I want to start off by thanking you all for you incredible love and patience with this story. It's the longest thing I have ever written and a serious labor of love. I know I am terrible with responding to reviews, but I want you to know I read (and appreciate, and cry over) every single one. I'll try to do better with responding for this last bit. While this is the last chapter, it is not the end of the story. There will be an epilogue, hopefully delivered to you within the next couple weeks.
Now, off to the story. This chapter is rated a hard M, as it's basically entirely smut and fluff. I very much hope you enjoy it. :)
-/-
Emma: How warm?
Killian: You've been outside, love. You know the temperature.
She rolls her eyes and pulls her sweater over her head, smoothing down the static with her palm. When she wore this sweater a month ago, she had noticed how Killian's eyes lingered on her collarbones. At the time, she had thought she was making a mess of herself with the new buffalo wing recipe Granny was trying, but now -
Now she knows he likes to drag his teeth along the sharp line of bone, tongue pressing at the hollow of her throat when she tilts her head back. She knows how his fingers squeeze tighter at her thigh when she chokes out his name, almost like he can barely restrain himself from -
Her phone buzzes again on the bedspread, and she shakes herself from her thoughts, feeling like a horny adolescent.
Killian: My sweatshirt is always available if you catch a chill.
Killian: Though I intend to keep you warm.
Well.
That's certainly doesn't help.
Because now - now she's thinking about the way he bit at her bottom lip and curled his fingers around the back of her thigh as he pressed her to the wall of his brewing room. How he licked into her mouth, curling his tongue around hers until she gasped and he pressed harder with his hips, practically pinning her to the wall and -
Her phone buzzes in her hand and she startles, dropping the damn thing to the floor.
Killian: See you soon, darling.
She smiles, the heat in her belly easily distracted by the glowing warmth that seems to start in her chest and flow outward. Like tiny pinpricks of light that settle in the swell of her cheeks. It's strange, she thinks as she tugs on her boots. It feels exactly the same as any other night spent in the company of Killian. She doesn't feel the strings of apprehension or anxiety that typically plague her before a date. She just - she's -
She's happy.
Really happy.
-/-
She meets him in the hallway, too impatient to wait any longer. He frowns when he sees her, his fingers curled around an unmarked brown paper bag.
"What are you doing?"
She finds herself mirroring his frown, glancing down at herself to make sure she doesn't accidentally have a dryer sheet sticking to her pants. It's been known to happen, and Killian always sighs when he plucks it from her clothes and shoves it into his jacket pocket.
She shifts on her feet, no dryer sheets as far as she can tell. God, she hopes her hair isn't still a wild display of static from earlier. Maybe she should ask Killian if he has any of those dryer sheets on him now. "Uh, meeting you downstairs?"
"Swan," his lips settle into a firm line, and he takes a step closer, his hand finding her hip as he walks them back towards her apartment. "I'm supposed to pick you up at your apartment."
She still doesn't understand. "Killian, you are at my apartment."
"No, but I'm supposed to come to your door. I want to do this proper, love."
When she does nothing more than stare at him blankly, he rolls his eyes and shifts the paper bag in his hand to the other, reaching in his back pocket for his keys.
"Are you serious?"
She watches as he opens her apartment door with his spare, kicking it open with his boot. He nods and she rolls her eyes.
"In you go."
She sighs and steps over the threshold, crossing her arms over her chest as she raises both eyebrows. When he does nothing but arch an eyebrow silently in response, she fights the urge to kick his shin.
"Close the door."
"Oh my god."
"Swan - "
She slams the door as hard as she can, ignoring the muffled sound of laughter through the door. It's still and silent for a moment, and then his knuckles rap against the wood. For a second, she considers not answering, snickering in the dark hallway of her apartment. But her heart is somewhere in her throat at this stupid man and his insistence that this be done proper and she -
He knocks again. "Bloody hell, woman. Don't make me beg."
She swings the door back open with a laugh, wedging herself against the jamb. "Can I help you?"
"Aye, I'm here to pick you up for our date," he grins, his smile so wide and beautiful and genuinely happy she's struck with the overwhelming desire to taste that feeling on his lips. She hesitates, still not used to the freedom of action when it comes to him and the way he makes her feel. But then his gaze lingers on the jut of her collarbones beneath her sweater, eyes flashing dark, and she's reaching for him just as he's reaching for her.
