Author's Notes: Hello, hello! Here we are yet again on another Friday. As promised, a chapter awaits you. A chapter that-I must warn you-finally fulfills the M rating attached to this story for the past 18 chapters. So, if sexual situations aren't you're thing, feel free to skip, um, well . . . wow, it's really the majority of the chapter. Um . . . stop reading when you're uncomfortable?

For those of you who are all for reading sexy times, you're welcome. ;)

Because I got to say, of all the sex I've written for various ships, CaptainSwan is the most fun.

Disclaimer: Don't own it. Not mine.


Chapter 19

Killian credited his sudden initiative to the rum flowing freely through his veins. The feast on deck was a better spread than could be found in any tavern. There was music and singing and some drunken dancing that he laughed at with the rest of his more sober crew members. He sat with Emma at his side, across from Elizabeth and Jack, and felt strangely content despite 1) he was in a realm of the dead, and 2) his not-so-dead grandfather still had a threat hanging over Emma's head.

But, in that very moment, with Bee leading a chorus of "Drink Up Me Hearties" and Williams playing his fiddle while Smee twirled by himself near the main mast, Killian couldn't think of a brighter time.

Emma sat near him but not close enough. Elizabeth was nearly in Jack's lap, and while he by no means envied the other captain, per se, he certainly didn't understand why Emma couldn't be just a bit closer. Yes, it was definitely the rum that gave him the gumption to place his hand on her knee beneath the table. Innocent enough, really. He was certain it was innocent enough.

He was so certain, in fact, that as the night continued, he let his hand drift.

He massaged the soft flesh of her thigh as his hand steadily drifted higher, the warmth of his palm and the warmth of her skin flaring hotly between them. She leaned closer to him as the night went on, wrapping her arm around his and curling her hand around his bicep as she let her head fall on his shoulder.

Her legs seemed to part absently once he finally reached her, as if this was the most natural thing in the world, and he felt too damn giddy at the thought. He wasn't some teenager who'd never touched a woman before, godsdammit, but this was Emma. This was his Swan.

So despite the sinful crudeness of the situation, out in the open, surrounded by his crew, it was with near reverence that he let a finger teasingly stroke her center. Her hand clenched around his arm, fingertips digging into his bicep, but she made no move to pull away, and so he stroked her again, relishing the heat of her he began a firm, steady rhythm.

It was all such a thrill, to laugh and carry on all while his hand rubbed her under the table. As the minutes passed, he became determined to make her come from this alone, and increased the pressure, unerringly finding her clit with his palm. He knew it the moment she jerked slightly, her hips rising off the bench toward his hand, the little gasp that only he heard.

He knew she was close. He could feel it in the way she began to subtly move against him, in her now vice-like grip on his arm. He heard the way her breaths shuddered in her chest, and yet she carried on calmly as if nothing out of the ordinary was happening, her head still on his shoulder as she talked politely with Elizabeth.

He was simultaneously proud and frustrated by her poise.

It only made him more determined to feel her break under his ministrations.

And yet, right before he knew she was about to fall, she suddenly stilled his hand, and the fingers of her right hand wrapped around his wrist. He didn't understand but made no move to touch her, although that resolve nearly shattered when she tilted her head toward his ear and said, "Not here. I can't return the favor."

She finally released her grip on his arm, though she let her fingertips trail over his bicep, to the crease of his elbow, and down his forearm, leaving a trail of blazing heat in her wake that was still a feeble flame in comparison to the fire that erupted within him when she boldly cupped him and gave him a gentle squeeze.

It took all his self-control not to yank her to her feet and drag her to their quarters. And yes, he now thought of his quarters as theirs.

Finally, finally Jack and Elizabeth retired to the Pearl.

Killian led Emma below deck before the other couple had fully even crossed the gangplank. He didn't wait for her to climb all the way down the stairs. As soon as he had both feet on solid ground, he turned and reached for her, sliding his hands under her ass and pulling her into his arms. His lips captured hers as she wrapped her legs around his waist, and he could only imagine how glorious it would feel when there was nothing between them.

