Rating jumps up to an M with this one.
Hopefully I will be able to get you guys more frequent updates. :) Thank you all for your lovely messages.
Chapter 9
Liam had a somewhat infuriating habit of turning even the most mundane of tasks into life lessons.
Scrubbing the floors of the kitchen resulted in a twenty-two minute discussion on the merits of hard work, and a particularly stubborn stain by the edge of the stove (chicken grease, perhaps) was symbolic of persistence against even the most unfavorable odds. Persistence being the ache in Killian's shoulder, the unfavorable odds the aged and weary sponge handed to him to dispose of the stain.
A selection between fruits at the grocery was a speech on choosing the correct path in life. A night spent at the local pub and the resulting hangover a perfect lead in to the dangers of succumbing to temptation.
(Bleary eyed and with a headache to beat the band, he had managed to fill his voice with hostile threat. "I am mighty tempted right now to knock you off that pedestal of yours."
Liam had merely grinned, dodging the pillow lobbed at his head. "Resist, little brother.")
But the one he thinks of now, as Emma slips his sweatshirt over her head, long blonde hair tangled and loose beneath the hood, his fingers tugging on the string until a smile curls the corners of her lips - the lesson he is reminded of now is the one of moments.
They had been out of the too-small boat the both of them stubbornly referred to as a ship, when a sudden summer storm rolled in from the east. There wasn't enough time for them to get back to the mainland and within seconds, the lunch spread out on the deck was ruined by a deluge of rain - their clothes soaked through and the cooler of beer tossed overboard with a particularly violent swell of water beneath them.
He remembers standing there, clinging to the railing for dear life, watching as his brother got that look on his face.
"Oh bloody hell, don't even start with the lesson shite as we do our best to not drown, Liam!"
Liam had merely smiled, elbow hooked about the mast. "There is a lesson in everything, Killian!"
"Today's lesson is weigh down the sodding cooler, or we'll lose all our beer to the depths."
"It's about moments," Liam had said, with all the distinguished air befitting of a man not hanging on to the mast of a rickety old sailboat. His face had softened, eyes crinkling at the corners in a smile. "I don't tell you enough, Killian, how I cherish these moments."
Rain stinging his eyes, salt heavy on his tongue, feet slipping against the desk of the boat, he had thought his brother mad.
Liam was taken not a year later.
He remembers standing at the edge of the docks following the small funeral service, hands deep in his pockets as he watched the boats rise and fall. A sudden summer storm had rolled in from the east, and he had smiled as the rain stung his eyes, the salt heavy on his tongue.
Liam always was the type to have the last laugh.
He remembers that lesson now as Emma curls into him on the couch, his sweatshirt about her shoulders and the hood brushing against her cheek. Sleep pulls at him as she nestles further into his arms, the fire warm against his front and the couch comforting at his back - Emma - Emma so very soft against him.
They're still a right mess, the two of them. She's still holding back from him and he's still chasing her - still begging her - to let him in. But this moment - his hand against her stomach and her legs pressed tight against his. Her body so perfectly held against his own as the flames pop and hiss at the charred logs beneath the mantle. Her breathing and the way it stutters when he brushes a kiss against her cotton covered shoulder.
This moment is a good one.
"Sleep, love," he whispers. "I'll be here when you wake."
-/-
He never had much of a home.
His mother did her best to fix them meals whenever she could, but money was tight and working two jobs to support two growing boys didn't allow time for pancakes in the morning and long, extended lunches about the table. He never had squabbles over bacon or a fireplace to curl in front of.
He had an apartment that was far too cramped, left alone more often than not while his mother and brother did their damnedest to make sure the three of them had a roof above their heads. And then his mother passed, Liam too, and there was nothing to return to.
He's known for quite some time that he's wanted Emma, but this - this warmth, this home - pot roast in the evenings with potatoes and carrots with rosemary spice on the side -
- it's not something he's had before.
He finds himself wanting it desperately.
He finds himself wanting it with her.
He sighs and curls himself tighter around her, allows his thumb to slip just under the hem of his sweatshirt until he finds the softness of her skin. She presses herself further into him when his thumb strokes once and he smiles. She's scared, he knows, but he relishes in the moments like this - when she is soft and allows herself to give into comfort.
He digs his nose into her neck and breathes in deep, cinnamon and honey, finally giving in to the exhaustion that pulls at his very bones.
-/-
"I didn't realize how many tattoos he has."
Emma is no longer pressed against him as he swims back into consciousness, a blanket tucked high around his shoulders, one of his arms fisted in the well-loved material as if he were reaching for her - even in slumber. It's a challenge to keep his eyes shut as Mary Margaret and David hover over him, to keep his lips from twitching into a smile.
"He said he doesn't have any for Emma, but I wonder - "
"He better not have any for Emma."
