Chapter 8

It came in the morning, the panic. Rising in her belly, the bitterness of Emma's bone-deep instinct to pick flight over fight in 98.3% in all matters both personal and overtly familiar overpowered the cinnamon-laced sweetness of the hot chocolate Jones started to hand her, then pulled back at the look on her face.

"Calm down, Swan, I'm not proposing."

Snorting, she rolled her eyes as she snatched the mug. "You wish."

"Actually no." He took his own cup off the complicated countertop espresso machine and daintily took a sip, leaning against the counter. Standing there in a pair of black boxer briefs, legs casually crossed at the ankle, hair in serious disarray and face unfairly alluring given the early hour, Jones was the picture of sinful domesticity. Emma couldn't decide if she had a greater inclination to punch him or kiss him. "I mean have you seen these floors? A man's kneecap would fuse to the travertine in the time it took you to weigh the pros and cons, throw up twice and find an excuse to not answer."

He moved toward her, dropping a kiss on Emma's slightly open mouth and said, "Come on, Swan. Let me get cleaned up and I'll take you to your car. "

"You want me to go?" To her own ears, she sounded bitchy and argumentative. Nice work, Emma. No mixed messages there. She turned to follow him, watching his calves flex as he bounded up the stairs ahead of her.

"No, but you want to leave."

Emma got to the door of Killian's bedroom just as he disappeared into the adjoining bath. The shower started as she half sat/half leaned against the high corner of his bed, staring out at the river. It almost pissed her off how nonchalant he sounded, but if she'd learned anything about Killian Jones in the past week, it was that he thrived on being her counterpart. And, when she wasn't free-falling into a years-long pattern of freaking the fuck out at dawn, Emma had to admit she felt stronger comforting him in the dark intimacy of his kitchen the night before than at the moment with a proverbial foot at the door.

Killian's voice near her ear made her jump.

"Are you coming?"

She turned to see him completely naked, half-erect. The look on his face was similar to the one he'd had when he'd drunkenly pressed her against her own police cruiser; this one had an air of sober purpose. Emma couldn't even think of three words to string together before he'd sat down on the other side of the short, carved bedpost behind her. Clever fingers had already brushed aside her hair, danced over her shoulder and side, slipping under her sweatshirt. He cupped her breast, briefly teasing the nipple before abandoning the endeavor in favor of his intended target. Killian's fingers dipped shallowly into her panties, toying with the sensitive skin just below the waistline.

"Killian…round two was, like, three hours ago." Most of the words came out breathy, the last one mingled with a gasp as his hand slid all the way in, long fingers coming down on either side of her clit. Massaging slowly, sensitive flesh caught between his digits as they circled, he chuckled and reached farther, fingers slipping inside, the leaning slant of her hips making it easy.

Emma brought a hand up, curling it back behind his head, tangling her fingers in his hair and leaning back into him as he shifted to support her weight. The way he touched her was maddeningly slow and it didn't take but a minute until she was dripping wet and aching.

"Can you blame me for wanting you again before you go, darling? Especially when you're this responsive." He picked up his pace, the indecent rhythmic sound of his fingers in her wetness turning her on even more. Just when Emma was starting to feel that familiar pull in her belly (familiar with him anyway) Killian withdrew his hand and abruptly sat up. She started to curse him before he cleared the corner of the bed, pulled her to standing, quickly stripping off her panties and sweatshirt. Emma didn't even have time to step out of the boy shorts puddled around her ankles before he was lifting her out of them and up over his shoulder.

With a resounding SMACK! Killian slapped her ass and walked into the bathroom, putting her down only when the shower door was open and crowding her under the water. As Emma slicked her hair back, he ducked his head, kissing her neck.

"I believe I misspoke earlier. I should have said 'you are coming' and this time, love, it'll be on my tongue."

Emma had a split second to note Killian did not hold shower tiles to the same knee-conserving standards as floors hosting hypothetical kitchen marriage proposals before his mouth was fused to her core. She thought his tongue was wicked in speech but this…by the time Emma was close to orgasm he'd thrown one of her legs over her shoulder and had settled into steady circles on her clit with his thumb, talented tongue fucking in and out of her. By the time she was going over the edge, strong hands were clamped on her ass and the vibration of his groan as she pulled his hair only enhanced the flicks of his tongue.

