#cscs

“Yes Love, I see.”

Hope giggled in response, her little arms waving frantically in acknowledgement before her attention was once more on the movie. For a moment anyways.

“Papa! Papa!”

“Yes love?”

“Papa play?”

Killian looked back at the screen his little girl was pointing at, and frowned. His doppelgänger was plucking away at a piano. The hook wobbling it’s way over the low keys dramatically. 

“No baby, we don’t have a piano.” Emma intervened, catching onto her husband’s shift in mood. His eyebrows had drawn in and his gaze sat unfocused on a point unseen to the present.

Hope was thankfully mollified by the answer for now, though Emma’s curiosity was now piqued.

“Hey” she called softly, pulling Killian out of his daze. “Did you? Used to play?”

“Aye” he smiled sadly. “But I stopped, before even,” he lifted his hooked arm “well. Let’s just say there weren’t many pianos out at sea.”

“Is this another thing I’d be surprised they teach you in the navy?”

“Yes actually.” he replied with a chuckle. “It was back at the academy when we’d first gained our commission.”

“Seriously?”

“Yes, it was a rather prestigious school for high society lads. We were expected to learn to be proper, educated gentlemen, when we weren’t whacking each other with canes behind the teacher’s back anyways.”

“Would you play again? If you had the chance?”

“I don’t know. It’s been so long and, it wouldn’t be the same.”

It was a few weeks later when the conversation had faded to nothing more than another cherished detail Emma had uncovered of Killian’s life when they were at Regina’s place for dinner and Hope spotted it in the sitting room.

“Papa, Papa! Look!”

Of course Regina had a grand piano. He doubt she ever played it, though he wouldn’t be surprised if she knew how. It seemed like the kind of skill Cora would want to show off.

“Papa play?”

Oh right. That.

“How about Mum plays with you huh baby girl?” asked Emma, scooping up their daughter and placing her on the bench. Killian followed. Curious to see what skills his wife had with the instrument, and not wishing to miss his daughter’s first encounter with it.

“Now let’s see. I don’t really remember much but, I think I remember this.” his wife mused as she rolled her knuckles over the keys. Killian laughed.

“What is that love?”

“I don’t know, it’s the knuckle song. You play it with your knuckles.”

“Yea Papa.” Hope agreed as if she’d known this her whole life, her little fingers reaching to try to imitate her Mum and making a racket.

“That’s not how-“

“Well how about this then?” Emma continued switching to two fingers hopping around the keyboard, prompting Hope to giggle happily. Emma grinned at him in challenge. He knew she wouldn’t make him play if he didn’t want to, but she was hardly playing fair challenging him like that. She knew he couldn’t resist a challenge.

“Alright, alright, let’s see then.” he smiled, lifting his hand to rest on the keys. Muscle memory, old as it was, brought his hook up to hover over the ivory as well.

Hope was ecstatic. 

“Papa play!”

She blew her nose (rather noisily), then quickly washed her face and changed into something a little more presentable than her pajamas. She probably should be bringing something over, but her wine was gone and Walsh had drank the last of her beer the other night. She briefly considered the half-empty box of Pop-Tarts in her cupboard, but that was breakfast.

So, empty-handed as she was, she headed out the door, locked it, and wandered down the bit of hallway to the Nolan’s place. She could hear the sounds of revelry and pounding bass on the other side of the door, and was nervous—would they think she was intruding? Her knock was equally timid, and probably not even heard by the crowd inside. 

To her shock, though, the door was thrown open a few seconds later. “Emma! You came!” Snow shouted, then launched herself at Emma in an inebriated hug. “Oh, I’m so glad you finally made it! Where’s Walsh?”

Emma cringed, and not just from Snow’s alcohol-elevated volume. “He’s fucking his floor manager. So he’s busy. But I’m not now!” she added, trying to make it sound not terrible.

But Snow gasped anyways, covering her mouth in shock. She ushered Emma in, closing the door behind her, and then dragged her to the living room. “You need wine.”

“I had, like, half a bottle already.”

“Okay, well, you need more.”

“I won’t disagree.”