"David," Mary Margaret's voice is soft and admonishing, and the desire to grin is almost unbearable. It seems they were at least somewhat successful in their rouse, if Emma's mother has changed her tune. "They're engaged. I hardly think a tattoo is too much."
It's quiet between them, the soft rustle of fabric as David no doubt reaches for his wife's hand. Their affection is an easy thing between them, and his chest aches with the desire for the same with Emma.
"She seems happy, doesn't she?"
"I said the same thing to her right before she came in here," Killian presses his face further in the pillow, tugs the blanket closer to his chest "She really does."
It's another gentle nudge in the right direction - another confirmation that he does indeed make her happy. He sees the way she laughs when she's with him, how her eyes light up and her hair tumbles back over her shoulders. The tilt of her lips and the curve of her spine as she presses herself into him. He's a fine expert on the things that make Emma release her grasp on her iron control. On that armour that keeps her safe but also keeps her locked away.
He's only ever wanted to make her happy. There was a time when he didn't think he could ever make anyone happy, plagued by dark thoughts and insecurities. But Emma pulled him from that and he hopes - he hopes he pulls her away from her shadowed thoughts as well.
Hearing her parents acknowledge it is enough to make his heart pound furiously in his chest.
Now if only Emma could see it.
"We should let him sleep," Mary Margaret whispers. "He was up early making us breakfast."
"He was up early sucking up, is more like it," Killian hopes he passes off his snort of amusement as a snore. "Go on back to the kitchen, I'm going to put another log on the fire."
Socks scuffle against the floorboards, the fire groaning with the addition of another log.
"I know you're awake," After a stuttered breath, Killian blinks open his eyes slowly, squinting up at David as he smirks above him. Hands on his waist, he tilts his head to the side in contemplation. "You're almost as bad at fake sleeping as Emma is."
"I didn't want to interrupt."
He leverages himself out of his prone position, blanket dropping to his lap and his hands combing through his hair - sure to be a nightmare. He feels hazy from sleep, the space next to him where Emma was curled lacking her body heat. He presses his palm to it, rubs his thumb along the edge of her pillow.
"She's upstairs with Henry," David supplies, face softening. "Went up there about a half hour ago."
His eyes flicker to the stairs and then back, wanting to retreat immediately to where Emma is but unwilling to disrespect her father. Liam ingrained in him the importance of respecting one's elders, and old habits are difficult to break. Emma may make fun of him for his good form -
("I want you to ask Ruby for a coffee without saying please, just once."
"But it isn't -
" - good form, yeah, yeah. I guess asking you to pickpocket the salt shaker is out, too.")
- but it's served him well thus far. In making him the man Liam wanted him to be.
In making him the man he wants to be.
David chuckles at his obvious indecision and he nods towards the stairs.
"Your leave is granted."
Killian smiles and shifts off the couch, folding the blanket carefully and draping it over the back edge of the wide sofa. "Appreciate that."
It's a comfortable silence as he edges towards the stairwell that winds up, noticeably cooler outside the light of the fire. A shiver curls along his spine and he hopes Emma will be willing to part with the sweatshirt she commandeered. It's the only one he's brought, and while he does so love the way it swims on her, her hands curled in the sleeves and the way she toys with the strings when she's got her mind occupied by other endeavors - his t-shirt is hardly appropriate for the chill settling over the house.
"Still interested in the early morning match?"
Killian smiles, pausing with his hand on the banister.
"Absolutely."
-/-
Her cheeks are flushed with the cold when he climbs out on the roof, both her and Henry flat on their backs as they stare up at the stars. Her eyes are red rimmed as well, but he doesn't comment on it. He just lays flat at her side and slides his hand along her arm, tangling his fingers with hers when she flips her palm up.
"It's a bit like the boat, hm?" She questions, tilting her head to the side to look at him. She looks beautiful in the moonlight, but then again, she looks beautiful always.
"Aye, the stars. You stealing my sweatshirt as I shiver in the cold," she swats his shoulder and he snickers. "It's exactly the same, love."
She shuffles further into his side, head pillowed on his shoulder. Henry smiles at her softly and he wonders just what the two of them were discussing – what has her seeking comfort with tear tracks dried upon her skin.
"It's nice," she mutters into his chest and he nods, combing his fingers through her hair.
"It is indeed."
-/-
She doesn't hesitate to fold herself into his arms when they go to sleep that evening, her hand sliding beneath the back of his shirt to rest against skin. He says nothing about it, but he smiles into her hair, curling himself tighter around her.
He may be naive in his hope, but it really feels as if the tide has changed in his favor. That Emma – Emma's beginning to see the possibility of more.
("Hope, little brother. Now, that is a miraculous thing.")