She stumbles a step backwards when his lips find hers, his palm at the small of her back the only thing keeping her upright. The bag that was in his hand drops somewhere near their feet but she doesn't care - not when his teeth pull at her bottom lip and his thumb presses at her chin until she opens for him, his tongue warm and wet against her own. She groans, fingers inching over his shoulders to curl in his hair, her back pressed against the wall of her tiny foyer. What started as hungry and devouring slowly settles into simmering heat, his mouth gentling against hers.
He pecks her once, twice, three times before pulling away, letting his forehead rest against hers. She smiles when he breathes out slow, her palm slipping from his shoulder to rest over his heart.
"You ready to go?"
She's ready for him to press his mouth back to hers, to slip his hand beneath her shirt and drag his palm up until his fingers are curled around her breast. She's ready for him to walk them backwards and press her down into her mattress, remove her clothes until she's gasping and arching and panting beneath him.
She rubs her fingertips against his warm flannel and nudges her nose with his. There'll be plenty of time for that later. Now, she just - she wants to be with him.
"That depends," she presses a soft kiss to his lips when she feels him tense, reassuring him with her touch. She's done running from this. From him. "What's in that bag?"
-/-
He brought her a bear claw, still warm from the bakery down the street that she goes to when she lands a big skip. When she's feeling powerful and special and on top of the world.
She licks the sugar from her fingers in the passenger seat of his car, thinking maybe the occasion calls for it.
"Are breakfast pastries a part of the Killian Jones dating experience?"
"Just for you, love," he winks at her as they edge out of the parking lot, turning left on Castro and making their way towards the docks. "Besides, I couldn't very well bring you flowers, now could I?"
-/-
He's right. She would have hated flowers. She would have hated a fancy restaurant with stuffy clothes and expensive wine lists and seventeen kinds of desserts on an overpriced menu.
But she loves how his car smells like old leather and the apple pies he gets from Ruby's. That his usual parking spot at the docks is marked with a crooked anchor that Ned the Harbormaster scrawled Captain Hook on because once Killian decorated his ship like the Jolly Roger and dressed up in a ridiculous costume for the kids at Halloween and Ned never let him live it down. She loves that he didn't string the boat with lights or put on romantic music. That there's just the usual Chinese takeout tucked beneath a stack of blankets, the sweatshirt she loves to steal from him folded carefully on top.
He scratches at the back of his neck and watches her from the corner of his eye as she lingers on the old boardwalk, her throat tight and eyes burning. It's just -
"If you want to do something different, we can. I thought - "
She shakes her head, pressing up on her toes to catch his lips in a quick kiss. She's still not quite used to it. How she can do that now.
"S'perfect," she mutters, stepping carefully onto the boat.
But it's the look on his face she loves best. How the dimples in his cheeks flash with his smile, his eyes lighting up like all his dreams have come true.
-/-
She knows the feeling.
-/-
She holds out the carton of pork fried rice as he finds his place next to her, once he's maneuvered them out of the docks and far enough down the river that Portland twinkles merrily in the distance. She leans back on her elbows, tilting her head back as she considers the stars.
"We really have been dating all along, haven't we?"
"Aye," he answers easily, leaning over her to get to the eggrolls she didn't devour. "Just without the fun parts."
She smiles and lets her hand scratch through the hair at the base of his neck where it curls up against his collar, not letting herself overthink it. It's still hard for her, to say the things she spent so long bottling up. To learn this language of casual intimacy - to sift her fingers through his hair when her hand itches to, to press her thigh to his and not shy away. His teasing look softens into something quiet and gentle, his palm finding her knee and squeezing once.
"I'm glad it's real now," she whispers, forcing herself to maintain eye contact. She thinks of the way they curled together beneath the flannel sheets at her parents house, how his hand pressed to her belly and his knees tucked neatly against the backs of hers. How warm and safe and loved she felt.
She gets to have that now.
For real, this time.
"As am I, Swan."