Snow left her in the middle of a throng of people that thankfully included David, who wrapped her into a bear hug (that only slightly smelled like beer—beer hug?) and made some introductions. Snow returned shortly with a pint glass full of pinot, and the next hour became a blur of booze and dancing. 

She quickly made friends with girls named Ruby and Belle who, once they heard about what had happened to Emma that day, got some shots involved. The music was a solid mix of girl power anthems (there may have been more screaming to “Since U Been Gone” and “Wannabe” from partygoers of all genders) and Emma found herself seriously wondering just what the hell she’d been doing the past few months—both with Walsh and in her avoidance of these parties; she was having way more fun here than she ever had with that douche.

Eventually, she did have to take a respite to visit the restroom and get some water—she wasn’t about to blackout over a breakup—but when she left the bathroom, she wasn’t watching where she was going and slammed into someone else.

“Woah—you alright, love?” the lilting voice attached to the firm body asked. She could feel his hand squeezing her shoulder, but given her very recent track record, was scared to look this guy in the eyes. The last thing she needed was a face as pretty as that accent, or as enticing as the bit of chest hair peeking out through his button-up, or as alluring as the scent of his cologne (which she got a good whiff of when her face collided with his chest).

“Seriously—are you okay?” He sounded so concerned—her head was moving before she could think otherwise.

And that was either the best thing she’d ever done, or the worst.

Dark, messy hair hung over his forehead, where thick brows were furrowed with worry. A strong nose pointed to full lips, surrounded by gingery scruff that led her mind other places. But his eyes—holy crap; even in the dimness of the hallway, they were a bright blue, and she’d had just enough to drink that she thought she just might be swaying along with the waves in their oceanic depths.

(She got poetic when she got drunk; this was a well-established fact.)

“Lass?” Oh god--she’d been staring, hadn’t she? 

“Fine! I’m fine. Sorry. Are you?”

“‘Fine’ is definitely something I’ve been called,” he quipped back, concern melting into cockiness with a wink.

Ugh, she didn’t need any more of that in her life. She rolled her eyes and stepped back, putting enough distance between them to not feel the warmth coming off of him (she was producing enough of that herself--or, at least, the shots of vodka were). “Good to know. I’m just gonna get back out there, then.” Avoiding his gaze, she did her best to slip around him in the narrow hallway.

“Wait,” he called out, and grabbed her wrist as she slipped by. “Sorry; that wasn’t very gentleman-like.” He was definitely being sincere, she could tell. “I, uh, I’m rusty at all this. Let me back up: I’m Killian; I’m a friend of Dave’s from college.”

Of course his name was sexy, too. He’d stuck his hand out amiably; she’d be the asshole not to take it. So she did. “Emma; I live a couple doors down.”

“Ahh, yes--I’ve heard of you: the mysterious neighbor,” he said, running his thumb over her knuckles. “Delighted to finally make your acquaintance.”

Who was this guy? And why did he talk like he had stepped out of a Jane Austen novel? “I bet you tell all the girls that.”

He shrugged. “There haven’t been any of those lately.”

“Guys, then?”

He laughed—a deep chuckle that she wouldn’t complain about hearing again. “No, none of those, either.”

“Good. They suck.”

“What, all of them?”

“Most of them.”

“Well, hopefully I find myself in the minority.” He was still holding her hand, and brought it to his lips to place a kiss on the back of it. Were it not for the slight shiver that went through her at that, she’d be running for the hills (or at least her own apartment); but she was usually good at spotting a lie, Walsh notwithstanding, and she could tell he meant it. 

“Wanna get a drink?” she asked, a bit breathless.

“Absolutely.”

They grabbed another round of wine and took a seat on the couch, which was somehow unoccupied—everyone was still busy dancing and drinking and socializing. Honestly, Emma was a little surprised that so many people fit in a two-bedroom apartment (but it wasn’t like she’d ever tried to have more than a couple people in hers). 

