Summary: Crawling out of her skin with anxiety and nerves - not to mention the image of sweating Emma Swan that will NOT go away - Regina retreats to be alone.
Now See This 2
Regina retreated, face hot, mouth dry. She stumbled for the ladder leading abovedeck. Heart pounding, she froze with her fist around a rung at the sound of laughter. It was Snow, the absolute last person Regina wanted to see.
The clashing emotions boiled inside her belly and she closed her hand into a fist over the sensation. Damn this boat. Too small. Too close. Too slow. The racing of her heart made her lightheaded.
Lie down, her body demanded. Uncurling her fist from the wood ladder, Regina turned and spied a door ajar. Pushing inward she discovered an empty bunk room, two of the threadbare pallets mounted in stacks on each side wall. Regina took in the whole of the space within one breath.
A porthole split the wall on the far side. It opened though not easily, and she inhaled the cool air blowing against her face and her nose filled with the scent of sea brine. She gulped deeply and gradually cleared most of her head. Her heart rate slowed back to something akin to normal. Finally she stepped away up and settled back onto the low bunk of a pair.
Bracing her hands to either side of her hips, Regina sat on the bunk's edge, feeling the bite of the wood into her palms as they tingled. A glance down revealed magic breaking in fitful swirls around her fingers. The frame of the bunk began to warp.
Cursing Tamara and Greg under her breath, Regina snatched her hands up and rubbed them together. Magic was emotion, which made the converse also true: the more emotion one had, the easier it was to access magic. If she didn't get herself under control soon, the results could be... explosive. She winced. That is, of course, assuming the infernal magic-sucking machine hadn't wrecked Regina's magic entirely.
Attempting to center herself and rein in her emotions, Regina pulled off her boots, shucked her heavy coat, and laid back on the bunk, curling her arms and head around her balled up coat like a pillow.
Her thighs shifted together as she worked to get comfortable, which awakened her to another problem. She was swollen and sensitive at her core. Gasping in surprise, Regina reached down to adjust herself, only to instead disrobe, sliding off her pants. The cool air from the open porthole brushed against her legs and instantly much tension fled her body. She exhaled and her hands returned to cradle her coat to her cheeks, the soft wool cool against her hot skin.
The moment she closed her eyes, however, the itch returned. She put a protective hand on her belly in an attempt to quell the quivering nerves. Her body whimpered, begged her to move her hand lower. It wasn't subtle, nor ashamed, her hips moving toward her hand with intent. Relief, her body demanded.
She glared at the porthole as if the ocean could be blamed for her plight. A thump on the other side of the far wall, boots hitting the deck, drew her gaze there, and she knew - she acknowledged - from where her itch truly sprung.
Closing her eyes, Regina fought to exhale and inhale only through her nose, to drive the images of Emma Swan's workout from her mind. But the sight and scent had been indelibly printed.
Sweat-soaked skin - nostrils flaring again she could smell the salt-sweet scent - glistening, small droplets chasing one another over taut tendons, soft curves, ridges of delicate bone. Her tongue darted out over her lips, tasting the salts beginning to appear.
Beneath her fingers circling closer and closer, Regina's center warmed to the fantasy even as her mind fought to remain detached. Her hips surged, her fingertips slipped beneath the waistband of her panties.
When she first brushed her own tightly trimmed curls, her thoughts were not of her own grooming habits, but a sudden burst of dangerous curiosity about Emma Swan's.
With each growing gasp from the sensations, Regina wondered. Did the blonde trim? Or was she as wild and untamed there as she was in her outward life? Was she sensitive to the same touches Regina enjoyed, or did she prefer different strokes? Would the blonde taste more sweet or salty upon Regina's tongue?
She moaned at that thought, licking her lips again in abject wanting, to know. Her fingers slipped gingerly around her own clit. Her head fell back and her neck and back arched, with the conflicting strains of wanting to hold off, and yet rush forward, too, headlong into fulfillment.
Her arm movement became erratic and she rolled onto her back, planting her feet apart to drive her hips upward more rhythmically as the demand to peak began to scream in her veins, throbbing in her head.
She panted; she groaned. Her fingers slid hard against her clit and her orgasm explosively overcame her. Shivering, she threw an arm over her face and stifled her cries, even as she made her fingers continue to push her to another release.
At last, she blinked open her eyes to rid them of stars. And met the stunned, flushed, stock-still figure of Emma Swan standing in front of a door she dimly heard click shut.
Emma's mouth opened and closed repeatedly, without making a sound, like a fish gasping for air on dry land. Regina's gaze riveted to that mouth. Unconsciously, she licked her lips.
The motion seemed to unstop Emma's voice. It was hoarse, and stuttering. "Uh, yeah. No. I...should. I should. I should go. Yeah."
She started to turn away, reaching for the door. Regina rolled, bone tired, onto her side.
"Don't." Her own voice was barely a whisper, hoarse, mouth dry. But the word stopped Emma mid-turn.
Green eyes turned back, seemed to take in the whole of Regina laying on the bunk. Slowly the hand dropped from the knob.
Regina lifted her head, steadily meeting Emma's gaze, shrinking the space between them.
"Don't go."
Emma was breathing deeply, and the woman's skin was still flushed and shiny with the sweat from her workout.
Primly, Regina sat up, pulled her legs from the bed, planting her feet firmly on the floor.
"No. Don't. Don't get up." Emma circled, keeping distance between them, and moved to the lower bunk opposite Regina's. Her gaze remained riveted to Regina's. "I, uh, just came in to … I thought I could." Emma looked at the bunk. "Lay you…" The blonde's cheeks reddened. "Lay too," she corrected quickly. "Down, I mean."
Regina nodded. Hands out of her own underwear, she felt a remarkable centering come over her as she faced an even more flustered Emma Swan. "Stress," she said, both explanation and question.
"Yeah. Yes," Emma said, nodding vigorously. "You, uh, you too?" She had started to lay down, but when Regina didn't immediately answer, Emma quickly resumed sitting. She hunched over her legs, her fingers interlacing and unlacing on her legs, grasping and ungrasping her knees.
Unused to being vulnerable with anyone, Regina could only nod.
Emma nodded back and Regina watched her throat swallow several times; the silence seemed to be the only thing they could manage and so each woman laid back onto her separate bunk, pretending not to notice the stolen glances between them.
Regina's belly quivered; out of the corner of her eye, she saw Emma grasp her stomach at the same moment she did.
In that momentary silence, Regina recognized that she and Emma Swan were definitely in the same boat.
Literally. And figuratively. And she had absolutely no idea what to do about it.
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