They lapse into easy conversation, the both of them catching one another up on the happenings of the week they spent apart. She tells him of her latest case, how she used her stun gun on her mark because he took a swing at her. How she decked him and even upped the voltage, a little gift for all the trouble he caused for the family he left behind. Killian's eyes glow with pride as his fingers find her hip, tucking her closer as he tells her how brilliant she is. How she'll have to come to the bar one night this week for celebratory drinks, as he thinks he's finally got the specifics for the blueberry beer down.
She smiles as she remembers the humidity of that little greenhouse, how the toes of his boots pressed up against hers, his lips tinted the slightest shade of blue from one too many stolen berries that should have been going in their collection buckets, not his mouth. How badly she wanted to taste them on his lips.
"About those fun parts," she mutters, feeling the heat tug low in her belly once more as their gazes linger. He chuckles, tilting his head towards hers, curling his fingers through her hair.
"About that."
He licks into her mouth without hesitation, a hot slide of his tongue against hers that she sighs into, fingers curling around his wrist where he cups her face. While she was the one to push at the apartment, he's the one pushing now - pushing her back until she's on her elbows against the blankets spread over the deck of his little ship. Pushing until he's tucked between her spread thighs, kissing her so hungrily she's breathless with it.
"Killian," she breathes, hips pressing up into his.
"We shouldn't - " he mutters into the skin of her neck, voice thick. "I want to do this proper."
"So you keep saying," she laughs, arousal thrumming through her in a slow and steady beat. She feels it settle in the tips of her breasts, the space between her thighs, and wants him so desperately she aches with it. Before it was muddled and rushed, her senses dulled by liquor and denial. This time, she wants to remember it. "It's been ten years of foreplay, Killian. I don't care about proper."
"I mean to have you in a bed, love," he grits out, a dark promise as his teeth find the space just below her ear, worrying it gently even as he lifts his hips from hers. His chest follows and he smiles down at her, tucking an errant strand of hair behind her ear. His own is a ridiculous mess, both from her fingers and the breeze coming in off the water, tufts of it going every which way. She smoothes her palm over his head with a smile, letting her thumb linger over the tip of his ear.
His smile softens into something sweet and far too shy for the way his mouth was working at her skin a minute ago, a blush climbing his cheeks.
"With sheets," he adds as an afterthought.
"Oh, alright," she huffs, closing her eyes against the sharp tug of heat low in her belly. Her brows furrow in frustration and her legs go slack from where they've been hugging his hips. She tries to focus on the gentle rocking of the boat beneath them to calm herself, and not how if she presses up just a bit she could probably grind her way to orgasm against his leg.
After a moment of silent consideration, she feels his hand slip along her arm, fingers tangling with hers.
"That doesn't mean I can't see to you," he mumbles, mouth back on her neck, the palm of his other hand pressing lightly at her thigh.
She tilts her chin up with a gasp when his teeth graze the spot just beneath her ear that makes her back arch, eyes blinking open to watch him move over her. She feels muddled and warm - hazy and unfocused - deliciously and deliriously happy. "What's that mean?"
One eyebrow arches high on his forehead in silent explanation as his hand moves between them, toying with the button of her jeans. "Only if you want to, that is."
She blinks, shifting her legs wider when his fingers tap up and down the inside of her thigh. "Is that a serious question?"
His chuckle is muffled when his mouth dips back to her skin, but she feels the vibrations of it when he presses down against her. She hopes there are no cargo shipments coming down the river right now. She's sure they're giving quite the show.
"Alright then."
She bites her lip as he undoes the button to her jeans, working down the zipper slowly, his fingers toying with the edge of her panties. Over the years, she's watched him work meticulously when presented with something he's truly passionate about - the way he carefully tinkers with ingredients in the brewing room, the way he trails his palm along the railing of his boat on quiet Saturday afternoons, following behind with sandpaper to smooth the wood. She just never realized how damn slow he is. He leans up on his elbow, gaze flitting down between her legs, and she fights not to pull him back down to her.
"Are these new?"
"What?"
"Your undergarments," he supplies, his voice gritting along the words as if they're causing him physical pain. "I've never seen you wear anything quite so - "
His voice trails off, his fingers rubbing at the top of the material, thumb and forefinger considering the lace. She's impatient to feel his touch lower, feel his fingers slipping and circling where she is aching and wet. She huffs and knocks his side with her knee.
