His eyeliner comes away on her fingertips. Dark smudges of kohl paint her skin like she forgot to close the lid on the inkpad before shoving it in a drawer at the station. When she strokes down the line of his cheek, across the rough expanse of his mustache and beard, he gasps, bucking up against her hips. The stubble is coarse, as dark as his eyes are bright. He is all texture and sensation. The smooth, supple leather of his jacket under her palms. The soft curls of his chest hair dusting the open vee of his cotton shirt. His belt buckle grinding into the crotch of her jeans. She's never felt anyone like she's felt this man. This myth.
Her path of exploration stops and starts at gleaming metal: the handcuff securing his wrist to the wall, keeping his strong, tanned hand stationary even as his fingers fist with the need to explore her in return. His other sleeve is empty, his weapon of choice far from reach. And when she runs her fingers over the cauterized surface of his stump, he groans her name. Her name, with all the power it holds.
He doesn't beg to be let go. He knows better than that. She doesn't promise to release him. She knows better than that.
Someone so beautiful shouldn't be so ugly inside. He shouldn't taste like cloves and cinnamon, a hoard of spices plundered from some faraway place. The first time she kissed him, Emma almost hoped she would break some kind of spell, release him from the dark curse of his amorality and disloyalty. "Were you expecting true love, sweetheart?" he'd whispered, the tip of his hook tearing her blouse to her navel, scattering buttons like fairy dust. "That's not me. That's not us." Now, a dozen kisses later, all she expects is how he makes her feel: invincible.
He's stripped bare by the time her foray is finished; his coat and shirt peeled away, pants unbuckled and shoved down around his knees. She palms his cock, hard as rock and soft as silk, and he makes incoherent animal noises of want that only quiet into satisfied sighs when she guides him inside her. He arches into the cuff, into her, instead of fighting against the impulses, and if both his binding and her body cut a little too deep, he doesn't complain.
Everywhere else, Hook is never without a quip, never without a cocky smirk. But when he's beneath her, cradled between her thighs, buried to the hilt, she has the last word. The last touch. She traces the curve of his lower lip with her thumb and tells him, "Midnight, tomorrow."
He doesn't beg to be let go. She doesn't promise to release him. And they never, never mention true love. Because they both know better than that.
December 3, 2012