-/-
His alarm pulls him from sleep well before the sun begins its ascent, Emma curled tight into his side as he attempts to silence it without jostling her in the process. She grumbles under her breath, tangled blonde hair in her face as he finally gets it to stop, gripping his shirt tight when he attempts to slip from beneath the thick quilts.
"What's going on?" She mumbles, painfully adorable in her half-asleep state. It's a rare thing, for him to be awake when she is decidedly not, and he chuckles as he shifts his hand to the base of her neck and rubs gently.
"I'm watching the match with your father, remember?" She hums non committal, and he attempts to ease himself out from beneath her. Her forehead crinkles and she blinks at him blearily, refusing to let go of his shirt. "Lass, you need to let me go."
"Don't want to," she sighs, closing her eyes as she snuggles into the pillow he's just abandoned. He chuckles and leans forward, brushing his lips against her forehead and carefully unclenching her fingers from his t-shirt.
"I'll just be downstairs, darling."
She sighs again, foot sliding out from beneath the blankets and knocking him once in the shin.
"Don't forget the cream cheese," she mutters.
Always demanding, she is. Even in her sleep.
He adjusts the blankets over her shoulders and presses another laughing kiss to the crown of her head, tucking her foot back beneath the quilt so she doesn't catch a chill. "Aye, darling. I'll remember the cream cheese."
-/-
Watching the match with her father is a mostly silent affair, the both of them sprawled out against the large couches that frame the living room, the television casting dancing shadows in the dark corners. They mutually decided to keep the volume low, the cheers from the crowd a low murmur occasionally interrupted by the hiss of the fire beneath the mantle.
It's a lovely way to spend the early morning hours – decidedly better than watching the match on his laptop, alone in his apartment.
"I know I was tough on you when you both first got here, but I want you to know – " David focuses intently on the game action playing across the screen instead of Killian. "Mary Margaret and I, we're happy to have you as a part of our family."
He blinks, not sure what to say to that. He swallows around the lump in his throat and takes a hasty gulp of his coffee to steady himself.
"You don't have to say anything," David continues, clearly uncomfortable with the conversation. "Just wanted you to, uh, know you're welcome. And Mary Margaret is really looking forward to some home brew when you guys come up for Christmas, so you know, make sure to bring that next time."
Next time. Christmas. It's a statement made to bring some levity to the conversation, he knows, but instead he feels impossibly weighed down. Approval from her father, acceptance into her family – it's more than he ever could have wished for.
But it doesn't change the fact that this is all pretend, and come December, him and Emma will no longer be together. Emma hasn't expressed a desire for their fake relationship to continue beyond this excursion, and the reality of their improper planning rears it's ugly head.
Will he still be welcome when Emma spins a tale of their break up? Will he be an accepted member of their family when he inevitably breaks her heart?
"Thank you," he manages, trying to keep his attention on the match instead of his wildly spiraling thoughts. "You have a lovely home, and a lovely family."
David attempts to hide his smile with his coffee mug, but Killian sees it all the same. "You still can't get a tattoo for Emma, though."
-/-
"You okay?"
"Aye, Swan. M'fine."
"You sure, cause you look like you're thinking really hard over there."
He sighs and presses his thumbs harder into the pie crust, one of the seventeen Mary Margaret has them making today. His at least look more uniform than Emma's, though it's a close contest.
"Pie crust is difficult, darling," he forces a smile. "Merely attempting to concentrate."
She tilts her head to the side, lovely as ever with a messy ponytail and her glasses slipping down her nose. He presses them back up with his pinky, leaving behind a smudge of flour. It's enough to lift his spirits, albeit temporarily.
He should like to do this again, at Christmas.
For real, this time.
"You sure you're okay?" She wipes at her nose with her sleeve, missing the spot completely. He smiles down into his pie tin.
"I'll be just fine, love."
-/-
It's another calm and quiet day spent about the house, putting the final touches in order for the street fair that is set to commence in two days time. The stress sits heavy on Mary Margaret's shoulders as she flits about the house, a list of errands doled out for the next day.
Today, however, is a day to complete the baked goods and his stomach is filled with various types of cookies and cakes as the sun sinks low in the sky. Henry does an admirable job of declaring himself taste tester without having to engage in any of the work, and Emma pretends not to notice when he slips oatmeal chocolate chip cookies off the cooling rack.
"I know they're your favorite," she whispers, breath warm and damp against his ear. It's enough to make him shiver, Henry making gagging noises on the other side of the kitchen.
He tilts his head and bumps his forehead against hers. "How thoughtful of you, darling."
It's impossible, really, to think of how it could all go badly when she's looking up at him with flour still on her nose.
He tucks away thoughts of their false relationship ending, and instead focuses on the moment. How she allows him to tuck her hair back behind her ears and brush a kiss to the dent in her chin.
