Give Me Love (Like Her)

by PhiraLovesLoki

How can Killian Jones ask his aggressively aloof neighbor on a date without making her uncomfortable? And how can he ensure that he doesn't default to having a one-night stand with her? His unusual solution: announce his affections anonymously and hope for the best. Companion piece to With Affection from Killian's point-of-view.

3. Chapter Three

Content note: This chapter contains explicit sexual content.

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Well, Captain, since you seem to suffer from the delusion that I'm royalty, I'm just going to play along and take advantage of your mistake. As a princess, I expect a lot of groveling, just so you know. It's just how I roll.

My first royal act will be to grant you a pardon for your incredibly rude comment concerning what everyone knows is a delicious part of a balanced breakfast (or dinner). Can you seriously top Cap'n Crunch? Do you think you're more of a Cap'n than he is?

As for your awkward question: I am, for lack of a better term, available. Your move.

His move. He grinned and made a mental note to thank Graham for explaining the advantages of online dating. The man had not been lying about the benefits of written communication.

His stomach growled, reminding him that breakfast was on hold until he ran his errand. His reply would have to wait, but that was fine. It was, after all, his move. He should mull it over.

As he exited the building, he saw a man standing on the sidewalk, anxiously making a phone call and glancing up at the complex. "Look, you can't just break up with me over the phone. I don't want to have to ask the doorman to let me in, but you're seriously underestimating me. You have to stop ignoring my calls."

"Oi, mate," Killian said, stepping over. The man looked vaguely familiar, but Killian wasn't sure where he would have seen him before, and the man didn't seem to recognize him either. "If they don't want to see you, you might want to pack up and go home. The doorman won't let you in anyway."

"Mind your own business, buddy," the man replied angrily, before tapping at his phone and groaning in frustration. "Now I have to leave the message again."

"Suit yourself." He dashed back into the complex, where Anton was working behind the desk. "Hey, Tiny!" The man perked up at the nickname he'd been given by the majority of the tenants. "There's a man outside who seems to be threatening someone who lives here." He pointed through the glass door.

"Threatening?" Anton picked up the phone. "Can you be more specific?"

"Sounds like he got dumped, and his ex lives here. He was saying he or she couldn't just break up with him over the phone, that he'd get you to let him in, and that he was being underestimated. Perhaps I'm being overly cautious, but I'd rather not take any chances."

"Yikes. Thanks, Mr. Jones. I'll take care of the situation."

"Thanks, mate."

When he returned from the market, the man was gone. And soon his flat was filled with the smells of pumpkin and apple, making it very pleasurable to relax at his desk and go through his casework.

Or, more accurately, type out his response to his Swan Princess. If she was single, then it was time to do more than just flirt through letters. He briefly thought about taking their interactions out of the second dimension and into the third, but for the first time since he began leaving the notes, he felt a pressing panic in his chest. No—it was too soon. She was interested, of course, as was he, but he needed to be more than simply interested. Interested was enough for drinks and a satisfying fuck before never speaking again. He needed something more than interested.

But there were ways to court her without either sticking to the written word or knocking on her door. There were spaces in between. And there was the matter of her questionable taste in breakfast food. He quickly phoned Stephanie's before getting to the letter.

My dearest, most regal Princess,

Dropping some of the attitude for a moment, if you'll allow it, I'm honestly relieved that you're actually available. Given your incredible beauty, I'd assumed that it would be impossible for you to be single.

But I must insist that you are wrong about the Cap'n; I am certainly more of a Cap'n than he is. Does he have a boat? I am quite certain one must have a boat to be a Captain. I have a boat, and he does not, ergo: I am more Cap'n than Cap'n Crunch.

Since your divinely royal taste buds have been mistreated for so long, I must insist that you experience Sunday Brunch at Stephanie's on Newbury. As your humble Captain/admirer/dashing rapscallion, I have already made the necessary arrangements for you to dine there on your next free Sunday; when they ask for a name, just tell them you're the Swan Princess. I also must insist that you bring along a friend, someone who deserves a delicious meal and the pleasure of your company, so that word may spread among your circle that your Captain takes secret admiring quite seriously. And that he takes his breakfast seriously—this is very important, your Highness. I recommend the cinnamon oatmeal brûlée.

