Content note: This chapter contains explicit sexual content.

Killian took a deep breath as he stared at his screen, trying to think of what to write to Swan. Tomorrow was Christmas Eve; she would wake up and go to work. He knew she'd been extremely stressed regarding her workload, with so many of her coworkers on holiday. She'd mentioned her fear that she'd have to work on Christmas Day, and he'd selfishly hoped she wouldn't be trapped at the office (what office, he still didn't know) so that he'd have a chance at an enjoyable holiday. And now, it no longer affected his holiday. Could he ever have a pleasant Christmas?

This holiday was shite, that was for sure.

My lovely princess,

Again, I am so sorry to leave you like this. While you are one day closer to our reunion (our real reunion), I am still in the past, on the first day of our separation. Please forgive me in advance because I'm sure that each letter is going to get more and more desperate.

I can't stop now, can I? I have to keep going.

It's nearly two o'clock, and while my flight isn't until seven, I barely even have an hour before I must finish these letters and leave the office, if I'm to make that damn flight. But for you, it's Christmas Eve. I hope that you were able to get your work done so that you would have a chance at a peaceful, uninterrupted Christmas Day.

At the risk of ruining everything, I sort of dislike Christmas. I got dumped on Christmas one year; I do not recommend experiencing this. This was the life-altering heartbreak I mentioned to you long ago; I nearly drank myself to death afterwards. It was my friends who saved me (well, B really. G never knows how to help, and J often delights in making things worse.)

I'm telling you this now so that tomorrow's letter can be appropriately festive, without any sort of Scrooge-esque attitude to spoil the mood.

I'm not sure how to finish this letter. It was supposed to have a point, but I think perhaps I'm panicking at the realization that I have to get on a plane in a few hours, and go a week and a half without you.

Truly yours, from miles away,
Your Captain

And now, it would be Christmas Day. He imagined that she would sleep in, open her gifts and enjoy breakfast, as she'd planned. He'd had so much in store for her: he had planned to deliver the necklace to her doorstep, along with the most erotic letter he could pen. And then after dinner, they would spend the evening drinking Old Fashioneds, one of her favorite drinks, and watch one of his favorite classic films.

He might as well try to give her as much of that plan as he could. He quickly closed his office door; word had probably spread regarding his predicament, and hopefully his colleagues would be inclined to give him space rather than offer condolences. And he needed privacy for what he was about to write.

My dearest Swan,

By now, I hope you've opened your gift. If not, please open it. I'm sorry that I'm going to have to deliver it to you still in the packaging it arrived in, but hopefully you won't be too offended.

Have you opened it? Good.

I hope that you like it. I couldn't resist a necklace fit for my beautiful Swan, and I imagine that this will look quite lovely on you. And now, for another gift to make up for my absence, I suggest that you begin by putting on your lovely gift and taking off everything else.

I want you to lie back on your bed, and begin by slowly caressing your skin, from your neck to your breasts, down your stomach, and finally across your inner thighs. Are they as creamy white as I've imagined? Stroke yourself all over for me, paying special attention to any particular spot that feels unusually erogenous. You know that if I were there with you, I'd find those spots and tease them, tickle them, caress them, until you were squirming with need.

I hope you have new batteries, darling. I think you would feel incredible if you were to slowly drag your favorite toy across your nipples. I'm sure they're already nice and hard for me. If they're not, then the vibrations across them should do the trick. And if they are, said vibrations will just make you moan even more.

Are you dripping for me yet, my Swan? Touch yourself and tell me.

I'm sure that right now, you would feel incredible if you were to hold your vibrator against your aching clit, but I have a much better idea. I want you to turn it off and take advantage of its phallic shape. While I promise you that it's nothing compared to the real thing, I still think you should slowly push it into your sweet pussy. Do that for me, love.

I want you to use one hand to fuck yourself with your toy, and the other to play with whatever you'd like: your breasts or your clit. All that matters is that you let yourself go and feel intense pleasure knowing that, because you are fucking yourself for me, I'm really the one who's fucking you.

