A heads up to my fantastic beta Ztofan - you are awesome

A light mist of rain had begun to fall by the time they reached the hotel. The chauffer opened the door for Emma and she thanked him with a terse smile as Killian rounded the car and walked ahead of her into the lobby.

She followed him in silence, slipping into the elevator as he pressed the button for their floor. They hadn't spoken on the journey home. Her mind was preoccupied with questions: who was the woman in the picture? What had happened to her? Who was Killian Jones exactly? In consequence, Emma had kept her gaze firmly focused on the city as it passed by and he hadn't seemed to mind.

"Did you enjoy it?"

For a moment Emma was confused: did he mean the opera or…

Glancing to her left, she saw no hint of amusement in his eyes. "Yes. Thank you."

"Good," he replied simply, then spoke no more as they rose up through the tower of the hotel.

The doors opened and they made their way to the suite. He punched in the glossy black keycard and pushed open the door, "Ladies first."

She couldn't quite put her finger on what it was, but a strange mood had descended between them and it was tying her stomach in knots. As she slipped past him, he kept his distance, arching his body away from her. It was unnerving. He seemed distant - pensive almost. Emma almost laughed at herself: psychoanalyzing a man she had known for less than 24 hours - one who was paying her for her time (this thought in particular caused the knot in her stomach to squeeze a little tighter.)

Kicking off her shoes she let her mind idle for a second, enjoying the easing ache in the arches of her feet when she stepped on the cool, tiled floor.

A phone rang. She turned back her head and saw Killian closing the door as he pulled his mobile phone from a pocket inside his suit jacket. Trying not to look like she was eavesdropping, Emma busied herself reclining on the sofa: letting her body arch slightly over the arm and crossing her legs nonchalantly. She reminded herself she was not here to make friends - not here to be his confident - she was here for those ten thousand dollars sitting in her purse in the bedroom.

Ten thousand dollars. Ten thousand reasons she could leave her shitty job at the club and her equally shitty admin job that she hated. Enough to finally leave this place that was the root of so many memories. She bristled as she let her wall down for a second and thought of him. That person who she had tried so hard to forget for the past ten years. His face was forming deep within her consciousness and she squeezed her eyes shut, trying to will it away.

"I have to go out."

He appeared in front of her, as silent as a ghost, and she started, pushing herself up until she was sitting upright.

"Now?" she asked, puzzled. "It's almost midnight."

His mouth flashed into a small side smile, though he did not look directly at her, instead he took a deep breath as he loosened his tie and tossed it onto the sofa beside her. "Business."

He didn't offer any more information and there was a chill about his demeanor - she wasn't sure whether this was from the call, or what had happened at the opera.

"Okay," she replied slowly, wrapping her arms around her waist self-consciously (which was silly because he still wasn't even properly looking at her), "I'll wait up. Watch a movie or something. Then we can…" She cocked her head to her shoulder.

"No," he shook his hand, "Please, sleep. I may be late."

Her brow crumpled in confusion and slight disappointment - despite everything, she had been looking forward to getting her hands on more of Mr. Jones that night.

"Okay," she muttered softly, her voice disappearing in the large space as he nodded and turned on his heel.

"Good night," he replied softly as he made for the door and quickly left the room.

It took her about five minutes before she cracked open the mini bar and started working on a glass of Jack on the rocks. Her emotions had undergone something of a whirlwind in the past hour and her favorite way of winding down was with a glass of hard liquor or two. She looked in his closet and selected a crisp white shirt to wear. She hated sleeping naked. It was too bare - too exposed and way too intimate. The barrier of a layer of cloth made her feel secure and in control; something she thought was desirable in her current situation.

Sipping her drink, she thumbed her way over the half dozen suits that were hung neatly in a row - all freshly cleaned and pressed - all dark of course. Wandering into the bathroom she began to look around with a keener eye than she had earlier in the day. She dug around in his small toiletry bag and sprayed his expensive cologne in the air - wondering if there would be some clues about him for her to find. But there was nothing of interest, just a selection of expensive and minimal toiletries that could have belonged to any one of a thousand men.

