AN: I wrote this smuttier version of this one-shot for two reasons. One, because a lovely person asked very nicely. Two, because I wanted to see what my own smut would look like. This is it. It's not explicit per se, and yet...it is. I'm not sure what it is really, but I tried. This one-shot serves as a prologue to my stories "Back to You" and "After All We've Done." Please tell me what you think. It's my first go and I'd love to know. Cheers.

Prologue | Happy New Year's, John Thornton

The truck idled at the red light. John stared at the car in front of them. Fanny slouched over on Margaret's shoulder, snoring and drooling. He slid a glance at Margaret. She was looking at him, a small curious smile on her face. He shifted in his seat, and gripped the steering wheel, the memory of the last hour spent with her making it difficult to think.

John's right blinker clicked in the silence, demanding he take Margaret home first. It made the most sense, but nothing about tonight made any damn sense. His world had turned upside when Margaret Hale pulled him into a kiss as the clock struck midnight. And then he'd kept kissing her like she was the last and only woman on earth.

He'd lifted her up off the floor, and worked his way through the crowd—ignoring the crude comments and laughter— until he found the small library he knew the Latimers never used. John had kicked the door open and let go of Margaret only long enough to shrug out of his jacket. John knew he should stop, but he couldn't—not unless she told him to. But all she did was kiss him again and again and again. His hands found their way into her hair, and he frowned when the hair pins got in the way. Margaret giggled against his lips as he grumbled, picking them out one by one. She shook her hair down around her shoulders raised her eyebrows.

"Better?"

John couldn't answer; not when an aching hollow hunger uncoiled itself, like an animal long asleep, and made speaking impossible. Then she ran her hands through his hair, and snorted when it stood on end.

"What?"

"You look ridiculous."

"Shut up."

"Make me," she said and had kissed him again, long and slow and luxurious. John barely heard the sound that crawled out of him, halfway between a growl and a moan. He thought he could die right there in that library with no regrets.

Except one.

A horn sounded behind him and John's eyes snapped back up. He glanced at Margaret again. He eased the truck forward for the right turn, towards Margaret's house, back to normal life. Except there was no going back now. Not for him. His hands slid quickly over the wheel and he flicked down the left signal, swinging the truck the opposite direction. He knew Margaret was watching him, but she didn't say anything and neither did he. He'd be damned if he didn't make this night last as long as Margaret would let him.

John directed his sister towards the back stairs, trying to keep her quiet. He didn't relish the idea of explaining the situation if their mother woke up.

"Shut up, Fan."

She doubled over, giggling, and John glared at her. He scowled at his sister until she pressed a hand over her mouth to stifle her laughter. He bent and hoisted her up over his shoulder.

"Put me down, you dumb ass."

"Watch your head."

"I saw you and Margaret making out," she laughed as she flopped down, poking him in the back. "Was it as hot as it looked?"

"None of your damn business."

"Come on, John-John—"

"Nope."

"So, that's yes then."

John rolled his eyes.

"Anne will never forgive you now, you know."

"Good." John opened the door to her room and dumped her on the bed. He pulled off her shoes and tossed them into the corner.

"Mama's gonna be pissed at you too."

"So keep your mouth shut, Fan." She stuck her tongue out at him as John tucked her in.

"You should be nicer to Margaret, big brother," Fanny patted his cheek with a sharp smacking sound. "She's smokin' hot."

"I know." John grinned and kissed his sister's cheek. He gently shut the door behind him. Hopefully Fanny wouldn't remember too much tomorrow. Even if she did, he didn't give a damn.

Margaret sat silently as John drove through the deserted Milton streets, her mind lingering on the madness of the night. She'd thought one kiss would be enough to convince Henry Lennox she wasn't interested in him that way. She hadn't thought that she'd want to go on kissing John Thornton like she had. But they had kissed and kissed and kissed until Margaret couldn't think about anything or anyone except him.

She jumped as he touched her shoulder, glancing at him and then out the window. He'd parked the truck across the street from her house. He gave her a strange look as he let himself out, walked around the front of the car, and opened her door. She slid out, dashing across the slushy asphalt, John following slowly and steadily behind her, his hands in his pockets, as if they had all the time in the world. He watched in silence as she fumbled for her keys.

"Sorry, I know they're here," she said, her fingers trembling. The wind blew sharply and she shivered. "You're making this quite difficult, you know," Margaret said sharply, still fumbling through her purse.

