A/N: My Halloween contribution here. I have a tradition. Every Halloween I watch The Rocky Horror Picture Show. This year my muses decided to be assholes and imagine Killian dressed up as Dr. Frank-N-Furter. So, needless to say, this happened.

If you're unfamiliar with Rocky Horror, you might want to look it up first. At the very least, google 'Dr. Frank-N-Furter' for the appropriate visual.

This one's rated M for a reason, my loves. Happy Halloween!

In her five years as a bartender at The Rabbit Hole, Emma Swan has seen her fair share of weird, wonderful, and frankly, downright terrifying things.

Tonight, being Halloween, is no exception.

She's dressed relatively tamely, in a black leotard with a black feathered tutu, her blonde locks twisted up in tight braid-bun, more feathers woven into it. Black swan? Because her last name is Swan... Get it? Okay, so sue her, it's not the most ingenious costume choice ever, but with Ruby dressed as a slutty Red Riding Hood, and David a strapping Prince Charming, she doesn't feel too bad.

The customers on the other hand, are certainly... creative is probably the politest way to put it.

She's already served a couple of blondes dressed as conjoined twins, a pregnant nun, some idiot parading around in a horse mask (she had to ask him three times to remove it so she could check his ID), and another contemptible gentleman (she uses that word loosely) dressed in a skeleton onesie with an inflatable phallus, calling himself "Skeleboner".

Emma Swan has seen plenty. Not much surprises her these days.

But this?

Sweet lord, have mercy...

This takes the cake.

The man is tall and lean, dark haired with bright blue eyes. He's also dressed in drag, sporting a full face of makeup.

She blinks, trying to take in his costume in its entirety; from the overstated smoky eye-shadow and dark red lip, to the pearl necklace, elbow-length gloves, and glittering sequined vest; loosely laced to reveal dark chest hair that disappears downward... She leans forward over the bar to get a better look, and nearly loses her grip on the bottle of vodka in her hand.

He's wearing ridiculously snug black lace-trimmed briefs, leaving very little to the imagination, and oh god, there are garters, actual garters holding up sheer thigh-high stockings. The tops of his muscular thighs are left exposed, dusted in dark hair, and just what the actual fuck? She's sure as hell never been attracted to a man in drag before, but... damn.

Her best guess is that he's supposed to be masquerading as Dr. Frank-N-Furter from The Rocky Horror Picture Show, and if that's the case, she's hella impressed, both by his level of commitment to the costume, and also that he's actually seen the movie in the first place. In her experience, most people her age haven't.

With her mouth gaping like a fish out of water, she tries to find the words to ask him to repeat his drink order. "I- uh... shit." Smooth, Emma, real smooth.

The man grins then, apparently amused by her bumbling, his cheeks dimpling, and she quickly places the bottle of Smirnoff back on the bar before she accidentally drops it.

"Quite the sight, aren't I, darling? Some might even go so far as to say striking."

Another lingering perusal confirms that the man is actually wearing heels (commitment, indeed), and she shakes her head before meeting his eyes. "What can I get for you, Dr. Frank-N-Furter?" she asks with another disbelieving shake of her head. "Assuming that's who you're supposed to be?"

"Aye, 'tis indeed, love." His eyes light up as if he's surprised and impressed that she guessed correctly. "Spiced rum, on the rocks, if you please."

"Coming right up." She turns away, replacing the Smirnoff amongst the other bottles before reaching under the counter for the Appleton. On nights like this they usually stick to the cheap stuff; the Bacardi and Captain Morgan's, and while he hadn't asked for a more expensive option, she gives it to him anyway, only charging the regular price.

Pressing a 10 into her palm, he tells her to keep the change. She thanks him and wants to ask him about his costume choice, but Skeleboner and Co. are lined up waiting service, and before she has the chance, tall, dark, and lingerie, slips away into the crowded bar.

It's only 11:30 and there's still a long while to go before last call; she expects (or at least hopes) that she'll see her mysterious cross dresser again before the night is through.