"Technically, you haven't seen me in any of my underwear."
He certainly can't see them now, her clothes only pushed out of the way enough for him to touch her the way he wants. But his fingers trace the material like he can, and he's always had a good imagination.
"Aye, well, I have been known to come across a pair or two while folding your laundry." His hand stills against her, his fingertips infuriatingly, barely tucked beneath the thin, delicate piece of ribbon that serves as a waistband to these stupidly expensive panties. She watches the bob of his adam's apple as he swallows. "I don't mean I spent an inordinate amount of time gazing at your underwear, I just - "
It's an odd thing to see him so flustered, but she can't even enjoy it properly for the lust clouding her brain. Well past the point of frustration, she presses her hips up, encouraging his touch - fuck - lower. "I am well aware of your need to fold my laundry when it sits for longer than three days, Killian. I don't think it's weird. Now, please, could you just - "
"I wonder," he interrupts quietly, his other hand curving over her shoulder, his thumb brushing over the swell of her breast through layers of sweatshirt and sweater. It's muted, but electric, and she finds herself wondering how it might feel later when she's stripped bare and beneath him.
"I wonder if - " His tone holds quiet focus, voice dipping and gritting along the words in consideration. His gaze flicks up to hers, then back down to her chest. " - if perhaps your bra is a match." His touch lingers on the jut of her nipple, pebbled as it is through the material of her sweater. Lace cups are hardly substantial when it comes to concealing arousal, and she's quite certain no amount of material would do the trick with the way he's touching her.
"No matter," he sighs, and he sounds as if they're talking about what ice cream flavor to get at the grocery. Not the particulars of how he's slowly and carefully making her insane. "I'll discover the answer as soon as I get you home."
His head dips down and he nudges at her breast with his nose, just as his fingers finally - finally - slip down to her clit. She gasps, shifting her legs wider to give him more room.
"Would you like that, Swan?"
"What?"
She can hardly think when he's stroking at her like that, two of his fingers pressing up and down, up and down, dipping just inside of her before retreating back to circle her clit. He touches her carefully, not quite enough pressure, but enough for her to tremble beneath him.
He bites at her earlobe, tugging gently, and it sends a shock of warmth down her spine. "Would you enjoy me peeling off your clothing to see if your bra matches your decidedly indecent underwear?" He slips two of his fingers inside of her quickly, pulling them out just as fast and continuing with his gentle tapping against her clit. "I must confess, Swan. I have half a mind to."
"Fuck," she mutters, incapable of answering his question, because just the thought of her half naked on the worn flannel sheets of his bed with his dark eyes gazing down at her is enough for the tension pulled low in her belly to surge and roll. The movements of his hand speed beneath her clothes when she whimpers, his patience seemingly at the same limit as her own. It doesn't take much - just two of his fingers pressing deep while his thumb rubs rough circles against her clit as his teeth find her nipple once more through her sweater, and she - she just -
It's overwhelming, a bit, the way it starts at the soles of her feet and licks up the back of her thigh to pulse hotly between her legs. She feels it everywhere, hot and encompassing, and as soon as it settles back to that low thrum, she licks at her bottom lip and forces her eyes open, meeting his heavy gaze.
"I very much enjoy watching you come, Swan," he manages, voice so low she has to strain to hear it. His hand is still down the front of her pants, twisted in the mess of her underwear, and she thinks she might have a thing for the way that looks.
("Is this something you've thought of, love?"
"Less clothes," she chuckles. "But this is good, too.")
(This is good, too.)
She nods, hair catching beneath her shoulders. "That's lucky."
'Cause she likes the way he watches her unravel beneath her, how his jaw ticks tight and his eyes flash a shade darker. How the muscles in his forearms flex when she rolls her hips. How he bites at his bottom lip and rocks his hips against her in response, desperate for friction, almost like he can't quite help it.
"So," she blinks up at him, chest heaving - terribly, wonderfully ruined. "Your place?"
His jaw does that thing she loves again, his hand slipping from beneath her jeans. She feels his erection against her thigh, notices the color high on his cheeks.
"Aye."
-/-
If it weren't for his erection pressing against her palm where it's draped over his thigh, the drive over to his apartment would feel like any other of the thousand times Killian has brought her over to his place.