Truly yours,
Your Captain/rapscallion (I do think that's a rather inspired nickname)

He hoped that he wasn't being too forward. But at this point, this was as far as he knew he could go. Jefferson surely wouldn't consider it a date, and to be sure, it wouldn't be one with him.

But he had to make sure he was spending his time and effort on a person who could appreciate decent brunch. It was a priority.

Monday morning, Killian picked up Swan's reply on his way to work.

Captain—

You're really upping the stakes now. What if I really do take you up on that offer? Can I order anything I'd like? What about my friend of choice? What if things end up getting a bit romantic between my friend and me while we're enjoying such a scrumptious brunch? Wouldn't that be a conflict of interest for you? Look, I'm just trying to point out some rookie secret admirer mistakes you're making.

Do you really have a boat? You need to be careful. What if I fall head over heels for you and you lied about having a boat? That would be a serious problem.

He snorted in offense as he read the boat comments, garnering the (unwanted) attention of his boss, Albert Spencer, who'd at that moment ducked his head in. "Something funny, Jones?"

"No, sir." There was no reason to alert Spencer to the fact that he'd been reading a personal note at the office. "I've got updates on the Tillman case, by the way, if you're available to meet this afternoon."

"Excellent. Two o'clock, Jones."

"I'll be there, sir."

Boat comments aside, he was pleased to see that she wasn't backing down in response to his offer for brunch. At the very least, she hadn't outright rejected it, or indicated that he was moving too quickly. Granted, it wasn't a date with him, but it was the first real-life action that he was suggesting. That she had not shied away from him was a good sign.

He left his reply before starting his laundry.

My most royal and regal of princesses,

Of fucking course I actually own a boat. I am insulted that you would think I would lie about such a serious matter. You will have to excuse me; I must take a moment to regain my composure.

As for your upcoming brunch plans, I am incredibly confident that your experience will be so incredible and pleasurable—in a culinary manner, of course—that you will be immediately and immeasurably grateful that I, ever your humble servant and well-known Secret Admirer of the Princess, provided you with such a magical affair. Whichever lucky friend you bring along will almost certainly attempt to compete with you for my affections, so I shall assure you that my heart, of course, belongs solely to you.

I'm sorry, but again, of fucking course I own a boat, how could you even—

Forever yours, snide boat-related remarks aside,
Your Captain

He was careful to read her reply the following day when the majority of his colleagues—and Spencer—were out for lunch.

Captain—

Calm the fuck down, please, by order of the Princess. Do you seriously have a boat? Are you telling me that my completely random nickname for you, chosen on the basis of the cereal I was eating for dinner (like an adult), was actually accurate?

Regarding brunch, you might not want to hype it up too much. By the time you get this note, it'll probably be Tuesday, and brunch isn't happening until Sunday. If you oversell this place, and I can't find it within the goodness of my heart to lie to you, I'm terribly worried about what will happen to your poor, poor ego.

He frowned. He'd hoped she'd find his righteous indignation amusing, whereas she'd been turned off by it. She still had enough humor to joke about her terrible taste in cereal, so that was a bright spot. Perhaps he needed to tone some of it down, though she did seem committed to brunch plans.

Your Highness,

I really, truly, absolutely do own a boat, and to be quite frank, I am a little suspicious that you actually know who I am, and that you're pretending to have terrible taste in breakfast cereal in order to throw me off.

I can assure you that there is no possible way to overhype this brunch for you. In fact, I must insist that you order the French toast, the cinnamon oatmeal brûlée I already told you about, and a Bloody Mary with Absolut vodka, Stephanie's famous mix, and either a celery stick (if you're a traditional, stick-in-the-mud sort of princess) or a red hot chili pepper (if you're an adventurous, courageous, pirate wench type of princess). My dearest Swan Princess, I don't mean to alarm you, but if you order these exact items, you might find yourself begging me to reveal my identity to you so that you can properly thank me.

Your most humble servant obviously,
Your Captain

He hoped that the first paragraph would make amends for his perceived overreaction, and also clarify whether or not she did know who he was. But he couldn't resist the tiniest bit of innuendo towards the end. After all, Graham had said that the benefit of this sort of communication was getting to know the other person's character; it wouldn't do to hide his personality.

The reply he found on Wednesday morning was quite a surprise. Not only could he spot a white sheet of paper folded up inside her signature yellow note, but there was also a broken-down box of Cap'n Crunch cereal. He quickly tossed the cereal box into his flat before rushing to catch the T; even if it had been easy to stuff it in his briefcase (and it wasn't), there was no way he was going to tote a cereal box around at work. But it was a struggle to wait until lunch to read the note and see what the white sheet of paper was.

