Chapter 2

Not only no, but fuck no and fuck you.

That's what Emma would have told anyone who suggested she spent the two o'clock hour of her bimonthly night shifts parked at the town line, hoping for another run-in with the mysterious Captain Killian Jones. She just liked communing with nature and the forest. While sitting comfortably in a vehicle, surrounded by the layer of fast food and snack wrappers that carpeted the inside of the cruiser when there were no witnesses to her natural slovenliness.

Years in the foster system usually produced to types of people: those who retained a regimented cleanliness out of fear of being tossed out in the cold and those who flipped an adulthood finger to that notion and were a little looser with the state of their surroundings. Not that Emma would ever cop to the sob story behind her clutter. So what if she controlled her environment by tossing an empty beverage cup over her shoulder once in a while, just because she could? She wiped up any drips of hot chocolate laced with cinnamon up before handing the car over to her deputy at shift change. No harm, no foul.

And, as far as she was concerned, the same went for Emma's excursions to the edge of town. Wanting to keep riffraff out of Storybrooke and her citizens safe was the primary duty the Sheriff. Stopping hell on two wheels from endangering the townsfolk was important, regardless of the form it took. It didn't matter that the handful of times she'd seen him since their first meeting, he'd barely so much as glanced in her direction as he drove past at a respectable and completely lawful speed. The two fingers he'd raised in her direction were the same he'd toss toward any other rider in passing.

His seeming disinterest in another encounter was why she was parked in the dark just past midnight this time. If she allowed herself to be honest, Emma would admit the time change put her outside of the 2 a.m. box she'd found herself in, but still pressed right up against it.

Closing her eyes, Emma rubbed her thighs together at the sudden mental image of being pressed right up against her cruiser. Or a door, or a wall, or any other immoveable object as long as Jones was the one doing the pressing. Emma had taken to allowing her imagination to run wild (and her hand to sneak inside her panties as she lay in bed) in the month since she had first encountered him.

In the moment, she shamelessly pictured Jones pinning her hands above her head, trailing his lips down her neck and across her shoulder as he drove his arousal into her ass, letting her know the want was mutual. He'd abandon twining his fingers in hers to cup her breasts, thrusting harder into her backside and whispering filthy things in her ear. She would slip a hand down her pants, cupping herself between her legs to ease some of the ache.

"Oh, yes…"

The whisper passed her lips just as a pickup truck whizzed past her. It wasn't the motorcycle she was doing a piss-poor job of avoiding, but it would do as a distraction from the thoughts that were running through her head more often than not lately.

The grin, flashing light bar and U-turn repeated her last late-night encounter, but the similarities ended there. This time, the driver passed on dutifully pulling over and kept going.

"Really?" Emma hit the gas and followed the truck as it approached town, tossing a little siren in with the lights to show she meant business. That got some attention, and the driver jerked the truck to the side of the road. She was out of the cruiser, gun drawn as the driver of the pickup threw open the door and all but fell out. She recognized that shock of dark hair and the leather jacket anywhere.

"What the hell, Jones?" Her voice was deafening as the engine died, but Emma refused to let up. "Didn't you swear on your mother's grave or some shit that you'd respect me, my town, and the posted speed limits, and NOT race through here like some crazy bastard trying to escape a witch's curse?"

In a flash, he came toe to toe with her, swaying slightly and using his height and the difference in the size of their frames to his advantage as he backed her toward her car until her ass hit the hood. Her chin jutted in a show of defiance—he was the asshole here—but the show of bravado died once she caught a glimpse of his eyes.

Anger. No, fury, mixed with anguish, loss and the level of redness that comes from an over-indulgence in drink. Emma knew that look. Lost boys and girls recognize their own. Jones looked positively wrecked and any fire she was willing to bring to the fight died as he schooled his face from the swirling mix of emotions to mocking distain.

"Penance is best wrung from the blood of fresh wounds. I can assure you, Swan, that if I'd done any grave swearing, it would have been on behalf of another. My mother didn't live long past my birth and one cannot miss something they have never known enough to make an oath of it." His face moved impossibly closer, his rum-soaked breath ghosting her lips. "Can they?"

He tilted his head, tongue peeking between his teeth as he regarded her with a knowing coldness before turning his back to her.

"You shouldn't have come here."

