Finally back at the hotel, she keeps hold of his hand as they cross the foyer, but she seems determined not to indulge in small talk. "Your room or mine, love?" he murmurs in her ear as they wait for the lift, and in answer she simply leans back against him, twitching her arse against his zipper in such a way that he's gritting his teeth as the lift doors open. Several other hotel guests join them on the journey upward, which again is probably just as well, as he's quite sure the security cameras are everywhere in this establishment.

She tosses her purse and phone onto the small desk just inside the door of their hotel room, then turns to him without speaking, which makes it precisely fifteen minutes since she last said anything to him.

"Cat got your tongue, Swan?"

She gives him a predatory smile that makes him suck in a sharp breath, then his back is against the wall and she is twisting her fingers into his shirt front. A soft hum sings in the back of her throat as he opens his mouth to her kiss, curling her tongue around his with an accuracy that sends every drop of his blood southward in a matter of seconds.

Sliding one hand through her silken hair, he cradles her head as their kiss goes on and on and on and oh, God, he's already as hard as a fucking rock and she's barely touched him. She tastes of alcohol and lipstick and heat and desire, and he dazedly tells himself that maybe they should slow down but instead his hands are now on her delectable arse, gliding over the silk of her dress. He grins against her mouth as he lifts his head, then rests his forehead against hers as he traces the unmistakable demarcation line between G-string underwear and skin beneath the thin material of her dress. "Now these, Ms Swan," he mutters, wondering if she normally wears such undergarments to go clubbing or if he dares hope it's him who's warranted such a special effort this evening. "These could definitely be seen as undue influence."

She hooks one long leg around his, arching her back until the soft swell of her breasts are pushing against his chest. Lifting her hand, she skims one fingertip down and up the 'v' of his unbuttoned shirt collar, the light touch seeming to burn his skin, and finally decides to talk. "There are almost five hundred people at this damned thing." She's tracing the hollow of his throat with her fingertip now, and it's one of the most singularly erotic things he's ever experienced. "A girl's gotta stand out somehow."

He knows she's joking but he still swallows hard, closing his eyes as she presses her hips firmly against his, the soft heat between her legs fitting perfectly against his aching groin. "Trust me, love, you've had my undivided attention from the moment you opened that door."

Her voice trembles with nervous laughter and he can't remember the last time he wanted someone so much. "Shut up, Jones." Lifting her face to his, she kisses him again, soft and deep and hot, and he knows they're not going to take things slowly.

They make to the closest bed (his) and he finds himself siting on the edge of it, his hands caressing the backs of her thighs as she stands between his knees. The cool silk of her dress quickly becomes the warm silk of her skin, and her nimble fingers deal with his shirt and vest buttons with breathtaking speed, her hands finally sliding beneath his shirt to explore his bare chest and stomach with an eagerness that has him suppressing a choked groan of pleasure.

Later, he doesn't remember who pulls the straps of her dress downward - he only remembers two pairs of hands doing many things at once - but her breasts are soon bare in his hands, her arms hooked around his neck as she whispers his name, her head falling forward, her hair a silken curtain around his face. The soft weight of her breasts in his cupped hands feel like something from a dream, the tight bud of her nipples rising beneath the brush of his thumbs a sensation straight out of his dirtiest fantasies. His hands go to her hips, pulling her closer, and he feels the scrape of her stiletto heel - God, she's still wearing those shoes - against his knee as she climbs into his lap. His body registers the feel of her naked breasts against his chest, then she moves against him and all he knows is that the soft heat between her thighs is pressed against his zipper and he's so hard now that he either has to excuse himself or –

"Emma." Her name comes out as a strangled whisper as he cups her face in his hands, trying to see through the red haze of lust that's almost blinding him. "Last chance to let me be a gentleman." In answer, her hands drop to his belt, and it's all he can do not to arch into her touch.

"Since when are you a gentleman?" she asks, and he feels his shaky smile stretch from ear to ear. "I'm always a gentleman."

She rolls her eyes, then they're both tugging off his vest and his shirt, a task made pleasantly awkward by the fact that he can't stop kissing her, tasting the dark sweetness of her mouth again and again. Her simple dress is dispatched more easily, followed by that tiny scrap of material masquerading as underwear, then she's naked in his arms and he thinks he might make enquiries into packing a defibrillator in his suitcase next time, because the sight of her is more than enough to make his heart stop in its tracks. When she slides down his zipper with agonizing precision and hooks her fingers into the waistband of his boxers, their eyes meet and hold. "Still going to be crashing somewhere else tonight?"

