Author's Notes: hehehe
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
P.S. Take a look at the Rating for the story. M. Let's earn it.
Chapter 27
"No!"
Killian fell to the deck like a marionette whose strings had been cut. Emma scrambled to him, heedless of Davy Jones standing over them, dagger red and ugly in his hand. She turned Killian onto his back, her actions far too rough, yet the sob that escaped her throat at his agonized groan almost sounded joyful.
He wasn't dead.
She could save him.
She had to save him.
"Killian." She blinked quickly so that her tears fell down her cheeks instead of clouding her eyes. "Killian, hey." She put a hand over his wound, hot blood immediately seeping through her fingers, while her other hand went to his face. "Killian, look at me. Hey." His blue eyes opened hazily only to shut once more. "Killian!"
Blue eyes. Pained yet soft. Sad. So, so incredibly sad. Killian's lips twitched in the faintest of smiles. Meant to comfort. "I-It's alright, Swan," he gasped. His hand, warm and rough and slick with blood, weakly clasped hers over his chest. "I love you."
"No," Emma's voice was brittle, child-like, as Killian's chest suddenly stopped shuttering under her hand and the light in his eyes faded. She began to shake her head. "No," she repeated. "No!"
The shock faded quickly. Her wide, disbelieving eyes fell into something softer and pained. A sob caught in her throat, but the next was loud and shook her entire body, as did the next one, and the next, until Emma was trembling and struggling for air. She couldn't breathe. Every sucking breath she took caught in her throat. Emma had shed her fair share of tears in her life, but she had never known she could cry like this—with her entire body, with her entire soul.
She cried and still, fruitlessly, pressed her hands over his chest. Blood still ran, hot and thick and lively, over her fingers and she pressed harder to make it stop. She just had to make it stop. He wasn't dead. He couldn't be dead.
He'd promised.
And Killian Jones never broke a promise.
And maybe it was a desperate hope, but Emma believed him. She believed in Killian Jones. That stubborn, clever, dashing rapscallion of a pirate in all of his good form. She hoped and she believed and she loved.
Her magic swelled in her chest to a painful degree. Her hands over his chest began to glow, brighter than ever before, but Emma hardly noticed. She stared at Killian's face, that ridiculously attractive, strong jawed, scruffy face. She stared at his eyebrows that always seemed to possess minds of their own, drawing and arching in a way that always flirted with the line between sexy and obscene. She stared at his nose that always bumped playfully against hers when he tried to kiss her and smile at the same time. And she stared at his lips that melded so well with her own and felt like the gentlest sin against her skin.
She loved him.
In that moment, Emma Swan knew that Killian Jones was it for her. He was the one. He was a part of her—mind, body, and soul.
And she refused to let him go.
If you asked her later, Emma wouldn't be able to explain why she did what she did. It was something out of a fairytale, and fairytales weren't real, but she hoped. She loved and she hoped and she believed.
And so she kissed him.
His lips were still warm, and Emma could almost imagine him kissing her back. The magic in her chest grew hot, so hot that it scared her, and then it all left her in a wave of power that simply felt like light—pure, bright, and true. She was entirely unaware of the rainbow-colored ring that exploded from around her and Killian, oblivious to Jack's gasp of surprise from his place next to Elizabeth, who watched as the power of the kiss seemed to be channeled into Jones's dagger as he crossed blades with Calypso.
The dagger glowed brightly and that brightness exploded when Jones sank the blade into Calypso's chest.
But Emma didn't hear, didn't see, didn't care, because to her total shock, Killian's lips began to move against hers. At first, she did nothing to pull away, sure that she really was imagining things, magic or not, until she felt a hand curling around the back of her neck and fingers sliding into her hair. When she felt strands of her hair snag on familiar rings, Emma finally drew back, her movements slow and hardly daring to hope.
Blue.
The first thing she saw was blue, the most beautiful, deep, mesmerizing shade of blue. Killian blinked as he stared up at her, for a moment as stunned as she, until his face split into a wide grin and he said, "Swan."
"Killian?"
She didn't even him a chance to reply. She attacked him with kisses, peppering his cheeks and even catching his nose, letting out a watery giggle when Killian laughed before bringing her lips back to his to kiss her thoroughly, only pulling away when his hand brushed her face and he felt her wet cheeks. "Hey, none of that, love," he said. "I told you, I'm a survivor."
Emma punched his shoulder. "You died first, you idiot," she said, and as the words left her mouth, her eyes grew wide and confused. "You died," she repeated. "How are you . . ."