Unsatisfied, she moved back to the bedroom. Beside the bed she found a small, black leather briefcase. Hauling it up onto the mattress, she hesitated. Maybe this was going too far, part of her said, searching through his private things. She eyed the bag as she rolled a mouthful of the alcohol over her tongue until her mouth began to burn a little and she had to swallow. Really, this was none of her business…

She sucked a cool breath through her teeth with a low hiss.

Fuck it. She'd put it all back before he returned. He wouldn't find out. And the inquisitive, questioning part of her nature just wouldn't rest until she took a look.

The clasps unfastened easily and she poured the contents onto the bed.

A slim black notebook. A small tablet in a leather case. And a manila envelope.

Pushing the other items aside, she grabbed the envelope and slid her finger carefully under the seal. She breathed a sigh of relief when it came away easily and she pushed her hand inside and pulled out the contents.

What she saw made her frown. Three passports - two US and one from the United Kingdom. With them, three driving licenses; all the same picture but three different names.

James Cook, from Illinois. David Jones from New Jersey. Michael Forest from London.

Quickly, she pulled open each of the passports - they matched the licenses exactly. What the hell?

Her hands worked quickly and began to thumb through the notebook. Only two pages were filled. Each covered in a neat, swirling script. Dates. Times. Prices. Addresses.

Tossing the notebook aside, she flicked the switch of the tablet, silently cursing when it asked for a passcode.

Staring at the items on the bed she rubbed her hand over her jaw.

It didn't make sense.

Why did he have fake identities? Was he hiding something? Something illegal?

Why did she care?

She should just put all these things away and forget about it: get through the next 24 hours and leave with her cash.

And as much as part of her screamed for her to do this and not rock the boat, the side of her that craved answers just wouldn't let go.

Drink Emma, she told herself, have another drink.

The soft clunk of the door closing was her signal that he was back. She glanced at the clock - 3am. She stifled a yawn and pushed herself up against the pillows of the bed. She still wore his white shirt - sleeves rolled up about her elbows - and the soft comforter was gathered around her waist. In the background, the TV silently played some crime drama - the light flickered across the room as she sipped her newest glass of Jack.

"Oh," he said, surprised, as he stepped into the room, "I expected you to be asleep."

"I'm a bit of a night owl," she replied, softly yawning as he shrugged off his coat and began to unbutton his shirt.

"So it seems," he replied with a raise of his brow.

She watched as he peeled the shirt away, exposing the lightly tanned skin that covered his lean muscles. Emma couldn't deny he was in good shape - or that the covering of hair on his chest was so enticing and masculine she had a craving to run her fingers through it.

The silence between them and the darkness of the room made her feel almost voyeuristic. His hands quickly undid his belt and his trousers dropped until he was clothed only in his simple black boxer briefs. A ripple inside her stomach highlighted the heightened state of want that she had been in ever since she felt his mouth on her in the opera box.

Walking towards the bathroom he glanced her way and she caught his eye.

"Something you like?" he teased. That playful edge to him seemed to be returning.

Opening her mouth, she ran her tongue along the inside of her bottom lip, her eyes dipping as she blushed involuntarily.

"Actually," she said and he paused, "I have a question."

"Oh do you?" he smirked, leaning his arm against the door jam.

Quickly she took another drink before she met his eye again. "Who are you?"

"Who am I?" he echoed, his brow creasing slightly. Emma nodded.

"I'm a 34 year old salesman who finds blondes irresistible." He was trying to tease her. Pushing away from the wall he approached the bed.

"A salesman?"

"Yes," he muttered as he reached the bed and peeled the comforter away from her waist, exposing an expanse of long, slim legs.

"What do you sell?"

"What does it matter?" he muttered as he began to lay kisses up her leg, starting at her ankle.

"Well, I'm not sure… Maybe we should ask James Cook or David Jones or perhaps Michael Forest?"

Rearing back from her, he stood tall: one hand at his waist, the other rubbing the layer of scruff on his chin. "You've been looking through my things?" His voice was steady and cool but she could feel its icy edge.

"I wanted to know who I was dealing with," she replied nonchalantly.