“So, what’s your story?” Killian leaned in close to ask. They were practically nose-to-nose in order to be heard over the music, but she didn’t mind it. And, for some reason, she found her entire life story spilling out to him; not even Walsh had learned everything: about growing up in the foster system, her first heartbreak and the baby she gave up, the reason she’d gone into bailbonds work (so people like Neal couldn’t continue to break hearts). Even the sordid tale of her very-recent breakup.

“He’s a right arse,” Killian said, clinking his glass with hers. “But I’m glad his absence has brought you into my presence.”

“Me too,” she said.

His past was equally tragic: mom died, dad left, then brother died; lost his hand, his girlfriend, and his naval career in the same accident; but he still got to work as an engineer, and still got to go sailing on the weekends.

“God, Killian...you poor thing,” was all she could say.

He averted his gaze—and was either blushing, or flushed from the alcohol and heat of the room—and just said, “It’s in the past, where it belongs. And, honestly, the future is looking pretty good right now.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Well, I hope so.”

She wasn’t bold enough to say it—or confident, given that she was just coming out of a relationship—but she was thinking that, too.

The music switched from girl pop to Disney tunes—it was only a matter of time, considering that Snow was only a few steps away from being an IRL Disney princess—which prompted a conversation about their favorite Disney films, then movies in general, then books and music and all sorts of things. It was casual and easy and, honestly, she didn’t think she’d ever connected with someone so quickly; not since she was a kid and still had some innocence about her.

A slow song came on, and Killian set down his empty glass. “Would you care to dance?”

She gaped a bit; no one had ever asked her that. “What—for real? To this?”

“You just told me you’d seen Enchanted, and I believe that’s what they did to this song. So yes: will you, Emma Swan, dance with me?”

Somewhere, lonely teenage Emma was yelling at her to say yes and fulfill all her wildest prom dreams. Oh, who was she kidding—grown-up Emma still had those dreams. “Yeah, I will.”

He stood and offered her his prosthetic hand; she set her empty glass aside and took it, then followed him up. Gently, he guided her to an empty spot in the room—about 2 feet away—and then put his hand on her waist; she was probably supposed to put hers on his shoulder or something, but she did the same (and definitely noticed the firmness of his core).

They didn’t have much room to move—Dave and Snow were making out a few feet away, as were Ruby and Belle, and another couple—but Killian somehow managed to perform some actual dance steps. 

“What the heck is that, and how do you know it?” she wondered aloud, trying to keep up.

“It’s called a waltz, and there’s only one rule,” he explained, then leaned in to whisper in her ear: “Pick a partner who knows what he’s doing.”

She’d definitely had a bit too much to actually memorize the steps, but she managed to keep up for a bit, until she lost her balance a bit after hitting the edge of the coffee table. Once again, she fell into his chest, but this time, he wrapped his arms tight around her to stabilize her—and she did the same.

“Is this a habit of yours?” he joked, but the twinkle in his eye told her that he wasn’t complaining.

“Just with you,” she tossed back.

“And what makes me so special?”

“You get it.”

He gave her a shy smirk that cut an adorable dimple into his scruff. 

And she couldn’t help it: she kissed it.

The wide-eyed stare he wore when she pulled back told her that it was as much a shock to him as it was to her; she never made the first move. But there was just something about him that made her want to throw caution to the wind—or maybe she just knew it was okay to do that with him. 

Feeling even bolder, she grabbed his shirt and pulled his lips down to hers. He didn’t hesitate to respond in kind and god, he was good: the right amount of pressure, the scratch of his beard, the feel of his hand on her back...oh man.

She normally wouldn’t have done what she did next—not when there were feelings involved, at least—but hey, it was a night for doing new things, right?

“Do you want to take this somewhere else?” she murmured when they eventually broke apart for air.

“Where did you have in mind?”

“My place.”

“Lead the way, love.”

It didn’t seem like anyone noticed as they slipped out, and she’d never managed to get her door open faster. It had just clicked shut before she was on him, pressing him back against it, her hands wandering over his upper body while her tongue picked up where their earlier dance had left off.

Her fingers found themselves near his belt, and before they went too far, his warm hand gently stilled hers. “Are you sure, love?” he asked, panting. “I...I don’t just want to be a rebound,” he confessed.