"True Love's Kiss."
Emma and Killian scrambled to their feet, the latter holding his sword aloft and ready, his grip sure and strong, eyes blazing as he glared at Davy Jones and the dagger, stained with his blood, still in his hand. "True Love's Kiss doesn't raise the dead," he said.
"No," Jones agreed. "But then, you weren't really dead."
Emma gaped. "His heart stopped. He wasn't breathing, he was," she swallowed, "he was dead."
Killian slipped his hand into hers and squeezed. Her grip in return was tight enough to break his fingers but he made no move to pull away as Jones raised the dagger. "You were cursed," he explained. "This blade is cursed to take a heart. I didn't, shall we say, finish the job, and so you were only, ah, mostly dead."
"Mostly dead," Killian deadpanned. "Bloody hell."
"What did you do with the magic?" Elizabeth demanded, causing Emma's head to snap around to see that both Elizabeth and Jack had their swords out and leveled at Jones. "I saw it. You channeled it. Why?"
"It was True Love that locked Calypso away," Jones explained. "True Love and my blood. And so, the only way to rid the seas of her was to do the same once more."
Killian scowled. "You killed your True Love?"
"Not all love stories end happily. I'm free of her, now. And of this ship, if I so wish."
"How did you know this would work?" Emma's grip on Killian's hand was still tight enough that she'd lost feeling in her fingers. "There was no way you could've known that I . . . that we . . ."
"I didn't know," Jones admitted with regret but not guilt. "But I, I certainly hoped. You were able to open the chest, after all. Only those who know True Love can turn the key."
An uncomfortable silence fell between them all until Jack held up a hand and pointed randomly in the center of them all. "So, we're all done trying to kill each other?"
Jones nodded slightly. "Aye. What's done is done."
"Brilliant." Jack clapped his hands. "Now, if you'll be so kind, mind whisking me my bonnie lass back to me ship?"
Jones looked like he wanted to smile. "Cavalier as ever, Sparrow," he said, but nonetheless raised his hand and Jack and Elizabeth disappeared in a swirl of purple smoke.
Once it was just the three of them, Jones turned to Killian. "I suppose an apology would seem trite," he said genuinely.
Squeezing Emma's hand in reassurance, Killian let his hand slip from her grasp so that he could stalk forward until his face was just inches from Jones's, feeling not one ounce of fear as he glared into the eyes of the man, his family, who had only minutes ago slid a dagger into his heart. It was a memory, a pain, that he wasn't likely to forget, even if he somehow managed to live for centuries.
And it was something that he would not ever forgive.
"If you come near me or mine ever again, I don't care how long it takes, I will see the Dutchman at the bottom of the ocean and you scattered in bloody pieces across the seven seas," he threatened lowly, a dark glint in his eye that swore his sincerity. There was almost a dare in a gaze, a challenge, like a predator that wanted its prey to run because it made the hunt that much more fun.
Jones wasn't afraid, but he wasn't naïve. "Aye," he agreed.
Killian held his gaze for a second more before he pointedly turned his back on Jones without consequence, reached for Emma's hand once again, and said softly, "Let's go home, Swan."
Emma nodded, staring at the Jolly a few hundred yards away from them, bobbing softly in the now still waters. She closed her eyes, focused on Killian's hand in hers, and pictured the helm in such great detail that she felt like she was right there, picking at the notch between the spokes that she thought looked like a bird. Her magic swelled and her skin tingled. There was the briefest sensation of falling, perhaps flying, and then she and Killian were back on the Jolly.
The crew jumped at their sudden appearance, and then it was a slew of questions about Davy Jones, Calypso, and Emma's little vanishing act. Everyone was talking over each other. No one could get a word in, and finally Killian let out a long, loud whistle that snapped everyone to attention. He surveyed each face in turn, noting who was absent and finding a line of bodies covered in bloody sheets tucked away by the port bow. He mourned Ace's loss. The old geezer was one of the few on the ship that had known Liam and was brave enough to mention him when Killian was in a particularly good mood.
He had always appreciated it. It was comforting to know that he wasn't the only one who remembered.
"Calypso is dead," he announced. "Jones is no longer our problem. What Emma wishes to disclose about her magic is her own business, and so you should direct your questions to her, and accept her answer, whatever it may be." His eyes landed on the bodies of his fallen crew, allowing only a fraction of the guilt and grief he felt to show. He couldn't afford to seem unfeeling, yet he also couldn't appear soft. "We will mourn our comrades tonight, then spend what I think is a healthy time somewhere very far from here."
