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Did They or Didn't They?

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There’s a constant throbbing against Killian’s temple as he slowly awakes, a groan tearing roughly through his throat. The room is dim, thanks to the drawn curtains blocking the sunlight which is trying to burst its way through, and the bed is warm; he doesn’t want to leave the security of the blankets and darkness. 


Wait… bed?  


Killian shifts slightly to confirm he’s indeed not lying on the uncomfortable, pulled-out sofa like he normally is. How did he get here? And how much did he drink last night? He barely remembers anything after the club. The pillow in his arms is warm and comforting against his chest, and he tightens his arm around the pillow—no, not a pillow—Killian’s eyes snap open and he sees long golden hair piled in front of his face. 


Fucking hell. 


This cannot be happening.


He panics and lifts his head to see who he’s in bed with. A heavy sigh of relief leaves his lips, a wave of calm washing over him when he realizes Emma is in his arms. Emma Swan, A.K.A. one of the hottest American musicians of all time. A.K.A. the woman he is charged to protect. A.K.A. the woman he is madly in love with but has never been brave enough to tell her. He also realizes the long, slender back pressed to his chest is bare, apart from her bra… and her very delectable arse is pressed against his straining erection.  


Bloody hell.


After a quick check under the covers, he confirms they’re both in naught but their underwear.


He and Emma had made love? 


Which, if true, thrills him and angers him at the same time. He doesn’t remember it. At all. It also means he’s taken advantage of a drunk woman, which is not his M.O. He has always claimed to be the perfect gentleman, and now after one night has compromised that. What are people going to think of him now? Everyone already thinks he and Emma are secretly dating, and now after they were drinking together in public and who knows what else, the knowledge of their dalliance will be in the tabloids, he’s sure of it.


Killian is frozen, not sure of what to do, but even if he were, he knows he’s run out of time when Emma yawns and turns on her back, slowly blinking her eyes open. She looks at him blearily, catching him staring at her.


“What?” she asks, her voice cracked with sleep. 


Killian says nothing and waits for it to click. 


She blinks a couple of times, still half-asleep. “Killian?” Her brows furrow, her brain finally catching up as he offers a weak smile. 


“Morning, love.”


Emma’s eyes widen and she bolts up so fast, she becomes dizzy, her hand flying to her forehead, a groan spilling from her lips as the blanket falls from her chest. “Why are you in my bed?” 


Being the gentleman Killian is, he turns his head, looking away from her bra-encased breasts and hands her the blanket to cover her chest. 


“Thanks. Why are you here?” she demands again. 


He looks at her again once she is properly covered, and shrugs in defeat. “I don’t remember.”


“Oh,” Emma mutters, rubbing the sleep from her eyes.


“Do... um... do you remember anything from last night?”


Emma nods, sending Killian’s heart into his throat. It’s the moment of truth, or so he thinks. “Yeah, I remember saying something along the lines of ‘sure, Mary Margeret, another round of tequila shots sounds like a fantastic idea,’ ” Emma mutters sarcastically, rolling her eyes at herself. 


She’s completely adorable, and Killian can’t help the smile tugging at his lips. Emma is stunning when she's performing—her hair, her clothing, her makeup, the way she plays piano effortlessly and brilliantly, and the way her angelic voice fills the stage—but now he is seeing her at her most vulnerable and natural state, her hair disheveled, blush spreading across her cheeks, and she might be more stunning now than he’s ever seen her.


“Well maybe someone else knows what happened?”


“Not sure, but if something did…” Killian's voice cracks as he faces her once again, looking at her with sincere apology, “if I were less than a gentleman, I am sorry, Emma.”


She waves his words off. “If anything happened, I was just as much to blame as you.”


Killian cocks a brow. “And how can you be so sure?” 


Emma laughs, the redness in her cheeks deepening as she keeps the sheet secured over her chest and bends down to grab her shirt and pull it over her head, tugging the hem to her waist. “Because I know me. I mean, it’s not like you’re ugly, and you’re even hotter when I’m inebriated... or so I can imagine.”


“You think I’m hot?” he teases with a smug grin.


Once again, Emma rolls her eyes, but this time it’s at him as she picks up his jeans and chucks them at him. “Just put your pants on.”


“As you wish.”


They check each trash can for condoms or any kind of sign indicating what had happened last night but come up with nothing. Then they take separate showers and leave the hotel room with their luggage, which Killian carries, along with the burning question—did they or didn't they?