I was coaxed into writing this as a Christmas gift for my dear friend optomisticgirl (and because we all know I am a sucker for this man and his Sharpie). A little M rated here so keep that in mind! Enjoy! :] as always, not my rights and not my characters!

"Killian? Are you here-"

Emma allowed the office door to click behind her as she stepped into the dim room. Her hand slid over the wall in search of the light switch, an action that was causing her to curse the lack of sufficient daylight hours winter time provided. She'd shown up early for lunch that day, milking what was left of her break from school while trying to surprise her sailboat selling husband.

Truthfully, she knew he was in a meeting - an afternoon of bantering negotiations with a Captain John or Silver or something like that. It was a big contract and she'd tried to act interested while still formulating a plan in her stealthy mind. She'd dressed carefully but fast, tugging on a warm coat before heading out the door with a slightly devious smile. Killian Jones was always fun to astound.

"Nope," she smirked, plopping down in the leather office chair next to his desk. "Definitely not here."

Emma swiveled from side to side in her seat for a moment, settling with the curious idea of being a trespasser in his little world of work. She allowed her waves of hair to press back against the headrest, adjusting her long black coat as her eyes took in the comfortable surroundings - the ones that were one hundred percent Killian. A subtle grin curved at her mouth as she propped her feet up on the desk with a sigh.

The decor was minimal, only a few knickknacks here and there and yes, they were things she'd taunted him about many times. The bookshelves were filled with leatherbound texts and a few old shipping logs that added a strangely nostalgic touch to the room. There were several large windows lining the opposite wall and though the light was limited, the view of the frozen over harbor they offered was beautiful. The desk was one he'd made, a heavily crafted piece of dark walnut furniture that he had labored over meticulously in a way she had not been able to stop teasing him about. Running her fingertips over the smooth surface, her heart swelled slightly at display of his talent. He truly had done a magnificent job - not that she needed to remind him of that again.

Though the craftsmanship was outstandingly detailed, it was the frames that graced the desk itself that made Emma's smile expand further. It never ceased to surprise her that he'd taken the utmost care in cataloging their lives together when it came to pictures. Then again, it was Killian - he took great care of anything that involved her.

There was one from their journey across Ireland where they'd asked a stranger to snap a shot of them wandering the shores of some little bay she couldn't remember the name of. Okay, maybe she could, but she preferred the way his voice pronounced it in that roguish tone. They endured the beautiful beach's breeze longer than Emma had wanted to, but when he tugged gently on her scarf to pull her lips to his, she'd lost her uncanny ability to dispute his insistence.

There was another from a second trip they'd made to the Nolan family cabin. It had been warmer then and strutting around the premises in one of his new shirts she had borrowed without asking still earned her that same intrigued response from him. They'd spent hours reading on the porch while he massaged her feet correctly this time and splashed in the water with that same undeniably happy laughter, the sort she didn't even attempt to deny any longer. They'd even made proper use of the shower finally - thought this time they opted for eliminating the drenched fabric shortly after triple checking for a locked door.

Emma's favorite sat near the edge of his desk's immaculate surface and she lit up upon spying it. There wasn't a single thing in that photograph she didn't appreciate - the twirling skirt of her beaded white dress, his typically crooked yet rather impressive tie, the elated grin on her face as she spun in circles with his hand guiding her. It had been a perfect day and an amazingly memorable night, one she replayed often during those instances where she tried to figure out how she'd ended up so lucky in love with the man who'd slid a wedding band onto her finger that day. She couldn't help the smirk on her face as she lifted the frame, flipping it over carefully in search of the words she knew would be there.

Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same. -Emily Brontë

The silly, romantic scribble he'd somehow created that lovely line with was done in black Sharpie. The marker had always been his weapon of choice and without having to glance around, Emma knew she'd find his stash somewhere close by - especially since she'd given him a multicolored pack of twenty three new ones for Christmas. She'd tried not to beam too much when he unwrapped them though his utterly charmed smirk and blushing cheeks made that difficult. Closing her eyes allowed her to still hear that amused laugh he'd let out when he flipped the package over to see her own cleverly commandeered quote.

