She is far too drunk to be holding a razor blade this close to your face.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
It's four o'clock in the morning; her parents are asleep downstairs, mercifully oblivious to their heavily intoxicated daughter straddling the leather clad legs of Storybrooke's resident pirate, one of David's classic razors pressed to the delicate skin along the curve of said pirate's neck. Her bathroom is small - too small, really - so she's sitting on the counter, sans jeans because they were "too fucking tight" and apparently not conducive to jumping up onto sinks while drunk, her knees on either side of your thighs, ankles hooked into the crooks of your knees, holding you in place.
Your skin burns at the gentle (read: too few) points of contact: your fingertips to her hips, her wrist to your collarbone.
The two of you are so close that her breath ghosts over your lips. You may as well be kissing. Shit.
"So what are we talking here, Capp'n? Rough and tumble, or silky smooth?" She smiles lazily, pupils the size of saucers, long blonde curls cascading across one shoulder as she tilts her head to look at you.
Beautiful. It's the only word that comes to mind when she looks up at you like that, unbridled and completely peaceful for the first time since you met her. It vaguely reminds you of the first time you set foot on the Rodger, back when she was still the Jewel, a moment full of wonder and possibility, and you'd like to think perhaps Emma holds that for you now. For the first time in so very long you are thinking of a future, of what if's and when's and how's and white dresses and little boys with her eyes and your she know? How much you want it? She might not love you, not yet, but there is an attraction, certainly, and isn't that always how it starts?
Without thinking too hard about it, your eyes drift down, flitting over the white tank top and lacy black underwear, long legs wrapped around —
The blade pulls away from your neck for a moment as she taps it impatiently against the underside of your chin, bringing you out of your somewhat borderline lechery, with one eyebrow arched as if to say "I know exactly what you were just thinking".
"Just don't make me look like a bloody child," you reply, voice low, a little thick because dammit she's making it very hard to concentrate on anything but the feeling of her legs tugging you in closer. She nods, biting her bottom lip to keep from laughing, before reaching behind her for the bowl of shaving cream and brush.
The next several minutes are spent in silence as she applies the cream in long, slow strokes; so concentrated as she is with the task, she barely notices your hand gently slipping under her shirt, your cold palm coming to rest against the warm skin of her waist. You toy with the idea of leaning in, closing the short gap between you, and pressing kisses to the curve of her jaw or the dips and valleys of her neck, shoulder and breasts. She would let you, here in the dim light, when the time is just late enough to be considered early. There are no delusions: the only reason you are allowed to be here now, in her home and her personal space, is entirely down to happy circumstance (booze plus a late night). Were you to make a move, it would either go one of two ways: you would wake tomorrow morning and never be looked at nor spoken of again, or you'd be welcomed with open arms.
Cool air rushes into the void when she pulls away suddenly, setting down the bowl and brush. The blade, still warm from where it lay across her leg, returns to your face, this time resting gently against your jaw.
Intimacy the likes of which you have not seen in centuries fills the room, soaking through your thin shirt, creeping under your skin, twisting around your heart tight enough to take the breath from your lungs.
"Do you trust me?" she asks, oblivious to your sudden discomfort.
You suddenly want to be very far away, want to be back on the Jolly possibly sailing into the chaotic depths of a fresh portal, or even giving the Crocodile a good run for his money in a sword fight. Either option seems safer than letting her touch you anymore.
There is only so long you can hold out against the barrage of sheer love that threatens to overwhelm you every time she so much as breathes in your direction. Clearing your throat, you half-whisper, half-grunt, "Of course."
Without further prompt, she raises the blade, sets it against your skin and pulls.