It was a selfie.

It was printed in low-quality and black and white on copier paper, and it had been taken in what looked to be her kitchen—from what little he could see, the cabinetry looked similar to that in his flat. In the photo, a smirking Swan held up a spoon of cereal; he blushed, wondering if she realized she'd angled the photo such that he could see the swell of her braless breasts under a low-cut camisole. Bloody hell.

He laughed out loud when he read the accompanying letter.

Captain—

Please find attached one (1) broken down Cap'n Crunch box and one (1) printed selfie showing me eating Capn Crunch

I figure you already know who I am and I look like. So a photo of me eating cereal isn't any sort of surprise or whatever.

Seriously. You've got my attention, Captain. Why stay secret? Your all powerful royal demands to know.

PS I'm not gonna lie to you because I respect you so I am pretty fucking trashed right now

That explained quite a bit. And she was right; although he'd never seen that much of her breasts before, he did know what she looked like. It wasn't a revelation, as it would be if he were the one to send her a photo.

Princess—

I offer my most humble apologies for impugning your reputation by insinuating that you were a stick in the mud. Clearly, you are adventurous, free-spirited, unpredictable, and quite serious about your weaponized breakfast cereal.

I am intensely curious about the circumstances surrounding Her Highness' drunken escapades. Perhaps she might indulge me by describing what sort of wild events went on that led to her getting extraordinarily tanked on a week night.

As for the continued secrecy? Perhaps I am extremely good-looking and wish to ensure your interest on the merits of my razor sharp wit. Or perhaps I am quite homely and, again, wish to ensure your interest on the merits of my razor sharp wit. I could go on, but I'm sure you are currently far too hungover to appreciate said razor sharp wit.

Best wishes for a speedy recovery,
Captain (Razor Sharp Wit)

The first part of her message the following day cheered him.

Captain—

I was out with friends last night. The birthday girl, my best friend from college, owns a restaurant, so she closed it down early so we could hang out. I got a few texts from her this morning; apparently, five of us managed to drain several bottles of liquor. According to my sister, who was the designated driver, I started threatening to bite people who tried to take the bottle of Maker's away from me.

Still interested?

Absolutely. But the rest of the note left him feeling out of sorts.

I may have been drunk last night, but I stand by my earlier question: why keep things a secret? I'm single. I assume you're single. I've told you I'm interested. So?

And so the letter was quite a mixed bag. While he enjoyed the mental image of his princess fighting off anyone who would dare to relieve her of her alcohol, and while he was quite pleased to learn that she drank whiskey, he was disappointed that the explanation that might have satisfied an intoxicated Swan was ineffective on the sober version.

What could he really say? That he was trying to protect her until he was ready to move beyond the realm of fun and flirty, and into the realm of serious commitment? His appetite for his lunch disappeared.

Would she stop communicating with him if he didn't agree to meet? Would she believe him if he tried to relate to her just how damaged he was? That he might not even be capable of giving her what she truly deserved?

A date with Killian Jones always ended the same way.

He wasn't ready. He just wasn't ready. But she couldn't know that. He couldn't lie to her, but there were other benefits to be had by sticking to the written word. He would focus on those.

Your Royal Highness,

I must say, it's very, very flattering that you're suddenly so impatient to meet. Now, if you must know, I'm an old, romantic soul. I want a woman to be properly, thoroughly romanced. I'm not a bad looking fellow, I assure you, and I'm sure if you and I were to meet and see each other socially in the fashion to which you are accustomed, you would find the experience quite satisfactory.

But you are clearly an exceptional woman, my Princess. You must be courted expertly, and I am, I assure you, just the right person to do that. In my hands, I give you my word as a gentleman, you will be perfectly and utterly pleased.

Still sure you want to call all this foreplay off early?

Your Captain

He left the note as soon as he got home, which was earlier than usual—he had no meetings or conference calls the rest of the day, and the queasiness he'd felt since reading her letter hadn't dissipated. And so he tried to relax, sipping some of his fine scotch and hoping that she wouldn't see the coward hiding behind the innuendo, that she wouldn't call it quits.

No, he wasn't a coward. He was just being careful.