Vincent nodded. "Aye, sir," he said, starting a chorus of agreements from the rest of the crew. "And, Captain?"
"Aye?"
Vincent smiled. "Good to see you alive, sir."
"And you, Mr. Turner. All of you."
"It's all because of Milady," Bee piped up. "She's the one who saved our pathetic arses."
Emma blushed at the praise, and Killian rubbed his thumb over hers where their clasped hands hung between them. Even in such a simple touch, she felt his pride. She squeezed back as a sudden feeling of exhaustion overcame her. Killian's thumb brushed hers yet again. "Drop anchor," he ordered. "Everyone get some rest."
Compared to the excitement of the day—god, just how long ago had Shipwreck Cove been? A day?—the quiet that settled over the Jolly Roger was almost unsettling. Almost. Emma found it sweet. It felt like she should relax, like she finally could, and as soon as she was in their quarters, finally alone, together, alive, she immediately turned into Killian's open arms.
They held each other for a long while, swaying gently back and forth. Emma buried her face in his neck, her lips brushing the hollow of his throat, while her hand rested over his heart. She needed to feel his heartbeat, and each gentle thud against her palm reassured her that this was real. Killian's hands rubbed soothingly at her back, which felt wonderful, but Emma couldn't help but feel slightly ridiculous because he was comforting her and he was the one that had fucking died.
Screw that 'mostly dead' Princess Bride bullshit.
He'd been dead.
She loved him.
And that hurt. Losing him had hurt. More than Neal, more than that pregnancy test, more than prison, more than any foster home rejection.
He'd left.
"Swan, don't cry, love," Killian said softly, pulling away only to wipe her tears. "Please."
Emma sniffed and tried to take a deep breath. "You're alright," she declared, even though she meant it as a question. Her hands began to wander over him, pausing at every rip in his shirt to feel for torn skin. Killian tried to still her hands, but she pulled them from his grip so she could continue to feel him, to poke and prod, until she noticed that her fingertips were bloody.
She knew that it was just left over from his wounds. His shirt was soaked with drying blood. She knew it didn't mean anything. Yet she still felt a flash of panic, an echo of pain, and without warning gripped his shirt and ripped it right down the middle. It was dramatic and sudden and Killian barely had time to mutter a confused, "Swan?" before she had the shirt on the floor.
Her hands began their exploration yet again, searching for any sign of distress, and feeling none of the relief she thought she should feel when she didn't find so much as a scratch. There was no gruesome wound over his heart. No slashes to his side. Just faint rusty lines of dried blood were the wounds should have been, but weren't. She stepped around him to inspect his back, finding it relatively unblemished with the exception of the scars that he'd already carried.
"Emma." Killian's voice was achingly gentle, almost pained. "Darling," he turned to face her and brought her hands to his heart so she could feel it beat, "I'm alright."
Emma looked at their clasped hands before meeting his eyes. "You're alright," she repeated.
He smiled a little. "Aye," he said. "Because of you."
"I didn't know what would happen."
"I think that's sort of the point, love." Sensing that now was not the time to bring up their Kiss, since even he was reeling from the revelation, Killian began to lead them toward the bed. "Right now," he said, "I think we should take care of you, because while I may not be bleeding, you, love, most certainly are."
Emma frowned and looked down, eyeing the dark patch on her shoulder in surprise. "Oh," she said dumbly.
Killian smiled. "You've likely ruined all my hard work, you know," he said as he sat her on the bed and rid her of her shirt without ceremony. His lips pursed when he saw the wound, stitches cleanly torn. "Now, it really will scar."
"I don't care," Emma said as he brought a bowl and pitcher of water over to clean the wound again. "Besides, now we're even."
Killian huffed and shook his head, a dry smile on his lips as he glanced up at her from beneath his lashes before going to work. Emma was a good patient, sitting still and only hissing when he sterilized the wound with rum before simply handing the flask to her. She took a long pull. God knew she'd earned it.
Once she was properly seen to and bandaged, Emma was tipsy from the rum and in a hazy limbo between consciousness and sleep due to exhaustion. She sighed when Killian took off her boots and tucked her into bed before crawling in behind her. She turned into him, needing to see him as well as feel him, and stubbornly kept her eyes open.