"Shall we order pizza for dinner?"
Henry practically falls off his stool in his enthusiastic agreement. Emma laughs, long and loud, and this – this is what matters.
-/-
It's about the moments.
-/-
Her parents retire to bed early and Henry leaves to visit a young friend in town, blushing furiously when Emma sing-songs about a lass named Violet, slamming the door on his way out and muttering obscenities beneath his breath. It leaves the two of them blissfully alone in the kitchen, an open bag of crisps between them as they attempt to find something to do.
She grins at him when she throws a chip up in the air and he catches in his mouth without hesitation, his earlier sullen mood completely dissipated in the face of her cheerfulness.
"This quaint town of yours doesn't have any local breweries does it?"
She shakes her head and he's almost glad for it, not willing to share her attentions with anyone else at the moment. It's the first time they've been alone and not exhausted since they've arrived, and he has no desire to visit the local pub only to have Walsh slide into their booth.
Once was quite enough.
"There's a bar, but I'm not really in the mood for socializing."
Her thoughts, as ever, seem to mirror his own.
"But, I do have an idea." Her eyes light up in sudden delight and she reaches for his hand, tangling their fingers together as she turns towards the stairs. She tugs once in impatience and snags the discarded bag of crisps from the counter, using her elbow to turn off the light. It's a remarkable feat of multitasking and he snorts as he bumps into her in the sudden darkness.
"What?" she whispers, hair brushing against his chin as she blindly feels her way to the landing. He places his hands on her hips as they mount the stairs, both to keep her steady in case she falls and to sure his own footing.
Plus, he considers as he thumbs the soft skin of her hip just above her waistband; it's a valid enough excuse to touch her.
"I didn't know you capable of such coordinated movement, love."
She snorts, gesturing with her head for him to go before her into her room. "Please, you've seen me take down marks before." There's better lighting now, the soft glow of her lamp casting her room in a warm glow. The heaters, as well, have been running all afternoon and the heat envelops him, pressing at his cheeks - his neck, the inside of his wrists.
"Aye, I've also seen you trip over nary a thing," he slips off his sweatshirt and tosses it in the corner of the room towards their bags. "Remember the incident with the - "
"- dozen cupcakes and the sock? Yeah, I'm frequently reminded, thanks."
She's busy fiddling with one of the floorboards, knees pressed to her chest and eyebrows furrowed in concentration.
"You did look lovely with pink frosting all over you," he mutters, tilting his head as she bangs once at the floorboard with the heel of her palm. "What is it that you're attempting to do, love? Have you a secret stash?"
He thinks he's making a joke, but his eyebrows jump in surprise when she lifts off the floorboard and pulls out a bottle. A whiskey bottle with a fine layer of dust and a couple of cobwebs, but fine nonetheless. She grins in victory.
"Knew it was still here," she leans back with bottle in hand, settling herself more comfortably on the floor, legs extended in front of her, framing the small hole in the floor of her bedroom. The socks she's wearing are mismatched - one pale pink and clearly belonging to her, bunched at the ankle. The other pilfered from his suitcase, it seems, navy blue with small anchors stitched in a neat pattern.
He mirrors her position with a chuckle. "I suppose this is your grand plan, then."
"I've had worse, right?"
"You certainly have."
-/-
The whiskey is terrible.
A cheap, bottom of the shelf bottle she stole out of Uncle Leroy's stash back in high school. It burns the back of his throat, nothing smooth about it, a thick aftertaste left on his tongue when he hands the bottle back to her.
"That's disgusting," he manages as her nose pinches and she takes another sip.
"Not so bad," she gasps, whole body shivering on a sharp inhale as she pulls from the bottle, tongue licking at the back of her teeth when she's finished. "Not so bad on the second shot."
She offers him the bottle again.
-/-
It's just as bad on the second shot.
-/-
It improves, however, around the fifth.
"What were you like in high school?"
There's a box nestled in her lap, her thigh pressed to his, their backs resting comfortably against the edge of her bed. The whiskey warms him from the inside out, her ankle crossed haphazardly over his making his head swim in equal measure. This box of hers, the one she pulled out of the same place as the whiskey, is filled with an assortment of odds and ends from her teenage years.
He thumbs carefully at a worn paperback, smiles at a polaroid of her and Henry from when they were much younger. The too-big shirt she has over her shoulders in the picture makes his chest hurt, an indication of all the things she wasn't given as a child.
"You know what I was like at that age, Swan. We met not a year removed."
She looks up from the small plastic ring in her hand and smiles at him. She's breathtaking like this, flushed with drink and smiles easy and free. Whatever restraint typically holds her spine straight and shoulders hunched seems to have slipped away with her third pull from the bottle, her head tilting to rest against his shoulder. "We did, didn't we?"