Except she brushes her knuckles against his erection at every stop light, just because she can, delighting in the way he breathes out hard through his nose and clenches his fingers tight against the steering wheel.
Except for the way he curls his fingers around the back of her neck when they get caught at a train crossing, the red of the warning lights flashing behind her eyelids as he hauls her halfway overtop the console between them, mouth hungry and sloppy and desperate as he nips at her lips with his teeth.
Except for the way he shifts his car into park so roughly the both of them slide forward in their seats, neither of them caring because her hand is back on his erection and his palm has found the soft skin at the base of her spine, thumb dipping into the waistband of her jeans.
"I'm not fucking you in this car," he mutters, a slow roll of heat curving up her arms and down over her breasts with the way his voice grits along the word fucking.
She pulls back slightly, and catches the grin curling his lips - sinful and dark and oh - so very promising.
"Well, I'm not fucking you in this car tonight. Perhaps another time."
She blinks at him. Nods once.
It's a rush up to his apartment, interrupted by the both of them taking turns to pin the other against the walls of his stairwell. She's grateful for his desire for a building with privacy and how antisocial his neighbors tend to be, as she doesn't feel like explaining why she's trying to climb him like a tree between the first and fourth floor. When she stops him on the landing just outside his apartment and slips her hand beneath his shirt to scratch at the line of hair low on his abdomen, he makes a sound that goes straight between her legs, his hand tight around her wrist to stop her from moving any lower.
"Let's move this inside, shall we?"
She nods and follows him the rest of the way to his flat, watching as his hands shake as he unlocks the door, ushering her inside. He crowds her in the hallway as soon as the door is closed between them, his palm finding her hip and his nose buried in her hair.
"Can I fetch you a cup of tea, love?"
She shakes her head, biting at her bottom lip and slipping her jacket from her shoulders, reaching behind her to hang it on the hook she always uses, not caring when the damned thing slips from her grip and lands in a heap on the floor.
"Coffee?"
"No, thank you," she shakes her head, curling her fingers through his belt loops and tugging him further into her. He matches her with a strong step forward, pressing her back against the wall the same way he had her earlier - one of his thighs angled between her own, hands on either side of her hips.
Though she knows that this time, neither of them will be stopping.
"I think I have some - "
"Please, Killian," she mutters, nuzzling into his jaw and feeling the scratch of his beard against her skin. "Shut up."
He kisses her then - all tongue and teeth and insistent pressure from his thigh between her legs - gasping breaths and the wet sounds of his mouth against hers in the dim light of his hallway. She tries to pull his jacket from his shoulders as his tongue curls around hers, but the sleeves get caught around his wrist and he has to stop touching her to let it slip to the floor, landing neatly on top of her own.
"Not going to hang that up?"
He shakes his head, too busy working a mark against her collarbone to answer right away. "Not a priority, at the moment."
A smile curls at her lips. "For all the times you've lectured me about proper coat hanging etiquette."
He rolls his eyes and pulls her away from the wall, palm against her ass urging her gently forward as she turns from him and walks towards his bedroom. There's no use in pretending that it's not what they both want.
They've wasted enough time.
"Proper can come later." He shifts into her space again once they're in his bedroom, nose dragging against hers, fingertips finding the soft skin of her navel just above her jeans.
"You seemed awfully concerned with proper earlier," she undoes the first button of his flannel, presses a kiss to the hollow of his throat and enjoys the way he rolls his head back in response. His hand squeezes her hip, thumb tucking in the waistband of her jeans. "Though this feels plenty proper."
He tilts his head back up and grins at her, so wide his eyes crinkle at the corners. "So it does."
He backs her towards the bed, but not before removing her sweater, his hand reaching for the clasp of her bra with a wink.
"While I'm delighted it does indeed match, love," he drops her bra to the floor and presses her gently down against the bed, a rough sound in the back of his throat when she arches her back, just a bit. "I've not had the opportunity to become properly acquainted quite yet."
She snorts, tilting her head as he loosens the buckle of his jeans, his gaze fixed pointedly on the flush that colors her breasts pink. "Properly acquainted with my - ?"
