"Fuck."

Frowning, he turns his face into the pillow, because he's tired and his head is aching and why the bloody hell is the room so bright?

"Fuck!"

He opens his eyes, and hazily registers two things: he's alone in the bed, and Emma Swan seems to be enacting the opening scene from 'Four Weddings and a Funeral' all by herself. There is a thumping sound, then another muttered string of curse words, and he smiles, resigning himself to being awake.

"Not that I don't appreciate a woman who can swear like a navvy, love," he drawls as he watches her practically sprint back into the bathroom to grab something from the vanity, "but what's got you in such a rush?"

Dressed in jeans and a black turtleneck sweater, she's apparently too busy frantically pulling her hair back into a high ponytail to look at him. "My freaking alarm didn't go off, and now I have to be downstairs in ten minutes to sit through a three hour presentation on something about how to become a rainmaker."

He watches as she bends down to pick her boots. It's quite the inspiring view, to say the least, and he'd be a different man if he didn't at least try to coax her into forgetting the morning's program. "Perhaps you should come back to bed instead?"

She huffs out a loud breath, still very obviously not looking at him. "That'd be great, but I can't." Having finally shoved her feet into her boots, she picks up her purse from the desk where she'd tossed it last night. "One of the partners is attending this one with me, so I can't lounge around in bed all morning." She doesn't say unlike some people, but he imagines he hears the words anyway. "God, I need coffee." She finally looks at him, and he sees an anxiety in her face that can't be explained away by being late or being hungover.

"Swan-"

"I gotta go or I'll be late." She hesitates for a few seconds, her eyes widening in what looks like panic when she sees him move to throw back the covers. "See you this afternoon."

It's not until she's rushed out of the room that he realises he doesn't even have her cell phone number to call or text her during the course of what he suspects is going to be a very long day.

Rolling onto his back, he utters a few choice curse words of his own as he massages his aching temples with his thumbs. God, what he'd give to lounge around in bed all morning, as Emma had so succinctly put it, but he suspects lounging alone after last night would be quite the hollow victory. While his sheets and pillow admittedly still carry a trace of her perfume, they're a poor substitute for the real thing. He sighs, then flings back the bedcovers. God only knows what interrogation awaits him this morning. He wonders if Tink and Smee have already been comparing disapproving notes about his behaviour over their bacon and eggs.

A few minutes later, he catches sight of himself in the bathroom mirror and winces. "Looking a bit rough there, mate," he informs his reflection, then spots something that definitely wasn't there yesterday. His reflection breaks into a slow grin, because Emma Swan seems to have left him a souvenir in the form of a rather large red lovebite, just above his collarbone. That would have been during the third go around, he thinks with remembered glee, and the reason for Emma's choice of high-necked sweater suddenly becomes clear.

His grin widens. If nothing else, she'll at least be thinking of precisely why she had to cover up all that delectable skin of hers this morning. Hopefully, she'll remember the who part of that equation as well.

His mood improves at the thought, but it doesn't last long. He stops at the coffee cart in the foyer, but Emma is nowhere to be seen and, as he'd predicted, he's met with the Boston office's version of catcalls when he arrives at their table for breakfast. "The prodigal son returns," smirks Tink, and he gives her a little bow he knows will greatly irritate her.

"I could hardly let you lot face the dreaded-" he pauses, realising he has no idea what session they're attending this morning. "What are we learning today?"

Tink consults her phone. "Teaching old litigators new tricks."

"Outstanding." He slides into the empty chair beside Smee, bumping the other man's shoulder with his. "No hard feelings, hey, William?"

"Easy for you to say," Smee retorted as he speared a rasher of bacon with his fork. "You're not the one whose buttons popped off his shirt when he got grabbed in a nightclub last night."

Killian takes a long sip from his takeaway coffee, smiling at the memory of Emma's hands tangled in his shirtfront in the darkness of the chill-out lounge. "That's what you think, mate."

On his either side, Tink sighs. "Can I have a word?"

"Too early for this." Smee pushes back his chair and picks up his empty plate, obviously intended to make himself scarce and acquire more bacon at the same time. Tink waits until he's gone, then gives Killian a long look.