Three rounds of tequila and several offensive pickup lines later, Skeleboner finally takes a hint and fucks off. Emma shares an eye roll with Ruby, knowing that the brunette bombshell understands her pain. Dave, the third member of their behind-the-bar crew tonight, also gets his fair share of admirers. The female patrons flock to him like sheep, and even with his wedding ring in plain sight, they still tend to flirt shamelessly.

It seems to be the burden of being an attractive bartender.

On the bright side though, it means that Emma is rarely short on options for one night stands. Not that she indulges in them often, but she tells herself that she not the relationship type (too much bad blood there), and hey, every once in a while, a girl's gotta scratch that itch.

And at the moment there's a certain dark haired, blue eyed cross dresser that's awakened that urge.

Of course there's a fairly good chance that the guy is gay; she doesn't know too many straight men with the balls to pull off that get-up, and if he does happen to be interested in the ladies, while also being secure enough in his masculinity to flounce around in lingerie, well then, where the hell can she sign up?

Promising herself to somehow work it into the conversation next time he shows up, she gets back to work, taking advantage of a slight break in customers to cart away the accumulation of empty bottles and glasses, before wiping down the bar and restocking the lemon wedges.

It's well after midnight now, the bar in full swing, top 40 being switched out for karaoke as alcohol flows and friends goad each other into performing. There's a particularly awful rendition of Warren Zevon's 'Werewolves of London' in which the performers howl more than sing, followed by the overly clichéd Michael Jackson's 'Thriller'. She has to credit a little bit more ingenuity to the group that does Talking Heads' 'Psycho Killer', but then they're right back into of-fucking-course territory with 'Monster Mash'.

Taking advantage of the relative lull in drink demand while everyone is entertained with karaoke, she signals to Ruby and slips into the back to chug half a water bottle, quietly cursing her decision to dress up as pseudo-ballerina, because while she could care less about the fact that there's a run in her black tights, travelling all the way from her heel to the back of her knee, she's not so thrilled with the way the waistband is bunching around her stomach and constricting her intestines. It's not like the damn things are a new invention; you would think that someone could have come up with a way to make them a little less awful to wear? Perhaps she should have taken a page from her cross dresser's book and opted for thigh-highs instead.

The thought has her shoving her water bottle back in the fridge and hastily shuffling her tutu into some semblance of order. She doesn't want to miss him if he comes up for another drink.

When Emma steps back out, she instantly catches sight of him waiting in the shadows off to her side of the bar. Ruby and David are laughing quietly over something at the other end, while almost all of the other eyes in the establishment remain fixed on some scantily dressed she-devil singing a fairly decent version of 'Bad to the Bone'.

"More rum?" she asks when the cross dresser steps forward, leaning his gloved forearms on the bar.

"Make it a double if you would, lass."

She pours the expensive stuff again and slides it to him. He downs it in one go and taps his fingers, signalling for another. She fills again, but he just swirls the amber liquid in the glass this time, watching her closely.

"So," she says, figuring that now is the best opportunity she's going to get to talk to him, "I figured with you being dressed as good old Dr. Frank, you'd be fetching your drinks down from Dave at the other end of the bar. He'd make a pretty fetching Rocky, don't you think?"

He barks out a laugh with a nod. "Aye, he would, and while I'm sure Dave as you called him, is a lovely fellow, I happen to hold more interest in that of the female persuasion."

Folding her own arms over the bar, Emma leans closer. "Good to know. He's married anyway." She offers her hand. "I'm Emma."

"Killian," he says, taking it and bring it to his lips. "Enchanté." And it's such a perfect rendering of the same line from the film that Emma finds herself giggling, which startles her a little, because she's never been a giggler. Her hand comes away bearing the dark red mark of his lips and her stomach does some ridiculous flop to her knees.

"So, tell me then, Killian, what exactly prompted this costume choice?"

Her question has him picking up the glass to down the second helping of rum. "This is the resulting madness of my inability to turn down a dare," he admits with a slight frown. "You see those two sods over there? The one dressed as Robin Hood and the other as The Mad Hatter? Those wankers are responsible for this," he makes an encompassing gesture to indicate his costume. "And if you were wondering why I'm suddenly imbibing so fervently, it's because the second half of this dare involves getting up on that stage and singing 'Sweet Transvestite'."