Putting a pen to paper lights more fire than matches ever will. -Malcolm S. Forbes

Yes, to say that the battle lines between them had been drawn since the beginning was a very literal fact. Only now, Emma found herself rather fond of the ink Killian continually left for her - although she tried not to encourage him too much. God knows he didn't need it.

Spinning the chair around, she quickly spied the coffee mug he'd converted into a holding place for his writing tools. It was a solid black cup with a gold handle and the directions to 'Work Like A Captain, Play Like A Pirate' painted along the side in bright red. She'd bought it for him on their honeymoon, adamant that he had to have such an item to compliment his swashbuckling and seaworthy type ways. Of course, the trinket had storage purposes now since Killian Jones didn't prefer the use of a typical coffee mug. No, her husband was very partial to the blank slate of the disposable cup - and the reasons backing his choice hadn't changed a bit.

Pulling the mug into view, Emma spun it on wood of the desk as she eyed the colors. Counting them, she realized one was missing. With her teeth worrying her lower lip and a soft smile soon spreading across her face, it became apparent which marker had gone rogue. It was the light blue one - the one he'd used that very morning when he taunted her for the millionth time with the words of the woman who'd started much of this, the offering left via paper on the side of her steaming mug.

I must learn to be content with being happier than I deserve. -Jane Austen

Rolling her eyes at the memory and the adoring glance he'd worn as she read it, Emma felt her heart flutter in that same way it always did after witnessing the way his handwriting borrowed famous lines. He was a thief of the best kind - crafty, thoughtful, and completely hers.

Her eyes studied as she tilted the mug once again, the markers shifting in the little container with a rattle before she noticed one she'd never thought twice about until this moment. She pulled it from the cup, holding it up with a curious smirk as her thoughts tumbled back a few years. As she ran her thumb along the gray covering of the pen, all the way back up to the bright green cap. The color matched the book title she'd been warring with that afternoon those several years before, a fact she hadn't put together until now, but it had no doubt been planned that way. Of course it had.

Emma had spent the majority of her already limited lunch break in a stubborn staring contest with the book across the table. It was rare yet annoying situations that popped up once in awhile, coaxing her into wondering what the hell she'd been thinking when she decided to become an English teacher. Tapping her fingertips carefully on the cover of the text, she traced the letters absentmindedly.

She wasn't exactly sure that Leaves of Grass and figuring out how to avoid the rather suggestive parts of the book was the best beginning point, but then again, she didn't know if there was one when it came to this particular type of reading. She'd avoided this standoff with poetry for too long and now that midterms were quickly approaching, it was time to face the dreaded music - or perhaps just the world of figurative language. Whatever terms were appropriate for teaching preteen kids to appreciate the words of rhyming writers didn't matter to Emma. It was going to be hell - just like it was every year.

She'd been going back and forth on picking her poison in the form of which poem to start with when a barely audible chuckle caught her attention from the doorway to her left. She didn't have to look to know who that particular amusement belonged to. Here we go, she thought with an eye roll.

"Well that's a pleasant expression if I've ever seen one. Bloody hell, Swan - what'd that book ever do to you?"

Emma ceased her tapping fingers on the tabletop at the arrival of the chiding voice behind her. She didn't have to turn around to know who was making comments on her confrontation with the collection of words bound in the book just a reach away. She didn't have to look to confirm who owned that smug, sportive voice - but she wasn't about to skip doing so. Ignoring him had never served as anything but encouragement and that was the last thing she needed to offer Killian Jones or his enticing accent.

"A little early in the day to be glaring down Walt here," he continued, snatching up the book and turning to check out the back while moving into view. "You know, Whitman took a whole lot of hell so you could hold his work in your hands. Perhaps gratitude is in order."

