Content note: This chapter contains explicit sexual content.

Killian awoke Friday morning with the dull headache that followed a night drinking red wine, and the stress of wondering when his princess would be home. He checked her previous letter again: would her brother-in-law follow through and insist on ending Swan's trip home early? He damn well hoped so.

In spite of his headache, he donned his gym gear, filled his water bottle, and pushed himself through a short morning workout. There was no reason to be lazy while Swan was away, and besides, it gave him the opportunity—twice—to check her doormat. Sadly, there was no telltale yellow paper sticking out from underneath the doormat. She clearly hadn't arrived home.

He showered and attempted to continue getting ahead on his casework. But it was only a few moments before he found himself giving in, opening a new document. He didn't consider himself unusually superstitious, but he was a seafaring man and a baseball fan; some amount of superstition came with both territories. He imagined that Swan might be glad to arrive home to find a note waiting for her, but there was the chance that the act of leaving her a note would mystically delay her homecoming.

No, he reminded himself. Such forces clearly did not exist. He was being irrational. It was far better to welcome her home appropriately than it was to refuse on the grounds that his actions would somehow magically affect her brother-in-law's mindset.

My dearest Princess,

I hope that you had a wonderful Thanksgiving with your family. What delicious food did you eat? Any family traditions? Any horribly awkward moments with racist uncles? (I don't really celebrate Thanksgiving, given my situation, but I hear that often the holiday involves keeping your mouth shut as older family members say incredibly offensive things; please correct me if I'm wrong.)

I've spent the past couple of days thinking about you and missing you. I'm happy to tell you exactly how much, if you'd like. One word from you, and I'll describe it in every detail.

Damn it, Swan, I really do miss you. I've put out this note on Friday afternoon, hoping very much that my impatience somehow causes the balance of the universe to shift slightly in my favor and deposit you back in your apartment by the end of the evening. If instead, I've jinxed the whole situation and you do not return until Sunday, perhaps I will replace this note. I haven't decided yet; I'd hate for you to blame me for invoking Murphy's law, but at the same time, I can tell you've no patience for people who would lie about jinxing a situation.

But, my god, Swan, I hope you're back before Sunday. It's already been excruciating. I'm practically dying over here, desperately missing you. I have problems.

With tremendous affection,
Your Captain

He truly did have problems. It was difficult to concentrate on his work, but now he had no excuses for checking on the status of the note under the doormat. If she had arrived home, she would need time to reply, and if she hadn't, then he'd be wasting his time checking. He set a timer, resolving to give himself an hour with no distractions before letting his mind wander back to Swan.

One hour turned into two and a half, his work finally engaging him enough to keep him occupied. The Tillman case was a frustrating one, with two absentee parents fighting for custody over two children. He was frequently handed cases with similar custody issues; he suspected that Spencer was aware of his personal history and expected someone like him would be more invested in achieving the best possible outcome.

It was probably true, but it proved to be a double-edged sword; sometimes, Killian felt that the parent he represented was not well-suited for the degree of custody they sought. As a result, he sometimes was passed over for cases where that might be a possibility, and if he had to work with such a client, he spent a great deal of time using his legal acumen and way with words to ensure that the best outcome for the children involved was also what the client believed to be the most desirable one.

At least the Tillman case didn't have that issue—he truly believed his client was the more suitable parent—although it was proving to be difficult anyway.

By mid-afternoon, he felt confident that he'd earned some relaxation for the rest of the day, which of course meant immediately checking the hallway. To his relief and delight, there was yellow paper waiting for him. Swan was home. He would have to thank her brother-in-law … figuratively.

My desperately lonely Captain,

Clearly, your plan worked; I just got home, even earlier than I'd expected. My Thanksgiving was very nice—just a meal with my parents, my sister, and her husband. No racist uncles or anything! We do have one family tradition: we watch Planes, Trains & Automobiles. It's the law.