"No point asking what you got up to last night, is there?"

"Not really." He doesn't want to hurt her feelings, but he's tired of the well-meaning lectures. They'd shagged a few times when he first moved to Boston, most a matter of geography and loneliness rather than anything deeper, but that was a long time ago, and since then they've been friends, except on those occasions when she fancies herself his self-appointed moral compass, of course. "So let's not, shall we?"

"You really like this one, don't you?"

He smarts at the 'this one' reference, and that really should be a huge red flag, as should the fact he was prepared to punch Smee in the face last night. "Perhaps."

"I'm not trying to give you a hard time, you know." He shrugs at that, and she shakes her head. "I'm just worried that this going to be like the others."

He scowls at the tablecloth, but he knows very well what she means by 'the others'. He's fallen before, thought he'd found someone to clear the dark cobwebs of Milah's memory out of his heart, only to realise that he was seeing things that weren't really there.

Smee was right, he thinks. It's far too early for this. "How about we just worry about how we're going to get through this special day of learning?"

Tink shakes her head again, but finally lets him be, going back to picking at her breakfast. He sticks to his coffee, the thought of food a little too much after last night's overconsumption. That sake had been particularly brutal.

He'd been right about one thing. It's a very long day, and he doesn't manage to catch sight of Emma once. He sees Ruby and Victor at a distance at one point, but doesn't try to draw their attention. There's only one person from the Chicago office he's interested in seeing, and she once again appears to have done a vanishing act.

It occurs to him much later, as he finally bids his colleagues farewell for the afternoon and heads up to the fourth floor, that perhaps Emma has decided to vanish altogether, perhaps leaving a day earlier than scheduled. The thought has him pressing the lift button a little harder, then walking down the hallway to Room 47 very quickly. Surely she wouldn't have been that overwhelmed by the situation that it was easier to run away? Thinking of the anxious, almost frightened look he'd seen in her eyes that morning, he walks a little faster.

She's not in their room, but her suitcase is still tucked into the corner closest to her bed, her toiletries still scattered on the bathroom vanity. The wave of relief that washes over him is a fairly clear indication of exactly how much trouble he is in with this woman.

By the time she finally pushes open the door, he's kicked off his trainers and is sprawled on his bed in a t-shirt and jeans, pretending to be interested in the complimentary newspaper. He'd like to think his greeting is a casual one, but she'd have to be a blind woman not to notice how pleased he sounds that she decided not to do a runner back to Chicago.

She smiles brightly at the sight of him, then seems to catch herself. "Hey."

He gets to his feet, tossing the newspaper onto the bed behind him. "How was your day, Swan?"

"Overwhelming." She puts her purse and phone carefully onto the bedside table. Her bedside table, to be precise, but he tries not to analyse that fact too much. "How about you?"

"I'm knackered," he tells her in a dreadful cockney accent, and earns a smile as his reward.

She drops to sit on the side of her bed, and eases off her boots. "Amazing how listening can be exhausting."

"Pretending to listen is even more tiring."

She laughs softly as she pulls the band from her ponytail, and he watches, like a moth drawn to a flame, as the golden mass tumbles to her shoulders. "Spoken like a true professional."

Last night that tousled curtain of glorious hair was trailing over his body in ways that will be branded into his brain forever, and it's all he can do to tear his eyes away. "Have you eaten?"

She blinks at the abrupt subject change, then shakes her head. "Not yet."

Good, he thinks. If tonight's the last night he'll have, then he doesn't want to waste another moment of it. "Want to grab some dinner?"

She hesitates, biting her bottom lip, then shakes her head. "I'm a bit tired, actually"

Okay, so her reaction isn't ideal, but he's nothing if not flexible. "Room service pizza?"

The tension in her face eases. "Sure, why not." She gets to her feet and slowly walks towards the bathroom. "We can celebrate our last night of being roommates."

She stops abruptly, her gaze locking with his, as if suddenly realising exactly what she's just said, and something in the pit of his stomach tightens as the words linger in the air between them. At the finality of them and the way she seems perfectly fine with the prospect of going their separate ways in a few hours. Fool, he rebukes himself, what did you think was going to happen? That she'd be interested in a long-distance relationship on the strength of one night together?