He slips the box from her lap and closes the lid carefully, making sure all knickknacks are safely encased. His fingertips feel numb, his movements uncoordinated as he lets it slip to the hardwood, reaching for the bottle at her side and tucking himself further into her in the process. She turns her face into his arm and he presses his hand to her thigh to steady himself.
It's not intended. Also not unwelcome.
Especially when she laughs against his arm, bottom lip dragging against his skin.
"You were so serious then. So -" she squints up at him, reaching up and rubbing her fingers against the scruff on his jaw. "- pale."
He snickers at that. "I'm still quite pale, Swan. And those in glass stones," he taps at her nose. "Shouldn't throw houses."
Her smile widens, if possible. "I think we might be drunk."
"I daresay we are."
"Off of bad liquor we found in my floor," she snorts a laugh. "While we hide in my room whispering so my parents don't catch us."
"I know just what to do to -" he hesitates, thoughts muddled. "- to remedy the situation."
It suddenly seems like the best idea he's ever had, untangling himself from Emma to lay flat on the floor. He taps at her with one sock covered foot until she sighs heavily and crawls, uncoordinated at best, to his side - her long blonde hair tickling his bare arms as she hovers over him.
"Why is it better like this?"
"Voices don't carry," he whispers, fully aware that it makes little sense. The truth is his head is beginning to swim, and he's able to find his bearings better with his back flat against the floor.
(With Emma tucked into his side.)
She sighs and makes herself comfortable, resting half on top of him and half on the floor. He wraps his arm around her and she huffs into his neck, fingers toying with his necklace - pressing her thumb into the point of the little sword and wrapping her pointer around and around the chain.
Soon her fingers take to tracing his neck instead, the bit of ink that peeks out right at his collarbone. The heat that's been sitting low in his belly pulls tighter at that, arousal worked into him with every gentle trace of her nails against his skin.
She doesn't mean anything by it, he knows, but still - he can't help but imagine what would happen if he just -
"You weren't always pale, you know."
He blinks slowly, tilting his face to hers as she keeps tracing the lines of ink, down over his thin t-shirt. She thumbs at the anchor that's just beneath his collarbone, rubbing back and forth over the design worked into his skin though she can't see it. She peers up at him, chin on his chest.
"Do you remember - " she starts, gaze darting down to his lips so quickly he fears he imagines it. But then she licks at the corner of her mouth, shifts further into him, and he knows he hasn't. "Do you remember sophomore year, when you came back from your trip with Liam?"
"Aye," he remembers going to find her down in the laundry, anxious to see her after months apart. He remembers those tiny shorts, and her long, long legs.
He remembers Neal, his palm high on her thigh.
He can't help the way his lips thin, fingers clenching tight against the small of her back. "Aye, I do."
She smiles, the dimple in her chin flashing. "You weren't pale then," she pushes herself up on elbows next to him, tilting far to the side and then correcting herself with a hand pushed against his chest. "You were all tan, and taller, almost? Which would be weird, wouldn't it, because why would you grow more? But you were tan and your hair was all - " she gestures above her head. " - it was a mess but it looked good. You looked good. I hadn't seen you in so long and I had missed you so much, you know?"
"I missed you, too," he supplies, but she doesn't hear him, continuing her drunken rambling - lost in the memory, it would seem.
"You were wearing that nerd shirt you have, about some chronicle of Narnia or greek mythology - thing - and it was faded a little bit from the sun so clearly you had been wearing it out on the boat and you weren't there and then you were there and it was - just - it was the first time I wanted to ki - "
He blinks. Swallows hard.
The room doesn't feel like it's spinning anymore, but perfectly still. So still he can feel every place she's pressed against him, the way her breathing stutters when she sighs deep and cuts herself off from saying more.
"When you wanted to what, Emma?"
She blinks at him in return, heavy and slow. Licks at her bottom lip.
"I wanted to kiss you," she whispers, fingers drumming against his chest. "I wanted you to kiss me."
"Oh."
Her cheeks pink, her lip caught between her teeth. "Yeah." When he doesn't say anything else, she averts her gaze to the space just above his left ear. "Uh, do you know where we put the bottle, because - "
He holds her steady from where she's trying to ease herself up, pressed against his side with his fingers wrapped around her bicep. His mind is too muddled to make sense of what she's saying and the idea - the thought that she wanted him to kiss her years and years ago, back when they were in college, it just -
It's taking him a moment.
"Do you remember that night?" He asks, thinking about how desperate he was to taste the sweat on her skin, the burn of tequila on her lips. "When we went - "
She relaxes back against him. "Dancing. Yeah, I do."
He slips his palm up her arm, toying with the sleeve of her shirt, before pressing further. She shivers when his fingers dance over the spot below her ear and he lets his thumb linger, gliding back and forth over her soft skin.
