This is a continuation of Chapter II, instead of a completely different ending to Chapter I.

Disclaimer: I cannot possibly own Once Upon a Time because I apparently require more than a week to update. :P

~Chapter III~

Belle closed the door to her modest bedchamber with a deep sigh. Alcohol and juxtaposing emotions pulsing painfully in her skull, she dragged her feet to stand before her armoire. She bent forward and removed her shoes and stockings, nearly somersaulting as the blood rushed in her ears. She dropped the effects on the rug, followed by her frock and petticoats. Hanging them in their proper places required more focus than she had the energy to give. Standing in nothing but her cotton chemise, Belle frowned at the nightdress hanging in the depths of the armoire, before deciding that she was too dizzy and exasperated to care about proper sleeping attire.

It wasn't as though the cowardly imp spinning straw into gold downstairs would see her, anyway.

She flopped onto her bed, shutting her eyelids against the shifting world and the anvil of disappointment sitting on her chest.

.

Two floors below, Rumplestiltskin slouched in front of his spinning wheel, his long-fingered hands clenched into fists at his sides. His boots and vest sat in a heap on the floor. He had been attempting to spin for the past half hour, only instead of offering a much-needed escape from the befuddling and alluring entity that was his housekeeper, the wheel had only provided a tangled wad of semi-golden twine. And a splinter.
He was seriously considering hurling the damned thing through the window.

However, that would involve bending over, and the dull throbbing in his temples threatened full uprising should he attempt to do so.

With a groan he lugged himself to his feet, starting toward his chambers...

...and ending outside of Belle's.

He stared at the polished oak door.

Had she truly meant what she'd said? That these hands, his hands—No, that was impossible. It was flattery, deceptively sweet words to lure him into a false sense of security so she could strike. But the look in her eyes, the way they clouded with disappointment at his parting quip...

He glared at his discolored fingers as they mutinously curled around the brass door handle.

If he could glare at his own face for peeking inside he would have.

His eyes scanned the breadth of the room, squinting. The moon was too high in the sky to offer more than a dim, gray dusting of light over the furniture. Slowly, he stepped inside. He had never been in her bedchamber before; at least, not since it had become hers. There existed between them a silent agreement that this section of the castle was her domain, off-limits to anyone who did not have her expressed permission.

An agreement which he had now broken.

He glanced around again, eyes skimming over the small pile of books atop the window seat, the open armoire, the heap of clothes on the rug, the curled figure on the bed. She was lying on her side above the covers, facing away from him. The curve of her bare shoulder shined faintly in the moonlight.

The imp's feet moved forward. He wanted to see her face, wanted to see the fangs and forked tongue that now undoubtedly lay in place of the woman's usual fair facade; only when her defenses were weakened by sleep would he see the true nature of the caretaker who spun such seductive lies.

He rounded the bed, and nearly jumped out of his reptilian skin upon finding her awake. He paused in his approach, his murky eyes finding hers. She did not seem surprised or upset or scared, all of which he had been expecting her to be. She merely watched him, her expression not so unlike when she watched storm clouds billowing on the horizon: mild and composed, with the slightest glint of anticipation. His feet continued forward, drawn in by those cerulean eyes which seemed to retain their brilliance even in the poor light.

His steps halted so that he was parallel with her head, which titled up at him. The bed was high enough that he could trace the soft features of her face without bending, if he had the courage.

He wanted to say something. He wanted to ask if she had spoken truthfully. He wanted to curse her for her saccharine words. He wanted to apologize. He wanted to shout at her for making him want to apologize. He opened his mouth, but the words died in his throat as she reached out a tiny hand and grasped one of his own.

She tugged so softly he thought he had imagined it, until she repeated the motion a little more insistently.

And he could not resist joining her on the bed, if only to keep her hand in his.

He lied down on his side, facing her. His eyes scanned her face warily, wondering if he had misunderstood, expecting her to push him away, disgusted.

She merely cradled his hand in her own summer breeze ones, softly running her fingertips over his knuckles.

Without warning she lifted his hand, glancing at it contemplatively, and placed it lightly against her cheek. As her silky skin filled his palm, he felt the Dark One's throne shatter, leaving only Rumplestiltskin the man, cloaked in the Dark One's scales but undoubtedly human, breathless with awe.

Her eyes studied him as he tensed, a small crease forming between his eyebrows. Something more intense filled her gaze, and she dragged his fingertips down the soft flesh of her cheek toward her lips.

Something akin to fear coiled beneath his ribs and he half-expected her lips to curl back, revealing a set of jagged teeth that would bite off his fingertips because he was too entranced to withdraw them.