God, did he always have to look so effortlessly handsome? Emma tried not to give anything away as he leaned back against the nearby counter, but that man always had a way with standing seductively - as if such a thing was possible. He was wearing a light blue dress shirt, one that brought out the crystal color of his eyes in a way Emma didn't really want to hinge on. The tie that was doing the work of a higher power was a dark navy color and it hung professionally around his neck, complete with a silver tie clip that was annoyingly pretentious. Well, at least that was the opinion she was going to pretend to have.

One thing was for sure - a dressed up Killian Jones meant he'd been forced to act like an adult earlier that day. Oh, how fun it was going to be to taunt him about this one. Well, supposing she would actually get around to that. The studious manner of his stare and his well fitted slacks were certainly making it tough to focus.

"It's interesting that you happen to know so much about one of America's greatest poets," Emma smirked, crossing her arms over her chest. "Seeing as how you are neither American nor a poet yourself."

"Aye, that I'm not," Killian laughed, taking a careful sip of his coffee. "Astute observation on your part, Swan."

"Ugh - what do you want, Jones? Don't you have something to build? A grown up meeting to attend? A date with a hammer that wants to smash your thumb?"

"You certainly seem to find my line of work rather hostile sometimes, love," he remarked, raising a trademark eyebrow. "I can assure you that being a carpenter is not necessarily a bad thing - particularly a charming one like meself."

"Meself? Is that even a word?"

"Funny you should ask me," he teased. "Aren't you the English teacher here?"

Emma groaned loudly, not entertained by his career oriented taunting. He was always doing that - that whole leaving her breathless and furious thing. It was getting annoying. It was getting tempting.

Wait - what? No.

"So, onto transcendentalism, love?"

He raised one of his stupid eyebrows at her as he flipped through a few pages. Emma crossed her arms defiantly as she tried to ward off the innuendos she was sure she was about to encounter because yes, this was Killian Jones - and innuendos were always to be expected.

"Just trying to teach the curriculum, Killian," she retorted, narrowing her eyes. "Though I suppose that's a concept a little foreign to you. Making birdhouses and wearing safety goggles isn't exactly mandatory knowledge for junior high students."

"Ah, Swan, you're remarkably skilled at devaluing my job," he grinned, running a hand along his jaw. "But I suppose my interest in your teaching is based on the fact that you've selected Walt here as a basis for educating the youth in the world of poetry. A bit bold, love - even for you."

God, he was exasperating. What in the hell did he know about her being audacious of any sort?

"Hardly, Jones," she groaned. "You don't seem the type to know much about the poet of the common people."

"Perhaps not, but I can understand that man's affinity for-" he smirked wickedly. "-a suggestive theme."

"Whatever, Killian….why don't you just-"

"Hmmm," he started, moving dangerously closer with the book in hand. "I don't suppose you've been through enough of these selections to know of this one."

He turned the open text toward her, his eyes filled with an unknown fire as he pursed his lips. Emma squinted at the title of the poem as she tried to make out the words.

"You see, Swan," he said a little more teasingly than necessary. "Whitman's always been known for being a bit overtly sensual - indecent even. I mean, any man who can illustrate a scene where 'a woman waits for me, she contains all and none is lacking' - well, I can buy into that."

That arrogant, plagiarizing bastard. His expression shifted into something mischievous as Emma internally swatted at the butterflies in her stomach.

"I suppose next you're going to start seductively quoting 'O Captain, My Captain' next."

"Only if you'd like me too, love."

Her eyes latching onto the fierce blue suddenly simmering in his. She hated these staring contests they seemed to now regularly find themselves in, but she hated the fact that she was so insistent on winning them even more. Killian ran his tongue over his lower lip as he held the book firmly. Emma tried to make a mental note to avoid the faculty room for the foreseeable future, but the fog his expression was creating in her mind was making it nearly impossible to remember such things.

"Hey Emma," a voice cut in over the intercom, the familiar tone of one of the office secretaries. "You have a phone call. Do you want me to take a message?"

God, she'd never been so grateful for an out. Well, perhaps she wasn't all that relieved. The look of disappointment crossing his features was fleeting, but it pulled at something inside of her that she wasn't prepared for. There was no way in hell their regular bantering was something special to him - and it definitely wasn't to her. Not one bit.