"I wanted to kiss you then."
She smiles, a small hopeful thing, and leans further into his touch. It still feels as if they're caught in a moment, nothing but the mechanical sound of the heater buzzing in the small bedroom, the both of them splayed out across the floor. His heart beats madly in his chest and he idly wonders if she can feel it, pressed as she is against him.
"Do you remember our junior year, when we went to get ice cream because I was worried about how much time you were spending in your room? You got chocolate on your chin and I wanted - " Her breath hitches, gaze locked firmly on his lips, and his stomach flips. "I wanted to kiss you."
"Senior year at graduation, when you couldn't get your cap to stay on. I wanted to kiss you." He tangles his hand in her hair. "Emma, the greenhouse, just a couple days ago, I wanted to kiss you."
She tits her head forward until her nose brushes his, until he can smell sweet whiskey on her breath.
"I wanted you to kiss me," she breathes.
He half thinks he's dreaming - too much alcohol consumed and he must be passed out on the floor of her bedroom. This is a - it's a fantasy. It's everything he's always -
He's had this dream before. Emma leaning into him, green eyes bright beneath thick eyelashes, tongue swiping at the corner of her lips. It's just - she feels - it's her looking at him like she wants him.
But her skin feels real enough beneath his touch, warm and flushed, the curls at the nape of her neck hopelessly tangled as they always seem to be. His rings snag there as his fingers press tight and he leans further into her, up on his elbows as she leans above him. The floor is hard beneath him but Emma - she's soft and her breasts are brushing his arm with every one of her deep breaths and he just - he wants -
"I want to kiss you now," he whispers into the space just beneath her neck, nose nudging, tilting her chin up so he can brush his lips at the hollow of her throat and feel the way she shivers against him.
She sighs out and his stomach tightens, her hand fisting in his shirt and tugging once. "I want you to kiss me."
These past few days he's kissed her, but he hasn't kissed her - not like he's wanted to. He's kept it to soft brushes of his lips against hers, hands high on her back or firm on her hips. He hasn't - only once did he allow himself to bury his hand in her hair the way he likes and now it's - every kiss, every careful moment of restraint - he feels it burning just under his skin with the whiskey, with her whispered request.
He tucks his hand firmly in her hair and tilts her head back, covering her mouth with his, catching her gasp with his tongue. She sways but he pushes himself up further, off his elbows, until she's tucked into his body and her knee is - it's an awkward angle – so he slips his free hand just behind it to impossibly soft skin and shifts her until he can kiss her proper, like he wants to, like he's been meaning to.
She shifts in his grip, keeping her mouth on his, and god - all those other kisses were nothing - she's been holding back, too - and with a tilt of her head she slips her tongue against his in a wet slide of heat and sets her knees on either side of his hips, balancing in his lap with her hands slipping over his shoulders and up his neck, into his hair. She pulls once and he groans, too lost in her to help it, too dizzy off whiskey and the taste of her to censor himself.
"Emma," he pants when they both pull back to breathe, his chest too tight. He keeps his hand in her hair and his eyes closed, nose digging into her cheek. He wants to kiss her again. He wants more. He wants -
"Do you think - " she begins, voice husky and rough. He hasn't heard her like this before, and it's suddenly all he ever wants her to sound like. She sounds this way because of him. Because of the way he's making her feel. Her thumb traces nonsense just under his ear and he slips his palm from its place behind her knee up to her hip, gripping there tight to keep himself grounded. "Do you think you could kiss me again?"
He doesn't bother answering, doesn't know what he would bloody well say if he tried. He settles for pressing at her jaw with his thumb as he kisses her again, sucking at her bottom lip roughly until she makes a desperate noise in the back of her throat. It drives him near madness, it does, so he groans into her again, the hand on her hip pulling her down into him, encouraging her when she gives a gentle rock of her hips against his.
He's hard in his jeans - he'd been halfway there thinking of her in the tiny half-destroyed shorts she wears when she's doing laundry. Now though, with her writhing in his lap, desperately trying to swallow her tiny, gasping breaths - he's impossibly so. He feels as if he's drowning in her - his mouth leaving hers only to drag his teeth to the place just under her ear.
He wants to ask her what this means, maybe stop and ask her if she's sure. But she sighs out his name and drops her head back when he sucks hard at her skin and he loses himself, a bit. Maybe this can be - if he can't convince her otherwise, maybe this is enough to show her.
(How he feels.
How good they can be together.
How beautiful she is.)
Her hands are cold when they press under his shirt but he pays them no mind, too enamored instead with the strong line of her jaw and the way she rolls down harder in his lap when he licks just beneath it, pressing wet, sloppy kisses in a haphazard line down her neck. He has to stop when she manages his shirt halfway up his torso, a furious tug practically strangling him.