But clearly, something had gone wrong. There was no reply Friday morning, and by that evening, he was agitated. He didn't want to press her, but this was unusual. He figured that there was no harm in breaking the back-and-forth; she would at least know that he was thinking about her, and that he just wanted to make sure she was all right.

Princess,

I must admit that I am a little disappointed at your lack of reply. I'm usually quite understanding when a woman isn't quite able to handle the sort of attentions I can provide, but you are clearly not an ordinary woman. I'm happy to revert back to our earlier playful banter if you'd be more comfortable, but you'll have to let me know.

All teasing aside, I do hope that if I have indeed crossed a boundary, that you will inform me of my misstep. And if I haven't? Then I very, very much look forward to your response.

Your Captain

At the very least, if she was terribly upset with him regarding his reluctance to meet, she could be an adult and say something. Or at least, that's what he reasoned as he threw the remains of his dinner into a plastic container. He'd try to finish it tomorrow.

But Saturday, there was still no reply, and his previous missive was still there. He called Belle, hoping she wouldn't be irritated at the early morning weekend call.

"Killian, is everything okay?"

"You recall my neighbor I wanted to ask out?"

"Of course. What happened?"

He sighed. "Will you promise not to judge me too harshly?"

"What exactly did you do?"

"You haven't promised."

"Fine, I promise. What's wrong? You're scaring me."

"I …" He paused. "This sounds quite mad, but I …"

"Killian," Belle said firmly. He knew what that meant: Get to the point.

"I've been leaving her letters as her secret admirer." He braced himself for the impending criticism.

But instead, Belle let out a small, happy gasp. "That's really sweet! Has she been replying? What's her name? Are you thinking about meeting in person?"

"She has, and I don't know, and not yet," he said quickly. "Actually, that's the problem. She wants to know why I'm reluctant to meet in person."

"Why are you? Wasn't the whole point to date her?"

"I'm just …" He let out a frustrated huff.

"You're not ready," she finished for him.

"I'm not."

"That's okay. Just tell her that."

"Well, that's the thing." He quickly switched his phone to his right hand, as his left one was cramping fiercely already; he hadn't realized how tightly he'd been gripping it. "She's stopped replying without explanation. I think she's angry with me; I may have been a little too forward."

"You're not sending her anything filthy, are you?" Her voice dripped with disapproval, and he could easily envision her expression.

"Of course not!" he replied indignantly; innuendo hardly counted. "I was mildly flirtatious at most. But I just need to know what to do now."

"When did she last reply?"

"Thursday morning. I left her a reply in the afternoon and she definitely received it. I left another message last night, letting her know that I was sorry if I made her uncomfortable and that I hoped she'd let me know."

"And I'm guessing you've checked already and there's still no new note?"

"You are correct, as always, love."

"Okay." She made that little noise she made when she was getting down to some serious thinking; it was a long exhale through the nose, and she'd twist her mouth to the side and look very much like the dictionary definition of "ponder." "All right. I don't want to disappoint you, but yeah, I think maybe she's calling it quits."

He sighed shakily. "So no more letters?"

"Probably not. Sorry, Killian. I know how invested you were in trying to get to know this person."

"That's all right. You know I'll be fine. Thanks for talking me down a bit; I needed it."

"You know I'm happy to help. Maybe drinks later this week?"

"Sounds lovely. I'll talk to you later."

Belle was right: he'd overplayed his hand and ended up taking things too far. Heading back to his laptop, he clicked out of the blank document he'd been saving for his next missive and glanced over the one in the window behind it, containing the last message he'd sent.

He could certainly see how it might not have been an appropriate apology. The comments regarding what type of woman he thought she was were still overly flirtatious, at least given the circumstances. If he was worried that he'd upset her, he shouldn't have doubled down. He should have just very simply apologized and agreed to back off.

He opened a new document again. That's just what he would do, then.

Swan,

Okay, I really am sorry if I've made you uncomfortable. Clearly, I misread your interest, and I apologize. I really do hope that you'll give me another chance, but I completely understand if you don't.

Your Captain

P.S. I'm embarrassed enough that I'd really rather prefer to hide behind my pseudonym. I hope you understand.

Early Sunday afternoon, he stepped off the elevator onto the third floor, dripping with sweat from a particularly grueling workout. It had taken all of his energy to distract himself from his disappointment regarding Swan's rejection, and the dull ache in his back reminded him that, though he wasn't that old, perhaps he was too old to be pushing himself as hard as he had.