"Look, Emma-"

"Uh, I'm going to have a shower." She gives him a quick smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes. "I didn't have time this morning and I've felt half-asleep all day."

The lack of shower isn't the real reason she's tired, and they both know it. She's running away. Again. He takes a hesitant step towards her, feeling unpleasantly as though they're back at square one, even after everything that happened between them last night. "Everything alright, Swan?"

"Sure." Then she's slipping away again, this time into the bathroom, shutting the door firmly behind her with a loud click.

He looks at the closed door for a moment, and knows she may as well already be back in Chicago for all the distance he feels between them. Swearing under his breath, he goes in search of the room service menu, because if he's going to be miserable, he may as well be well-fed at the same time.

Alone with her thoughts for the first time in hours, Emma turns up the water as hot as she can stand it, revelling in the kind of water pressure she's never had in any home she's ever had, the kind that makes her skin come alive with a stinging pleasure.

She's hiding from him, of course. Hiding from him and how she's starting to feel about him, trying to drown out the fact she's been thinking about him all day with hot water and complimentary body wash. At least this morning she'd had the excuse of having to be somewhere else (God, it had taken every ounce of her willpower not to crawl back into bed with him) but now it's just the two of them in this little hotel room, and unless she wants to crash Ruby and Victor's date or take herself off to a solo movie session, she's going to have to deal with it. She washes her hair, relieved to finally be rid of yesterday's dirt and hairspray, then reaches for the loofah. She closes her eyes as she slides the sponge gently over her breasts and between her legs, the brush of its faintly rough texture making her tender flesh twinge pleasantly. She swallows hard, but the memories of last night are already flooding her thoughts and there's no point in pretending otherwise. Shit. Hotel rooms have never really had an erotic effect on her, but now she knows she'll never be able to look at a reservations website again without spontaneously combusting.

She leans against the cool tiles, the loofah dangling loosely from her fingers, suddenly feeling deflated. What was she thinking, suggesting a romantic 'last supper' with someone she's only just met and who will probably be only too happy to move onto his next conquest as soon as he's back in Boston? She can't let herself get in any deeper here, she tells herself with faint desperation. She has to make sure last night was a one-time thing, because tomorrow morning she's flying back to Chicago and the real world. It would be beyond stupid to get any more involved with this guy, no matter how well they've clicked. Fuck, the things he'd made her feel last night -

"Swan?"

The sound of Killian's voice outside the bathroom door makes her start in surprise. "What?"

"Before I order room service, do you want white or red wine?" At least, that's what she thinks he says. Between the running water and the closed door, it's hard to tell.

She takes a deep breath, knowing she's playing with fire, but also knowing that she doesn't care. "Come in, I can't hear you."

The door opens, and she feels the cool air from the bedroom drift in, curling down through the top of the shower stall. "

He's still standing in the doorway, she realises, as if reluctant to come into the room. Looking at the clear glass shower door that conceals absolutely nothing, she understands his hesitation. They might have already seen each other naked, but this is something different. Rinsing the last of the conditioner from her hair, she wipes the water from her eyes, feeling the familiar slow burn low in her belly, her breasts tightening at the memory of his hands and mouth. If she'd been waiting for a sign that she's fighting a losing battle not to get in any deeper here, she may have just found it. "Yes."

He steps into the room slowly, his gaze immediately locking with hers, as though determined not to invade her privacy by letting it slide below her chin. "What wine would you prefer? White or red?" The question sounds a little different this time, as though he's having trouble remembering the words. His eyes stay resolutely on her face, though, and she's suddenly filled with the urge to see how far she can push him, because seriously, right now that ' one-time thing' theory can go to hell.

"Sorry, I still can't hear you," she says in a sing-song voice, watching him through the glass. "You need to come closer."

His eyes darken with a hunger that has nothing to do with room service, and her fingers flex on the loofah in her hand. She wants to say something more, perhaps about how she doesn't actually care about food or wine, then he's walking towards her and pulling open the shower screen, his gaze sliding from her face down to her breasts, then lower still. His chest expands as he takes a deep breath, his hands gripping the edge of the shower door. Feeling unaccustomedly like a siren, she steps back in silent invitation, water still streaming over her skin, waiting.