"No, I'll be right there," she replied loudly, rising from her chair while centering her vision back on him once more. "I'd suggest you steer clear of Whitman though, Killian - I'd hate for you to meet that same fate as the lead sailor in his popular poem."

"Hmmm," Killian smiled, crossing his arms with nonchalance. "Is that a threat?"

"No," Emma decided, pausing at the door to glare back at him with the hint of a smirk. "Just a warning."

"Well, I appreciate the advisory," he returned smugly. "One might almost say you care about my well being."

"Hmmm," she groaned, rolling her eyes before exiting the room. "You better keep dreaming, Jones."

"Don't mind if I do."

She barely heard his little quip before she rounded the corner to the office, fighting the blush on her cheeks as she pulled the phone up to her ear. The parent on the other end of the call was babbling on about the upcoming bake sale when Emma realized that in the process of telling off the annoying woodshop teacher, she'd left that damn book on the table. She cringed at her own ignorance as she nodded through the rest of the droning communication, hoping desperately that he and his flirty arrogance would be absent when she returned to retrieve the text.

Emma entered the faculty room shortly after and very quietly, peering fast from side to side before slipping back to the location where she'd abandoned the book. She snatched it with a sigh and spun on her heel, trying to summon some enthusiasm about her upcoming venture into endless stanzas and miserable misinterpretations when she noticed it - a mysterious index card sticking out from between the pages. Curiosity cornered her and her fingers pulled the paper from the book with intrigue. The fluid motions of marker on the material told her the words left behind had been recently written. Trying not to admit to herself how brilliantly beautiful the penmanship was, Emma began to read as she walked - well, until the letters stopped her dead in her tracks.

What is that you express in your eyes? It seems to me more than all the print I have read in my life. -Walt Whitman

The quote was penned in permanent marker - one that quickly became extremely infuriating as it beamed at her with a bright orange hue. She was perplexed a moment as she turned the card over in her grip while trying to figure out how a line from a long gone poet had ended up in her borrowed book. Her exploring eyes found the answer only a moment later when they fell to the boldly written 'I suggest you start here, m'lady' and the arrow that had been drawn to point at a title she should have been expecting. Yes, that one - O, Captain my stupid, annoying, infuriating Captain. Okay, perhaps she'd added a bit to that name.

"Damn you, Jones," she groaned as she slammed the book shut and headed for the library. Explaining this one to Ms. French, the far too nice school librarian, was going to be a whole other sort of hell.

Emma laughed out loud to herself, rolling the marker to the side as she got lost in the colors and moments of their past together. It was a series of loving lines she'd never expected and endless quotes that had drawn a million emotions from her, marking a path from annoyance to affection to a romance as cliche as the kind you only read about - and she'd read plenty when it came to her handsome husband.

She tapped the lid of the purple marker, recalling the way he'd used it for nearly a whole week during their courtship. He'd drawn words of affection from Thoreau and even Poe, proving that the rather less than optimistic writer wasn't completely without a heart - even if his most famous work suggested he was. The text that was perhaps her favorite of the several days had been shockingly sweet, scratching at her walls in a way only Killian could.

We loved with a love that was more than love. -Edgar Allen Poe

She found red next, blushing at the way he'd once laid script to the curve of her hand in the finest point followed by several rounds of passion on their honeymoon. She didn't know why she'd ever expect less preparation from a man who had stolen her heart by stealing quotes.

You are my greatest adventure. -Walt Disney

They were all there - pink for his notes at night, ones she'd find when searching for sleep even as he slumbered. She eventually stumbled around their dark and well designed home with slight expectation, always finding his lines of love on notes next to the hot cocoa mix. He never disappointed.

Let her sleep, for when she wakes, she will move mountains. -Napoleon Bonaparte

Emma's fingers fumbled with the marker as she mused quietly at the way she taunted him the next morning, inquiring whether he was out to conquer insomnia or Europe. He'd taken adorable delight in her little quip, that devastatingly genuine smile truly complementing his sleepy blue eyes and mess of hair. He'd proven rather fast that gaining control of their close quarters was much more appealing and their bodies had tangled in the sheets for several victorious hours after.