I hope that you've enjoyed that, love. I desperately wish that I were there to really make it a reality for you (me being the one pleasuring you, I mean). I've taken quite the risk writing this to you; it's bad form to sport an erection at work, so I'll be refusing to leave my office until I can get thoughts of you writhing naked on your bed out of my mind.

Merry Christmas, my dear Swan. I cannot predict very much about what I'll be doing while you read this; I can only promise you that I will be trying desperately to find a way to watch It's a Wonderful Life while drinking an Old Fashioned. I will not begrudge you if you make other plans, and I'll obviously be happy to watch the film and drink with you, together, when I return.

Always yours,
Your Captain

He shifted uncomfortably, his cock pushing comically at his slacks, and he felt overwhelmed with shame. His father was dying, and he was about to desert his girlfriend without giving her any way to contact him or protest his sudden departure. He was at work, and his boss was giving him however much time he needed to deal with his family emergency.

And so naturally, all he could think about was how badly he wanted to fuck Swan and forget all his problems.

He swallowed and adjusted his erection. Clearly, he wasn't ready for Swan's affection if he would even imagine that sharing intimacy with her would be for his benefit only. He shook his head wearily and continued writing.

My dear Swan,

Today is Boxing Day here in the United Kingdom. Essentially, it's Black Friday, but after Christmas instead of after Thanksgiving, and there's lots of football to watch (real football, obviously; I suppose I've just revealed that I'm not a bloody Yankee). Except it's not really Boxing Day. It's still December 23rd, and I am still in my office, desperate to stay home in Boston with you. It's been a long time since I moved to Boston from London, for college and subsequently law school, but it's home now, forever and always.

Now that Christmas is over, I can tell you about the time I got dumped on Christmas. When I started law school, a prominent Scottish businessman took an interest in my budding career. Unfortunately, one of my greatest regrets is that, young fool that I was, I took an interest in his wife.

The affair lasted about a year, and culminated with her putting me up in a lavish apartment. I was, for lack of a better description, extremely imprudent, and I switched from maritime law to family law under the assumption that I could graduate, pass the bar, facilitate her divorce, and marry her myself. She'd been curious about my change in legal interests, but I lied and claimed that I simply found family law much more fascinating than maritime law. Which isn't entirely untrue, but obviously, that wasn't the real reason for my change in focus.

On Christmas Day, I finally told her the truth. It was my Christmas gift to her—that I was going to free her from her unhappy marriage. She was shocked; she had never seen our relationship as more than a dalliance. She had no desire to leave her husband at all, and never planned to. Worse, I learned that her husband had been aware of our relationship from the start; in fact, his wife's sexual interest in me was one of the reasons he had taken me under his wing.

To her credit, I suppose, I don't think she ever meant to mislead me. She'd never seemed terribly worried about getting caught (after all, her husband knew already), and she never spoke about the future. I feel like a fool; I should have noticed. Or at least, I should have waited until the lease on the apartment was up for renewal before taking such a risk.

And that's why I ended up living on my boat for a few months (I'm sure you know what the Boston rental market is like). It's also why I don't like sailing in the cold; I love my boat, but it's more difficult to crank up the heat than it is in an apartment. You'll have to forgive me for not taking you out on the water until spring arrives. (This is New England, so probably May? June if we're lucky? But I digress.)

Christmas is a reminder of my own childish mistakes. Knowing that I will spend this already difficult holiday dealing with my father and his impending death makes me dread it even more than I usually do. I have not even left yet, and I'm already longing to come home.

Yours more than ever,
Your Captain

He knew it was a lot. It wasn't just Milah, although he owed Swan an explanation. He knew he was finally offering her information he'd been withholding intentionally: that he was from London, and that he was a lawyer.

But ready or not, it was time to come clean. He couldn't do it all at once—just the thought of how she might react, knowing that he'd asked her out, was enough to make him nauseated—but he could get some of it out of the way. After all, they were in a relationship, and had been for weeks. It was strange that she didn't know more about him at this point.

If he was going to return from London and finally show himself to her, she needed to know more than just his taste in media, his sexual fantasies, and his love of sailing.