She shakes her head, her hand resting at the top of his thigh, teasingly close to where he'd give his next paycheck to feel her touch. "I guess not." Then she finally touches him, cupping him through his boxers, and he almost lifts them both off the fucking bed. He hears himself say something about condoms in the drawer beside his bed (force of habit when he'd unpacked yesterday, but he never dreamed he'd be using them for her), then his trousers and boxers are past his knees and the slick heat of her body is rubbing against him and her breasts are soft and sweet beneath his mouth.

Every inch of his skin is hotter than a furnace, tight and tingling, and it's getting tougher to count to ten when he can barely remember his own name. Finally, when he is on the brink between control and teenaged embarrassment, she wraps her arms around his neck, her knees pressing deep into the mattress on either side of his hips as she rocks against him. "I need -" she mutters, and he has no idea if it's a request or a demand and he doesn't care, because he's pushing himself inside her in a long, slow slide of heat and flesh and she's arching to meet him and the feel of her around him makes him want to shout her name until his voice is gone.

She breathes a shuddering sigh, settling herself against him, and he closes his eyes, his hands gliding over the firm swell of her arse, feeling the roar of his pulse in his head and his chest and his cock, the beat of his heart fluttering deep inside the tight clasp of her body. They begin to move together, a dance of skin and hands and mouths, a sensory overload of taste and sound, any lingering awkwardness melting in the heat of a hunger that has been building from the first moment they'd met. He slides his hand between them, finding the sleek flesh that parts and swells beneath his touch, making her bury her face against his shoulder, her mouth open on a gasp of pleasure against his damp skin.

A few moments later, she's shaking against him, lightening quick ripples of release shivering through her, her body calling for him to follow in a summons he has no intention of refusing. She kisses him when he comes, shuddering and arching beneath her, letting him taste her smile as he loses himself, her hands soft on his face. For a long moment, there is nothing but the sound of their breathing and the heady scent of sex, then he tangles one hand in the bright tumble of her hair, not bothering to hide his grin. "That was bloody amazing."

"Beginner's luck." Her words are slurred with satisfaction, and his grin widens. "Are you implying that I'm a beginner at this sort of activity? Because I assure you, I've been known to be quite the lad about town in my dark past," he shoots back in a voice that sounds smug even to his own ears, and is rewarded with a breathy chuckle in his ear.

"So you're saying you do this kind of this often?"

There's no good to be gained from lying to her. "Sometimes." He runs his hands up and down the length of her spine, enjoying the way her body arches beneath his touch. "But not always."

She leans back to study him, her hands resting lightly on his shoulders, her kiss-swollen lips curved in a soft smile. Something about his answer has pleased her, although he's not exactly sure which part. "Good to know."

Hastily kicking away his boxers and jeans (he laughs to himself when he realises Emma wasn't the only one who'd kept her shoes on), he pulls her into his arms as they finally sink down onto the bed. Propping himself up on one elbow, he sets out to explore at his leisure, his lips and hand finding each inch of pale, smooth skin, his body stirring back to life with each kiss and touch. The first time had only been the beginning, and he thinks she knows it as well as he does.

His throat tight with everything he wants to say to her (but it's all ridiculous, too much, too soon) he rolls her onto her back and catches her wrists in his hands, bringing them to his mouth one at a time. Holding her gaze with his, he presses a kiss to her fluttering pulse, one wrist at a time, inhaling the scent of her flushed skin. "What was that you were saying about beginner's luck?"

"Hmmm." She moves beneath him, a delicate circling of her hips, and he feels the faint aftershock of pleasure. Giving him a tremulous smile, she wraps her long legs around his hips, drawing him closer. "Every good theory deserves testing." She reaches down, obviously meaning to finally slide off her stilettos, and he grabs her hand, lifting it to his mouth instead.

"Wait." Holding her gaze with his, he bites the fleshy swell beneath her thumb, her eyelids fluttering as he kisses her palm. "Leave them on?"

She does.

Afterwards, with the lights turned off and both of them too exhausted to move from his bed (her shoes are finally tossed on the floor and, God, she'll never be able to wear them again without blushing), they talk. Her chin resting on his chest, she scratches her fingernails lightly across his stomach, lazy circles that might just be getting lower and lower with each passing arc. "How often do you see your family in London?"

"Not as often as I'd like." In the darkness, his accent seems thicker, or perhaps it's just because he's tired. His hand tangles in her hair, gently massaging her scalp in a slow rhythm that is almost lulling her to sleep. "Christmas and New Year's, of course, and sometimes I manage two weeks during summer." He shifts against her, his legs tangling with hers. "How about you? Your family?"

Emma lets out a soft sigh. Of course, the price of her curiosity satisfied would be having to answer his questions. "My family is, uh, complicated."