I've really missed you, too, and I would love to hear exactly what you dreamt last night. I couldn't do much dreaming myself, obviously. It would be really embarrassing to wake up the whole household while moaning, "Oh Captain." It would be even worse if anyone tried to check on me and make sure I was okay; they'd probably find me spread out on the bed, with my hands in ridiculously inappropriate places. Maybe it wouldn't be embarrassing, though, since I'd have to notice that I'd been caught to be embarrassed. And when I'm home and have all the privacy in the world? Like right now? I probably would be much too swept up in my activities to notice anything at all.

Happy holidays ;)
Your Princess

PS: I didn't want to throw this in with the sexy stuff, but my mom asked about you.

Good lord. He dropped down on his couch and stared at the paper in his hand. What a siren—he should never have let on how vivid his visual imagination was. She delighted in taking advantage of that fact, as she was right now.

He could see her, spread out on the bed (his bed), atop the covers (his covers). Had she dared to sleep nude in her parents' house? He begrudgingly imagined her in a tiny camisole and those miniscule shorts she sometimes wore to the gym.

But that somehow made his fantasy even more appealing. He imagined her breasts spilling out from the scrap of material that hardly deserved to be called a shirt, and one of her hands eagerly kneading at her chest. He set the letter aside and unzipped his jeans; Swan had the absurd ability to get him hard with almost minimal effort these days. And her other hand, he could easily imagine it shoved down the front of those shorts that were practically no more than underwear, frantically rubbing as she bucked her hips.

She was home now—was he simply fantasizing, or was he accurately envisioning her current activities?

No, he reasoned. She was waiting for him. She was waiting for him to give her something to initiate those activities.

He could not remember the last time he'd ever been this hard. Ever. There was no way he'd be able to meditate himself to a state decent enough to leave the apartment. Though he was no stranger to getting off after some of her letters, this was the first time that he felt such an overwhelming need to do so.

Thank goodness he kept a box of tissues on the coffee table. It took less than a minute before he brought himself to climax, grunting out a curse as he caught as much of his release in the crumpled tissues as he could. He could imagine her smirking, knowing the effect she had on him. He quickly cleaned up, redid the fly of his jeans, and washed his hands before sitting down at his desk.

There was no way, after what she'd just done to him, that he was going to give her anything that merely suggested she pleasure herself. He might not be there with her, but he knew just what he wanted to do with her.

My unbelievably naughty Princess,

It must have been very, very difficult for you to resist pleasuring yourself. But like you said, now, you're in the privacy of your own home. It would be very, very easy to just slip off whatever top you're wearing, and no one would be around to notice. Perhaps you should do just that.

And your bra, my dear. While I've never seen your bare breasts, I've often dreamt of them, and if they are half as lovely as they are in my dreams, then it would be a shame to keep them hidden. And if they're encased in fabric, it would be terribly difficult for you to cup them while gently circling your nipples with your thumbs.

It would probably feel quite wonderful if you were to do just that, but it would probably be even more wonderful if you did that while imagining that those were my hands. Imagine just how much I'd take my time, enjoying your gorgeous breasts, and listening to the little noises you'd make as I caressed them.

And again, because you're in the privacy of your own home, it would be easy to relax on your bed, and stroke your lovely breasts for several minutes, all while thinking about how much we both wish that I were the one doing just that. And because you have privacy, I would never need to know just how long you might lie there, squeezing those perfect breasts, or pinching and pulling on your nipples.

I suppose we should both drop this needless charade and quit pretending that you aren't splayed out on your bed like the wanton woman you are, positively dripping with need. In that case, I might have to insist that you reach down and give yourself a few feather-light strokes. I can guarantee that it will feel even better if you continue to tell yourself that it's me who's touching you.

While I'd love for you to tease yourself for hours, until your mind became overwhelmed with need, it would be ungentlemanly for me to keep you waiting. And at this point, I'm sure that my ministrations (for you can tell yourself that it's your hand, but we know that I'm really the one touching you) have gotten you extremely close to that desperately desired peak, and I can't bring myself to deny you.

So, my beautiful Princess, I want you to reach back down and let me make you come.