She bursts out in laughter, instantly slapping her hand over her mouth to smother it. "Seriously?"

Killian nods glumly, staring into the empty glass, and maybe she feels a little bit bad for the guy, because she pours him another helping. "On the house."

He smiles graciously and throws it back, his Adam's apple bobbing nervously in his throat, and because she already had the thought in mind, but also because he just gave her one hell of a lead up, she reaches out to trace her fingers along the length of one gloved forearm. "Can I tell you a secret, Killian?"

Swallowing again, he nods slowly, his eyes never leaving her face as she takes his right hand in both of her own, turning it palm up to drag her thumb over the creases in the glove. "I'm actually kind of glad you accepted that dare, because this," she snakes a finger out to graze over the rough sequined material of his vest, "somehow it's unfairly hot, and really, what I'm wondering, is if by night, are you one hell of a lover?"

Something approaching a feral grin rises to Killian's lips. "Really, love? This turns you on?"

And maybe it's a little late to come off as coy, but she can't help the blush that rises to her cheeks. She nods. "I don't know why, but it does."

He seems to inch closer, leaning across the bar, and she can feel the heat of him, smell him; something deep and dark and heady mixing with the lingering rum on his breath. "What time do you finish up here, Emma?" he asks, and he's close enough now that she can practically taste him. If she were to learn just a little farther across the bar, she could kiss him, wipe the dark red stain and the smirk from his lips.

Glass shatters and they both leap back, looking over to where Ruby's hastily cleaning up the remains of a broken beer bottle as some teetering girl breaks into tears, apologising drunkenly over and over again until her friend swoops in to pull her toward the washrooms.

When Emma turns back to Killian, there are a few people waiting behind him, clearly wanting to be served. With an apologetic glance over his shoulder, Killian hands her a 20, that once again, more than covers the cost of the alcohol. "Wish me luck?"

She smiles encouragingly, and leans closer once more so that the waiting patrons can't make out her words over the music. "Good luck. It'll be late before I'm done here. Probably 3:30."

"I'm a patient man, love. I don't mind waiting." And then he's turning and heading back to his friends, all swagger in ridiculous high heels. Shaking her head, she turns her attentions away from him and back toward her other customers.

Twenty minutes later when the first room-shaking notes of 'Sweet Transvestite' sound from the stage, Emma looks up to see Killian standing there and she very nearly smashes a $50 bottle of scotch against the counter. He's wearing a cape now; it's wrapped tightly around his body and concealing his costume. She has no idea where he got it, but she wagers there are enough vampire wannabes around the room that finding one to borrow it from probably wasn't much of a challenge. And god, the rum must have kicked in, because he's totally into it, all earlier apprehension vanished as he clutches the mic and puts on a show.

His voice is surprisingly good, despite the overdone theatrical quality to it, and when he sings, "I'm not much of a man, by the light of day, but by night, I'm one hell of a lover," he looks her right in the eyes across the crowded bar and flings the cape to the floor behind him. "I'm just a sweet transvestite, from transsexual, Transylvania!" Applause sounds, loud and raucous, people whistling and cheering him on as he continues to belt out the lyrics on the large projection screen, because even though some of them clearly look confused, they still seem to understand that getting up there and singing that, takes major cojones.

Her attention is torn away for a minute, because as much as she'd like to deny it at the moment, she does actually have a job to attend to, mixing drinks and making change at quickly as she can. She lifts her eyes again just in time to meet Killian's gaze. "I see you shiver with antici..." he raises an eyebrow with a cocky grin, "pation." And damn him in all his stupidly sexy cross dressing glory, because that just ratcheted her anticipation up several notches and she's still got hours to go left in her shift.

With the last few dramatic lines of the song wrapped up, the bar explodes into another round of applause and Killian bows, winking at her before leaving the stage, returning the cloak to its rightful owner, and re-joining his friends at their table.

Another song starts up moments later and Ruby elbows Emma in the side with a wolfish grin. "Gotta say, Em, he's not your usual type. Got a thing for glitter and sequins all of the sudden?"

