passing in the night.
"This is…"
"Beautiful," he says quietly from behind her, his arms wrapping around her waist and tugging her back against him. His shirt has fallen open again, and Emma can feel the heat of his skin through her clothes. There's something in his voice, something that tells her he isn't talking about the view or the ocean, but that's veering into dangerous territory so she turns in his arms and kisses him.
It isn't a gentle kiss and he reciprocates in kind, yanking her jacket off her shoulders and tossing it to the floor while he kisses her. He's got his left hand back in her hair, yanking her into the position he wants her. Emma moans into his lips, pressing herself closer, shoving his shirt off his shoulders impatiently. She wants to feel his skin on hers, wants to feel the heat of him down to her toes.
They're moving across the room slowly, leaving a trail of clothing behind them. Emma is down to her bra and jeans by the time Killian falls back onto the couch, dragging Emma with him.
The frenzy slows as he settles her onto his lap, his movements more languid as he strokes her exposed skin, his kisses less bruising as they move along her neck and down to the swell of her breasts. But Emma doesn't want gentle; gentle feels too much like a promise of something else, of feeling that she doesn't have room for.
She reaches between them, yanking open his belt and jeans and plunging her hand inside. She's rewarded with a gasp and groan from the man beneath her, the silky heat in her hand responding instantly.
"Gods, Emma…" He's never said her name before, not her first name, and not in that throaty groan of pleasure. She likes it more than she should. It gives her a rush to have him like this beneath her, to watch his head fall back and his eyes slide closed as his breathing becomes erratic, all from the touch of her hand.
It doesn't take long before he's grabbing her hand, lacing his fingers in hers before hauling her arm behind her back, breathing heavily. "Sorry, love, can't let you keep up with that or we're going to have a problem finishing what we've started."
His eyes meet hers, heavy and glazed over with wanting, but then his mouth is on her again and she can't think beyond the touch of his lips, his hands. A rush of cool air on her chest is quickly replaced by his mouth, and then it's her turn to moan and writhe in his lap, his tongue working over her flesh even as his hands press down on her hips.
She wants him, wants him without all the fabric in the way, though the delicious friction of being in his lap is hard to break away from, even to pull off her jeans. She presses her hips to his one last time, a delicious shiver of pleasure shooting through her before sliding back on his legs. He makes a noise of protest, reaching for her, but then he sees her intentions and grins.
"Let me help you," is all he says, a devilish gleam in his eyes. They never did get to turning on a light, but between the glow of the fire and the pale moonlight, Emma can see plenty. His breath is coming fast and shallow, his cheeks flushed and eyes bright.
She can't imagine she looks any different.
Killian reaches for her, pushing her hands away to drag down the zipper of her jeans, painfully slow. Emma doesn't have the patience for it, and she's shimmying out of her jeans and underwear all at once, leaving her naked before him.
He stares at her body for a beat, his expression one of rapture. It makes her self conscious to have him staring at her life that, so she settles back in his lap, the rough fabric of his jeans biting into the sensitive skin on her thighs. Her weight in his lap makes freeing him of the offending pants more difficult, but she manages, trailing kisses along his throat and chest as she does.
"Bedroom…is….down….the….hall," he gasps out, shifting his weight on the couch with the intention of getting up. He wants Emma Swan in his bed, and he wants her now. He wanted to take his time with her, savor her, but all he can think about now is getting her in his bed so he can get inside her.
"Here is fine," she manages to tell him, sliding her legs along his. He's hard and ready for her, so ready, and his erection presses up between their stomachs as she brings her mouth to his again.
He wants to argue, to tell her he's a gentleman despite appearances to the contrary, and she's a rare woman that deserves the softness of a bed, but she's rising on her knees above him and he loses the ability to speak as she sheathes him in her body.
Something in him snaps at the sensation of her warmth, the dampness between her legs an encouragement he didn't really need but savors nonetheless. It's confirmation she wants him just as badly as he wants her, and then he's flipping them over and driving into her, hard. He wants to possess this woman, to brand her with his body so she'll come back to him beyond this one night, so she won't stay away for weeks at a time.