It was a testament to the intensity of the orgasm he'd just experienced, and his top-notch writing skills, how quickly he was able to write exactly what he wanted to write. But this was entirely different from the letters they'd exchanged before. Would she be offended or disgusted by his directions? Was he officially entering lecherous territory?

Or would she respond the way he hoped, and enjoy the scenario he'd planned out for her? He began another note.

My dear Princess,

After reading your note, I had to take matters into my own hands, so to speak. And afterwards, it seemed as though it would be awfully bad form if you didn't get to experience the same pleasure that I did. If you're reading this note, then you either enjoyed the experience, or you're just insatiably curious, but I hope it was the former.

While he was at it, typing up a nonsexual response, he returned to the couch for her letter. Not everything in her letter had been designed to arouse him, after all. Her postscript caught his attention. Her mother had asked about him?

It wasn't as though their correspondence was a secret; she knew his friends were aware of their communications, and vice versa (especially since he'd treated one of her friends to brunch). But it felt like a milestone that her mother knew of their … interactions (what else could he call it?).

And by the way she had mentioned it, she clearly wanted him to inquire.

Speaking of curiosity, you've piqued my interest. You say your mother asked about me; I'm both excited and afraid to know how you answered her.

Affectionately,
Your Captain

The second note had the benefit of ensuring that the second erection he'd begun to sport after writing the first note had subsided. He quickly printed both and shoved them into envelopes, quickly numbering the first one and scrawling a note on the second one. If she found herself disgusted by the first one, she would certainly be uncomfortable knowing he'd come.

He tucked the notes under her doormat, slightly giddy with anticipation. But as he began to head back to his flat, he had to wonder just how hot she'd gotten herself writing the note she'd left for him. It would be bad form to leave her waiting any longer than she had to for his reply and return favor. Right?

Quickly, before he could change his mind and effectively chicken out, he knocked lightly on her door, before hurrying back to his flat before she could reach her own door. After a few minutes of anticipating a knock—if she'd managed to open her own door in time to see his close—he relaxed, his mission accomplished.

His refractory period was such that just thinking about what Swan would be doing, if she were indeed enjoying his letter, was causing his erection to come back to life. But he'd already taken his own pleasure; it was her turn. If he was still aching for release later in the evening, he would take care of himself, but in the meantime, he tried to relax. He grabbed Wolf Hall from the side table where he'd left it and immersed himself as deeply as possible into the political intrigue of sixteenth century England.

As evening approached, he checked his refrigerator and decided to order some sushi; as he returned from the elevator with his food in tow, he excitedly grabbed the note from under Swan's doormat.

By the time he'd finished the letter, his appetite was gone.

My Captain,

You're right that I would have read the second note anyway, but yes, I absolutely did enjoy your first note. I didn't think that I would find that experience as erotic as I did, but hey, you learn something new every day. Please please PLEASE do not tell me whether or not you could hear me from your apartment. I'll be mortified either way.

I told my mom that you were very sweet. I told her a little about your interests, and I mentioned your boat (wouldn't you have been so upset if I hadn't?).

And she asked me why you and I haven't met in person. And I wasn't sure what to tell her.

I know that we haven't talked about it in a while. And I think you were right that it's been incredibly enjoyable (in many ways, not just the way it was enjoyable tonight!) to get to know each other through these notes. But I'm starting to worry that we're just going to keep putting notes under my doormat until one of us loses interest. And I kind of don't want that to happen.

And to be honest, I think you might feel the same way, too. I heard you knock when you left the note. Things are starting to escalate a bit, and not in a bad way. I just wish I understood why things have to stay this way. I know that tonight might have been even more incredible if you really had been the one touching me. And that can't happen if the most contact I have with you is you knocking on my door to leave a note.

I'm not saying that it's all or nothing. I can keep doing this for now, just not forever. I really actually for real like you, okay?

Your Princess

She wanted to meet. He should be thrilled. Ecstatic.

But he wasn't.

It wasn't as though he were entirely displeased, of course. He'd feared that he'd been far too presumptuous (and perhaps even lecherous) with his latest letter, but in fact, she'd enjoyed his explicit instructions. And her desire to meet was obviously due to positive feelings towards him. She liked him. For real, she insisted.

