So sorry for the delay in updating, dear readers. Between moving to a new house and going on vacation to Disney World, my writing time has been more limited lately. Thank you soooo much for all of your reviews and pm's about this story. I do hope you enjoy this latest installment. :)
Many thanks to Cls2011 and miscreant rose, my dear friends who read everything I write and offer honest feedback, no matter what stage of readiness it may be in. Love you two.
Own nothing. Love it all.
She stares gaping out the window, still processing the reality that seems too odd to be true.
"You're certain there's no way out?"
Her question draws his gaze, and he looks back at her with an expression she can't read.
"I suppose we could break the window," Robin observes. "But how would we get past that hulk of metal blocking our path?"
Her limbs feel unsteady as a shiver rocks her spine, and his arms tighten about her, his eyes creasing in concern. Is this really happening? She feels control slip through her fingers at an alarming rate.
"Are you alright?" he whispers.
"Yes," she whispers, her knees feeling weak. "It's just, how am I going to get to Henry?"
The storm continues to howl around them, and they hear the sound of something crashing fairly close. Thank God Henry went ahead with Emma and Killian and is now safe and dry somewhere outside of her reach. Thank God he isn't stuck here with her under these conditions.
"You will get to Henry," he assures her. "Just as I'll get to Roland. It will just be later than we'd planned."
Her swallow sounds unnaturally loud to her ears, and the reality that she is literally locked in with this man she has just met begins to sink in. Her throat feels unnaturally dry, her legs unusually wobbly.
"We'd best move away from the window again, I think," he suggests, guiding her away from the other-worldly view. "That wind is still packing a punch."
She begins to shiver, trying to fight for a mere semblance of control but failing miserably. Damn—that ringing in her ears—when did that start?
"Here," he breathes, moving her to the bed closest to the inner wall, tugging off the blanket and wrapping it around her. "This should help." He then moves to the sink, tripping over something and cursing under his breath. She hears the sound of a faucet being turned on, of water running freely, and she feels the cool surface of a glass being pressed firmly into her hand.
"Drink," he orders, clearly expecting her to comply without question. Oddly enough, she has neither the will nor inclination to buck him, and she sips the water slowly, feeling its calming tendrils envelope her insides almost immediately. His arms then encircle her, rubbing hers gently through the blanket, restoring warmth and settling nerves through a touch she shouldn't find so comforting. She sighs, setting down the empty glass, and he leans her back into his chest, his heat pulsing palpable through the fabric.
"Thank you," she murmurs, pulling the blanket tighter around her frame.
"Just try to relax and breathe slowly," he murmurs, the timbre of his voice almost hypnotic. "It should help."
She does as he instructs, all too aware of how close he is, of how earthy he smells, of how his trim beard makes her tingle down to her thighs when it just brushes against her ear. She exhales, willing muscles to relax, willing her mind to unravel, willing herself into a place of calm where she can reason and feel steady.
The pitch of the wind outside isn't helping. Neither is the proximity of his mouth.
"I don't know what just happened," she continues, suddenly self-conscious of her decided show of weakness.
"Your clothes are still damp, and you've suffered a bit of a shock," he returns logically. "And being stuck with the likes of me in the midst of a hurricane can't be your idea of the perfect night out."
A puff of air escapes her as ligaments unwind and blood flow quickens.
"I have had better first dates," she muses, pleased to both feel and hear his chuckled response.
"But I'd wager no one has given you a wilder one."
"True," she admits, flinching as lightning strikes closer than either of them would like.
"Roland hates thunderstorms," Robin states, his voice vibrating through muscle and bone, liquefying them upon contact.
"Henry has never been fond of them, either," she tosses in. "Although now he tries very hard to convince me that they don't bother him anymore. Of course, he doesn't know that I'm aware of the stuffed rabbit he hides in the top drawer of his nightstand in case things get a bit rough."
"Roland keeps a flashlight under his pillow," he nods. "Just in case the power ever goes out."