"Dealing with?" He laughed softly.

"I can't work you out Killian Jones - or whatever your name is."

He ran his hand across his face, "Why do you care Emma Swan? What do you think this is? A relationship?"

Hotness flooded her cheeks, "Of course not," she growled softly, "And I don't care. But if there is something illegal going on I think I should know-"

"Are you listening to yourself? Illegal? What the hell is what we're doing? I don't see you hiding your services at The Velvet Rope, Emma. What - is it easier than trawling the streets-"

"How dare you, I - I—"

"And what gives you the right to go through my personal possessions? You know, I thought you were different but it seems I was wrong."

Her stomach sank as the accusations flew back and forth; she felt the cold fingers of regret grip her.

"You're just a common whore."

Whore.

The word clung to the air as they both stared at each other.

Regret creased his face and his shoulders sagged.

"I'm - I'm sorry," he stuttered, "I didn't mean that."

She felt the tears prick at the corners of her eyes, the word was wounding and so true at the same time. That's what she was: here in a stranger's bed, being paid for her time - her body. This was what her life had come to.

They stared at each other for what seemed like hours. She wanted to apologize. Wanted him to take back what he had said. Needed him to crawl into the bed beside her and take her so that she could forget it all.

Instead he turned and she watched him open the dresser and pull on a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt. He gave her one last look before he left the room.

Seconds later she heard the door shut softly once more.

Somehow she had fallen asleep. She wasn't sure what had happened earlier. The sleep was fitful and peppered with images of shame and regret.

It was still dark when she began to wake.

She could hear the sound of music coming from the other room - the soft sounds of a guitar strumming. She slid from under the covers and padded quietly into the living area.

"And I wonder

When I sing along with you

If everything could ever feel this real forever

If anything could ever be this good again."

It was Killian, singing: his voice was soft and melodic and beautiful. Her chest contracted as his soft, dulcet tones filled the room.

She stood in the doorway and watched him. He had taken off his t-shirt and he sat on the sofa with an acoustic guitar in his lap, slowly strumming out the chords - playing the song in a much more melancholy way than the original - much softer and slower.

Creeping closer, she stumbled in the dark. He turned his head and she caught his eye. They seemed glassy even from the distance. He looked sad.

"Hi," she whispered.

"Hi," he replied.

Her heart raced. She rubbed her knees together anxiously.

"I'm sorry," she blurted out, "For invading your privacy. I should never have done that. I guess I just have all these trust issues and-"

"Forget about it," he said, running his fingers over the strings, "It doesn't matter." He picked up the guitar and set it down on the floor. "And I apologize for what I said. It was out of line. You didn't deserve that."

The edges of her lips curved in a sad smile.

He reached up and began to rub the scar that crossed his right cheek. "Do you know how I got this?"

Shaking her head, Emma stepped a little closer and perched on the arm of the sofa.

"I was in a car accident. In New York. A taxi driver rammed me off the road - he'd had a seizure. Freak accident, the police said. Thank God I was wearing my seat belt. Got away with just this. But she wasn't so lucky."

"She?" she whispered.

"Milah. My fiancee. She'd taken off her belt to get something from the back seat. We were laughing - we were planning a vacation. Then it happened. She went straight through the windshield. Landed on the road," his voice choked up a little and he sucked in a deep break.

"Oh my God, I'm so sorry…"

"You know what- she was so damn smart." He looked up and his eyes were shining at the memory, "She taught me a lot. She was older than me - almost ten years - she found me when I'd just moved to the States. I was bumming around, making small time cons, living in a studio with four other guys."

Emma tried to imagine the younger Killian - rough around the edges, living day by day.

"She was an art dealer - specializing in forgeries. Very, very good ones. She taught me the ropes - the contacts, how to get authentication. It was easy. Easy money. And of course I fell in love." He punctuated his little speech with a sad smile.

So much sadness.

"And then she died and I took over the business. So, Emma Swan, that is who I am. And James Cook, David Jones and Michael Forest are my guises. In my business anonymity is not only desirable but essential at times."

Emma nodded, trying to process all the information he had just given her.