"What?"

"I can't find my keys if you keep staring at me like that."

John crouched down, slid his hand under the threshold, and held up a spare key. Margaret stared, incredulous. She'd forgotten he put it there when he changed the locks for her father. He slid the key into the door, unlocked it, and pushed it open. Margaret should've stepped inside, but the look on John's face held her there. She licked her lips. She wanted him to kiss her again, terrified and a little curious what would happen if he did.

"Would you come in a moment?"

John raised an eyebrow, but a ghost of a smile spread over his face, making her shiver again, "Why?"

"I have something of yours." Margaret stepped inside, John ducking in after her. She snatched up the battered paperback—he'd lent it to her weeks ago—from the front table and held it out.

Margaret felt her arm tremble as John reached out and circled his hand around her wrist, pulling her close.

"Did you like it?"

"No," Margaret tugged at his jacket.

John bent down, his face inches from hers, "Why not?"

"It's a novel," A strange ache uncurled in her chest and she lifted herself on tiptoe. "I don't like novels."

"Liar," John breathed, his hands around her waist, tugging her hips against his.

Whatever madness that made her kiss him before roared to life again, demanding more. But he didn't kiss her. He walked them backwards until she was pressed tight against the wall.

"Are you always so rude?"

"Only to you."

She let out a small gasp as he lifted her onto the small table in the landing. "You don't even like me," she said, deliberately loosening his tie.

He gave her crooked grin, "You don't like me either." His hands cupped her face, rubbing his thumbs gently over her cheeks. Then John leaned in and kissed her so softly she shivered. A cold wind blew over them through the open door, scattering her hair across their faces.

"Maggie," he shuddered and took a deep breath, leaning his forehead against hers, "Tell me to leave."

She should make him go, she knew that. If he didn't leave right now, he'd stay all night. They were rational adults, and nothing could come from this but madness, really. And John would go if she asked him to, she felt certain of it.

But something about the way he looked at her made her long to find out just how rude he could be. Her fingers had finished undoing the knot of his tie, the ends dangling down his shirt.

"Please, Maggie—"

"Shut up, John." She yanked on one end of the red fabric, pulling it free with a snap.

He stared at her a moment, his eyes lit with fiery disbelief. Then they darkened and a wicked grin stole across his face. John reached out with one arm, shoved the front door shut, and snapped the bolt into place. Margaret slid her hands into his thick soft hair and tugged his face into hers, letting go of every doubt, worry, and rational thought. She didn't think about why she wanted John Thornton or why he wanted her. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

A low guttural sound ground out of him as she slid her tongue into his mouth, wrapping her legs around his waist. His hands ran down her thighs and shifted around the backs of her legs. She giggled into his mouth when he picked her up.

"That tickles," she breathed, trying to control her nervous laughter. "Don't you dare drop me."

"Trust me," John said as he carried her upstairs.

"On your right," Margaret held her breath as they passed her father's door and the floorboard groaned under their combined weight. She put her fingers over John's lips. "Shh,"

"Margaret, is that you?" Richard's voice called through the door.

John's eyes flicked from the door to her face, and he let her slide down, a sly grin spreading over his features.

"Yes, I—" Margaret called and almost choked as John pressed her against the wall with a muffled thump and began kissing her neck and collarbone. She shuddered as he nudged his leg between hers, pushing hard. "Stop that," she gasped, but he didn't stop and she didn't make him. "Not out here—" she bit her tongue as his slid up her neck to a spot under her ear. Bloody hell. She swallowed a moan as they stumbled roughly along the wall, bumping into her closed door. Margaret gave John a stern look of disapproval, which only made him grin wider. "Shut up," She hissed.

"Or what?" John snaked an arm around her and opened the door, almost chasing her inside. He moved remarkably quick for such a big man whose attention was engrossed in properly making love to her at the moment. He closed the door behind him and turned the lock.

Margaret's heart slammed against her chest at the sharp snick of the bolt, "I just might make you leave."

John stood straighter, considering her for a moment. "Liar."

Before she could say anything, he'd picked her up again, shoved the books off her chest of drawers, and set her down on top of it.

"Hush," she scolded, laying a finger on his lips, "My father will hear us."

John gave her a wolfish grin, "I don't care."