"Smart boy," she observes. "I'd hate to be in our predicament now without one."
"So would I," he shrugs. "But I can think of situations when it would be worse not to have a flashlight."
"Such as…" she baits, feeling his chuckle target her nipples.
"Abandoned subway tunnels, deserted mine shafts, the moors at night…"
"Alright," she halts him, attempting not to laugh. "Point taken."
"Left inside one of the Pyramids of Giza, alone with the mummies," he continues. "Stuck in Vlad the Impaler's castle with a candle but no matches, lost at sea on a cold raft without cable or wireless."
"Without wireless," she interrupts, smiling broadly in spite of herself. "Sounds familiar."
"Sure, we're stuck in a somewhat run-down motel room, sitting in the dark with no way out," he muses, his cheek close enough to touch. "Wireless is down, a truck is blocking our only way out…"
"If you're trying to cheer me up, you're doing a lousy job of it," she quips, her hair brushing his cheek as she throws him a pointed glance.
"Things could always be worse, you know," he corrects, raising his brows. "You could be forced to share a room with a troupe of Armenian acrobats determined to practice regardless of the weather and confined space."
"Are you trying to improve your standing through unreasonable comparison?" she quips, enjoying how her head just fits into the crook of his shoulder.
"Whatever it takes," he shrugs whimsically. "However I haven't even gotten to the worst case scenario."
"God help us," she fires back. "And that would be what?"
"I could be stuck sharing a room with a smelly old man who refuses to shower and insists upon sleeping naked."
Laughter bursts out of her, unleashing knotted tension as nothing else could, and she elbows him lightly through the blanket.
"Hey," he protests. "That was meant as a compliment, you know."
"Because I'm hygienic and pack a nightgown?"
It's his turn to chuckle as he turns her in his direction.
"The good hygiene is a definite plus," he grins, biting his lower lip again. "But I'm not sure about the nightgown."
Her brows fly up, her eyes meeting his head on.
"What's that supposed to mean?" she asks pointedly as her heart zooms haphazardly from rib to rib.
"Use your imagination, Madame Mayor."
His voice rubs her like rough velvet, every nerve singing his tune, every atom on high alert.
"Don't you think you're being a bit forward, Marshall?' she questions, leaning in almost imperceptibly. "After all, we hardly know each other."
"True," he concedes. "But I can think of a few ways to remedy that situation. How about you?"
She imagines how he would taste, how he would feel, how his palms could warm her body, how his lips could tickle desires long dormant. She's nearly forgotten the sensation of simply wanting a man, burying embers under carefully tailored dress suits and heels, locking them into briefcases, hushing them into silence along with the cries of her son over a decade's worth of sleepless nights.
God, how badly she wants to throw caution to the wind and to just feel, to simply be a woman with nothing to lose but inhibition and reason and more to gain than she can remember. To let her skin be caressed by another's hand, to have hidden alcoves mapped and traced with lips, teeth and tongue, to open herself up to possibility and pleasure while shutting the blinds to an endless maze of responsibility.
Henry's not here, Storybrooke lies miles to her north, and before her sits a man, a powerful, primal man who clearly wants her and has no qualms in telling her so directly, unlike most men in her sphere who find her position of leadership either a turn-off or intimidating.
Her skin puckers in time with her muscles.
"We could play charades," she hums suggestively. "It's one of Henry's favorites, you know."
He nods in appreciation.
"Roland prefers Go Fish," he retorts, his voice thick, his face heated in arousal. "I find it to be quite a stimulating game if played correctly."
A deep ache has her full attention, all senses honing in on a set of mischievous dimples enjoying themselves far too much.
"Are you tossing me bait?" she tosses back, her lips inching closer, her doubts kicked under the bed.
"That depends," he hums. "Will you nibble?"
"I think you underestimate me, Marshall," she hums back throatily. "I don't nibble. I bite."