He inhaled sharply—half in surprise, half in relief—when she traced her full, petal-soft lips with his fingertips, her piercing gaze never leaving his.

He wanted to pull his hand away, to hide himself from the eyes that stripped his defenses and burned through his walls as though they were made of straw... But her skin was so soft, and oh, he wanted to know if all of her was as sleek and smooth. He was suddenly inescapably jealous of the dim moonbeams that penetrated her cotton chemise, kissing each curve and giving her flesh an ethereal glow.

As though in answer to his silent pleas, Belle trailed his hand along the line of her jaw. Barely blinking, let alone breathing, Rumplestiltskin watched as his own fingers snaked over the feather-soft skin of her neck. He could see his fingertips bob delicately over the throb of her pulse.

Belle's own breathing deepened as she dragged the cool, callused fingertips along the angle of her collarbone. One of his nails scratched lightly against her skin, the sensation shivering down her spine and puckering her skin in gooseflesh.

Rumplestiltskin nearly groaned as he watched her shoulders shudder slightly at his touch, her burning eyes assuring him that her response was not brought on by revulsion. Oh, her skin was so soft, so warm... His gaze wandered toward her bare shoulder and he could no longer restrain himself. His fingers rebelled against their fair compeller and circled the pearly curve. Belle inhaled deeply, her eyes alighting with something Rumplestiltskin did not remember ever being directed toward him before.

Unadulterated desire.

.

Belle did not know what force it was that compelled her to invite Rumplestiltskin into her bed. When she had heard him enter her chamber, and then had seen him hesitatingly round the corner of her bed, she had thought she was dreaming again. But then he had approached the head of her bed, his forehead crinkling and eyes flashing with a mosaic of emotions, and he had looked so unsure, so completely at a loss for words, she had not been able stay the hand that reached for his.

And now he was touching her, caressing the length of her arm and shoulder with such tenderness it made her ribcage feel more like an unbearably tight whalebone corset. His inky eyes seldom wavered from her own; they seemed simultaneously wary and hopeful, expecting her to push him away any moment but praying that she only pulls him closer. She wanted to show him what it means to trust another, to abandon the defenses. And perhaps just as strongly, she wanted to slake the craving that had started hours (really weeks) ago.

As Rumplestiltskin traced his fingers up the length of her arm, curling them so his nails lightly grazed the skin, a fresh wave of desire drowned any remaining logical thought in Belle's mind; she jerked her arm away, causing his movements to fumble and his hand to fall against the side of her breast.

He froze, and she saw his eyes widen in surprise, but not before they glinted with the same heat that was coiling deliciously in her abdomen.

For one frightening moment she thought Rumplestiltskin was going to pull away, his talented fingers choosing the polished wood of the spinning wheel over her flesh, but then he passed a callused thumb over her nipple and the thought was chased away by a rush of warmth that settled, throbbing, between her thighs.

.

Rumplestiltskin felt his entire body burn at the soft gasp that echoed in Belle's throat. He could see her nipple harden through the thin material of her chemise, and the knowledge that it was his touch that inspired the response was enough to make him moan.

He dragged his hand down the length of her side, enjoying the way her abdominal muscles tightened beneath his fingertips, before snaking back up toward her chest. He traced absent-minded patterns on the satin skin of her chest and neck, wishing he could bottle the soft sighs slipping past her lips. He snaked his fingertips beneath the collar of her chemise, down the valley of her heaving breasts, hesitating when she gasped, and then nearly thanking her aloud when she leaned back slightly to give him more access.

He caressed her succulent breasts through her cotton chemise, circling each rosy tip in turn. When he moved to repeat the motion beneath the fabric, Belle arched her back; he forgot how to breathe as the supple flesh of one of her breasts flushed against his palm. He inwardly thanked the gods that he had chosen to wear cloth breeches that morning.

He kneaded the mound gently, his blood thrumming in his veins as her breathy moan met his ears. She clenched her thighs together as he grazed his thumbnail over her nipple, and he knew she was trying to soothe the same scorching ache he felt between his own legs.

He was yanked from the bliss of feeling her supple flesh beneath his palm by a tickling sensation at his collar. With a jolt he recognized the slender shape of her fingers as they ran along the base of his neck.

She was touching him. She wanted to touch him. He felt a sudden urge to recoil, to shelter her fair hands from the discolored ugliness of his skin...But the way her fingers clutched his collar and the pleading look in her eyes kept him anchored in place. Her fingertips felt like tongues of flame through his shirt as they licked down his heaving chest. Through the heady haze that clouded his thoughts, he somehow managed to find enough consciousness to resume his own exploration of Belle's lithe chemise-clad body.