"I'll still be here," Killian said quietly, brushing his thumb over her cheek. "When you wake up, I'll be here."
Emma caught his hand in hers. "Promise."
"I promise, Emma."
And so she slept.
Because Killian Jones never made a promise he didn't intend to keep.
The ceremony that night was solemn. Killian said a few words about each of the fallen, and occasionally the crew stepped up to add their own words. Emma managed to speak a few kind words for Ace, her voice tight but strong, and then the whole affair was over. The bodies were sent over the rail one by one, and despite all that he had done, Emma hoped that Davy Jones was a kind escort to the Locker.
They spent time together on deck afterward, small crew that they were, and passed around bottles of rum as stories were told and songs were sung. The wake lasted long into the night, and Emma hardly spent a second of it out of Killian's arms. She passed the majority of the night in his lap, her good arm around his shoulders while his stayed snug around her waist, his fingers drawing ceaseless patterns on her hip and occasionally straying to her thigh.
At first it was comforting, his touch meant to soothe and reassure, and perhaps as the night went on, Killian continued to mean it as such. To Emma it only served to steadily kindle a flame in her stomach until by the end of the night, she felt like her entire being was on fire. She began to rub his back, running her fingers along the tight lines of sinew and muscle, and if she pressed hard enough, she could even feel the scars he bore from the whip, and whenever she would trace those, he would shiver.
She knew he'd finally cottoned on when she felt his head turn into her neck and his lips glance across her throat. A sense of inevitability came over them. Both knew how the night would end, and yet while Emma was anxious, Killian was endlessly patient. He continued to draw those now agonizing little patterns on her hip, his hand having slipped beneath her shirt long ago and yet daring to go no higher. Or lower.
By the time everyone dispersed, whether to drink by themselves or to sleep, Emma was ready to explode, and Killian looked smug when she caught his eye before heading for the stairs. He followed her down slowly, watching her hips sway in a way that told him she knew he was looking and was indulging him. She was on him when he still had two more steps to go, her arms looped tightly around his neck. His hands settled on her hips as he lifted her up, taking the last two stairs with her legs around his waist and her tongue in his mouth. The kiss was rough and hot, months of pent-up passion and promise, and it took all of Killian's self-control not to just turn around and have her on the stairs.
He didn't want that. He wanted to take his time with her, worship her like she deserved.
But it seemed like Emma was going to do her damnedest to test him.
She bit his bottom lip before sucking it into her mouth to soothe the sting. Her nails dug into his shoulders and the tight grip her thighs had on his hips was enough to make his mind race with thoughts about that same grip but without the pesky barrier of clothes. His shirt was the first to go, and she made sure to drag teasing nails over his nipples, making him hiss and her laugh.
"Bloody hell," he cursed as he set her on her feet. Her hands went to his leathers, but he caught her wrists, smirking at her indignant pout. "Quid pro quo, love," he reminded her, grinning at the memory of their drunken escapade. He fiddled teasingly with the hem of her shirt and cocked an eyebrow.
Emma grinned. "The honor is yours, Captain," she said, laughing lowly in her throat when his eyes went black and he kissed her fiercely. Her shirt was eventually ripped over her head, though Killian made sure not to jostle her too much, her bullet wound still sore and raw.
Yet another reason to somehow find the fortitude to slow down. The woman had taken a bullet for him. She deserved better.
Ironically, it was once she was under him in bed that Killian managed to change pace. Their kisses changed from lustful to loving. There was almost something tentative in the way that their lips moved together, like the sensation was entirely new, this deep, devoted dance of lips and tongues.
Emma instinctively wanted to fight it. Her heart felt entirely too full and fragile when he kissed her like this, like she was some precious treasure he'd been lucky enough to find and keep. His hands were gentle whispers against her skin, and she pressed herself tighter to him to soothe the ache in her breasts that he seemed happy enough to tease but otherwise ignore. She whimpered when he gently tweaked a nipple but did nothing more, seemingly content to hold the weight of her breast in his hand.
She arched into him. "Killian," she pleaded.
He shushed her, his lips trailing slowly down her throat, nipping and suckling at an agonizing pace. "Let me love you, Emma," he said. "Please, love."
It took a conscious effort but she relaxed, giving into the sensation of his lips and hands, her fingers carding through his hair as his kisses steadily trailed lower. She keened when he finally wrapped his lips around her nipple and began to tease it with his tongue and teeth, his other hand finally massaging her neglected breast, and she groaned low and long in her throat.