He's mildly conscious of her nails digging into his ass, but it's her breathless moans and undulating hips that capture his full attention. He's kissing her anywhere he can reach, sucking and nipping at her flesh, determined to bring her body under his control, to send her flying off the edge with him.
"C'mon, Emma," he growls into her ear, angling his hips in hope of a repeat of the soft gasp that tells him he's on the right track. He hears it, the gasping moan, and her legs tighten around him, pulling him deeper.
She shatters beneath him, his name escaping her lips in a breathless sigh as her body tenses. It doesn't take much more than that for him, and then he's joining her, his body boneless as he struggles to catch his breath and keep his weight in his arms.
Emma rides out the waves of pleasure, her body tingling down to her toes. Killian's warmth and weight are the cheery on top of this very pleasurable sundae, and she can already feel the ache between her legs where he is still buried inside her. Somewhere in the back of her head, she's thanking herself for keeping up with her birth control pills in spite of the depressing state of her sex life, but mostly she's just wondering how soon would be too soon to ask for a repeat performance.
Killian is kissing her again, soft kisses that are unhurried. He reaches for one of her hands, twining their fingers together as he eases his weight off of her. Warning bells are ringing inside her head at this show of gentleness, but she kisses him back anyway. She's dreading heading back out into the cold, back to her apartment, where she will undoubtedly lie awake tonight, replaying this scene in her mind.
He pulls away too soon, and Emma follows him off the couch, reaching for her discarded clothes as he stretches. He sees the motion and frowns. "Where are you going?"
"Home?" It's a question and that's not how she intended it to come out.
"Stay. Come to bed. I promise, there is much more where that came from." He wiggles his brows at her and grins, but she can see the hurt in his eyes before they go hard.
"I better not." She's being firm now, quickly getting redressed. He pulls on his jeans, watching her as she bundles herself back into her jacket before disappearing down the hall.
Good, she thinks as she reaches for her boots, shoving her socks back on her feet. It will be easier to go if he isn't standing right there, looking for all the world like he wants to beg her to stay.
But that isn't the case at all. He's returned with a peacoat, obviously his, and a thick wool scarf, much warmer than the thin material Emma has wound around her neck. "I don't suppose you'll let me walk you home," he says quietly, and Emma knows he isn't going to press the issue. He's hurt, but he's like her in this way – he'll be damned if he calls her on it, damned if he fights for her company. He'll let her go because he doesn't think he can win.
It breaks her heart to hear it, but Emma needs to protect herself now. Being in his arms felt a little too good, a little too much like something else, like someone else, and she's going to panic if she can't get out of there soon.
She can't speak to answer his question, so she doesn't, shaking her head firmly as she finishes lacing her boots. He's coming closer, holding out the warm coat. "Then at least wear something a trifle warmer."
She should say no to this as well, no to the warm coat and soft scarf he's bundling her into before she can protest. She isn't sure if it's a way to ensure she comes back – she can't make off with his coat and scarf, never to be seen again – or if it's genuine concern for her that drives his actions. It's probably both, but she's too tired to fight this. She knows she'll be back, even if she can't look him in the eye now with the sea spread out under the moonlight at her back.
She lets him kiss her before she goes, a brutal kiss full of the pleading he won't vocalize and then she's on her way, the cold night air almost instantly penetrating the warmth of his coat, her body still flushed from their activities. She tells herself leaving was the right choice; she has to work in the morning, and she doesn't do waking up in a man's arms.
It's a lie, that much is obvious. She can feel the weight in the pit of her stomach, and every limb in her body is fighting to return to Killian's beautiful living room, to crawl into his bed with him and let him worship her body all over again.
But Emma can't. She just can't and she thinks somewhere inside of him, Killian can't either. She's been lost before, in fact, she's pretty sure she's never really stopped being lost. She can't help but think that Killian is a bit lost, too.
They're just two lonely people, caught together in a moment of time and united by a mutual longing, a mutual need but beyond that, nothing – just two ships, passing in the night.
The walk home is freezing and Emma tells herself her the tear streaking down her cheek is a result of the biting wind, nothing more.