But what else could he tell her? It was hard to think, given how angry and helpless he was in the face of the current situation. He looked at the clock; it was nearing half-past, and he needed to leave by three to get home and to the airport in time. It had been years since he'd traveled internationally, but he knew it was going to take much longer to get through Logan Airport's Terminal E than it would Terminal C. He needed to write quickly, and write whatever was on his mind. Something, he reasoned, was better than leaving her with nothing.

My wonderful Swan,

I admit that I am very, very angry right now, just thinking about my current situation. My father abandoned my family when I was quite young. I never understood why. In fact, I still don't understand; this contact is the first that he's made since then. I was raised by my mother until she died of a broken heart (or cirrhosis, more likely, but as a romantic soul, I'd like to believe it was the broken heart), at which point my older brother found me and took me in. My hands are shaking with rage as I type this. I have not forgiven my father.

What's more, I am unsure whether or not I want to forgive him. What sort of man am I if I cannot forgive someone for mistakes made years ago? What sort of person doesn't give a second chance to a dying man trying to make amends? But I also feel insulted; must I really be the bigger person here? I am under no obligation to forgive, especially when he's made no effort to reach out to me until now. And he is taking me away from my life here in the States, when I'm finally happy for the first time in years. My thoughts are a mess right now, love. I don't know how to feel.

I've spent these last several weeks being so careful when I write to you, trying to highlight my strengths and omit my faults. I'm embarrassed to reveal this incredible flaw, but I am trying to understand it. And somehow, by forcing myself to admit this insecurity to someone, especially someone I care about and whose opinion matters very much to me, I hope that I can come to terms with it.

I shall take a moment now, before I move on to my next letter, to remind myself that at least you are one day closer to the day I return.

Missing you terribly, even from my desk at work,
Your Captain

His hand was beginning to cramp from typing so much. Typically, he would stop to stretch and massage it, and if his caseload was particularly heavy, he might enlist one of the paralegals to help. But there was no time, and he wasn't working on legal documents.

My Swan,

Words cannot express how badly I do not want to get on this damn plane tonight. I don't want to see my father. I don't want to assist in putting his affairs in order. I don't want to deal with any of this. I just want to talk to you. Or write to you. But really, talk to you.

I would tell you everything about me.

I would tell you that some years ago, I was in an accident, and I sustained major injuries to one of my hands. An expert surgeon, years of physical therapy, and a great deal of expensive topical creams have all provided me with as much range of motion, dexterity, and lack of scarring I could have possibly expected after such a serious injury. I was lucky to have kept my hand.

It's why my letters to you have all been typed. While I've trained my right hand to be dominant, I'm much more comfortable with a keyboard. Typing has the added benefit of providing me with regular exercise of my left fingers.

I could have told you this earlier, but I was nervous that providing you with this information would result in you suspiciously eyeing the left hand of every man in our building. I told myself that I would tell you whenever I was ready for you to know who I was, and then I never felt ready.

Well, love, I'm telling you now.

It's vexing that I'm still so insecure about this trait of mine. It's been years since the accident, and while I'm not one to brag about sexual exploits, nor do I wish to alienate you by discussing them, my minor disability has never been a hindrance of my sex life. And yet I always wonder if it's distracting, or perhaps if some women only went to bed with me out of pity. This is so foolish. I know you would never care. I don't know why it bothers me so much.

Missing you always,
Your Captain

What else could he talk about? He needed three more letters.

Dearest Swan,

I cannot wait to see you. Of course, I've seen you—and I know you've seen me—but the idea of seeing you, and having you really see me, with recognition in your eyes, fills me with so much hope.

I cannot wait to really spend time with you, whether it's just relaxing in one of our apartments, or walking through Boston, or sailing in the harbor. I really cannot wait to take you sailing.

I love my damn boat. I told you I loved Peter Pan: I named her the Jolly Roger in honor of Hook's pirate ship. I used to think I was the boy who never grew up, but with only one fully functioning hand, sometimes I think maybe I've been cast in a more villainous role (also, I'm an attorney, so I've got that against me as well).