"Aye," he mutters, pulling his flannel from his shoulders with a smooth roll, all pale skin and dark ink in the moonlight that filters in from the windows - never once looking away from her. She finds herself suddenly without a teasing comeback, his skin the best of distractions. He undoes the fly of his jeans and shifts between her open thighs, palms pressing at her knees.
"Lie on your back," he whispers, and she's reminded of that night in her bedroom at her parent's house - when it was freezing cold and they were bickering over the space heater. Except he didn't slide her jeans from her legs then. Didn't crawl on top of her, a groan whispered between them when his cock presses against her with startling accuracy through the ruined mess of her underwear. The zipper of his jeans bites into the skin of her thighs, his hips pressing and pressing and pressing again before his arms begin to tremble where he's holding himself up above her.
"Emma, love, I - "
She nods, hands slipping down his torso to push at the waistband of his jeans. "Yeah, just - "
It's a frenzied rush of removing the last bits of clothing between them, mouths pressed open and hot against any inch of skin they can reach. When he finds her nipple with his mouth she falls against the bedspread, curling her thigh over his hip and sucking in a sharp breath when the tip of his cock brushes her clit. He's hard and warm - heavy and thick - and when he rolls his hips against hers, the drag of him feels better than - fuck - better than any dirty fantasy she's ever imagined in the years she's known him. She knows without a doubt she won't be satisfied until he's buried deep - fucking her down into the mattress until she can't move.
"Killian," she whines as he keeps rolling his hips, a slow grind that has her nails digging into his shoulder blades. He probably has marks, and she feels another flash of heat when she thinks of her scratch marks mixed with the lines of ink along his skin.
"Fuck, I love hearing you say my name like that," he mumbles into her neck. Leveraging himself up on one elbow, he reaches between them, curls his fingers between her legs and slips wide circles around her clit, spreading her wetness. The sound of it is indecent in the stillness of his room, his labored breathing and the proof of her arousal, slippery and hot. She moans, another stilted sound bitten off in the back of her throat and he grins. She glares up at him.
"I swear to god if you draw this out another moment, I'll - "
"Impatient as ever, I see."
He fumbles with the condom from his nightstand long enough for her to snicker at him, earning her an eye roll and a pinch to her nipple that makes her arch her back with a gasp. His gaze darkens at that, his body shifting back over hers, her thighs spread wide. When he finally presses into her, it's a thick slide of heat that has her gasping.
She shifts her legs wider to accommodate him and bites at his bottom lip as he pushes and retreats - a shallow rocking of his hips, settling himself further and further until he's seated entirely, the fullness of him a delicious pressure. She exhales slowly and wraps her arms around his neck, traces the line of his jaw with her thumb.
"You feel good," she mutters, flexing her hips and feeling the way he fills her up. She's never - she didn't think - she didn't know it would be like this. Like she's drowning. Like he's breaking her apart just to put her back together again.
He breathes out a disbelieving laugh through his nose, fingers clenched tight on her hip. "Fucking hell, Swan," just like the way his voice sounds rougher right when he wakes up or has his first taste of a particularly good beer, it sounds broken now. A low rasp of her name that has her rolling her hips beneath his, encouraging him to move. He groans and presses tighter against her hips, forces her to stop her motion by pinning her to the bed. "Give a man a moment."
She grins into his neck, breathing out a shaky exhale as he begins to move. It's slow and steady at first, until she hitches her legs up to cross her ankles at the small of his back and digs her teeth into his collarbone, his body finally giving in and fucking her down in the mattress like she wants. She hardly notices the sounds she's making, just the steady stream of utterly filthy things he's whispering into her ear. Things like fucking hell you're wet and you feel so good and come for me, darling, aye, just like that.
Her orgasm overwhelms her, stealing her breath and pricking at her skin until all she can see is flashes of red and white, her eyes clenched tight against the force of it. She presses her palms flat to his chest as she rides it out, feels the pleasure curl and burst and center between her legs.
He helps her through it, rocking his hips faster and faster until he's groaning above her, something stilted and debauched that sounds like her name. They lay tangled together panting once he stills, fighting to even their breathing.
She blinks up at the ceiling, her body feeling deliciously, deliriously warm. Light and airy and all those stupid other things she thought couldn't possible happen during sex.
It would seem sex with your best friend has its merits.