"Wait a moment, just," he leans back and reaches over his shoulder, gripping his shirt in the middle and tugging it firmly over his head. She drags her mouth along his shoulder as he tries to free himself from his cotton prison, her tongue tracing along the thick line of the anchor below his collarbone when he finally manages to fling his shirt across the room.
He cups the back of her head gently, watching her tongue glide along his skin, feeling the heat of it as she traces the design first with her mouth and then with her fingers. It's a rather frequent fantasy of his - Emma cataloging his ink with her mouth, making new marks with her teeth.
He slips his hands under the back of her shirt, tracing the dimples at the base of her spine with his thumbs, suddenly desperate to feel her skin against his. He tugs lightly at the hem and she nods against him, not moving her mouth from the constellations inked on his shoulder.
It's a bit of a rush after that.
She's all pale, perfect skin in the soft light of the lamp on the nightstand, breasts heaving in the constraints of her bra. He noses along the edge of the cups, wanting desperately to drag it down with his teeth – mark her in the same way she's marking him. She makes another stilted sound beneath her breath and he wraps his arms tight around her, intending to pick her up, move them both to the bed where he can spread her out - see her flushed and pink, hair about her shoulders and lips kiss-swollen.
"No," she mutters, rocking herself a bit harder against him. He's always known about the smattering of freckles on her thigh just above her knee, just under the hem of her shorts. But it's another matter entirely to trace them with his fingertips. To push her shorts up until his thumb grazes the edge of her underwear and he can splay his hand wide. "The bed squeaks and we can't - " she exhales, tensing in his arms and he recognizes it as too much time to think. He knows her well enough that this is action born of instinct - she's just chasing how she feels in the moment.
God help him, it's good enough.
(If she feels this way now - if she wants him now - perhaps she will want him later. If he can take care of her - if he can make her feel good - )
She noses at his cheek and drags her fingers down his bare back, slipping along the hem of his jeans to the front. She thumb at the button and he - he wants. "Can we just do this?"
He brushes his lips back and forth along her temple and presses circles into the soft skin of her thigh until she relaxes back in his arms. "Aye, love. We can do this." He collects her hands in his and pulls them back to his chest. She quirks an eyebrow and he snorts a laugh, pushing his hips up and rocking her forward in the same moment, her eyelashes fluttering against her cheeks. "Like this, yeah?"
He isn't sure he can handle her hands on him, not when she looks so damn good rocking in his lap the way she is – turning her hips in a circle and dropping her head back so he can press his mouth to her throat. It's not as clear as he wants it to be – everything a bit hazy at the edges. He wants to remember the shade of her eyes when he slips his hand up higher until it's between her legs, how her teeth bite down on her lower lip when he thumbs at her through her underwear.
"Is this – "
"Yeah, that's good," she sighs and nods, half smile curling her lips. She pulls herself straight in his arms and balances her forehead against his, sitting up on her knees a bit so he can press at her harder. He can feel her through the thin material and she's – god –
"You're so warm," he mumbles, Curls his fingers around the lace edges so he can slip his hand beneath. "Fucking hell, Swan, you're so wet."
She mumbles something under her breath that he doesn't catch, matching the motion of her hips to the gentle press of his hand. He drags his knuckles up to her clit and presses hard, lets her chase her own pleasure as he stares at his hand moving beneath her shorts. It's unbearably erotic and entirely too much, especially when she loops her fingers around his wrist and guides his hand tighter against her – so his rings are rubbing where she needs him most.
She stares down at him as she moves above him, her hands bracketed behind his neck and urging his face to tilt towards hers. She bites at his bottom lip and pulls, and he suddenly needs to feel more of her than her breasts brushing his bare chest and his hand tucked into her sleep shorts.
Her laughter is breathy as he loops his arms around the small of her back and encourages her ankles to cross at the small of his back, shuffling forward on his knees until he can press her down into the threadbare rug in the middle of the floor.
"Knew that would work," she sighs, pressing her hips into his when they're settled on the floor, his hand sliding up her thigh to pull her legs wider beneath him. His cock presses heavy against the zipper of his jeans, the friction maddening when he rolls his hips in a dirty grind against hers.
"What would work?" He manages into the place between her shoulder and neck, hand molding against her breast and thumbing at her nipple through the thin material of her bra. He can taste the spice from the cookies on her skin, sugar from when she was making the icing for the cakes. Her back arches and he spreads her legs a bit wider, ruts a bit harder.
"I wanted – " Her fingers fist in his hair when he slips his thumb just under her bra, pushing down the cup in one easy motion until her nipple drags against the center of his palm. He squeezes rough and she breathes out. "I wanted to get you like this."
"Is this something you've thought of, love?"