Emma rolls her eyes good naturedly at Ruby's jab and shrugs. "Maybe I'm trying something new. You've gotta admit, he pulls the whole look off rather well."

David chooses that moment to but in. "Are you sure he's, ah, interested in what you have to offer? I mean there's a certain level of flamboyance there and uh," David squints across the darkened bar, "is he seriously wearing hosiery and high heels?"

Emma snorts, amused by Dave's comical disbelief. "Yes he is, and I was talking to him earlier; he's most definitely interested. He's just wearing the costume on a dare."

Dave huffs and Emma prepares herself for what she and Ruby have termed 'the overprotective dad speech'. "Just be careful, Em, I know you're an adult, but I still don't like the idea of you going home with random guys. You've always been a pretty good judge of character, but you just never know."

With yet another roll of her eyes (seriously, one day they're just gonna get stuck that way), she launches into her usual defence. "Yes, dad," she sighs, and David breathes out in exasperation, turning his gaze momentarily heavenward as Ruby steps away to deal with a customer. "I've got my pepper spray and I'll text you and Ruby with his address as soon as I get there, besides, you know that with my self-defence classes, if things go south, he's probably in a hell of a lot more danger than I am. Especially if he's still wearing those heels."

David groans, clearly about to protest further, but Emma's saved by the timely reappearance of Skeleboner and Co. It's probably the first time she's been even remotely glad to see the idiot all night, and she pushes a smile to her face as she lines up shot glasses and fills them with tequila at their request.

Killian switches to water the next time he strides up to the bar, and secretly she's more than a little pleased; heading home with someone drunker than a skunk is never a bright idea, especially if she has any hopes of them turning out to be a half decent lover.

The next hour passes smoothly and when Ruby shouts out for last call, the three of them push through one final mad rush before the bar starts to empty. Little John and Lance, their two towering bouncers, slowly but surely direct the remaining customers out into the night. Killian parts ways with his friends and drops onto a stool at her end of the bar with a bright smile. His makeup has smudged over the course of the evening and as she stacks dirty glasses into a plastic crate, she wonders what he looks like without it. Probably even better.

Lance wanders over, dark and intimidating, but before he can take Killian by the arm and threaten to throw him out, Emma shakes her head. "It's okay, Lance, this one's with me."

The bouncer nods silently and wanders off to help Little John and Ruby with the cleanup of the rest of the establishment, gathering empties and wiping down tables so that they can stack chairs and mop the floor. It's thankfully not Emma's turn in the washrooms tonight (Dave gets that unfortunate pleasure as per their regularly rotating and entirely fair schedule), which leaves Emma behind the bar to clean, organise, and restock.

She chats with Killian as she works, surprised how easily they fall into conversation. Most of her conquests choose to sit somewhat impatiently at the bar, silent and glued to their phones while they wait, but Killian is attentive and engaging and she actually has to decline his offers to help with cleanup three times before he finally relents and stops asking.

She offers him coffee when Dave puts on a pot, and by the time they're ready to lock up for the night, she's learned that Killian (Jones is his last name) moved here from England back in his early teens, and that he's actually working as a drama and music teacher at the local university. And though it's not her usual MO, she finds herself telling him that she's finishing up her studies in Criminal Justice at the very same university, and by this time next year, she's hoping quit her job at the bar, have her badge, and be working as a police officer.

Her friends overhear parts of the conversation, and as they're all piling into jackets and scarves in the break room, Killian still waiting patiently upfront, David pulls her aside for a moment. "I googled your cross dresser. He's telling the truth; he's a professor of drama and musical studies at the university, and in his spare time, he volunteers over at the hospital in the cancer ward, reading and singing for the kids." Dave grins and turns his phone so that Emma can see Killian's faculty photo; he's wearing a navy blue dress shirt, the top few buttons undone, with a silver and black vest in dramatic brocade. His face is open and smiling with a neatly trimmed beard, and damn, beneath all that makeup he's even better looking than she hoped.

"You might wanna reconsider your one night stand mantra with this one, Ems. Looks like he could be a keeper," David encourages, and Emma groans, because less than a year of marriage, and David seems to have already absorbed Mary Margaret's match making tendencies.