The more sounds she made, the more demanding Killian became, his teeth shaper, his hand rougher, and Emma's core throbbed to the point of pain, desperate for some kind of friction. So it was with hardly any of the sly intent she meant when she arched her hips, curled her leg behind his, and flipped them. She promptly grinded her hips into his, groaning at the hardness she felt, and closing her eyes at the choked, wrecked sound that caught in Killian's throat.
His hands were hard on her waist, holding her to him as he rolled his hips into hers, obligingly lessening the ache for both of them, before he abruptly sat up and pulled her to him, his arms like bands of steel around her, trapping her, and with any other man, Emma would have done everything she could to escape, to take control, so that she didn't feel like she was some bit of captured plunder a particular pirate was loathe to lose.
But it was Killian, and Emma didn't mind.
It was actually a heady feeling, a powerful one, to be selfishly possessed, and her nails dug sharply into his shoulders when his lips settled under her jaw. "Don't think I don't know what you're doing, Swan," he said, his voice low and rough in her ear as his hands cupped her breasts. He rolled his hips, muffling her gasp with his mouth as he captured her lips in a wet, fiery kiss. "Is this what you want, love?" His tease was almost a threat as he rolled his hips again. "Do you think you can distract me? I told you, lass. We're doing this my way."
And with that, he flipped them as they'd been before, with his hips pinning hers to the mattress, his hands trailing down her arms to her sides, his lips and teeth marking her skin as he steadily trailed lower and lower still. She giggled when he placed a sucking, wet kiss on her bellybutton, and before she could yank on his hair to get back at him—she could feel the smug bastard smiling against her skin—his lips brushed the top of her pants. She trembled with anticipation, but when a second passed without any movement, Emma looked down, opening her mouth to ask what the hell was the hold up, only to catch Killian's eyes and feel her heart swell painfully.
He was still waiting for her.
She could only manage a shy nod, and the gentle smile he gave her in return made her eyes burn. This man. This wonderful, sweet, beautiful man.
God, she loved him.
The urge to say it bubbled within her, but she swallowed the words on a gasp when she felt Killian's hot breath on her bare, wet sex. Vaguely, she recalled him promising to return this favor, and she really should have known that he would, and yet the first firm lick nearly sent her over the edge right then and there.
Killian Jones was a talented man. Emma knew it. But dear god, what the man could do with his mouth was downright sinful.
He pulled noises from her throat she'd never known, reduced her to a quivering mess, twisting and arching for release, and yet he refused to let her fall. He kept her right on the edge, alternating gentle thrusts and firm licks, drifting up to suck lightly at her clit when he felt particularly arrogant, so she could look down at him and see the teasing, knowing look in his eyes.
She hoped that he could see the promise of swift vengeance in hers.
But soon she couldn't see anything. Her eyes were shut as she threw her head back, her breaths growing even shorter as she felt that beautiful telltale heat building inside her. There was no stopping it. She had been hovering on the edge far too long, but when she felt him began to pull away yet again, she glared down at him. "Don't you fucking dare, Jones," she threatened, her voice holding not an inch of authority she wanted, completely wrecked and pleading.
She nearly laughed in relief when she came but choked on his name instead. He brought her down gently, lovingly, until she was nothing but a boneless, panting heap. Killian hummed contentedly as he kissed his way back up her body until he finally reached her lips. The kiss was slow and deep, unlike anything either of them had known. It meant more. It meant everything. It was them.
A quiet hush fell over them both as Emma finally pulled back from the kiss to look at him. And she let him see. She let him see everything that she was, every vulnerable, tender part of her that she kept hidden from the rest of the world. Her walls were down. Completely.
And Killian knew it because his walls were down, too. He looked at her as though she might disappear, like he was waiting to simply blink and find her gone. Find himself alone. Again. Worse was the faint glint of blind disbelief that she was still with him, under him. He looked at her as though she was something he didn't deserve, and that just wouldn't do.
Because he couldn't be more wrong.
Emma was willing to prove it to him. She needed to prove it. So she held his gaze as she reached for the laces of his leathers, undoing them with quick, sober fingers. Soon his pants joined hers on the floor and then it was just the two of them and his necklace between them, the charms pressed between their chests. Emma readily hitched her leg over his hip to bring him closer until she could feel him brushing against her, and now it was Killian's turn to tremble.