She nearly laughed out loud as she found a bright orange one rattling around in the cup. If it had been the one he'd owned a few years ago, it would been hers - a true spoil of the war she liked to pretend she'd won.

"Killian, stop-" Emma growled, trying to snatch the marker from his hand. "-writing on my stuff."

"Make me."

He was wearing that stupid, stupid grin that she'd grown to expect and perhaps love a little more than she should. It was ridiculous how she could look at that smile and still be so grateful that she'd chased him down at Logan International, seeing to it that they could enjoy normal dating scenes like this one - him visiting her mid-workday to vandalize her things.

Yep - that was the man she'd inadvertently fallen in love with.

"I will throw that stupid thing out the window if you don't stop," she assured him, nodding toward the skillfully moving pen.

"Well, that would be littering, Swan," he teased, his eyes never leaving the stack of post-it notes in his hand. "I think we both know you care far too much for my cunning wit to turn it into tossed aside trash."

She sighed heavily, shaking her head at his shenanigans as she held back a smirk. She didn't need to monitor him to know what he was doing. He'd been doing it since the night before when she'd forced him to sit on the couch and put his pile of clean socks into pairs.

"Ah, the pain of parting is nothing to the joy of meeting again," he'd said dramatically, finding the mate to a set of black and gray striped ones. "As Dickens would say."

"You can't even fold laundry without swindling someone, can you?"

"Not a fan of Charles, love?"

"Meh," she'd shrugged, eyeing a hole in a lone blue sock before glaring up at him. "Honestly, Killian - throw these away."

"Don't change the subject, Swan," he had said, eyes wide as he held up a finger. "You mean to tell me as an English teacher that you do not like Charles Dickens?"

"I never said that," she'd replied, narrowing her eyes before tossing a pair of red and white argyle ones at him. "I'm just indifferent - I get it. I just don't prefer it."

"Well," he finally decided, reaching for her and pulling her onto his lap. "I guess we'll have to change that."

Emma had allowed the forgotten footwear to be scattered on the floor when he'd pushed her back gently on the carpet, beginning what she assumed to be his method of convincing. He'd been rather successful with his careful, calculated touch and caging manner of his hips many times in the past so it made sense that he'd try to spin that method in his favor - and yes, he did. Twice.

She'd woken up a little later than usual, thankful to see him in his favorite jeans and a predictably plaid shirt that matched his eyes when she walked into the kitchen in search of her keys. He'd made coffee already, preparing some for her in a little to-go thermos he'd bought her a few weeks ago for when she slept over. She knew from the moment she saw it on the counter what his reasoning was - it had a chalkboard label on the side. She reached up to ruffle his already messy head of hair and the white dust on his fingers as he leaned in to kiss her gave him away.

"Have a beautiful day, love," he had smiled, humming softly as she pulled back. "See you for lunch?"

"You better," she'd teased. "You promised grilled cheese and I'm holding you to it, Jones."

"I'd expect no less," he'd laughed, pinching her side. 'I'll see you then, darling."

"Ah, a man of honor," she had smiled. "Can't wait."

He couldn't either apparently - because he'd started his little game on the side of her morning beverage. She'd forgotten about it until pulling into the parking lot at school, but once she remembered, she didn't even need to think to know who he'd chosen to rip off during his sunrise scrawling.

Once a gentleman, always a gentleman. -Charles Dickens

She'd rolled her eyes, glad he'd taken advantage of the cup so she'd have a secret little reason to smile all day. She should have instantly known that with Killian Jones, it would never be that simple.

I loved her against all reason, against promise, against peace, against hope, against happiness, against all discouragement that could be. -Great Expectations

So it began - his day long effort to win her heart for another author. Emma groaned in feigned annoyance as she reached up to change the date on her whiteboard, her heart pounding a little harder when her phone buzzed on the desk.

