Emma in the aftermath of Killian’s death.
Note: This is my very sad submission to @cscocktoberfest. I apologize, because this is more sad than smut, but we all should have expected this from me.
Rating: M
‘Maybe he’ll come today
Maybe he came already
And he’s sitting in the drawing room
And I simply forgot’
-“No One Else”
Natasha, Pierre, and The Great Comet of 1812
This is how she remembers their first time:
Her fingers carded through his hair, his hand digging into her hip. Emma can still recall the puff of his breath against the slope of her neck, warm against her flushed skin. Everything about it was good, the way his fingers danced against her center, the thick drag of his cock when he finally enters her. They had moved slowly then, that first time.
Emma has never been one to make love. Not since Neal, not since she had been seventeen and believed in the magic of love – before that faith had been crushed by destiny (by fear). Funny how Killian had been the one to reignite that faith. Funny that now he’s gone.
(Dead.)
(And she’s the one who killed him.)
The World Opened Wide
Published
It All Starts With a Dance 