And once again he looked at her and silently asked if this was what she wanted. But it was more than that, and they both knew it. There would be no going back from here. She knew that he wouldn't let her go. She would be his, and he would be hers. It was wonderful and terrifying, everything that they wanted and everything that they feared.
Because both of them knew all too well that sometimes life took what you loved.
Who you loved.
Emma knew that she could say no. She knew that she could put the brakes on and end it. She knew that he would let her, that he wouldn't say a word, wouldn't pressure her, wouldn't demand an explanation. Because he'd know. He'd know, and he'd understand.
You and I, we understand each other.
I can't take the chance that I'm wrong about you.
Sail away with me, Swan.
You're enough, Killian.
I love you, Emma.
She saw their whirlwind romance unfold in that one moment, and she could only say one thing, "You won."
"Won what, Swan?"
"My heart."
His eyes widened before his smiled fondly. "You were supposed to be asleep."
"I thought it was a dream."
"No dream, love," he assured her, kissing her sweetly. "I promise."
"I need to tell you something."
Killian groaned and chuckled at the same time. He rubbed against her center, hissing at the slickness. "Can't it wait?" he said, trying for debonair and failing miserably.
She wanted to laugh but couldn't, not when she looked up into his eyes, so bright and blue and soft as he waited for her. She swallowed. "When you died, I was afraid I was never going to get to tell you something," she murmured, her voice trembling.
Killian tried not to react, but there was still a gentle sense of knowing in his eyes and in his voice as he said, "Tell me what?"
"I love you."
The words left her in a breathy rush, but Killian heard them loud and clear. They rang in his ears, clear as a bell, the most beautiful melody. His heart sang in his chest as he grinned broadly, pressing his forehead to hers. "Say it again," he pleaded.
Emma's smile was shy. "I love you, Killian."
"And I you."
He entered her with one thrust, and both of them gasped at the feeling. Killian buried his face in her neck, throwing all of his frayed focus into placing reverent kisses against her skin as he waited for her to adjust to his size. Don't move, Jones. Good form, you believe in good form. Don't bloody move.
Finally, blessedly, Emma rolled her hips. "Killian, please."
His first strokes were slow and sweet. They moved together with gentle sighs and kisses. Emma's hands were light caresses on his back and soft tugs in his hair. It was novel and new, tender and devoted, this idea of moving together for the sake of the feeling itself, to feel the closeness and the depth and the love.
Emma still wanted more.
She met his next thrust harder, and Killian moaned, his lips catching hers hotly with a familiar lustful passion that made her think he wanted to devour her. Emma squeezed him teasingly and he growled, sending a jolt of heat straight to her clit. "Harder," she breathed. "Killian, harder."
He hitched her leg higher on his hip, changed the angle, and thrust deeply, hitting that magical spot inside her that she'd begun to think was a myth. "Yes," she moaned. "God, yes. Don't stop."
Her eyes were shut in pleasure, her hands touching and caressing every bit of his skin that she could reach, when Killian's voice forced her eyes open. "Emma, look at me," he demanded, a thread of the Captain in his voice that sent a shudder through her. She nearly closed her eyes. "Look at me, love."
Her eyes met his and she nearly crumbled at the sight. Pupils blown wide and black, just the faintest ring of stormy blue, and completely, utterly wrecked. "You saved me, Swan," he told her. "You saved my bloody soul, you beautiful, magnificent woman."
Emma shuddered, feeling her orgasm begin to build. "Come with me," she said. "Killian, come with me."
"Aye," he grunted. "Together."
"Together."
His hand slid between them to rub wide, rough circles against her clit and with three more thrusts, Emma was gone. She came with a scream, and the sound sent Killian over the edge. He collapsed onto her chest, his hair wet with sweat and hanging in his eyes as he tried to catch his breath. Emma sighed, her hands gently sifting through the sweaty strands, pulling a quiet hum from his throat that nearly sounded like a purr.
When he felt like he could move, Killian gently pulled out of her, despite Emma's quiet whine of protest that he shushed with a kiss. They wrapped themselves around each other, Emma's face nuzzled against his chest, his own pressed against the top of her head as they both breathed each other in.
"I love you, Swan," Killian said softly.
The words came easier now. "I love you, too," she said. And just before they fell asleep, she added, "Next time, we're doing it my way."
Killian fell asleep laughing.
*wipes sweat from brow*
*fans herself*
*squees and claps*
*goes to church*
Hope everyone was, uh, satisfied by this chapter.
Next time . . . "Tell Smee to set a new course." - Killian
See you (love you),
AC