You have been the last dream of my soul. -A Tale of Two Cities

It didn't stop throughout much of the morning with the exception of the texts turning into emails. She had rolled her eyes as one popped up on her screen just as she was collecting tests from her second class of students.

All stratagems are fair in love. -David Copperfield

She'd sent something back in retort about him beyond ridiculous and telling him to start worrying more about sailboats and less about stolen literature. It had earned her a response almost immediately. He was truly never going to give up their little game.

What can't be cured must be endured. -The Pickwick Papers

It was the long string of poetic phrases and pleasantries that led her to their brief battle over the bright orange Sharpie he'd been drawing over the little notes with. He held it out of her reach a moment as she strained to grab it.

"You really should know by now, Swan-" he laughed, lowering the pen and handing it over. "-that I'm sufficiently skilled at navigating a marker."

Emma was in the process of staring a hole through his head when he stuck the note to her nose, his grin contagious as he tucked her hair behind her ear. She plucked the note off her face as she reminded herself that this makeshift writer of a man was truly hers.

"So, 'true love believes everything, bears everything, and trust everything,' huh," Emma read aloud, sticking the note on his chest with a smirk. "Is that what this is then? True love?"

"Hmmm," he mused, pressing his lips to her forehead as he encircled her waist. "Something like that."

They were all there - the memories, the moments, the markers. It was all part of this unexpected little happiness they'd built together. As she organized the colors in a rainbow pattern on the desk's surface, she tried to figure out just how she'd been so completely won over by this man. It made her heart swell at the knowledge that it wasn't just the pens that were permanent.

"Took you a little longer to locate my stash than I originally thought, love."

Emma had been so wrapped up in reliving the ink that she hadn't even heard the door open. Her guilty eyes shot up to meet his and she was glad to catch the humor in his stare. He tilted his head sideways in pretend confusion - Killian Jones always knew when she was up to something.

"I knew you were dropping by for lunch, love, but if you were really coming here just to steal my markers-" he teased, tossing some anchoring rope to the leather chair by the door before starting toward her. "-all you had to do was ask. I'm happy to share."

"Yeah, I'm well aware of that," she smirked, moving to lean on the front of his desk. "I know all about you and your generosity where those damn Sharpies are concerned."

He grinned that wild, handsome, I-love-you-so-much smile that still made Emma's heart go a million miles a second. He looked every bit the seaside entrepreneur, his pants well fitted and trailing down to his deep brown oxford shoes. His sweater was navy blue and soft wool while his coat was a bit of a lighter shade. He pulled off his scarf - the one Mary Margaret had made for him for the holidays - and brushed his hair out of his eyes with his hands clad in dark fingerless gloves. He probably needed it trimmed soon, but right now, it was windblown and messy and totally him. Emma liked it in more ways than just one.

"A pleasant surprise though, darling," he said sweetly, dropping his hands to her waist. "What brings you by earlier than the typical lunch hour?"

His touch was still slightly cold as his bare fingertips grazed her hips and she shivered slightly. The laugh he offered was warm though and he reached to rest his hands at her back before kissing her tenderly. Emma knew if she had to, she could live off those lips and the life they ignited in her. He'd always done that though - set her ablaze with just a single gesture.

"I wanted to see you," she stated with that obvious tone, pressing her hands carefully on his pink cheeks. "You're freezing, Mr. Jones."

"Winter on the water tends to get chilly, love," he nodded, kissing the tip of her nose before removing his gloves and tossing them aside. "But lucky for you, I stashed that blanket here last time we went night sailing. Let me find it and we'll warm right up."

Yeah we will, Emma thought silently as she fidgeted with the buttons on her coat. She'd set up this whole scheme in her mind not long ago when she was going through some old clothes in the closet, trying to decide if reorganization was a realistic resolution for the upcoming year. Her hands had found it before her mind processed what it was, but there buried under a stack of sweaters was his shirt. The shirt. That shirt. Emma's breath had caught hard in her throat as she ran her fingers over the plaid patterned flannel sleeves, remembering the way she'd worn it in their little contest of back and forth at the cabin the first time. She'd done it to taunt him, but she had seen that subtle hint of lust in his gaze when she sauntered past him in it while rolling up the sleeves. Emma held it up, fixing the buttons as she held it close and realized just how much it still smelled like him.

