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What Emma never noticed before is that Regina is funny.
She’s funny with an edge, razor-sharp barbs softened with a smile, red lips and perfect teeth. Emma thinks about those lips maybe more than she should, and watches them when it doesn’t seem like Regina’s looking.
But Regina has spent her whole life on display, and she knows when Emma’s looking at her, catches her gaze, smiles that deadly smile. She says “Miss Swan,” in a voice like honeyed wine, and Emma wants to go to her knees.
She doesn’t, but she does hold tighter to the counter. “Henry,” she says, not taking her eyes off Regina’s, “Aren’t you supposed to go over to your grandparents’ house to help babysit?”
He blinks at her from the kitchen table. “Not for another half hour.”
“On time is already late,” Regina says.
Henry looks back and forth between them, frowning slightly in confusion. “Moms?”
“Off you go,” Regina say, and leaves no room for argument.
When the front door slams shut, Regina inclines her head, a delicate motion. “Now,” she says. “Emma.”
Emma drops to her knees.
Regina smiles like a knife, stepping around the counter. Emma looks up at her and Regina cards her fingers through Emma’s hair. The touch is gentle, and it sets Emma’s skin on fire, magic soaring in her veins. “Lovely,” Regina says, and Emma wants to preen under the words. She has never been one to crave touch or praise, but Regina brings it out in her, and no small wonder--the woman is sensuality and heat wrapped in grace and barely-veiled venom.
“Look at me,” Regina says, and Emma does. Regina’s gaze is hot and dark, and Emma swallows. She wonders how many people have knelt at Regina’s feet before, if anyone have felt like this, breathless, reverent. “Tell me what you want.”
Emma blinks up at her. Her lashes feel heavy, and she leans forward into the touch of Regina’s hands. “You,” she breathes. “Please.”
Regina’s lips curl. Her lipstick is the color of wine, something dark and expensive and rich. “The Savior, begging to be back in my bed,” she murmurs. Her teeth flash, sharp. “My dear, whatever would your mother say?”
“Nothing good,” Emma says, and relishes Regina’s laugh, low and throaty. “Regina.”
“Mm,” Regina says, and Emma barely registers the flush of magic before she’s on her back in Regina’s silk sheets, Regina’s lips on hers. The kiss is sweet, gentle, and Emma threads her fingers through Regina’s hair, feels the strands slide over her skin like silk. Her lips are soft, and she kisses Emma like she’s something precious, something to be treasured. Emma welcomes it like a blessing. She’s been kissed like a conquest, like a prize, like a habit, but this is something different. It makes her feel human like nothing else ever has.
For all that Emma goes weak in the knees at Regina’s touch, there are no masters when they’re like this, no orders. Emma has never found religion, but she thinks she could pray like this. She runs her hands over Regina’s skin and Regina’s sigh settles over her like sunlight, warm and soft. Emma cups her cheek and sits up, pulls Regina into her lap and runs her lips over Regina’s breasts, murmuring words of worship into her nipples. Regina leans back, offering herself like an altar, and Emma bends her head, prays with her lips and her tongue, closes her eyes and absorbs Regina’s sounds and scents and tastes.
When the tables turn, Regina takes Emma apart with her fingers and mouth. They live in a town of fairy tales, but Emma has never felt closer to a happily ever after than here in Regina’s bed with Regina’s hands on her skin. She feels twisted and wanton and pure; she feels clean and safe and treasured. Regina watches her with dark, shining eyes, and Emma draws her down and down and down until pleasure crests over her like waves. “Emma,” Regina says, just her name, and Emma closes her eyes. “Emma.” Soft hands trace over her cheekbones, tender enough that Emma’s heart aches; she wants to stay here forever, let Regina take her to pieces again and again and again. “Emma?”
She opens her eyes. Regina’s expression is quizzical, bordering on concerned. Emma smiles, reaching up and touching her fingertips to Regina’s cheeks. She feels like she’s floating, the magic in her blood tingling in contentment. “Yours,” she says.
Something very much like surprise touches Regina’s face, but she laughs, soft and warm. “Mine,” she agrees, leaning down and brushing Emma’s lips with hers. She smiles and it’s wicked, the humor sharp on her teeth. “Shall we tell your mother?” she purrs against Emma’s lips.
Emma groans, the spell breaking. She pushes Regina away and Regina rolls to the side, cackling, all of her cat-like grace and decorum gone. It makes her beautiful in a way that sex and sensuality never could, and Emma can’t help a smile, leaning over and kissing Regina’s shoulder. Regina looks up at her, eyes sparkling with mirth, witch and goddess rolled up in one, Emma’s personal place of worship.
Amen, Emma thinks, and she sinks into the sheets once more.