"You'll be the death of me, Swan," he breathed into her skin as he nipped and suckled the tender flesh of her neck. "Bloody minx."

"We're drunk," she said, even as she fisted her hand in his hair to keep his lips against her neck.

"Aye, love," he agreed, his hands squeezing her ass. "That we are."

He carried her to the bed where he abruptly dropped her, letting her bounce against the feathered mattress. He grinned widely when she giggled. He loved that beautiful, rare sound. He liked being responsible for it. Emma opened her arms for him in a sweet gesture that she immediately ruined when she suddenly grabbed his hand and yanked him down on top of her. He fell with a laugh, catching himself on his forearms before he crushed her, but then her arms were around his neck and her lips were on his and he forgot about anything other than heat.

Her skin, her mouth, her hands, the damn air . . . everything was heat.

His fingers made quick work of her vest and shirt, his shirt, and the sight of her breasts contained in a truly flimsy excuse for a corset nearly made him chuckle. He traced the soft cup up to the strap, finger skimming teasingly over the top of her breast and along her shoulder until he childishly tugged the strap down. "And what, may I ask, love, is this?" he asked. "It's unlike any corset I've ever seen."

"Probably because it's not one," Emma said dryly. "It's a bra. Way more comfortable."

She giggled at the curious, almost analytical look in his eyes as he conducted an inspection of the garment currently marring his view of her. He traced each cup and both straps with his hands and then with his mouth, leaving her breasts feeling heavier and heavier each second he continued to ignore them. Finally, his wandering hands slipped around her back, following the band to the clasp, that to her immense surprise he managed to deftly undo with one hand.

"I like this bra of yours, darling," he said as he dragged it down her arms before throwing it to the floor. "Much simpler."

When his eyes inevitably fell to her breasts, Emma had the strangest urge to cover herself. He stared at her with wide eyes that held only the smallest ring of blue, and she watched his tongue swipe tantalizingly over his bottom lip that she suddenly had the urge to capture between her teeth in order to avoid his gaze. Killian groaned into the kiss, not caring about the particularly sharp nip to his lip, yet very aware of her sudden (fantastic) siege on his mouth.

So it was with a firm, but gentle pressure that he changed the nature of the kiss, forcing her to match the sweet strokes of his tongue as he tenderly cupped her cheek in his palm. "You're beautiful, Emma," he said. "Let me look at you."

Emma couldn't understand her hesitation. She hadn't even been this nervous when she'd lost her virginity to Neal. But she was Emma Swan, and she wasn't about to let a few nerves stop her. Maybe just a little delay.

So she squared her shoulders and challenged, "If I'm topless, you're topless."

Killian grinned. "Really? Are those the rules, then?"

"Yeah. Those are the rules. Quid pro quo, pirate."

"As you wish."

But being the pirate that he was, Killian sat up onto his knees, one hand feverishly working the buttons of his vest and then his shirt, all while his eyes soaked up the view of her beneath him. When Emma sat up to help him, he let her, although he made a silent vow that one day she would never feel shy or embarrassed with him. He'd prove to her that she was a goddess to be worshiped.

Once he wasn't distracted by the feel of her chest against his.

Emma tugged his shirt down his arms, throwing it in a random direction. Her hands had minds of their own as they wandered over his skin. It was not a new sight to her. She had seen this skin bloodied and torn before she had seen it as it was now, pale and smooth, covered generously with dark hair that brushed teasingly against her nipples whenever she pressed against him.

Her fingers searched out his scars. She was fascinated with them. Each one strangely reassured her. They were proof that he was a survivor, that he was stubborn, that he wouldn't go so easily. They were proof that he would stay.

She ran her hands over his back first, feeling the subtle raised lines from Silver's lashings. Those hurt her more than the others, and when she was sober enough, when she felt brave enough, she planned to kiss each and every one. The other scars were untold stories for her with the exception of one, the newest, the one that she was responsible for, in some ways.

Killian shivered when she brushed it with her fingertips.

His lips were at her neck again, although this time he determinedly continued south, lingering teasingly over her collarbone before finally reaching her breasts. He squeezed one with his hand while his mouth went to work on the other, leaving her a quivering mess that was almost embarrassing.