They raked their fingers down each other's torsos, drawing abstract shapes and writing their names with a scorching intensity that made their limbs quiver. Rumplestiltskin's throat choked out a moan when his beautiful housekeeper snaked a hand beneath his shirt, running her nails against the plains of his stomach. She liked the feel of his skin; it reminded her of the skipping stones she used to collect along Avonlea's riverside as a child.

Somewhat emboldened, Rumplestiltskin brushed his hand over the curve of her hip and down the length of her thigh, coming to a rest at the hem of her chemise. He slid his fingertips under the thin material, grazing the impossibly smooth skin he found there. Belle stilled her own hands on his chest, gazing at him in anticipation, lips parted.

"You're not dreaming," he blurted out, cringing at the note of desperation in his voice. He needed to make sure she knew that this was real, that the regret she would surely feel later when she could not simply dismiss this as another unbidden fantasy would be real.

"Neither are you," she whispered, and he saw the corners of her mouth twitch slightly upward.

She shifted her leg beneath his fingers, and he answered her silent plea by sliding his hand higher under her chemise.

It took all of Belle's self-control to keep herself from writhing as Rumplestiltskin's fingers skimmed along the length of her thigh, fingernails scratching lightly at the flesh of her backside. She swallowed thickly as he languidly spiraled his fingertips along her inner thigh, stopping to hover above her sex. She glimpsed a flash of hesitation in his eyes, before it was quickly smothered by that dark something that felt like fire and ice in her veins.

He grazed his cool fingers over her curls and she had to bite her lip to keep from crying out. He repeated the action, tracing and teasing her. She whimpered as he slid a single long digit along her wet slit, and something softer, almost reverent entered his gaze.

Despite their constant attempts to flutter closed, Belle kept her eyes fixated on Rumplestiltskin's. Watching him watching her shudder and sigh at the touch of his fingers intensified the liquid heat pooling between her thighs.

When she thought she would die of need, Belle slid her hand along the length of her master's arm, covering his fingers with her own. She pressed his fingertips down, just there, where the throbbing and heat was nearly unbearable. He seemed to understand, and she threw her head back as his fingers lazily circled the marble of flesh.

Rumplestiltskin wondered if Belle could hear the hammering of his heart as she tried to stifle her moans at his touch. His pants felt painfully tight as he glided his fingers down to her slick entrance, inserting one. She gasped, and for a moment he thought he had done something wrong, gone too far, but then he searched her eyes and they glinted in a way that told him he had done something very right. He repeated the motion, rubbing tiny circles in that place where she seemed to need him most before dipping his fingers again into her wetness, reveling in the symphony of sighs and whimpers that floated out of her throat.

His ministrations faltered and he tensed as he felt Belle's delicate hand cup him through his breeches. He looked down as she moved her fingers to the waistline, her nails lightly grazing the skin there. Gods, did she know what she did to him?

He returned his gaze to her own, and his eyebrows raised slightly at what he saw there. Her eyes seemed to echo his earlier fears, waiting for him to push her away, to shut her out; he almost laughed at the irony. She slipped her hand inside, and as her elegant fingers curled around him he felt himself harden impossibly further.

She ran her fingers along the length of him, her touch as teasingly soft as a flower petal. He choked back a groan as she passed a thumb over the head. Her eyes bored into his own with such a delicious mixture of passion and tenderness. He wished he could have her look at him that way forever.

"Show me," she breathed, and he nearly came undone right there.

Breathing hard, he covered her tiny hand with his own discolored and long-fingered one. He tightened her grip, pushing and pulling her hand along his hardened length, a low groan rumbling in his chest. She learned quickly; he let out a low hiss of pleasure as she gently raked a nail along the underside.

Desperately needing to focus his attention elsewhere so this did not end too soon, Rumplestiltskin returned his hand to the soft folds of Belle's sex. Breasts heaving, she slinked closer to him so she could place her leg over his hip, allowing him more access.

Alternating between strokes that were brutally fast and then torturously slow, they mirrored each other's pace, sighing and stifling moans as they watched each other's brows crease and lips purse in pleasure. They kept their tones hushed, as though afraid a too-loud groan would somehow collapse the blissful bridge they were crossing.

When Belle's heavy breathing became a series of gasps, Rumplestiltskin knew she was close. He slid two fingers inside her velvety walls, wanting to feel the moment she climaxed, his palm continuing to rub and tease her clit.