She knew she sounded accusatory. She also knew that Jones came to town looking for a fight and didn't flinch when he rounded on her, figuring she could give him one.

"You think I don't know that, Swan? Even in my current state, I remember the promise I made you. I remember good form and every godforsaken second of our shared moment."

He moved closer, this time leading with his hips, providing that delicious pressure she'd been dreaming of for a fucking month. "I remember watching your eyes dilate, just as they are now. I don't suppose you recall how you looked that night. All business, with just the slightest hint of…" He pushed forward enough for Emma to feel a thickening erection and she involuntarily moaned at the contact. "Pleasure," he finished as he put several feet of distance between their bodies and took stock of her.

"That's a good look for you, darling. All wanton and wanting. It's just how I imagined you all these weeks when I was…you know," he whispered, winking conspiratorially as he grabbed the length of his cock through his jeans.

Emma looked away, swallowing hard and he laughed heartily at her apparent discomfort. The sound was jarring in the quiet of the night and was missing the warmth of the last chuckle she'd heard escape his lips; the one he'd let loose after clearly watching her check him out from behind the vantage point of his mirrored visor.

"I've been jackoff material for better," she bit out, willing herself to not look his hand (with the long, nimble fingers—JESUS) as he brazenly palmed himself. Better for Jones to believe she was offended than turned on in his current state.

"Is that so, Swan? Ooh, I highly doubt that. You're a bit of an open book, you see. If you'd fucked me any harder with your eyes all those weeks ago, we'd know what it felt like as I sink myself into your dripping wetness inch by inch instead of just imagining it while getting ourselves off in the shower."

"I haven't been get-."

He finally stopped torturing her, waving his busy hand dismissively between them.

"Of course not, darling. A princess such as yourself would never stoop so low as to allow a lawless pirate to cross her mind during such delicate and personal times." Bowing with a flourish and more than a hint of unsteadiness, he turned back toward his truck.

"I don't think so, Jones."

"My assertion that I've played a significant part in your masturbatory fantasies for the last month is wrong?"

"Shut up," she muttered, avoiding eye contact. "The beat cop two counties over can smell the rum on your breath and I cannot in good conscience let you drive home."

"Is that an invitation to your place, love?"

"Still not your love. And no. It's an invitation to get into the backseat of my cruiser." She met his eyes as he pushed his tongue into his cheek and gave her lascivious gaze. She spoke over his unspoken acknowledgment of the innuendo as she continued. "You need to dry out and I'm done with whatever," she gestured to the space between them, "THIS is."

"Somehow I doubt that."

"Try me, Jones."

"Is that another invitation, Swan? 'Try me in the backseat of my squad car?' Because I—and I cannot stress this enough—would LOVE to."

She grabbed his arm, all but dragging him toward her car, steadfastly willing her brain to shut the absolute fuck up before it could form the words to take him up on his offer.

Once they reached the car, all of the piss and vinegar seemed to leave Jones. He let her sit him down in the seat and didn't make a sound when she placed her hand on the top of his head to guide it away from the door frame as he clumsily swung his feet inside.

She did NOT notice how silky the near-black strands felt between her fingers, nor how close his lips were to her ear as she leaned in to buckle his seatbelt and he mumbled something to the effect of "don't sit back here."

Thinking perhaps that good form had finally returned and he was instructing her to keep her distance from whatever fleeting plans he'd had for her in the backseat, Emma sighed as she closed his door and opened her own, settling into the worn leather and shaking her head at what had transpired.

By the time they hit the town lights, Jones was snoring softly, head lolled back and mouth open. He woke enough to lean heavily on her as she walked them into the station and shrug off his jacket as he landed on the narrow cot in the drunk tank with a loud WHUMP, sliding down into the fetal position with his back to her. Emma performed a cursory pat down, ignoring the firm muscles of his torso and ass under her hands, finding only what looked like a billfold in his back pocket.

She took her find and his jacket back to her desk (and did NOT sniff the leather like a complete creeper to see what cologne he wore, thank you VERY much.) Settling in her chair, she propped her feet up on the desk.

With one more glance at his back, Emma said, "Let's see if we can find out a little more about you tonight, Jones."

Opening the billfold, Emma's feet slammed back onto the floor as she stared at its contents in disbelief.

"Oh. Holy. Fuck."

It was a badge.