"You will care very much if we're interrupted." She held his blazing look primly and he raised an eyebrow in a challenge, stepping closer.

"You think that would stop me?"

Margaret felt a surge of heat steal over her. John was behaving so unlike his usual serious self, and she wanted this madness to last as long as possible.

John kept his eyes on Margaret as he reached out and plucked her clock off the wall, setting it face down on the bureau next to her. Then he laid his keys, wallet, pocket knife, and gun next to it.

She glanced at the gun, lip curling in disgust, "Why do you have that?"

"I always have it," John shrugged out of his jacket and tossed it on the bed, enjoying Margaret's widening eyes when he yanked his belt free and threw it after the jacket. She unfolded her arms as he shucked off his shirt and undershirt, tossing them on top of his jacket, quickly followed by his shoes and dress pants.

"Impossible man," She scooted forward, serious and regal, her fingers sliding through the soft hair dusting his chest. "Won't we need the bed?"

His eyes fluttered shut and he shivered underneath her hands. He shook his head, "Too short."

"You do this a lot then, yeah?"

"No," John opened his eyes, pushed back a strand of hair from her face, leaning closer. "Not much at all," He rubbed his face down hers, her skin sliding over his, and settled his lips against her neck. He kissed her lightly, moving his mouth slowly over her skin.

From the moment he'd set eyes on this tiny British woman, he'd known she was full of fight and fire, and he'd wanted her—every last perfect inch of her. When he reached the base of her neck, John slipped his fingers under the neckline of her dress and trailed them around towards the zipper at the back. Margaret sighed and leaned forward, resting her cheek against his shoulder. He slid the zipper down, the dress now loose around her shoulders. John dragged his fingertips from between her shoulder blades to the small of her back.

Soft. So soft. Like satin.

She shifted a little and lifted her arms as he tugged the dress over her head, a faint wave of her perfume spilling over him. He took a small step backwards and stared, his mouth going dry. John had imagined this before, many many times. But she was so much more than his late night fantasies.

Intoxicating. Devastating. Perfect.

For her, he'd been willing to wait and work as long as he had to. For her, he'd do anything. He swallowed hard, dead set on committing every line, every curve, every hair and texture —every perfect inch of her—to memory.

"What is it?" she whispered, crossing her arms nervously over herself.

"No," He took her wrists gently in his hands and uncrossed them, resting her hands on his hips. His hands ghosted over her arms, following the skin until he reached her back again. When he found the hooks of her bra, he fumbled for a minute, cursing under his breath.

"Stop," She laughed, a velvet throaty sound that jolted through him, and shifted, her fingers tangling with his. A half second later she held up the thin lacy material, her eyes sparkling with gentle mischief. "You really haven't done this very often have you?"

"Shut up." Even as he looked, every muscle tense and quivering, John still wasn't quite able to believe it. He was here now, with Margaret, and she wanted him. All he knew was he would do whatever it took to keep her. He would do this right, even if it killed him.

"Go on, then," she said, leaning hesitantly into his touch.

"Maggie—" John's voice caught in his throat, thick and uncooperative, his knees suddenly threatening to give way underneath him. The skin of her breasts, stomach, and thighs was so much softer than her neck, arms, or back. Silk—or something damn like it.

"John," Margaret breathed. "Your hands are shaking."

"Yeah."

Burning blue eyes caught Margaret's, holding her entranced. The spicy musky smell of his skin filled her nose as John gathered her in his arms, her legs slung easily around him, and lowered them gently to the floor. Somehow, he managed to snag a pillow for her head, even as he kissed her.

John made love to Margaret slowly, carefully, each move, each kiss, each brush of his tongue, his lips, his touch—everything he did—was mindful and deliberate, drinking in every single part of her. Still, she felt his hands tremble, the only noise a strange suppressed symphony of groans, inhales and exhales, and her name.

"Maggie,"

There were awkward moments—getting her underpants off (and then his) with as much dignity as they could manage, adjusting his weight so she could breath easily, him slipping because he still had his bloody socks on, her searching for the right angle of her hips so he could actually get himself inside her. Then Margaret screwed her eyes shut, turned her head to one side, blushing furiously.

"Maggie."

The gentle kiss brushed her cheek. He was waiting for her. She finally opened her eyes as John ran his hand from her knee to her inner thigh. She stared up at him, trembling, and nodded. He kissed her again, slowly, deeply, the first pain swallowed up in the peppermint taste of him. Her hips pressed up and John breathed in sharply through his nose. She watched his face tense, easing further in until they both were panting with—what? The effort? The beauty? The insanity?