"Oh my god."
"Aye," he nods, nose brushing her cheek, his fingers glancing along the soft skin just below her ribs. "That was - "
She exhales, grinning, and squeezes the back of his neck. "Yeah, it - yeah."
-/-
"Would it be terribly cliche if I told you how much I love you right now?"
She tucks her smile into his shoulder, shakes her head.
"No," she waits until she feels his lips against the top of her head, the way his beard catches on her hair. "I love you, too."
-/-
"What were some of the things?"
"What's that?"
"Last night, you said, you spent a long time trying to convince yourself that I'm -" she hesitates, still overcome with the feel of it. His body spread out at her side, his fingers tracing designs along her back as she lays curled next to him. To be wanted so completely. She remembers lonely nights spent in crowded group homes, her knees tucked to her chest as she gazed out the window and wished for someone, somewhere, to want her.
He glances the tips of his fingers along her cheek, smiling at her softly. "That you're not everything I've always wanted? Aye, though the effort was rather futile. I must admit."
She burrows her way over into his arms, smiling when he pretends to be affronted and huffs, but settles his arm low around her waist regardless. His lips brush her forehead as he thinks, and it's all so easy now to remember how hard it was. When she can feel the press of his bare skin to hers.
"So what are some of the things? That you tried to convince yourself with."
"Oh, that," he frowns for a moment, remembering, before his eyes glimmer with mischief, sly smile pulling at his lips. "You chew with your mouth open half the time."
She leans back, out of his arms. "I do not!"
He nods sagely, like he hasn't even heard her. "And you have dreadful taste in music. If I never hear bloody Enter Sandman again, I'll be glad for it."
"It's a classic," she grumbles, tucking his flannel sheets up around her shoulders, accidentally on purpose exposing his legs to the chill of the room.
"You're messy and hot headed," he lists off. He peers down at her and his face softens into the look that she now knows means I love you. "You're a bloody nightmare in the mornings."
"That's you, not me."
"As I said, love," he tugs at the blankets, pulling them more evenly until they're nestled together once more. "It was a futile effort. I couldn't come up with enough to stop loving you."
And oh, alright. That's just - it's -
"I saw you drink a Bud Light once," he snickers into her hair. "That might be reason alone not to love you."
She kicks him beneath the blankets. "Shut up."
-/-
She shrugs on one of his old rugby shirts when she has a sudden, all-encompassing need for the eggrolls thrown haphazardly in his fridge earlier, curling her fingers in the sleeves and trying not to blush when he licks at his bottom lip and looks at her like - like that.
He moves to flick on the oven when they're crowded together in his kitchen, and she rolls her eyes, reaching for the microwave instead.
"Microwaved eggrolls taste like rubber, Swan."
"It's a good thing they're not for you, then."
"You're a mean woman," he mumbles, and it's all of a minute of the mechanical humming from the microwave before his mouth finds her neck, his hands at her hips. She falls back into him with a sigh when his fingers start toying with the hem of her (his) shirt, the familiar thrumming starting anew.
Her hand cups the back of his head when his teeth graze her shoulder, her nails scratching at his scalp. He breathes in sharp through his nose when he discovers how little is beneath this shirt of hers (his), ignoring the microwave entirely and guiding her out of the kitchen, into his living space.
"This is ridiculous," she gasps, not quite understanding how she can want him so much - still.
(Always.)
(Forever.)
"I've wanted you for years, love," he backs her up towards the love seat in front of the television, encouraging her to sit with his palms brushed lightly against her sides, his hands lifting the shirt up and off until she's all bare skin in the moonlight. He licks at the corner of his mouth as he thumbs at her nipple, a gentle tweak that makes her arch her back. "Pardon if I've not yet had my fill of you."
She blinks at him, cheeks flushing hot, the need in her belly pulling tighter. "Okay."
He smiles, kneeling in front of her as she sits. "Alright."
She can see the dimmed reflection of them in the television - her pale skin glowing in the moonlight, legs spread wide, Killian's dark head between them. The flex and roll of his shoulder blades when he shifts her legs wider, fingers wrapping around the backs of her knees and tugging her forward until she's balanced just at the edge of the couch. She's crashed on this couch more times than she can count - watched endless amounts of baseball with her feet tucked beneath his thigh.