"Any other questions?" he asked and she wasn't sure if he was being serious or flippant.

"No," she replied softly.

When he stood and took hold of her hand, she let him pull her towards him. She settled in his lap, straddling his thighs, her hands cupping the sides of his cheeks, rubbing her thumbs over them. He kept his gaze down. His brow was slightly furrowed. He was thinking of her - she could tell. His hands were grazing her thighs but his fingers were slightly clenched.

Reaching down, she took his hands in hers, easing her fingers into his, prying them open and interlacing their fingers.

"I'm sorry," she whispered again. Not sure if she was apologizing for herself or for what had happened to him.

When he nuzzled into her neck she moaned softly. His lips: soft, warm and inviting were the perfect antidote to the ache inside. They made her forget everything. Wiping her mind. Shuffling her hips closer to his, she enjoyed the way his mouth gently traced across her skin: lips brushing lightly, leaving moist trails, the way his tongue flicked out to taste her.

Brushing her face against his, her hands trailed up his arms, tightening over his firm biceps, glancing over his shoulders, running up his neck into the nape of his hair.

It felt good. It was needed. He seemed to be pouring out his pain onto her skin. Quicker, faster he began to nip at her with his teeth. She tangled her fingers in his hair, pushing him further against her skin, gently rocking her hips as she sighed.

The moment he tilted his head upwards took her by surprise. His lips glanced off the corner off her mouth - barely touching the pink skin. But it burned where they met. The skin tingled and throbbed.

He seemed to be testing her. He kissed her again - this time more of his lips encompassed hers - just a fraction more. Then he paused and she felt her heart straining against her chest.

Emma turned her head slightly and met him in a half kiss. The knot was back in her stomach. But this time it wasn't one of sadness or worry - it was one of hope and pleasure, tightening as they tentatively moved closer.

She was breathing so heavily it was all she could hear. His forehead stalled, resting against her own. His hands were now firmly at her hips, holding her tight.

With a jerk, she tugged on his hair and pulled his lips tighter, pressing them against her own. He moved against her, starting softly, gradually reaching up and easing his tongue between her lips until were fully entwined.

The room was spinning, wasn't it? And why was it getting so dark?

All Emma could feel was his hands and his lips and his heat and the pounding of her heart as he worked her mouth and kissed her like she'd never been kissed before.

Letting him take the lead, she acquiesced to him, bending and shaping herself to his will, letting him take her away from reality - if only for a moment.

She barely felt his hands reach for the shirt, but then it was being tugged open and she heard the tear of thread and the scatter of small buttons as it pooled around her shoulders. He didn't leave her lips as he let a hand scrape across her skin and begin to cup her breasts - rolling the nipples between finger and thumb, palming them gently and tenderly. She groaned softly into his mouth.

His hands moved to her hips once more and then they were rising and moving. She hooked her legs around his waist - he didn't stop kissing her. He seemed to be reveling in it and she couldn't stop either. She tightened her arms around his neck and almost - almost - for a second she let herself forget everything. Pretend that he was hers and she was his and that things were simple.

So she let him take her to bed and peel off her shirt.

She let him brush away the strands of hair that ran over her face.

She let him kiss her again and again and again.

She didn't stop him when he reached for a condom and settled between her legs.

She looked in his eyes as he pressed inside her - and saw pain and hope and someone desperately trying to forget - just like she was.

She held him tight as he rocked his hips and made her ache with satisfaction. No dirty talk. No mutterings. Just silence punctuated by soft breaths and the motion of skin against skin as she arched up into him and let herself just feel, not think.

She let the motions overtake her, she was like a boat bobbing on the sea, letting itself be taken along… Until she began to fold in upon herself as he buried his head in her hair and the sweat began to pool on his back and made her hands slide over his shoulders. And she was just falling over the edge of sanity when she was sure the heard him whisper, "Emma… I love-"

But the rest was lost in the haze of bliss and even as she came to and let him swaddle her body with his own, she brushed it off as a figment of her imagination.

Because who could ever love Emma Swan? Let alone an almost stranger.

Review? Thank you!

(Lyrics from 'Everlong' by the Foo Fighters)