Funny how lovemaking seemed equal parts pain and pleasure—for both of them. A laugh bubbled in Margaret's chest but escaped as a stuttered whimper at the sudden repeated motion—once, smoother than the first—and then again. And again. Each one stealing her breath, her sanity, her very self.

She bit her lip and clung to John's shoulders, then his back, feeling the muscles and velvet skin under her hands. Margaret couldn't tear her gaze away from him as he led them through the oldest dance of mankind. She moved a hand to his face. She'd been wrong; this wasn't stealing. John would never take what she didn't willingly give him. This intimacy was a fire, a raging flame she'd helped him ignite and it consumed everything they gave it, asking for more, demanding everything.

And so she gave the fire what it wanted—what she wanted. And she wanted him.

For the first time in God knew how long, John Thornton felt his whole body relax. He lay sprawled on Margaret's bedroom floor, their breathing finally slowing down, unable to move. Nothing would be or could be more damn perfect than making love to Margaret Hale.

And now that he had, how could he do anything else?

A cloud shifted and the moon shone into the room, bathing them with its hushed silver light. John saw Margaret was crying.

"Did I hurt you?" He rumbled, wiping her tears away with his thumb. Please, not that. Anything but that.

She scooted closer, pulling his arm around her, and John held on tight as she shivered.

"Maggie?" She given him everything and if he'd hurt her—

"No," She brushed his lips with her fingers. "You were lovely."

He nodded, a small smile on his lips, unable to remember a moment when he'd been more content. He tucked Margaret against him, her head under his chin. John thought he might never let go. She shivered again and he felt the gooseflesh ripple under his hands.

"John?"

"What is it?"

"Would you kiss me again?"

Every nerve and muscle sung with anticipation, his sleepiness vanishing. It was all the invitation he needed.

Margaret didn't expect much for herself the first time she made love to John beyond the pain her friends all gossiped about, assuming she knew. That and the overwhelming newness, the raw wonder of feeling beyond anything she'd imagined alone. It had been short and slow and intensely perfect.

But the second time, John watched her carefully, repeating any particular motion when she let out a low breathy sound, almost against her will.

"There?" He grumbled, nudging the side of her face with his nose as they moved together. It was easier to find their rhythm this time. Then he shifted one of her legs just a little higher, closer to her ribs, "Or there?"

"John," it was an inhale of surprise and sudden desperate hunger.

"So..." He thrust again. "Right there?"

Bloody hell. Margaret squeezed her eyes shut, barely hearing him or her own response, biting her lip until she tasted blood. She wanted it all this time; she wanted him.

"You like that?"

"Oh, shut up," she hissed, her mouth half open on his. She tangled her hands in his hair, unaware of how hard she was pulling, "Please."

"Please, what?"

"I—"

"Tell me, Maggie."

"Stop talking," She half whimpered, half sighed, "Just...don't—" she panted, legs and stomach trembling. Close. So close. "Don't...stop."

There weren't any stars, or shouts, just bliss, and warmth, and more tears she couldn't hold back. John's face sank into her neck and she felt his whole body shudder. Her hands were still buried in his hair. Her hips and thighs ached, and her breath was shallow from John's weight, but she couldn't regret any of it. Not yet.

"Maggie?" He raised himself onto his elbows, frowning. He kissed at her tears. "Don't cry. Please."

His concern, so earnest and gruff, made her smile a little and she nodded, letting him pull her on top of him as he rolled over on his back. She curled into him, letting him wipe away her tears until she'd cried herself out.

The moon was starting to set when John finally fell asleep. Margaret watched him drift off, the tired worry and hard lines softening as he slept.

Tomorrow, the fatigue and the worry would be back. Tomorrow they would remember every argument and disagreement. Tomorrow would steal this moment from her. Some desperate part of her wanted to stay here forever with the tall, impossible man who could make her so angry she couldn't think straight; who made love to her like he'd never done anything else; who was so much more than she'd thought before.

Margaret felt John's arms tighten around her.

"I love you, Maggie."

The words were so soft she almost missed them. She scooted closer, feeling the tears come, crying until she drifted off to sleep.

Because everything would change tomorrow.