His hands are clumsy in their urgency as he pulls his t-shirt over his head and tosses it to the floor, shucking off his jeans and boxers in one smooth motion, throwing them aside just as carelessly. When he steps into the shower and gathers her into his arms, she rises up on her toes, lifting her face to his as he bows his head to kiss her. The silken stiffness of his erection presses against her belly, and she feels the thrum of her pulse grow tight and heavy, fluttering at the back of her throat, the tips of her breasts, between her thighs. "God, you're beautiful," he mutters against her mouth as he slides his hands over her hips, fingertips dancing over her ribs, the undersides of her breasts.

"You're not so bad yourself," she mutters unsteadily as she winds her arms around his neck, nipping at his shoulder with her teeth, tasting the salt of his skin. A crooked smile tugs at his lips, then his hands are slick on her breasts, her thighs, between her legs. Steam rises between them, thick and fragrant with the scent of citrus body wash, and she feels as though she's drowning in his arms. He bends his head to her breasts, his mouth as hot as the water beating down on her skin, the gentle tug of his lips on her nipple sending a flash of heat straight to her groin.

Arching against him, she slides one hand between them, finding the rigid length of his erection. A low groan rumbles in his chest as he arches into her touch, a shudder going through him as she slides her soap-slicked fingers over smooth, heated flesh, cupping and stroking. "Jesus, Emma-" His mouth finds hers, hot and urgent, his tongue sliding deep into her mouth, his hands seeming to touch her everywhere at once. She feels the same dissolving sensation she felt last night, as though her body might melt into his, the heat from his mouth and hands spreading across her skin. His hand grips her thigh, pulling it high, opening her up to him, trapping her hand between them. Her fingers are slippery against his stomach as she pulls her hand free, then the cool tiles are hard against her back, the ridge of his erection pressing between her legs, right there, right where she needs him and oh, God, they need a condom now.

"Condom," she manages to say, her voice thick with desire, and he lifts his head to stare at her, his hands growing still.

"Do you want the bed?"

"No." She shakes her head carefully, feeling as though even that simple gesture might break the spell. Holding his gaze with hers, she slides her hands down his wet back to grip his bottom, digging her fingers into lean muscle as she pulls him hard against her, water streaming between and over them. "Here." She can't begin to explain why she needs to stay here or that the mere thought of what they're about to do is almost enough to push her over the edge, only that she does and that it is. "Please."

He leaves her only long enough to dash into the bedroom to grab a condom from his bedside table, and they're the quickest (and wettest) ten steps she's ever seen anyone take. She adjusts the shower with hands that aren't quite steady, turning it down to a light, warm spray. When he's beside her once more, she takes his face in her hands and kisses him, feeling almost drunk on the taste of him. His hands are under her bottom, pulling her up as he presses her back against the tiles. Her legs wrap around his hips, opening her body up to him, and everything is suddenly a perfect fit. He kisses her as he slides inside her, a warm, slick invasion of smooth skin and hard flesh, and she tastes his groan of pleasure on her tongue.

"I've been thinking of this," he mutters, his voice rough with need. "It's been bloody torture all weekend, love, being stuck outside that bloody door, knowing you were naked and wet and slippery on the other side of it."

She's not usually one for talking during sex, but holy shit, his words have her shuddering, his hands tight on her hips as he starts to move inside her, slow and deep, and she knows this is going to be over all too soon. "God, please, Killian-" Every stroke touches her exactly where she needs it, both inside and out, and it feels like no more than a minute passes before the heavy beat of arousal deep inside her grows thick and heavy, pulling everything tight, the blood rising beneath taut, flushed skin.

She presses her forehead against his when she comes, whispering his name into the steam, then his mouth is on hers, hard and hungry, his shoulders rigid with tension as he moves inside her, once, twice, three times. When he begins to shake, a rough groan tearing from his throat, she wraps her arms tighter around his shoulders, holding him close. She rides out the delicate aftershocks of her own release, arching against him as his body dissolves into the heat of hers, his face a picture of agonized delight she knows will be forever burned into her memory. One arm goes around her waist, the other braced on the shower wall behind her, and they huddle together for what feels like a long time, his chin on her shoulder, his breath unsteady in her ear.