What was truly embarrassing, however, was the loud moan that escaped her when his free hand slipped between them and into her pants to cup her, the thick pad of his finger dragging teasingly through her folds.

"This is much better, isn't it, Swan?" he whispered in her ear. "No barriers, just my hand and your heat. You're absolutely dripping for me, love." He let his finger slide into her, and she gasped. "You were nearly there on deck," he said as he began to slowly stroke her, keeping the same rhythm as he had before, "I wonder how long it will take you now?"

Emma sighed. "Killian."

The combination of alcohol, his voice—dear god, she knew in her gut that she could come from his voice alone—and her already frayed nerves had her clenching around him far too soon. Her orgasm washed through her in a wave of heat, his name on her lips as he continued to gently stroke her until she could only tremble against him as she fought to catch her breath.

"Beautiful, Swan," he whispered. "Gods, darling." She blushed, only deepening the flush on her skin, and Killian chuckled fondly. "One day, you won't blush when I tell you the truth," he promised.

He nuzzled her neck, his tongue flicking out to taste the salt on her skin, as he tried to ignore the near painful throb of his erection, which wasn't at all helped when Emma slid her hand down his stomach to cup him as she had on deck. The groan that escaped him was completely beyond his control as was the way he thrusted lightly into her touch.

Good form, good form, you believe in good form, Jones, he told himself.

"Darling," he said, truly amazed by his ability to speak in a relatively steady voice. "You don't have to, ah, return the favor, as you said. I can take care of it."

But Emma only squeezed him again. "That would be against the rules," she said. "Quid pro quo, remember?"

Killian meant to laugh, but a strangled groan came out instead. "Aye, love," he agreed. "So you said."

Emma smiled as she began to undo the laces of his pants—this was one area where she truly missed the simplicity of a zipper—huffing in frustration when her fingers failed cooperate with her desires. Killian chuckled again. "Anxious, Swan?" he teased before undoing the laces himself with a practiced hand, sighing in mild relief when his erection was free, before hissing in a sharp breath when Emma's hand immediately wrapped around him. "Gods, warn a man, love," he breathed raggedly.

And the woman had the nerve to laugh at him.

In a heartbeat, she had them flipped so that he was on his back while she sat on his thighs, presenting him with the loveliest view of her breasts that still held the faintest flush from her orgasm. A view, which, unfortunately (or fortunately) disappeared when she gave him a firm, confident stroke and his eyes slammed shut. "Bloody hell," he breathed as she set a steady rhythm that so mirrored the one he had used on her that he knew she'd done it on purpose.

Oh, he'd have his revenge.

Once he could think about anything other than her hand.

Emma grew bolder with each stroke. This was where she was comfortable. She was in control. He was at her mercy. And there was something unbearably hot about having a notorious pirate captain at her mercy, cursing under his breath, letting her know that under all that good form there was a sailor's vocabulary.

He looked so delectable beneath her, his cock growing unbelievably harder under her attentions, weeping at the tip that she swiped with her thumb. Emma couldn't resist a taste, and Killian nearly came on the spot when her lips wrapped around him. His hand fisted in her hair, and he had to forcefully remind himself not to shove her head down so he could feel the back of her throat.

This was not quid pro quo.

He didn't care. He'd make it up to her. Thoroughly.

"Swan, I'm . . . Emma, love . . . I'm, I'm, fucking hell, I . . ."

She only hummed around him in answer, and that was enough to tip him over the edge. He came with a shout, and Emma didn't flinch, swallowing around him, and swiping away what little was left on her lip with her thumb. When Killian opened his eyes, he was met with the most impish little smirk, and he tugged her down to him, not caring when she landed heavily on his chest. He trapped her in his arms and kissed her, tasting himself on her lips and not giving a damn. He hummed contentedly as his hand trailed down her back, stopping on her still clothed ass with an internal frown. "Those should come off," he muttered. "It's a grave, overlooked error on my part."

Emma's laugh was more of a sigh as she nestled into the crook of his neck. "You still have your boots on," she said with a smile.

Two muted thuds followed in short order and he nudged her gently. "So do you," he said. "Quid pro quo, love."