I knew that no matter where I went to university, I had to be on the coast so I could sail. I didn't buy the Jolly until I'd moved here, but it was one of the first things I did after the semester started. I've traveled to the west coast a few times since moving to the States, and I've also spent time down in Florida. But I'm glad I chose Boston; it's incredibly European, while still maintaining the American, "Fuck you and the horse you rode in on" mentality. And all the Revolutionary War history keeps me grounded.

I've spent a lot of time on the Jolly lately—not sailing; just relaxing—thinking about you. Do you like the sea? Do you get seasick? Did you really just make a lucky guess when you nicknamed me the Captain? Your letters reveal so much about who you are, but there's so much I've yet to learn about you. And I'm looking forward to that.

Still yours,
Your Captain

Two more letters. Two more. It was twenty of three. Twenty minutes before he needed to leave. What else could he tell her?

There was just Liam.

He couldn't tell her about Liam.

How could he? Liam was … even more than Milah, Liam wasn't a first or a sixth or a tenth date subject. "I witnessed my brother's death and it irrevocably altered the course of my life in every way and I have never truly recovered" seemed a tad overwrought.

What had happened with Milah was so absurd that he imagined it had been torn from a soap opera; he didn't often laugh about it, but it wasn't an entirely taboo subject. He and Belle would occasionally one-up each other, with him countering her, "My father and fiancé arranged my engagement behind my back and tried to have me committed when I found out and tried to end the relationship" story with his own tale.

But Liam …

No one in his life really knew the details besides his cousins (did his father even know? Had the information found its way to whatever pub the man had crawled into?). Liam's death occurred before college in the States was even on Killian's radar, and all his friends in Boston knew was that his brother had died tragically. It was something in his past that stayed there, like whatever had happened with Graham's upbringing or Belle's mother.

But he could imagine that Graham would eventually tell Merida whatever it was that he couldn't seem to tell his friends, and that if Belle were to ever find someone else, she might share with them her mother's story. How could he possibly be with Swan and hide from her what had happened to Liam? It would be like hiding a piece of himself.

He had no choice. She deserved to know.

My darling,

Okay. I have to tell you what happened. I write each letter thinking that I couldn't possibly tell you this, but I have to. You'll find out eventually anyway.

I told you that I was angry with my father for abandoning me, and that I was raised by my brother after my mother died. My brother was ten years older than me, but he was just a kid himself; it wasn't fair that he had to raise me. But he did the best he could, given the situation; I'd like to think that the majority of my faults were inevitable, and would have only been worse without his guidance.

But now I am heading back to London alone. Just me. No brother.

My brother was a sailor. A damn good sailor. He couldn't afford his own boat for a long time, and so when I would beg him to take me sailing, we'd end up on a tall ship—those ships that take tourists—and he would pay a little extra to have the crew teach me a few things. When I got older, we pooled some of our savings together and got a small sailboat, and we'd take it out whenever we could.

You might be able to guess where this story is heading. When I was sixteen and Liam was twenty-six, we were sailing in moderately bad weather; it was manageable enough that we could have kept sailing, but dismal enough that it wasn't really enjoyable. A fog rolled in suddenly enough that we got stuck out on the water with poor visibility, so we immediately began sailing back.

Another boat hit us. It was bad enough that it was crewed by a group of university students who had very little sailing experience. It was worse that they were drunk. And, of course, the worst part of all was that my brother drowned. I tried to save him; my hand got stuck between the two boats.

It took a while to reach a settlement; the university students came from wealthy families, and their attorneys argued that we shouldn't have been on the water, that Liam was drunk, that I was too young and inexperienced. But it's hard to make those arguments when they shouldn't have been on the water, when they were drunk, when they were too inexperienced.

I recovered—as well as I possibly could—from the accident and lived with a second cousin while I finished school. I came to the States for university and law school on scholarships and on the rest of the money I got from the settlement.

I don't talk about what happened much. Most of the time, if someone asks me about my hand, I just say that I injured it in a traumatic accident and leave it at that. It's not that I think people will blame me for his death, even if I do still feel guilty for not being able to save him. It's that I don't want pity; I don't want to be that tragic figure.