"Less clothes," she chuckles. "But this is good, too." There's a bead of sweat slipping down the smooth column of her neck and he catches it with his tongue, his hips moving against hers faster with the admission that she's thought about this. Tension pulls at the base of his spine and it seems he doesn't even need to fuck her proper – rutting against her with his jeans low on his hips, the zipper biting into the skin of her belly, her bra pulled down on just one side is more than enough to make him feel as if he's being ripped apart at the seams.
But then again, she's always been able to undo him with hardly a look – a smile, a touch – a whisper of his name.
It's a challenge to bite his tongue, to keep himself from spilling the words he wishes to say as she moans into his neck and bites down on his collarbone to keep from making a sound. He wants to tell her he's thought about this since she damn near broke his arm in first year of university. He wants to tell her that she's a god damned temptation on her worst day. He wants to tell her he's dreamed about the feel of her splayed out beneath him, just like this. That he loves the sounds she's desperately biting back, loves her tangled hair pillowed beneath her, loves the way she chases his hips with her own – just as desperate.
He wants to tell her he loves her.
"You feel so good, darling," she presses the heel of her foot just behind his knee, using the leverage to grind up against him. He curses beneath his breath as the pleasure sparks and spreads. She's close, he can feel it in the way her thighs shake around his hips, the way her breathing hiccups with every roll of his hips against her. "What do you need? Please, Emma, tell me what you need."
"You," she answers immediately, head thrown back against the floor, her legs tightening around his hips and the flush on her cheeks matching that on her bouncing breasts. She whimpers his name as he pushes against her once more, head duckling down to take her nipple in his mouth. She tastes like honey beneath his tongue, sweet as sugar as he works at her with lips and teeth and tongue. She'll have marks from his beard, he's sure, and the satisfaction that settles in his bones is enough to have him slip his hand down the back of her shorts, angling her up so his thrusts meet her just right. His cock presses where she's hot and wet and he wants so badly to yank down her underwear with his teeth, to slip inside her and feel how hot she is for him.
She tenses beneath him and clenches her fists in his hair, the pleasure pain of it combined with the indecent thoughts of bending her bare over the side of her bed sparking his own orgasm – pleasure tingling along the backs of his thighs to between his legs, pulsing hot as he continues to grind against her.
He pushes the both of them through it, collapsing against her when she goes limp beneath him, breathing hard into her neck. She cards her fingers gently through his hair, his exhaustion immediate, the buzz from the liquor and his orgasm settling warm in his belly. He cares not a lick that he's just managed to come in his pants like a teenager. He only cares that she is still pliant beneath him, a happy sigh whispered under her breath when he brushes his lips against her shoulder.
"We should move to the bed," she mumbles after several moments of no movement between the both of them. It's enough to give his hazy mind hope – that nothing has to change. That she might see him – them – as more than a possibility.
(That she might want him for real this time.)
It feels monumental, this moment.
He sighs, nuzzling further into her, thumbing at the bare skin of her waist. "I'm quite fine here, actually."
"Floor's too hard," she encourages him up with her hands against his chest, smirking when he grimaces at the discomfort in his jeans. "You'll regret it in the morning."
He helps her up, adjusting her bra strap and smiling into her mouth when she leans forward to kiss him in thanks – a bit sloppy as she tilts to the side.
"Not possible, love."
-/-
He wakes gradually, face buried in Emma's pillow, his legs twisted in the comforter sitting low around his hips. His mouth feels as if it's filled with cotton and his head throbs in time with the aggressive prodding at the back of his neck – his half-hearted attempt to push it away only resulting with a startling accurate hit by one of the decorative pillows.
"Get up, would you?" Henry sounds so much like Emma when he's irritated, it's a bit unnerving. "It's practically noon."
He startles at that, shifting onto his back and peering blearily up at Henry standing above him. He's very much alone in the bed, the only sign of Emma his sweatshirt from the night previous angled over the lamp from where she flung it.
(Where she flung it as he traced his tongue down her neck, his hands cupping the swell of her ass and her hands in his hair.)
He shifts his legs and tries to remember if it was all but a dream – wonders if he looks as hungover as he feels.
"Where's Emma?"
Henry frowns. "She went out early this morning with Mom to run some errands, said you'd be going with me to tackle this list." He thrusts the piece of paper in Killian's face, a neat and extensive list of errands for the day. "Get showered and we'll get started."
Henry disappears without another word, thundering down the steps to wreak havoc on the pantry, no doubt. His stomach sinks as he glances at the list in his hand. It would seem that the errands listed are all carefully orchestrated to keep him away from the house for the day.
Keep him away from her.
He may not regret last night, but it seems – it seems like perhaps Emma might.
"Bloody hell," he mutters, sitting up in bed and cursing again when the room tilts perilously. He feels as if he might be sick, and it has nothing to do with the cheap whiskey in the floorboards.