Emma can't deny that she's intrigued by this enigmatic stranger though, and maybe it wouldn't be so bad if she broke her cardinal rule and saw him a second time, would it?

Not wanting to jump into anything, she tells herself that she'll wait and see how the night goes. With a firm pat on David's broad shoulder, she turns him and pushes him toward the door. "Go home to your Snow White, Charming. I'll see you tomorrow night."

When she returns to the bar, her bag containing a change of clothes, in hand, Killian is wearing a long black trench coat over his costume and the heels are swapped out for a more sensible pair of boots. "Shall we depart, love?" he asks, standing and offering his arm. "My place is only a 15 minute walk from here, if that's amenable?"

Her bug is still parked out back in the small employee lot, but there's no reason she can't leave it there for now, so she nods and links arms with him. "Mind if we grab something to eat along the way? I'm starving." It's another thing she usually avoids, but she really is hungry, and somehow the thought of nothing but a quick fuck is more distasteful than usual.

"How do you feel about veal?" he asks. "There's a little mom and pop shop just around the corner that's always open late. Best veal sandwiches money can buy."

She's pretty sure her face lights up at the suggestion. It's been ages since she's had sweet hand-breaded veal, smothered in cheese and marinara sauce on a warm bun. "We're splitting one though," she informs him, already knowing the little hole in the wall joint that he's referencing, "the damn things are huge."

With that she tugs Killian out the door, waving goodbye to her friends. Lance will lock up and she'll see them all tomorrow.

The night air is crisp, a damp breeze wrapping around her legs. It must have rained earlier, in typical Halloween fashion, because the streets are wet, streetlights and signage reflecting in puddles, lending colourful glare to the asphalt beneath their feet. Shivering lightly, she curses the lack of warmth her tights provide, wishing that she'd opted for something longer and warmer than her red leather jacket. Almost hesitantly Killian wraps an arm around her waist, and she allows him to hug her to his side, grateful for the warmth he emits through the material of his trench coat.

When they reach the shop, Emma insists on paying, and they take the sandwich and a bottle of water to go, eating as they continue down the still busy streets. It's not often that Halloween falls on a Saturday night, and though by this point most bars have closed their doors, the city is still stirring with activity, laughter sounding as costumed groups wander in search of late night munchies.

They've finished their food by the time Killian steers them down a quiet side street. Mature maple trees and old-fashioned lamplights line the cobblestone court, wet leaves stamped into the ground by earlier trick-or-treaters. A low stone wall lines the property edge of a narrow townhouse, and Killian pulls her toward what she's surprised to discover is his home. Knowing this area, the building itself has to be close to a century old, but it's obviously well loved and well cared for. There's a pumpkin on the porch, the candle inside still flickering weakly, the detailed carvings of a cat barely discernible in the low light.

"You live here?" she asks with a fair amount of shock and scepticism. He can't be much more than five years older than her, probably just in his early thirties, and even with what she assumes is a well paying job at the university, owning property in this secluded historical nook of the city can't be cheap.

"Aye, it's been in the family for some time. Belonged to a distant cousin originally, and my brother and I inherited it when they passed." He twists a key in the lock and the door swings open to reveal a warm entryway as be ushers her in. There's a photo on the wall above a set of hooks, and he helps her out of her jacket as she studies it. "That's my brother, Liam and I several Christmases ago. He's back living in London now, has a lovely wife and child, but we still make a point of getting together a couple times a year."

Killian sheds his own coat, revealing his costume once more, and Emma can't help but laugh, reaching out to trace the crisscross pattern of the laces that hold the vest closed, trying to reconcile the man standing in front of her in drag with the fairly clean cut man in the photograph. "You know, when you stepped up to the bar dressed like this," she tugs on the tail end of the bow, unknotting the laces, "I didn't expect you to turn out so positively ordinary."

A scraggly black cat chooses that moment to meow loudly and twist around her legs, and it just makes her laugh harder.

"Bloody hell, Blackbeard, bugger off! The lass already thinks I'm ordinary," he scoffs in mock offense, still grinning, "I don't need to add lonely cat owner to the mix!"