Yes, this shirt was her weapon - and it was one she definitely knew how to wield.

Undoing the fastenings on her jacket, it parted and fell to the ground quietly as he began his search for the comfy quilt. His back was toward her as she hopped up onto the wood furniture, her legs swinging back and forth as she observed her diligent husband - and perhaps the way he bent down because that was cause enough for staring.

He hummed to himself while he looked, a little trait Emma found amusing since the first time she'd heard it. It was probably at that basketball game - the one where he'd surprised her with his blue Nikes and she had bonded with Roland and he'd done that breathless act of standing too close to her on the dim court afterward. Emma had been very warm then - though the reason why did not involve a winter blanket.

"Found it," he announced, rising back to his feet as he unfolded it. "I wasn't sure if it was actually in here or if I was going to have to go back down to the boat-"

His fingers froze as his lips parted, his eyes definitely coaxing forth a memory of her in the stolen shirt she was currently wearing. His smile was slow yet understanding as he tossed the blanket to the floor carefully.

"That's….a nice shirt, Swan. But you know-" he started, walking toward her with a purpose and a smoldering smirk. "-what you're doing might be considered illegal."

"Hmmm," Emma replied, realizing he'd used nearly the exact words he had on that day and surprising herself that she'd remembered them. "That sounds like an accusation."

"Maybe it is," he nodded, closing the space between them as he flipped the collar up on her borrowed flannel. "But I have always liked the way this looked on you."

"I was always fairly aware of that," she grinned, her fingers rising to toy with a button. "As much as you like it…not on me?"

"Well," he breathed, pressing his lips to hers as he met her wandering hand. "I suppose there's a way we could find out."

Emma smiled against his mouth, her hands lifting to rest at the back of his neck as he skillfully undid a button. His kiss was hot and deepened instantly as her head tilted sideways and his hand guided her jaw. The work he continued on undoing the trail of buttons that lined the middle of the shirt became hurried and slightly desperate. Finally working out the final one, his hand slid to caress her side and dance up her ribs. The moment his touch hit the lace lining the curve of her shoulder, he stopped with a soft groan.

"Bit of a vixen today, lass," he commented, his teeth finding her lower lip as his trailed his fingers along the hem of the lingerie she'd concealed underneath. "Tempting a man with red while he's at work is bad form."

Her skin burned with passion and want as she remembered selecting that color with him in mind. The bra was a deep color, that lustful red he'd always loved her in, but with black straps that clung carefully to her shoulders. It plunged low and he traced the curve of the stitching with his tongue, nipping and pulling her closer as he went. Her mind spun when she thought of what those dark blue eyes would do once she was clad in nothing. That was a look she would never tire of.

"Finding a way to torment me while I'm at work has always been fun for you," she replied, reaching for his belt. "Figured it was time for me to do the same."

"So you're claiming that you're just figuring out how to do that now?"

"Maybe not," Emma mumbled, her head dropping back as his palms held her back and his lips moved along her collarbone. "But it's good to know it's this easy."

"It's always been easy, love," he admitted, sliding a strap from her shoulder with his teeth. "From the very start."

He stopped for a moment, allowing the smoldering desire in his vision to simmer as he offered her that earnest expression he often did in times like this. He cupped the sides of her face and ran a thumb across her cheek to provoke a smile. She gave in, grinning like the lovesick fool she was and running her wandering fingers along the waist of his pants. His breath stuttered slightly. Emma couldn't help but love that she still had that sort of effect on him.

"You are so beautiful, Emma," he told her softly. "I love you so much."

"I love you too," she whispered, tugging slowly at his sweater. "Now show me."

He smoldered at that, pulling the shirt from her shoulders and down her back. His lips followed the path of the vacating fabric with finesse and Emma yanked on his sweater, bringing it over his head and to the ground fast. The smirk on his face was instant when he slid her jeans from her legs to reveal matching lace, that same fiery red he was currently unclasping at her back.