God, she hadn’t even thought of that. Walsh was already a distant memory. “I don’t want that, either.”

“Alright, then. Proceed.”

“God, you’re a dork.”

“Guilty.”

“Good thing I like it.”

Her lips found his again as her fingers danced over him, and his over her; a trail of clothing marked their path to her bedroom (with only a brief stop against the back of her couch), and they landed naked on her unmade bed.

His large hand and deft fingers found their way to her entrance and were lightly teasing it--the gentlest of brushes that nearly had her seeing stars, and definitely distracted her from fishing the condoms out of her bedside table.

“You don’t mind, do you?”

“Of course not; might need an extra hand, though.”

She almost came back down to earth just to glare at him, but the cheesy grin he wore just made her laugh. It wasn't like she minded, anyway.

She used the opportunity to do a bit of foreplay herself, stroking his considerable length before, during, and after gliding the sheath on. The guttural groan he let out went straight through her.

Enough foreplay—she needed him. She grabbed his shoulders and pressed her chest against his; the brush of his chest hair against her nipples had her arching into him, and his hard cock was pressing right where she wanted him. “You ready?”

“Gods, yes,” he breathed.

And when they came together, she couldn’t remember anyone she’d ever been with before. She was completely aware of the hyperbole but honestly, he just felt so good inside her.

Then he moved, and she forgot her own name, and his, and anyone else’s.

She’d had the kind of sex before where time seemed to stop, but with Killian, it seemed to stop even longer, if that was possible; once they found their rhythm, every press of their hips brought her nearer and nearer to the edge of oblivion, but not so fast that she couldn’t enjoy it.

When she finally fell off, she hadn’t even realized she’d been that close—and let the waves of pleasure wash over her with abandon.

Killian wasn’t far behind her; she felt him still within her as he came with a shout. Normally, she’d be worried about how much noise they made, but she could still hear music coming from the Nolan’s; they were safe.

He collapsed beside her just long enough to catch his breath, then excused himself to clean up. God, he really was a gentleman; a lot of the guys she’d been with hadn’t been so polite about that. He came back a couple minutes later with a washcloth for her to use--seriously, no guy had ever done that. Then he flopped back on her creaky mattress and wrapped his left arm around her.

“You’re bloody incredible, love...and bloody gorgeous,” he said softly, then pressed a kiss on her bare shoulder.

“You’re no slouch, either,” she replied, and hoped the light was dim enough that he couldn’t see how furiously she was blushing. 

“You know...I almost didn’t go to the party tonight,” he said. “It was a long day and I wasn’t sure I felt up to people.”

“Yeah?” Logically, she knew other people had had shitty days, but it was easy to forget about in the face of her own. 

“I’m very glad I did, though,” he continued.

“So am I.”

He pressed a gentle kiss against her lips then, and pulled her a bit closer with his prosthesis. “Think we should head back?” he proposed.

“Mm, nah,” she answered. “They’ll have more parties.”

“Aye, they probably will.”

“And I like the one we’re having right now.”

“Mm, as do I.”

The other party continued into the wee hours of the morning, but Emma and Killian’s went even longer: all through the night, through part of the next day, and for a very, very long time thereafter.

Some time later, she heard that Dolly song again, and another set of lyrics stood out to her:

And you know if there's one thing this blonde has learned Blondes have more fun

She looked over at Killian and smiled; damn right they do.

-------------------------------------------------

There was a guy, of course. A guy who she had taken the time to get to know, another dancer reaching for the stars, who had become more than just competition. When he danced he was flawless, fluid and emotive, a better dancer than she could ever have been, but it had taken her a while to realise his true potential, and by the time she had, it was too late. Another dancer had taken his heart, another of their classmates who bore a striking resemblance to herself, and that was when she picked up her pen and her reason for being where she was right now was created.

Emma had always thought that albums were more than just words on a page. She never wrote a song that she didn’t mean or identify with on a personal level. How was she expected to sell albums with lies? So many other artists did that already, singing about what they thought people wanted to feel instead of what they had experienced themselves, and that’s what set Emma apart. She was raw and real and she had but one man to thank for that.