"Blackbeard?" she repeats, giggling, still fiddling with the laces, slowly pulling them loose. The cat purrs loudly, and flops at her feet, belly up between them. Laughter shakes its way through her chest and she drops her head against his shoulder, unable to contain her amusement.

Killian's hand ghosts over the back of her neck, free now from the sequined gloves. "I found him abandoned on the street last year on Halloween. I happened to be dressed as Captain Hook at the time; seemed only fitting to name him after a pirate." His touch drops lower, his hand splayed wide against the small of her back, pressing her closer to him. "Now, love, if you'll allow it, may I take you to bed and disabuse you of this notion you seem to carry that I'm positively ordinary?"

Looking up, she does what she's been waiting to do for most of the evening and presses a kiss to the dark red of his lips, her fingers working frantically to quickly free the rest of the laces. She pulls back, admiring his chest as the vest hangs open. "Lead the way."

They make it up the narrow staircase, nearly tripping over the damned cat twice, and after dragging her into his bedroom in a tangle of lips and limbs, he slams the door and locks a disgruntled Blackbeard out in the hall.

"If you'll give me a moment, darling," he says as he backs her up to his bed, "I'm going to go wash my face."

Hopping up to sit on the plush mattress, her feet dangling, Emma smiles at him. "Okay, but leave everything else on." She bites her lip as he steps away toward the en suite. "I want to be the one to take it off."

A devilish grin, and then a short minute later, Killian Jones is standing back in front of her, his handsome face red and scrubbed bare. Bouncing to her feet, Emma stands and swaps their positions, pushing him down by the shoulders to sit on the bed. Sliding the vest from his arms, she takes a moment to study him like this as he leans back on his hands and watches her watch him. He's beautifully muscled, lean and strong and warm under her touch as she trails her fingers over his biceps and deltoids, down through his chest hair to the dark trail that leads to the tightness of his groin. Tense muscle, and god, those briefs really aren't hiding anything, are they?

Hooking a finger in the pearls around his neck, she yanks him forward for another kiss, quick and dirty before she slides to her knees in front of him to sit eye level with the erection that's currently threatening to escape the confines of his tight briefs. Fuck. She clenches her thighs and tries to focus, scrapping her nails lightly over his hairy thighs.

She unbuckles the fronts of the garters first before slipping her hands beneath to blindly release the backs, pressing a kiss to each of his straining thighs as she works to roll the stockings from his long legs. When all that's left are the dark briefs, which at this point, honestly, are doing very little to preserve his modesty, she brushes her lips teasingly over his bulge through the fabric and quickly stands as he blinks up at her in awe.

"Killian," she purrs, lifting his hands to her breasts, trying to keep a straight face, "touch-a touch-a touch-a touch me," she giggles through the absurdity of the line. Leaning in, she presses her lips to his ear, her tongue darting out to trace the slightly pointed tip as his fingers find and twist with her nipples through the thin fabric of the leotard. "I wanna be dirty," she whispers, low and deep.

His answering growl has slippery heat pooling between her thighs as she leans into his touch. "Thrill you, chill you, fulfil you?" he groans in a question against her neck, and god, it sounds positively filthy.

He drops his head lower and sucks a pebbled nipple into his mouth through the fabric of her shirt, the wet heat of his tongue saturating the fabric. He looks up at her with dark eyes and steps her closer into the spread of his legs with a hand on her ass. "Creature of the night," he accuses before tugging her down for a bruising kiss.

And then he's pulling the tutu from her hips and it's his turn to press her into a sitting position at the edge of the bed as he goes down on his knees, undoing the crotch snaps of the leotard so he can peel the tights from her legs. He tosses them over his shoulder and then he's pushing her panties hastily aside and holding them there with his thumb as he drops his head between her thighs, his tongue hot against her aching flesh. He hitches her left thigh up to rest over his shoulder, opening her further, and she gasps as his tongue presses into her greedily.

Holy fuck... Jesus, she's not used to this sort of treatment. Most encounters of this sort are little more than a quick hump against the closest flat surface, but Killian's groaning appreciatively as his mouth works over her, and hey, if he's enjoying himself (which he certainly seems to be), she's not about to stop him.