Two more thuds. "There," she said.

"Technically, my trousers are off, in that they're not fully on," he added.

Emma snorted. "Pirate."

"Aye," he agreed, suddenly rolling them so that he was hovering above her. "What do you say we get rid of them all together?"

His hands began to work the already loosened laces of her own pants, and Emma tensed, placing a staying hand on his, and feeling an overwhelming surge of emotion when he immediately stopped and looked at her in concern. "Swan?"

"Killian," she began. "You know that this, you know that I'm not," she huffed, "that I can't . . ." He silenced her stammering with a sweet kiss that eased all of her tension in seconds. "I'm not ready yet," she said quietly.

For the smallest span of a second, she worried that she'd fucked everything up. She shouldn't have let them get this far. It was only setting up an expectation that she couldn't give him. She was just drunk, and he was drunk, and maybe this was all a mistake . . .

"Emma," he said softly, breaking through her thoughts. "I know, love. I know." He kissed her again, achingly sweet, his hand gently slipping into her hair. "When I make love to you, and I will, I plan for the both of us to be completely sober," he said as he tenderly stroked her cheek with his thumb. "Because I want to remember every single second of when I make you mine."

The possession in his voice, as well as the surety, should have raised her hackles. She wasn't his. She didn't belong to him. Yet with him on top of her and her arms around him, he felt entirely hers.

Yet she couldn't resist saying, "I'm not loot, you know."

But Killian just smiled faintly, that small little smile that was sweet and soft and achingly tender, and said, "Not all treasure is silver and gold, Swan."

And just like that, her walls went up.

She thought that she managed to hide it when she immediately arched up to claim his lips, pulling a soft moan from him that didn't thrill her half as much as it had before. She was distracting him now, and she was patient as he regrettably pulled himself away from her to clean up a bit and change out of his leathers. She did the same, tearing off her pants and slipping his shirt over her head.

When Killian climbed back into the bed, she settled next to him as she usually did, though she no longer found the closeness comforting, and she tried to focus on the charms of his necklace instead of his arm around her. Trapping. Constrictive. Suffocating.

Emma slipped out of bed the moment she knew he was asleep.

She put on her jeans, feeling the need to reconnect with her old life, her old self, though she still took Killian's leather coat instead of her own red jacket. She told herself that it was a matter of convenience, that opening the trunk to retrieve it might wake Killian, but in her gut she knew that wasn't the case at all.

Emma buried her nose in the collar of his coat as she came up on the empty deck. The food had been cleared away, and she made a note to thank Wallace. She knew he hadn't participated in the celebration near as much as everyone else knowing he would need his wits to clean up afterwards. She was definitely buying him a drink at the next port.

Her feet led her to the rail, and she was surprised to look across to the Black Pearl and see Elizabeth staring back at her. Emma crossed the gangplank before she really knew what she was doing. Instinct told her that she should be alone, but above even that was the desire to run. To get away. From the Jolly, from Killian, from this new person she was becoming. She needed to run, and finally, finally she had somewhere to go.

But Elizabeth Swann wasn't going to let her get too far.

. . . perhaps your problem isn't running, Emma. Perhaps it's your direction that's the problem.

. . . when you're afraid . . . and everything in you is screaming for you to run, it is certainly safer to run away . . . but running toward what scares you is infinitely more fun . . .

Naturally, Killian chose that moment to appear on deck. Emma watched him scan the deck, and when his eyes landed on her, she felt them in her chest. On her heart.

How long have you been in love with him?

It was too fast, too soon. She couldn't possibly . . .

I can't take the chance that I'm wrong about you.

No. There just wasn't . . . she couldn't have known then. This wasn't some fairytale. She wasn't a princess, and he wasn't some knight. She was an orphan, and he was a pirate.

But she remembered how she'd felt with him in her arms, that surge of possession that she'd never felt before, that conscious thought of mine. She wanted him. He was hers. Just hers.

Not all treasure is silver and gold.

He thought she was a treasure. His treasure.

Pirate, she thought fondly.