Killian Jones was single again now, she’d heard that much through the gossip and chattering of her crew. It had ignited the spark in her heart, relit the flame of longing that she feared had been extinguished so long ago. She felt like she was singing her lyrics with a renewed vigour, a new purpose for the glitz and glamour of her shows. She had written these songs about him, but now, when she sang them, barely audible over the sound of the crowd going wild, all she wanted was for him to hear her. To know.

She had tried to tell him once, twice, oh so many times, but for a professional singer, she couldn’t form a sentence for shit. He did that to her. The man who had heard her sing, told her how beautiful her voice was and had encouraged her to pursue singing rather than dancing, rendered her absolutely speechless. She could sing to him all day long, but unless he heard her, really heard her, they were just words, and Emma longed for so much more.

The final song of her show was a big one, not just because it would be the final time she sang on stage with this particular group of people and danced this particular choreographed set of moves with them, but because it would be the last time she could try and make him see. This was the song, the one that she had penned with such enthusiastic yearning, the one that, despite most of this album being about him, she really wanted him to hear her when she sang it. It helped that towards the end she had insisted on showcasing his talent as not only a dancer but also as a drummer.

Nothing got her quite so hot as the way Killian Jones simultaneously danced and played the huge drum he had pushed onto stage half way through the song. There were eight in total, but she had made sure that his was closest to her. She wanted to feel every beat vibrate right through her as he pounded the massive drum skin. The five minute outro to the song - his song - was nothing short of spectacular, the energy the sound exuded as it echoed around the acoustically perfect stadium something that left her so aroused, she was suddenly heady on adrenaline and the sound of the drums that echoed in time with her heart.

It didn’t help that, for reasons, she had decided that at this particular point in the show, the drummers would be barely clothed from the waist up, shirtless except for thin scraps of cloth that were tied around their wrists and matched the tassels on the muted sticks used to beat the drum surface. It was part of the flair, and for a second Emma was thankful she didn’t have any more words to sing because, between twirls and struts, she was too busy watching a bead of sweat run down through Killian’s chest hair to remember any.

The sound of the crowd became nothing but a high pitched buzz, like the sound you hear when silence overtakes you, her eyes fixated on him as he danced. Muscles bulged and flexed, sweat flicking from the ends of his pitch black hair as he swung his head from side to side, as lost in the rhythm of drumming as she often was in his eyes. His ocean blues that so often swept her out to her death and so crept up in all of her songs. It was a wonder he hadn’t realised that her career had been based on her admiration for him, the man who had seen so much potential in her in the first place.

He was as lost as she was, flawlessly playing his part, as the king and keeper of her heart. Whether he knew it or not, Killian Jones would always hold her heart right next to his, so close that she could swear that she could see two heartbeats thumping right under the skin of his chest when he spun around, twirled his sticks through the air, effortlessly catching them and raising them above his head to a crowd who went wild at the display. The song ended then, a single, reverberating drum beat accompanying silence, after which the crowd went wild.

Emma watched in the darkness, the tantalizing sheen of sweat over his body glinting off of phone flashes as the stadium lit up. She was panting hard, the whole set twice as long as any other in the show, and her skin prickled with heat from exertion and want. And then she felt arms wrap around her, another of the dancers, and then one of her backing vocalists, celebratory embraces that were welcomed by not what she wanted. Not from who she wanted.

It wasn’t until it was all said and done, and the cast had filtered from the stage and lights, that she saw him, just as perfect off stage as he was on. Her world turned to slow motion, the bob of his Adam’s apple as he swallowed some refreshing ice cold water hypnotic, her eyes drawn to a droplet that spilled from his mouth as he struggled for breath between each gulp. Then he turned, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, and looked right at her, the blue of his eyes that she so often waxed about almost gone behind his blown pupils, dilated and so erotically dark as they bore into her.

“You were bloody brilliant, love!” He yelled, the sound from the crowd still so overpowering, even in the wings. “Brilliant as always!”