With a hand beneath her ass, he tugs her even closer, almost pulling her hips completely from the bed, and then he's sucking on her clit as his fingers tease her entrance, pushing in slowly, then moving, curling his digits in quick dirty thrusts that have her coming apart at the seams, panting as she slumps back against the mattress in a boneless heap.

Propping herself up on a shaky elbow, she watches him lick his lips as he drags her panties down her legs. His chin is wet with her arousal, and when he stands, the head of his cock is straining past the waistband of his briefs. The sight alone is nearly enough to make her come again.

"Find a condom and lose those," she commands, nodding toward his underwear as she sits up to quickly remove the leotard and her bra.

Completely naked, Emma watches as Killian circles around to the dresser to collect a condom before stepping back to the foot of the bed and handing it to her with a grin. He shoves his briefs to the ground with little in the way of ceremony, and then steps between her legs, his thick cock bobbing eagerly. "I'll let you have the honour, darling."

Biting her lip, she reaches for him, fingers wrapping around his solid length, stroking slowly. "I should have left those thigh-highs on you," she mutters almost absentmindedly, revelling in the way his hips jump as she swipes her thumb over the head of his cock, gathering precum. Releasing him, she sucks her thumb into her mouth.

"Bloody hell, love, just ask and I'll put them back on."

With a laugh, she tears open the wrapper, tossing it aside to roll the condom over his length. "Maybe later, right now I want you, inside me, a wild and untamed thing."

Raising an eyebrow, he wastes no time in doing precisely that, stepping forward to sheath himself in her heat in one breathtaking thrust. He gives her a moment, just barely, to adjust, and then his lips are slanting over hers as he bends her backwards and fucks her into the mattress until she's nearly shaking with pleasure. Straightening, his hips still driving hard, he thumbs at her clit. "Tell me, love, is your heart pumping? Your blood singing?"

She nods as his other hand grips her hip tightly. "God," her voice breaks, "don't you dare stop."

"Wouldn't dream of it, darling." His thumb flicks relentlessly over her clit and he changes the angle of his hips just enough to have her sobbing as she teeters on the edge. Bending low, he leans over her again, his voice in her ear. "Now give yourself over to absolute pleasure."

She falls hard with a shout, with the vague realisation that's he's following her over the edge, his hips stuttering and snapping tight to hers as he gasps against her neck, collapsing on top her, his chest rising and falling in perfect rhythm with hers.

And this is normally right about when she'd start to feel claustrophobic, be anxious to reach for her clothes and slip out the door, but somehow the feeling never comes, and when Killian finally does rise on shaky legs to dispose of the condom, she misses the warmth of him almost instantly.

Before she has the chance to process her thoughts and decide on a course of action, he's returning from the bathroom to hand her a warm washcloth. "I hope this isn't too forward of me, Emma, but if it interests you, I've got The Rocky Horror Picture Show on DVD, and some leftover Halloween candy I could use help eating up."

He looks downright hopeful, maybe a little bit nervous, standing there still completely naked, and she doesn't have the heart (or any real desire) to turn him down, so she smiles. "That depends, Jones... what kind of candy man are you?"

He grins and fetches a pair of boxers from the dresser, tugging them on, much to her disappointment. "I'm the kind who hoards the Twix and the Twizzlers for himself."

There's a TV and an entertainment system mounted atop the large dresser, and after tossing the washcloth back at him, Emma slides further up the bed to recline against the headboard, making herself comfortable among the pillows. "Go get 'em," she insists. "Something tells me I can convince you to share."

When Killian returns several short minutes later, with the DVD and a bag of candy tucked under his arm, two steaming mugs of hot cocoa in his grasp, she's dressed in a pilfered T-shirt and has the TV ready to go. He's wise enough, thankfully, not to say anything about how at home she looks, lounging in his bed with his cat on her lap, but that doesn't mean she doesn't feel it.

And damn it, maybe Dave was right, this one might just be a keeper.

One thing's for certain though; her initial estimation was correct: Killian's one hell of a lover.