Finally he takes a deep breath, his chest rising against her still-tingling breasts. "Not a witch after all," he murmurs against her throat, and she feels the delicate touch of his tongue, as though he's tasting the scattered droplets of water on her skin. "You're a bloody siren."

Once again, he's articulated her private thought, and she feels a flicker of something that might just be defeat. Why the hell did she think that she could get away with doing this again without feeling something? She lets her legs slide down his water-slicked thighs, her feet unsteady as they hit the shower floor. He cups her face in his hands as their bodies slide apart, a faint frown creasing his forehead.

"You alright there, love?"

She nods, feeling the sudden urge to laugh. She's just had one of the most amazing sexual experiences of her life - why wouldn't she be okay? "Just having a few issues with my motor skills."

More than a hint of satisfaction gleams in his eyes as he bends his head to kiss her. "I do an excellent fireman's lift."

The mental picture of him hauling her naked through the hotel suite over one shoulder is almost enough to push her towards the unforgivable sin of giggling. Not her style by a long shot. God, what was he doing to her? Quickly composing herself, she kisses him quickly. "I'll settle for a dry towel."

They order room service just after eight o'clock, sharing a pizza and a bottle of red wine at the small table in the corner of their room.

"So-" She pours the last dregs of the wine into his glass, and he bites back a teasing comment about taking advantage of a tipsy man, because he already knows what she's about to say. "Maybe we should talk."

And there it is, he thinks. Still, that doesn't mean he can't try to make light of the inevitable. "I've found that when a woman says that, I'm rarely in for a pleasant conversation."

Her smile is rueful. "I'm flying home to Chicago tomorrow."

"And I am flying home to Boston." He lifts his glass to her, wishing he'd had the guts to simply kiss her when she'd first opened the door on Friday afternoon and saved them from wasting precious time. "At least we can split the cab fare to the airport."

An awkward silence settles around them, the first he can remember whilst in her company, and when she finally reaches across the table to touch his hand, it's all he can do not to push back his chair and pull her into his arms. "I'm glad I met you."

The simple words, coming as they do from a woman he senses has a great deal of trouble opening up, slip through the cracks in his heart, making his chest tighten. "I assure you, the feeling is quite mutual, love."

"The thing is, that I don't really-" She breaks off, shooting an unhappy glance at her empty wine glass, and he knows she's looking for a little more Dutch courage.

He bumps his foot against hers underneath the small table. "I'm not usually a betting man, Swan, but I'd wager a great deal of money that the next thing you're going to tell me is that long distance isn't really your thing."

Her eyes widen, and for a few optimistic seconds he thinks she's going to disagree, but then she gives him a regretful smile. "You're right, it's not." She looks down at her hands, and not for the first time he wonders about the 'bad track record' that's left her heart so scarred. More specifically, which bastard in particular made her so mistrustful, and whether or not he could organise to have someone break their kneecaps. "I'm sorry. I just don't see the point when the whole point of being with someone is to, you know, be with them."

They look at each other for a long moment, and he sees his own longing mirrored in her bright eyes. He won't push her, not tonight, but he refuses to believe this is the last night they'll ever have together. After all, as he so often tells his clients, he does like a challenge.

In the meantime, however –

Getting to his feet, he takes her hand and pulls her up and out of her seat, drawing her into his arms. "In that case, perhaps we should go to bed instead of wasting tonight saying all manner of things that won't change the undeniable fact that you and I reside in different states and that's not about to change anytime soon."

Her beautiful face seems to crumple, perhaps at having all the facts of the matter laid out so plainly (and perhaps he shouldn't be glad that the thought of saying goodbye to him distresses her, but he is) but she recovers quickly, curling one arm around his neck, the other sliding down, down, down to cup him through his jeans, her throaty whisper a sinful thing that has him hard in a heartbeat. "Your bed or mine?"

They sleep in her bed that night (change of scenery, she tells him with a breathless smile) and while the sex is again better than anything he's ever dared to imagine, he knows it's the memory of falling asleep with her in his arms that's going to hurt the most come tomorrow.