In three bare footed steps he was on her, hoisting her into his arms and wrapping her up against his bare chest with a crushing grip that she didn’t mind at all. He spun them around and Emma wasn’t sure she wanted him to ever stop, the flashing of strobe lights behind her closed eyelids adding to the euphoria of his scent as she nuzzled her face into the crook of his neck and inhaled him. Again, he had rendered her speechless, and Emma couldn’t do anything but hold on, her fingers twisted in the soaking wet hair at the base of his skull as he whirled her around a few more times before setting her back down onto her high-heeled feet.

They were the same height like this, him barefoot and her with black leather boots laced up to her knees, and where she expected him to take a step back and create the distance between them that had created a rift before, he didn’t, standing fast and resting his hands on her hips. She gulped when his fingertips teased the edge of the leotard she was wearing, her heaving breasts drawing his eye when she gasped and some of the red sequins rustled against each other and the sound of the crowd disappeared around them.

They hadn’t been like this, this close and drowned in tension, since she had become world famous. There had been no time for them and she regretted it every day. He was more than her friend, he was the man she dreamed about, the man who had seen potential where she only saw words on a page of a dog-eared notepad that accompanied her guitar when she was feeling down. Killian Jones was the man she wanted to share it all with, the man she would come home to after months overseas, the man who would miss her like she missed him when they were apart.

Her hand was on his chest before she had time to stop it, stroking through the silky hairs there that were still damp from his routine, right above his heart that still beat in time with the drums that has since stopped. His hand found her face in response, his knuckles brushing over her cheek, hand shaking a little and making her mouth go dry. They had danced like this before, on stage but never in private, and a sudden warmth overtook her as Killian let his fingertip drag down the side of her neck, keeping eye contact the whole time, as if to torture her more when he skimmed over the swell of a breast.

“Stop.” The word left her mouth before she could stop it, the pounding of blood in her temples berating her as her blood screamed out for him. For a second he looked hurt, swallowing hard and taking a step back so that there was a palpable space between their bodies that left hers cold and alone, something she never thought she would feel around him. “Not here,” Emma whispered assuringly, her ruby coated lips ticking up into a sly sideways smile that had him arching a brow at her.

Killian stepped forward again, pressing his body into hers and making sure she could feel his erection through the thin, silky trousers of his outfit. Emma flushed hot and her brain short circuited, eyes blurring and caught between wondering how they would escape the stage and if they would get caught if they didn’t. He was too much, hands acting innocent as they stroked over the curve of her shoulder, friendly and casual to observers, but a painfully restrained attempt to touch her anywhere he could.

“Where?” He almost begged, his voice laced with darkness and sexual intent that had her biting her bottom lip in response, something that caused him to paradoxically whimper uncontrollably. “Gods, I wish you wouldn’t do that.”

Once again, he had rendered her speechless, taking the words from the back of her throat like he always had with his barely there touches and thick, British accent that somehow had grown impossibly sexier with his arousal. Emma’s resolve snapped, hair prickling on the back of her neck with anticipation as she grabbed his hand in hers and tugged, hard, pulling him along the back of the stage and behind a huge piece of equipment that she neither noticed or cared to know about at that exact second. All that mattered was that it was tall enough to hide them, the space between it at the wall making sure that they were pressed together as close as can be for when, finally, his lips were on hers and every single lyric she had ever sung about him raced through her mind.

Killian wasted no time, knowing that what they would have would probably be brief, pinning her against the wall in the darkness and rolling his hips into hers, making her feel all of him, gobbling up her moans with his ardent and impassioned kisses. He trapped her in his grasp with his weight, and Emma needed to feel more, her hands caressing the expanse of his naked back, her nails raking over the skin there in an attempt to draw out more of his hunger, her efforts more than rewarded when he growled low in his throat and slipped a hand between her thighs.

“That last song is about you,” Emma breathed.

“I know,” Killian growled in between harsh, heartfelt kisses, smirking as he trailed them along her jawline.

“Fuck, half of my songs are about you,” Emma whispered with laboured breath, Killian’s kisses now assaulting her neck through his growing smile.

“I know,” he said arrogantly, one hand bunching the thickness of her hip whilst the other explored the apex of her thighs, searching for a way into more than just her heart. “I’ve always known.”