He barely allowed her foot to hit the ground before she was turned and pushed up against the wall, legs spread and slightly bent as he sunk to the hilt. Giving her no time to adjust to his size - not that she needed it after discovering that yet again, Killian Jones had well-earned the title of cocky bastard, at least when it came to satisfying a woman in bed - he set a fast pace. Wet hands slipped from hips and up torso until one arm was braced across her chest, wide palm holding a breast; the other pulling her shoulders back and coming to rest lightly around her throat. He snapped against her mercilessly. The arch of her back would have been uncomfortable if everything else Killian was doing didn't feel so fucking good.

"Is this too much, love?" Teeth scraped against Emma's ear as a particularly hard thrust, a tug of her nipple and a gentle squeeze of the hand at her throat came in unison. Like Killian himself, it was too much and somehow not enough. She wanted to beg him to stop and pray he never would. In the back of her mind, Emma had hoped sex would scratch the itch that had been building but it had just made her want more.

More of this, more of him, more of them.

She'd even crawled over him in the night, stroking him to hardness and sinking down, letting him fill her in more ways than one. Killian had lain beneath her, whispering how beautiful she was in the moonlight. Emma had come with a sob; their fingers linked against the mattress above his head, choking a whispered "please" without being entirely certain what she was asking of him. He'd held her close as their breathing slowed, drifting off with her face still buried in the crook of his neck. In the light of day, it was easier to focus on harder, faster and she told him so, meeting him stroke for stroke in the steamy heat.

Once Killian came, he'd sat her on the bench inside the shower and brought her to another orgasm. Afterward, Emma had scrubbed his back and he'd used his shampoo to wash her hair, using his fingers to work out the tangles because hair this naturally luscious doesn't need conditioner, Swan. The panic she'd felt earlier was receding and the only anxiety she felt as her arms circled his waist on the back of his motorcycle once more was the potential for prying eyes at the police department to watch her ride of shame it back into town at the ass crack of the A.M. following an obvious night in the company of the Captain.

She was surprised when he pulled into a side driveway of a Fireside Inn and Suites before they reached the street on which her car was parked, pulled into a parking spot out of sight of the main road and cut the engine. Emma pulled off her borrowed helmet and dismounted, Killian close behind.

"You take me to the nicest places, Jones. What—looking for round three?" He looked up at the motel with distain.

"Swan, should I have the honor of your company for another round of amorous activities, I wouldn't take you or your considerable blowjob skills to a two-star establishment."

Laughing, she curtsied awkwardly as he reached for his helmet.

"Your car is that way," he pointed to the left, "And this is for you." He pulled a piece of paper from his back pocket. "It's the direct number for the desk sergeant in Traffic and yes, they are open now. I figured you could call from here and either walk or take a cab the mile or so to the department to save professional face and your personal reputa-"

She cut him off with a kiss, hauling him toward her by the lapels of his jacket. Killian grunted in surprise, then wrapped his free arm around her and got into it. It was a mess of clacking teeth and tongues, and both were breathless when it ended.

"That was…"

"A thank you. For…everything." (Later, she'd kick herself for gesturing toward his crotch.) She stepped back and slipped both hands in her own back pockets, giving him the space he needed to get back on his bike, helmet in place. Killian fired up the engine, but before he could ride off, she moved forward, touching his arm and he turned.

"Don't be a stranger." She blurted it far too loudly even over the roar of the motorcycle and felt a hot blush run up her neck. He flipped up his visor, regarding her intently and Emma didn't think she'd ever tire of the blue of his eyes.

"Wasn't planning on it, love." Chalking up the pinpricks of tears in her eyes to fatigue and the connection they'd forged over a week of close quarters and heightened emotions. He pursed his lips, kissing the air in her direction and rolled out. Emma watched him go before taking the paper he'd slipped her and opening it. Under the desk sergeant's name and number, she was hit with proof of his sincerity once more:

In an elegant scrawl that wouldn't look out of place on a handwritten map in the captain's quarters of a swashbuckling-era pirate ship were the words "I'll pick you up a week from Friday, eight o'clock. K.J."