Her alarm works just fine the next morning, but they still don't make it down to breakfast. In fact, they almost don't make it to the airport in time for her to catch her flight home to Chicago. It's totally his fault for keeping her awake until three o'clock in the morning, of course, and then being in the shower so long that she had to knock on the door to tell him to hurry up (which led to another delay of soapy kind) and then kissing her so thoroughly against the wall just inside the door as they were leaving that it took several minutes before he was fit to be seen in public.

In the taxi on the way to the airport, it's a replay of their silent journey back to the nightclub on Saturday night, except this time he's holding her hand a little tighter, and this time neither of them can think of anything to say that won't open up a floodgate of what if and if only. One difference is that, when they're a few minutes away from their destination, he pulls out a business card from his wallet and slips it into her hand. "Just in case you ever need a good maritime lawyer," he tells her, his casual tone completely at odds with the silent entreaty in his eyes.

She looks down at the card in her hand, then back up at him. "I didn't bring any business cards with me."

The corners of his bright blue eyes crinkle as he smiles. "That's dreadful Business Development on your part, Swan, and I've half a mind to inform your managing partner that you've completely missed the point of this whole weekend."

There's a sudden lump in her throat that won't budge, because he's still trying to make her smile and it's working and fuck, she doesn't want to get on that plane. Silently, she finds an ancient coffee shop loyalty card in her wallet and scribbles her cell number on the back of it with an equally ancient pen from the bottom of her handbag. Holding his eyes with hers, she holds out the card. "Just in case." He takes it from her as though it's gold-plated, and she wants very much to kiss him, but their taxi is pulling into the drop-off zone and they're officially out of time.

Despite his joke the night before about splitting the fare, he insists on paying the driver and she lets him, because she's got more important things on her mind than who pays for what. A text from Ruby a short time ago informed her that she and Victor have already checked in, and that Ruby hopes she hasn't decided to run off to Vegas for a quickie wedding without telling anyone. Emma deletes the text with a firm thumb, but the damage is done, and she drags her suitcase through the automatic gates feeling as though she has a little black cloud over her head.

Kililan's flight to Boston leaves an hour after hers, but she's only just made it by the skin of her teeth. Standing beside her in the departure lounge as her flight is being called for the second time, he stares at her with something that looks a lot like despair, but of course that's ridiculous, it was just one weekend and they knew that going in, and they're both adults, and it was fun but now it's over, right?

Wrong. God, so wrong.

Without saying a word, he bows his head and kisses her with a delicate hunger that has her hands fisting tightly in the front of his shirt and her spine arching of its own accord. She sinks into him, letting her body mould against his, frantically memorising the feel of him, the taste of him, anything that will make it easier to go back to her normal everyday life.

The kiss goes on and on, neither of them apparently willing to be the first one to pull away, and maybe she should be embarrassed, but there are other people hugging and kissing around them and screw it, she's entitled to at least one 'public make-out session in an airport' in her life.

When it's finally over, his forehead is pressed hard against hers, his lips still only a whisper away from hers. One hand is buried in her hair, the other is on her hip and she can feel his body stirring to life against hers. When he finally speaks, of course he tries to make her smile, the bastard. "Same time next year perhaps, ?"

She closes her eyes, breathing him in. What she feels for this man – someone she didn't know existed three days ago – it can't be real, can it? It has to be some kind of holiday romance gone mad. All she knows is that she really, really likes him and she doesn't want this to be the last time he kisses her. She likes everything about him, even the things that truly pissed her off at the start, and she can't remember the last time that happened to her. None of that matters now, though, because they're calling her flight and she has to go. "Sure thing, ."

Before either of them can say something else ridiculous, like maybe decide they should stay in touch when they've already decided that a long-distance thing isn't going to work, she turns on her heel and strides towards her gate, feeling his gaze on her back with every step.

The flight home to Chicago has never felt quite so long, but she's glad Ruby and Victor aren't sitting with her. She knows they'd be agog with curiosity and right now, she has no answers for them. No answers for herself, either, if she's being honest. Turning her face to the window, she closes her eyes, trying and failing miserably not to notice that her shirt smells of Killian's aftershave and the taste of his kiss is still in her mouth.