Deal with the Devil

He pulls her against him, lost in the feeling of her lips against his. He becomes aware of the point of his hook digging into her back, lets it fall away and kisses her more fervently hoping she didn't notice. Even now, even in this moment when he should be nothing short of elated, he feels inadequate.

Her hand grips his collar and pulls, fingers digging into the leather until it creaks. He goes willingly, gives himself all of her, and she rewards him with a soft, pleased sound that's part giggle, part moan.

He buries his hand deep into her hair, tilts her head just so and deepens their kiss, tongue sliding across her lips. He turns his hook to the side, keeping the blunt edge turned inwards, and wraps his arm around her because he can't not touch her. Not when they're like this, not when he can see the rest of his life laid out before him.

That thought had terrified him once, that sense of permanence, the idea of settling down, but it's different with her. Everything is. Except his hook; the cold, gleaming weapon strapped to his wrist. After several hundred years he's become accustomed to it, hardly even notices it, can't actually remember life without it, but there are moments – moments like this one – where he'd be ready to sell his soul to the Devil himself if it meant that he could hold her the way he wanted to.

His fingers tuck a strand of golden hair behind her ear and trail away down the side of her neck. He kisses her beneath her ear and she gasps softly, a smile briefly flitting across her lips. He tries to imagine the sensation of cupping her face between his hands, grazing his thumbs along the fine edge of her cheekbones, as he tells her in no uncertain terms that he is body, heart and soul, wholly and utterly hers.

Her hand slips boldly beneath the outer layer of his jacket, seeking warmth and new territory. It slides over his ribs and up his back where it tightens, holding him close. He returns the favour, his hand sneaking beneath her jacket to move in soothing strokes across the plains of her back.

He's never been more aware of the fact that he can't touch her the way he wants to than this very moment.

Her body's warm beneath his hand and her lips have a heat of their own, scorching his skin with each stolen kiss. Countless times he's dreamt about less innocent dalliances, of hands sliding up her thighs, cupping her perfect breasts, grabbing her hips and holding on tight while she rides him to completion. There are a thousand ways he would make love to her, but he's acutely aware that there is little hope of them ever being more than a dream.

Utilitarian though it may be, there is no place for a weapon designed to tear mortal flesh in the realms of intimacy and the thought of what he might do to her, even accidentally, is enough to make his blood run cold.

He pulls away with a weary smile and then returns for one last brief, stolen kiss before easing back and sliding his hand into hers.

"It's getting late," she says with a girlish sort of smile. Her eyes are bright and he's amazed at how that look of contentment completely changes her face. She's radiant and his heart thrums with pride knowing he played a role in it.

"So it is," he replies, aware of how rough his voice sounds. He gently clears it and she grins, shyly looking away down the deserted street.

"So I'll see you tomorrow?"

He nods and gives her fingers a light, reassuring squeeze. He'll be there. He'd be there every day for the rest of her life if she let him. "I look forward to it."

He hesitates, not certain whether what he's about to do falls within the guidelines of acceptable behaviour in this realm. The flirt in him can't resist and he lifts her fingers to his lips for a lingering kiss. Her expression says it all – kissing a lady's hand is not, after all, standard practice, but he likes the hint of a blush on her cheeks and the soft, pleased smile on her lips too much to care. He releases her hand and bids her good-night, then watches until she's safely seated inside her little yellow vehicle. When it turns the corner and out of sight he heads purposefully in the opposite direction.

What he's about to do… She'll read him the riot act for it, he knows she will, but there's no helping it. Emma Swan, beautiful creature that she is, is the love of his life and he has no intention of going to his grave without knowing what it feels like to hold her with both of his hands.

And so he'll make his deal with the Devil and pay whatever price needs to be paid because after 300 years of searching he's found his home and she's completely and utterly worth it.