She walked to the gangplank without further thought, her heart hammering in her chest. Maybe Elizabeth was right. Maybe she should just run in a different direction. Running away had only ever brought loneliness. It made sense that running in the opposite direction might bring her something completely different.

And as long as she thought of it like that, as if it was something as logical and simple as two plus two, Emma wasn't afraid.

Killian didn't move as she stepped into the deck. He just looked at her, and she noted with some chagrin that he seemed to be pondering his best move. He didn't know what to do, what she would do. There was an undercurrent of tension in his shoulders, a glint of hesitation in his eyes. He was afraid.

Hadn't she promised him only the other day that she wouldn't run? And look what she had done in response. Shared an innocent moment—yes, there had been something strangely innocent about their time together, despite the alcohol involved—and then forced him to wake up alone.

And that was, well, that was just mean. And careless and selfish and . . . he was still here, still waiting for her, and god, she really didn't deserve it.

"I'm sorry," she apologized.

Killian frowned slightly. He hadn't expected her first words to be an apology. He'd been prepared for high walls and sharp comments. "Sorry for what, Swan?"

She smiled shyly, rueful. "Running. I promised you I wouldn't and then I . . . did."

He took a tentative step closer. "And why did you run, love?"

"I got scared."

"Of what?"

"Of you. And me. Us."

"Why?"

"Because I want it," she whispered. "I want you. I want this life, this ship. I want everything. You make me want everything I promised myself I wouldn't want."

Killian's frown only deepened. "Then why run, Swan?"

Her eyes glistened. "Because I never get what I want."

And to her surprise, Killian smiled. "Nor do I, love," he said, taking her hand in both of us and bringing it to his lips. "Until I met you." Emma took a step closer, and he smirked ever so slightly. "And now that I have you, I don't ever plan on letting you go," he added. "But at some point, darling, even though we're quite different, you're going to have to trust me."

Emma frowned. "That's what you think this is about? That I don't trust you?"

"Is that not what it's about?"

"Of course, I trust you," she said, closing the distance between them until their clasped hands were sandwiched between their chests. "I wouldn't be here if I didn't."

"I'm not talking about that kind of trust, love. Trust me with your heart, Emma."

I can't take the chance that I'm wrong about you.

It seemed like forever ago when she'd told him that, when she'd warned herself away from him. Even then, some part of her had known. Some part of her had known that she could trust him, not just to lead her home but with everything. Heart, mind, body, and soul, she'd known it even then.

And so she'd hidden behind her walls, tried to push him away, only to have him come back again and again and again. Just like now.

How long have you been in love with him?

"I do," she said softly as the realization washed over her. It ignited a fire in her chest that was equal parts elation and panic, and once again she was swept up by the urge to run. Love hurt. It had done nothing but hurt her, and honestly, what was she thinking?

Run.

So she did, but this time, Emma Swan ran in a different direction. She brought her hand up to touch his face, her fingers scrapping against his scruff, and she smiled when she saw the wonder in his eyes, like he couldn't believe she existed and was here, with him. He leaned into her touch when she didn't pull away, kissing her palm in that sweet, almost shy way of his that made her heart swell.

"I've had my walls up for so long," she admitted with a sheepish smile. "I guess I'm still getting used to the idea that I don't need them with you."

Killian's answering smile was the most beautiful thing she'd ever seen.


*dies of feels*

Yeah, so . . . Emma made a realization we've all known was coming. Just maybe not so soon? I know when I wrote this chapter, this ending totally snuck up on me, and I was like, "Oh, is she here? Yep. Yes, she is." I've always been very conscious of Emma's character. I relate to her in a lot of ways, but what I like most about her character (and also what frustrates me most) is that she's a runner. She has walls and she has her armor, and the only reason she has surrendered to her feelings and acknowledged them for what they are is because there's literally nowhere for her to run. Emma has always had a place to go, but now she doesn't. She's stuck in the Enchanted Forest, stuck with Killian, and so she has no choice but to face him and everything that he brings to her life.

So yeah, she loves him and she knows it.

What she does with this news is, of course, for you to find out!

Next time in Run Baby, Run . . . "You amuse me, Miss Swan." - Davy Jones

See you Friday!

-AC