And then he spotted the yellow paper under the doormat. As usual, he made sure the hallway was empty before grabbing it and practically jogging to his own door. What had she said? Was she letting him down gently? Had she accepted his apology? Or, he dared to hope, was this all a misunderstanding?

My Captain,

You definitely have not crossed a line. Thanks for apologizing and offering to leave me alone, but you did nothing wrong and you don't need to leave me alone.

I came home Thursday night really briefly, so I grabbed your note but didn't read it. I only got home super late last night, so I'm just getting to everything now.

Honestly, I really need to thank you. I was gone because my dad had a heart attack on Thursday, and I had to go home. He's fine—like, really, actually fine, but now I'm home and really needed a return to normalcy. This morning, one of my friends and I went to Stephanie's, and you were absolutely 100% correct. There was no way you could have overhyped that food. The oatmeal will probably haunt my dreams. I didn't get the Bloody Mary, though. I hope that's okay.

I'll be straight with you, Captain. I did kind of like seeing a note from you without all the extra-fancy writing. But that note you left that you thought upset me was kind of hot, and I liked that, too. Hope that doesn't upset you.

Thanks again for brunch. Hope you haven't given up on me yet.

It was difficult to process everything he felt at once.

Relief: It had indeed been a misunderstanding. Her lack of reply had nothing to do with him, and he hadn't driven her away by leaving additional notes. All was well.

Satisfaction: She'd gone to brunch and loved it. He felt as though he'd taken her on a successful date, even though he hadn't even been there.

Sympathy: Her father had been stricken with illness. She must have been terrified if a "return to normalcy" was so necessary.

Embarrassment: He'd been whinging over her lack of reply and obsessing about how the lack of notes was affecting him, while she was home with her family dealing with an emergency—a life-or-death emergency as far as he was concerned.

Curiosity: She'd moved into the realm of the personal; he knew she had a father now, and that he lived close enough that she could have been gone and back between Thursday and Saturday.

Excitement: He'd turned her on. She was admitting he'd turned her on, and almost challenging him to do it again. And he hadn't even turned up his innuendo all the way.

And something else he could describe, but that struck him as he read the opening of the letter. My Captain.

He needed to reply immediately. Her note was too monumental.

My Princess,

I can't even begin to describe how relieved I am, or how ridiculous I feel. I'm so sorry about your father, and I'm glad to hear he's okay. You were home trying to take care of your family, and I was here getting all put out that I had to wait a few days for a note and taking it way too personally. I'm really sorry. I'm glad you liked brunch; that's seriously one of my favorite restaurants, and I can't ever resist recommending it to people.

Okay, with that out of the way—

I really should apologize to you, not for bothering you, but for even suggesting that I stop bothering you. And when I say "bothering" you, I, of course, mean leaving you feeling flustered and grinning, with your breathing shallow and your pupils dilated. I've only admired you from afar, but you'd have great difficulty convincing me that you aren't a vision when you're aroused.

How'd I do, love?

Welcome home,
Your Captain

Delivering the note, though, would have to wait. Just putting those words to paper, and thinking about how to really get her hot and bothered had the unintended side effect of getting him just as worked up as he hoped to get her. He was still dressed for the fitness center, and his erection was lifting up the fabric of his shorts quite comically. His arousal, along with the fact that he hadn't yet showered after a brutal workout, required a slight delay.

Within moments, he was in the shower, leaning against the tiles, grasping his cock and imagining all of what he'd written to her. He thought of the selfie she'd left him earlier in the week, and how badly he wanted to reach into the photo and pull the top down further, to watch her nipples harden under his fingers, to hear her make tiny gasps and moans. He could see her eyes, black with arousal and hooded, watching him as he explored her body.

He came with a grunt.

As he came down from his high and began the mundane process of cleansing himself, he felt a creeping discomfort. While she had made it clear that she'd enjoyed the sexual overtones in his previous letters, what had seemed like a brilliant idea when he was still aroused now felt a little inappropriate. He dried off and reread her letter, noting her use of emphasis. In the end, it felt unlikely that after all this, she would back off without a word if she was disgusted. It felt worth the risk.

My Captain.

Absolutely worth the risk. Under the mat it went.

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Sorry it took me a while to update today (long day at work). I'd love to know what you think!