His hand slips down to stroke her bare back. "I'm all ears, love."

She's suddenly very glad of the darkness. "Well, I was adopted." She feels his body tense against hers (just like everyone else, he's probably afraid he's opened a can of worms) and goes on quickly. "Three years ago, after my adoptive parents had both passed away, I found my birth parents, which was interesting."

"How?"

"For starters, they're only sixteen years older than me."

"What are they like?"

Emma hesitates. How does she explain Mary Margaret and David when she still has trouble understanding them herself? "They're almost too good to be true, if that makes sense. Very sweet and kind, and still madly in love with each other after all these years."

"They're still together?" She can't tell if he's amused or amazed, and she knows the feeling. It's exactly how she'd felt when she'd found out, too.

"Yep. They got married at eighteen. Apparently it was my step-grandmother who'd talked them into giving me up for adoption, telling them I needed to be given my best chance at a good life." She presses a kiss to his chest, letting her hand drift lower on his belly. "They thought they were doing the right thing. They were just kids so, you know."

"Did they ever have another child?" His voice sounds faintly strangled, and she smiles against his skin.

"No." She closes her eyes at the feel of his hand stoking the small of her back, then lower still. It's never been easier to have this conversation, and she is almost afraid to wonder why that might be. "We're all still getting to know each other, which can be a little intense." Something of an understatement. "Maybe it would be less intense if they'd had another baby after me. I mean, my adoptive parents cared about me, but David and Mary Margaret are something else when it comes to the warm and fuzzy stakes."

He presses a kiss to her shoulder. "I guess that explains why they're in Maine and you're still in Chicago."

She laughs softly. "Very perceptive of you."

He shifts on the bed until he's facing her, one lean thigh sliding between hers, his hand stroking her hip lightly beneath the starched hotel sheet. "They must have been very happy you'd found them."

Once again, she's glad of the darkness, feeling the dull prickle of tears behind her eyelids. This is why she waits for a few months before she has this conversation with someone she's dating, which is why she hardly ever has to have this conversation. "They were."

The hand on her hip skims upwards, then his palm is warm against her breast, his thumb circling her nipple, making her bite down on her bottom lip as it instantly reacts to his touch. "I'm tempted to say something about how I know how they feel, but I suspect you'd find that clichéd and trite."

She leans forward, finding his lips in the darkness, because she doesn't want to talk about feelings anymore. Not tonight. "Probably best not to find out," she whispers, then his mouth covers her in a kiss that sends a spasm of desire rippling through her, and all conversation is forgotten.

It's slower this time, more deliberate, almost as though he's trying to memorise her and maybe he is, because on Monday morning they'll be flying home in two different directions and she can't bear to think about that now, not when he's making her feel things she hasn't felt in years.

It isn't long before the fire inside her starts to catch, the darkness pressing in around them as he slides his hand between them to where he's buried deep inside her. He breathes her name and curses softly, angling his hips in such a way that both of them are gasping and clinging and fuck she is losing herself in the heat of him, her fingernails digging into his shoulders as everything tightens and then dissolves in a pulsing release that has her writhing beneath him, pushing her hips up into his again and again until it's finally too much, she can't take anymore, then he's shuddering above her, his body growing still in agonised anticipation for a few seconds, then he's lost too, tumbling over the edge with her name on his lips.

"Emma. Oh, Emma-" He buries his face against her shoulder, his breath coming in unsteady gulps. She smooths back his damp, tousled hair, then rubs her palm against the stubble that adorns his jaw, smiling in the darkness. She can still feel the goosebump inducing scrape of that stubble against her throat and breasts, and she has the feeling she's going to have to be creative with her wardrobe choices in the morning.

Speaking of which –

She switches on the lamp before fumbling for her phone on his nightstand, managing to pick up it on the second try. "What time should I set the alarm for?"

He eases himself off her with a sated groan, but doesn't completely move away. Hooking one arm around her waist, he bestows a sleepy kiss on her collarbone. "How about never?"

"I don't think that's an option." She frowns at the time on her phone (God, it is seriously two in the morning already?) and reluctantly sets the alarm for 7:00 am. That done, she slides it back onto the nightstand and flicks off the lamp, burrowing back down into his bed and his arms, letting him pull her back against him as though it's the most natural thing in the world.

It's only as she's drifting off to sleep that she realises that the thought of leaving him and sleeping in her own bed didn't even occur. If she wasn't so tired, maybe she'd be worried that she's getting in way over her head here, but right now, this is where she wants to be. Besides, she can worry in the morning, right?

She closes her eyes, feeling beyond exhausted and more than a little ravished, and the last thing she remembers is a soft kiss on the back of her neck.