But what would it be like if they were to end their written relationship and begin a physical, face-to-face one? He could imagine the disappointment on her face as they both endured their anti-climactic first meeting. All of these feelings he'd been holding onto, like some sort of talisman, would fade away like fog in the sun.

But what next, then? His Swan pulled no punches: he was on the clock, and while the time on said clock was indeterminate, he'd be a fool to think it was more than a few weeks before she would lose her patience. And she was being patient; even in her letter, she avoided any literary foot-stamping or finger-wagging regarding his behavior.

She simply wanted to meet, to take this delicate thing they shared and throw it against the wall to see if it would shatter or withstand such force.

He couldn't.

Unlike the last time he'd replied to her request to meet, he was as honest as possible.

My Princess,

This is going to sound like a criticism of you, so please let me preface this with the insistence that this is a criticism of me.

I'm honestly scared that this isn't real. I'm not afraid that you've been leading me on, or that you're exaggerating your affections. Nor have I been dishonest with you about my own feelings and desires.

The last time I let someone into my heart, it almost destroyed my life. Since then, I have not been in a relationship, and in the past couple of years, the number of casual dalliances I've engaged in have dwindled to none.

When this all began, I thought that getting to know each other before truly meeting and dating would make it easier for me. You are a beautiful woman, and I did not want your beauty to lead me to treat you like just another woman I could bring into my bed. The notes were a way to establish a friendship first, but now things have changed.

And now I'm just terrified that we're going to meet, and all my walls will still be up. My beautiful Swan, I want to be able to let you into my heart as wholly as possible, so that I can't hurt you by trying to close myself off to you.

If you insist on meeting, then we will. I will not drag my feet or sigh at your relative impatience. If you want to meet, then we shall meet—and I want to meet. I truly do. But I am not ready. When I'm ready, I swear to you, I will not delay.

Yours truly,
Your Captain

Hopefully, he reasoned as he returned to his flat after delivering the missive, she would understand, and that she wouldn't take it as personally as he worried she might. She certainly wasn't the type to tolerate bullshit; in a lot of ways, it would make her an excellent attorney (and in a lot of ways, it would make her a poor one). And so while he did his best to ensure that she would know that this was about his own fears, and not her actions, he left the possibility of meeting open … but he desperately hoped she would not take it.

Her reply, which he picked up in the late hours of the night, unable to sleep, was one of the shortest he'd received from her since her father's heart attack.

My Captain,

Thank you for being so honest with me. We'll wait to meet until you're ready, and I won't harass you about it. I mean, I'm not sorry that I asked. But I am satisfied with your answer.

I don't exactly have the best track records with relationships either. So I understand what it feels like when you're not ready. Maybe someday, I'll understand what it feels like to be ready, but that might be a pipe dream.

I need to get some rest—an extremely long car ride, followed by what can only be described as an explosive orgasm will really take it out of ya. Get some sleep; we'll talk tomorrow.

Your Princess

He chuckled weakly at her choice of words (explosive orgasm in particular). But her acceptance of his explanation seemed tentative, and the brief nature of the note left him wondering if she'd simply left a great deal of her feelings unsaid. He considered working on a reply, but her promise that they'd talk tomorrow, and the hopeless feeling of inadequacy that overwhelmed him, left him staring at an empty document for only a few moments before he gave up and returned to his bed in an attempt to get a few hours of shuteye.

He dreamt of Liam, and of that one sickening moment when he'd realized that the two boats were going to crush his hand. It was a moment that haunted him, not solely because he remembered the realization that he was about to possibly lose the appendage. No: it had been the moment in which it had occurred to him that his brother might not make it.

And he'd been right.

He awoke in a sweat, the memory of Liam disappearing into the water still floating in front of his eyes, even in the dark of his bedroom. When he finally could reduce his heart rate to a pace that would allow him to fall back asleep, it was nearly five o'clock in the morning.

I'd love to hear your thoughts!