This is better.
"On that we can agree," he breathes into her thigh before letting his teeth work a mark into her skin, her hands already carding through his hair. He seems to like that, when she tugs just a bit.
She likes it, too.
He brushes a line of kisses from her knee to the crease of her hip, her legs shaking where they're pressed against his shoulders. His eyes flick up to meet hers just as his tongue touches her clit, and she's damn glad he made her sit down for this.
It's like he knows exactly what she wants. The pressure, his tongue, the two fingers he curls inside of her when she slips down further on the couch and rocks her hips up against his face.
"You know how often I've thought of this," he mutters it into his belly button, exhaling heavily when he curls his fingers up and she whispers his name. "How many time I've pictured you, just like this."
But it isn't until he starts moaning against her, thick sounds of indulgent enjoyment, his eyes burning as he pins her with his stare over the flat expanse of her belly, the swell of her breasts - it isn't until he drags his teeth against her and slips a third finger into her that she begins to unravel.
It's a slow pull as her orgasm takes her, the heat pulsing in time with the flat of his tongue still working against her. She grips her hands in his hair and rolls her hips, chasing the high with a choked off sigh of his name.
He gentles his mouth until she can't take anymore, over sensitized and a shivering, shaking mess against his couch. He licks his lips and then his fingers, the sight of it so utterly filthy she feels another impossible thrum of arousal pulse down low.
"Making up for something?" She questions, a wicked and wonderful idea planting in the back of her head as he shifts up off his knees. She stands as well, ignoring the question in his gaze, turning and kneeling on his couch, bracing herself with her hands against the back of it. He groans, fingers flexing at her hips.
"Something like that," he manages, and thrusts into her.
The pace he sets is rough - hard, deep thrusts that have her head bowing between her shoulders, legs trembling. He's quiet this time, nothing but his harsh breathing behind her, the palm of his hand slipping from the swell of her hip to low on her belly, pressing gently where he's moving inside of her until she - until she -
"Oh, god."
He comes before she does, but it's a close thing - his fingers pressing sloppy circles just above where he's spreading her wide, his teeth at her earlobe. She shake and shivers and lets her body fall into the couch, Killian at her back.
She's never going to be able to watch a baseball game on this damned thing ever again.
-/-
"You have freckles on your hip," she mutters, fingertips tracing the marks as he shifts and rolls in the bed until his arm is under her shoulders in a way that reminds of her of ice cream at farmers markets on Sunday mornings and one too many home brews in the comfort of her apartment. It's nice and familiar and - a thousand times better when they're both naked. She smiles into his skin.
"So I do," he mutters in return, his voice a raspy lilt, colored dark with his accent and exhaustion. She would feel bad if she didn't feel so damn good.
"I haven't noticed them before."
He arches an eyebrow at that, peering down at her, curling his fingers round and round the strands of her hair splayed across his chest as she continues memorizing the feels of his skin. "Can't say you've had cause to, my love."
He's called her love before, but never his, and her smile wavers where it's tucked against his chest. He notices - he always notices - and he cuffs her chin gently with his thumb in question. "What's that look for?"
"I'm just sorry, is all." It's easier, somehow, to apologize for the wasted moments when their future stretches out limitless in front of them. Something that once seemed terrifying, but now seems perfect with her toes pressing against his ankles beneath the flannel sheets she got him four christmases ago. Because he was complaining about how bloody cold the winters get, and how often his heating died a grisly death.
("Maybe if you stopped beating the damn thing with your boot, it would actually work."
Huffy and bent nearly in half, tinkering with the radiator with the box of tools he keeps beneath his sink.
"Oh, and you're an expert now? Don't forget, darling, I've seen how you've fixed your dishwasher.")
"Don't be," he smiles, dropping his head back to the pillow and dragging his palm between her shoulder blades. "We got here in the end."
Because as much as she tried to convince herself otherwise, the way she's felt towards Killian has been something like love all along.
It's quiet, and for a moment or two she thinks he's drifted off -
"Though I rather it didn't take ten years and my total and utter devastation for - ouch, bloody hell, love."
She snickers into his chest, the place where she pinched him already raised and red.
(This is good, too.)