Sometimes, I think Liam must be ashamed of me, not only for my refusal to talk about what happened to him, but also my choice of career. I wanted to study maritime law for him. In his memory. And instead, I chose family law for a woman who never planned on having a future with me. It's not that I dislike my field; on the contrary, it's fulfilling in a way that maritime law never would have been for me. But like I said, I let my brother down. I couldn't save him from death, and I've no way to honor his memory. And he raised me. He deserves better.

And now I have to go face our father, who abandoned both of us and left Liam to be a father figure when he was barely sixteen. None of this is fair.

I'm sorry to have unloaded this all on you. I've no more secrets, to be honest. Just these. And on that cheery note, I suppose I'll end this letter.

Desperate to see you,
Your Captain

One more day: New Year's Eve. But there was nothing left of him to give her, and it was three o'clock. He had to leave now. He quickly packed up his laptop and thumbed through his phone apps to call for an Uber; the T would take much too long to get him home.

Though it was a short drive home, less than twenty minutes, he immediately pulled his computer back out after he climbed into the car. He wouldn't have time to write much at home—he'd hardly have time to print the letters and pack before heading back out and getting to Logan.

But what to say? That he'd be home "tomorrow," ready to sweep her up into his arms? Only if she'd have him. And the thought of rejection pained him suddenly, as though a red, hot poker were being thrust into his chest. He wanted her so badly, the thought of her not feeling the same way was unbearable.

But didn't she want him? She was the one who wanted to meet. She was the one who'd labeled what they shared a relationship. Why was he terrified she didn't reciprocate? She explicitly did, after all.

He suppressed a groan as he realized it, not wanting to invite the curiosity of the driver:

Because he didn't know if the depth of her feelings was the same as the depth of his.

Bloody hell.

He was in love with her.

It didn't feel the way it had before, with Milah. He hadn't thought himself capable of this emotion anymore anyway. But yes, it was love, burning brightly in his chest, more strongly than it ever had before, conveying a strange lightness that made him forget, just for a moment, that he was about to leave for London.

Leave for London, and leave behind the woman he loved.

He finished typing the last letter as the car pulled up to his complex.

Swan,

About two months ago, my friend J came over for a drink and he rode the elevator with you. He promptly dared me to ask you out, and I've always loved a challenge.

I am eternally grateful that my insufferably obnoxious friend gave me the push I needed to finally try to talk to you. As I've told you already, I had been apprehensive about approaching you, not wanting to hurt you by being closed off, or turning things into a one-night stand. His dare forced me to find a way to talk to you and get to know you, a way I'd been trying to find for months.

These past two months have been more wonderful than I ever could have imagined. And I don't just mean that we maintained contact, or that we've gotten to know each other so well. I don't just mean that we've been essentially dating, and even having what I firmly believe amounts to a healthy sex life.

I mean that I have fallen hopelessly in love with you. It's been years since the last time I was in love with anyone, and even now, I question how much of that was love, and how much was just infatuation with a woman who knew she was using me. But this, what I feel, is certainly, truly love.

I need to know how you feel. I know how impossible it might be that you might feel the same way, but I'd rather risk losing what we have if it means gaining something even more incredible. I cannot keep doing this, exchanging letters back and forth, when I desperately want to hold you in my arms and kiss you madly and tell you how happy I am that you're in my life.

And now I have to leave for London, and spend several days unable to run up to your door and profess my feelings for you. But, my love, I cannot wait any longer. I have to tell you, before I leave, so I have to do it here, on paper, instead of speaking the words aloud in front of you.

I love you.

Tomorrow (for you; the distant future, for me) I shall come to your door and finally show you who I am. I can only hope that our first true meeting is the opposite of all of the nightmares I've had about it.

Love,
With love,
With all my love,
Thank god I can finally close a letter like this,
Your Captain

Sorry for how long this chapter is, given that most of it is text from Killian's letters that you've already seen in With Affection. I hope that you still enjoyed the chapter, though, and I'd love to know what you think of it.