"I like this - you visiting me at work," he smiled as the rest of her clothing became scarce. "Going through my things…"

"You went through mine first, Mr. Post It Note," Emma retorted, flipping the button on his pants deftly. "So turnabout's fair play, right?"

In a rather uncharacteristic move, Killian slid his hands to the desk and swiped his hand across the surface so the pile of color coded markers tumbled to the ground. He resumed his kiss and pulled Emma to the space opposite the picture frames, obviously willing to risk the loss of a pen or two but not the photographs encased in wood and glass.

"Come here," he breathed, threading his fingers through her hair as she shoved his pants to join the rest of their discarded clothes. "I missed you."

Emma wrapped her arms around his neck, her fingernails scratching softly at the back of his scalp as she processed his sweet words and the feel of his skin against hers. He was always saying things like that - I miss you, I love you, I want you. She never used to hope for that, but now, she never wanted it to end.

"Killian," she gasped, leaning back slightly when his beard scratched softly against her neck. "Please."

His hands gripped her legs, pulling her flush against him as he pushed forward. The slow drag of his length was torturous and he grinned at the way she bit her lip before fusing his lips back to hers, his hands on her hips as he moved a little faster. Emma didn't know how he could still make her feel this way - how every move he made seemed to make her melt and want to combust all at once. He groaned as his teeth caressed her bottom lip, the sound constant proof that she affected him just the same.

"Emma, I…you…just…"

Emma writhed under him, loving the way his tone grew needy and broken in moments like this. He was wrecked. He was there. He was hers.

"Killian," she moaned. "Don't…stop. Please don't ever…stop."

"Never, love," he promised, his efforts harder as he pulled her up to his chest. "God, Emma…"

They dissolved into a series of moans and pleas, their volume uncontrolled and full of want as Emma let her body grind against his. His breath was ragged as he began to drag his hands down her lower back and coaxed her into moving quicker. He was close - so close.

"Swan….bloody hell, are you-"

"Yes," she all but cried, her fingertips pressed hard against his shoulder blades. "God…yes…"

He didn't waver, his stamina well practiced and constant as they both let go with a gasping exhale. His kiss was hard and full of that love she always lost herself in, their bodies clinging to one another as desire pulled them together. Emma felt herself slump against him after a moment, his hands moving up and down her back as they tried to find reality again.

"Still here, love?"

"Hmmm," Emma offered, trying to find a reply. "I love you."

"I love you too," he said with that sweet, lazy smile. "I'm not going to be thrilled when you go back to school. I like things like this."

"I do too," Emma agreed, nuzzling his chest. "But it's always back to the real world at some point I guess."

"You've always seemed to like that word," he laughed, lifting her carefully and wandering to the oversized chair they'd spent time in before. "I can't say I blame you."

Emma didn't have to ask what he was referring to - she knew the four letter term they'd once argued over in a hotel room and finally accepted in the middle of a cup of coffee at the airport. Killian tugged the big blanket up over them as she snuggled into his side, content to enjoy their moment of bare skin and bodies sated. He placed a gentle kiss against her hair as she weaved her fingers through his, studying the way they locked perfectly.

"I do like real I guess," she finally said, her head resting on his chest. "I like it with you."

"And I with you, love," he smirked as his hold on her tightened. "So let's enjoy it for a while, yeah?"

"I guess we could do that," Emma laughed, laying a kiss on the fingers he'd linked through hers. "Maybe even longer than a while?"

"I think that's an even better idea," he decided. "But I guess I don't take as much convincing as some."

Emma sighed, well aware of his continued teasing but choosing to ignore it in favor of relaxing in his arms. She knew eventually they'd be cleaning up the Sharpies that had fallen victim to their heated afternoon and that the pair of them would be back at work before either of them wanted, but that didn't matter. The real world would beckon them soon enough, but for now, she wasn't about to give up a moment like this one - the sort that was most definitely a beautiful sort of real.