Her hips bucked delicately, riding his fingers. Gasping quietly, she matched the strokes of her hand to the rhythm of her thrusts, so that it was easy for Rumplestiltskin to imagine that it was her slick canal and not her hand that gripped him so wonderfully. He had a sudden and insuppressible need to hear her say his name, to hear her acknowledge that it was he who gave her pleasure, his touch that elicited the beautiful sounds she was making.

"Belle," he grunted out, hoping she understood the request he did not have clarity of mind to voice as their movements quickened.

"Rumplestiltskin."

He groaned loudly at her breathy voice, laced with undeniable longing and ardor, and the sound was Belle's undoing.

She clenched tight around his fingers, her gasps turning into soft, breathy cries as she writhed in the throes of oblivion. Rumplestiltskin could not tell if his eyes were prickling because of the power of his own climax, or because of how beautiful she was as she shuddered in front of him. Chests heaving, they bucked into each other's hands as they rode out their orgasms, before finally sinking back into Belle's pillows, exhausted and panting.

They looked at each other, their gazes holding no trace of shame or regret. They allowed silence to speak for them. As his own breathing slowed, Rumplestiltskin's eyes wandered to Belle's lips, parted as she still tried to catch her breath.

He raised himself with one arm and leaned toward her. He mirrored her earlier actions and hesitantly placed a hand against her cheek. Her eyes widened slightly and then started to close as he brought his face nearer. He felt his own eyelids begin to droop as her soft breath caressed his face. He let his gaze wander quickly over her features, taking in the sweet way her eyelashes cast shadows on her cheeks, before halting his movements altogether.

He looked at his hand against her flesh, the skin discolored and clammy, the nails black and talon-like. He had been too drunk on Belle's compassion and kindness to notice the sickening contrast before. These were the hands of the Dark One, suited only to commit dark deeds. They did not caress the silky cheeks of fair maidens, nor did these lips kiss the petal-soft ones belonging to a princess.

Rumplestiltskin felt his face contort in revulsion, and it was then that he noticed the blue eyes staring up at him. Something beneath his ribs twisted at the brief look of hurt that crossed her features. He pulled himself away from her, opening his mouth to apologize or scoff or yell or—

She reached out and clutched a handful of his shirt in her hand, and he was so poignantly reminded of his son doing the same thing upon waking from a nightmare that his throat clenched.

"Stay," she whispered, her voice sounding as lost and desperate as he felt. And he laid himself back down before her, if only so he would never have hear her voice laced with that tone, the tone of a coward, ever again. She moved forward so they shared the same pillow.

They could not share a kiss, so they shared breaths. In some ways it felt more intimate; the air which made Belle's lungs expand and her heart beat floated past her parted lips and tickled against Rumplestiltskin's, before sliding inside and down into his own lungs.

They stayed like that, trading breaths even as Belle's eyelids began to droop. Eventually her eyes remained closed. Her lips pouted slightly in sleep, and Rumplestiltskin was again reminded of the only other person he had loved.

But Belle did not love him. She couldn't; she had not even skimmed the surface of his history, the people he killed, the crooked deals he weaved.

This was lust, infatuation, a mere consequence of their unique living situation. But the way she looked at him, as though seeing beyond the scales and quips and—

No. It was an illusion. And if it was not, he would shatter it all the same. Where had Rumplestiltskin's love gotten his son? Lost and alone in some foreign land without magic, his heart undoubtedly filled with resentment toward his monster of a father.

He let his gaze flicker over the serene expression of his sleeping housekeeper. He refused to see her face twisted in the same pain and disappointment he had seen on Bae's face before his boy disappeared in the green glow of the portal.

Taking care not to wake her, Rumplestiltskin slid himself off of Belle's bed. He futilely tried to straighten his clothes as his willowy legs carried him to the door.

He would let her go, find a way to nullify their deal. If she was smart—and he believed she was—she would see the darkness any future with him held, and keep away. Besides, the only reason she allowed herself to entertain a future with him in the first place was because she believed that was her fate, sealed the night she saved her village.

He turned in the doorway, casting one last look at the slender figure sleeping on the bed before staring intently at the glass of water on the adjacent nightstand. He felt a sad sort of satisfaction as it became slightly cloudy. The spell would not be strong enough to erase her entire memory of the night, but it would suffice in blurring it enough to make her second guess its truth, perhaps labeling it as just another unbidden fantasy involving the impish fingers that spun straw into cowardice.

A/N: Well, there you have it. Again, I sincerely apologize for the long wait. I do hope it was worth it, even a little. :)

I would love to hear what you think about this chapter. Your reviews have been so inspiring and insightful!