Emma’s hands are on his face and dragging his lips back to hers in a heartbeat, the echo of the rhythm of the drum solo pounding in her ears again, charging a new tension between them, something more sexual than ever before. There had always been a space between them, a professional barrier that neither would cross. Emma had poured her heart out in words whilst Killian had worked through his frustrations through dance, but right now, in this moment, there were no such walls to stop them from scaling the other.

Killian’s tongue skimmed over the seam of her lips, gently begging for a deeper entry as his fingers hooked into the gusset of her blood red sequined leotard and pulled the fabric aside. He frowned, met with another barrier as his fingers prodded and teased her entrance through a thin layer of sheer, diamond studded, sparkly stockings, and Emma couldn’t help herself when she bit down on his bottom lip this time, making him rut against her thigh to relieve some of the pressure building in his cock.

“These are…” Killian’s words trailed off as another irritated growl rumbled from his chest, vibrating through her lips as she sucked on the bite mark left by her own frustrations.

“One of a kind, hand studded to my exact measure-,” Emma began incoherently, her world spinning behind her eyes, her breathless babbling cut short by the sound of tearing fabric that she hoped no one heard.

“Such a fucking shame,” Killian lied darkly and repositioned his hand so that he could finally slip a finger into her, the extent of his pent up tensions leaving him on a satisfied sigh he breathed against the swell of her breasts as he scrapped his teeth over the flesh there and she let him, holding his face to her bosom and clawing the back of his head with her long, blood red fake nails.

After all the times she had dreamed of moments like this, hoping that one day they would become reality, there wasn’t enough of him inside of her and she whined against the shell of his pointed ear. Killian knew her too well already and paired another finger with the first, pushing them both into the wet heat between her legs in time with the pounding the blood in his ears. He curled them each time, pushing deeper on each thrust that rips into the material of her tights some more, right up until his palm was pressed against her clit and Emma was subconsciously chasing her high as she fucked his fingers.

The line was gone, so fucking gone, and the leg he’s slowly grinding his erection against became hotter than the rest of her, burning up from the way his dry humping became slightly damper thanks to the appearance of pre come seeping through the black silk fabric of his trousers. Emma knew his body was lithe, trained to bend this way and that due to his profession, but if she had any idea just how talented Killian Jones was, she would have signed him to her tours from the start. She’d always wanted to, but the line had always been too wide of a chasm to cross, except now he was finger fucking her with a slight aggression that turned her on beyond anything she thought she could ever know, and suddenly a bridge had appeared and Killian beckoned her to the other side with skillful strokes and the whimpering of a man possessed.

Sweat beaded her brow and he smirked against her cheek, lips parted as he breathed against her mouth, unable to kiss her for fear of losing sight of her. He wanted to watch her come undone as she climaxed and coated his hand with even more of herself. He wanted to imagine her body under his, to imprint the way she looked as she came on his mind, lipstick smeared by indulgent kisses and brow furrowed in pleasurable pain, whilst stretching up on his tiptoes to dry fuck her thigh. He doesn’t have to wait long before Emma is inexplicably pushing against his shoulders as she comes, hard, going rigid and overstimulation setting in, her mind fighting between the urge to push him away and the need for him to never stop reaching the best parts of her.

“Fuck,” he ground out, only just stopping himself from coming at the sight of her. He rolled his forehead against hers but was reluctant to pull his hand out of her warmth, swallowing the deepness of his voice thickly as he settled his feet back on the ground and her core muscles pulled at his fingers in detest when he withdrew them.

“Poetic,” Emma teases, brushing her thumb over the corner of his mouth.

“I’m no writer, love,” Killian admitted with another kiss, this time to the tip of her nose. “Not like you.”

“What do you mean?” Emma beams and he gave her a quizzical look. He loved the way her nose scrunches when she is being playfully naive.

“And all at once, you are the one I’ve been waiting for,” Killian muttered softly, eloquently, as if he is reciting more than just her lyrics.

“King of my heart,” Emma finished with a smile that would just not fade.

“If you’ll have me,” Killian said hopefully.