Kate isn't sure what's possessing her, what this pounding, dangerous feeling running in her veins is; but somehow it's stronger than her doubts, her misgivings. It's something that has been building inside her for the last three years, a beast that gained strength and now demands to be let out.
Castle's hand is warm against hers, his palm a little sweaty, and she can hear his startled intake of air when she starts guiding him back to the bedroom, like he can't quite believe that it's happening.
.
-and he can't believe this is happening. Kate nudges him into the room and he slowly runs out of speed in the middle of the floor, his heart pounding so loudly he can't hear his own ragged breathing. He wants to ask if she's sure, certain, but his throat closes up.
He can't ask; he won't. He wants this too bad, badly enough to be selfish and take whatever she's giving tonight. For however long she gives it. It will end sooner than he likes; he knows this. It will end and he'll have to figure out how to live with less. But for now-
.
She lets go of him to close the door behind them, leans into it briefly, for strength, for courage – or maybe just to keep herself from lunging at him. Her mind is swarming with thoughts and questions and emotions, none of them lingering long enough for her to identify them; but it all goes quiet when she turns to Castle.
He's looking at her expectantly, concern etched on his face like he's afraid to hope, and Kate finds her mouth dry, her tongue a dead thing in her mouth. She can't tell if it comes from waiting too long, or not waiting long enough; the solemnity of the moment weighs on her, steals her words before they can come to life.
.
-quiet. A terrible stillness in her eyes that scares him. She'll change her mind now, she'll back away from him. He'll see the rejection in her face again, just like it was when she told him not to call this summer.
He needs to figure out a way to survive her. If it keeps going on like this, with these small steps forward and giant leaps back, he's not going to make it. There has to be a way to kiss her and forget, a way to take her into himself and let her go at the same time.
What he needs, what he wants, is to-
.
"Take off your shirt," she says at last, not even caring that she sounds breathless.
She has to do something, has to keep them from sinking any deeper into that silence, the dark, icy depths of it.
.
-oh God, she . . .
Here she is. Still here. And she wants his shirt off.
Anything you want, Kate-
.
She loves catching the glimpse of wild arousal that surges in his blue eyes as he stares into her, then slowly complies. Her heart is doing a trapeze number, swinging restlessly and crashing against her ribs at regular intervals, but Kate doesn't even consider walking out on him.
She watches - can't do anything else but watch, really - as he reveals his broad chest, the skin a little darker than she'd have expected (consequence of his summer in the Hamptons?), the smooth lines of his abs.
.
-yeah, slowly. Just like that. He's in awe of the way her tongue touches her top lip, unconsciously, the way her eyes flare. She's devouring him with a look, hot and heavy as he slowly tugs his shirt from his head, shaking the hair out of his eyes to watch her, his heart stuttering-
.
The shirt ends up on the floor, and before she even knows it, Kate is moving, anxious to press her lips to his heart, to listen to its steady beat, drink in his warmth.
Castle doesn't move, lets her kiss his chest, gentle but more and more purposeful as she goes, gets down on one knee to flick her tongue at his navel. He shivers, hard, the hand that he's been resting at her neck clutching around her hair. Even then, she can feel his resolve, his determination not to push her, the same thing that she felt back on the couch, when he stopped kissing her.
When he tried to step back. For her sake.
If she needed any more proof of the strength of that man's love for her, she has it now. And it's more than time to do something about it.
.
-oh that mouth. He can't think. Can't. . .
Where is she going? N-n-no. Not tonight, now? Not. . .he'll never survive if she keeps going, if he doesn't get to her first, make her as wild and thrumming and needy as she's making him-
.
He lifts her back on her feet, something dark dancing in his eyes, and she wonders where he thought she was going next. A smile curves her lips, a proud little grin that she cannot contain, entirely due to her shiny new knowledge of what she can do to him.
It's one thing to suspect it, a very different thing to *know* it.
"Your turn," he murmurs, his voice husky, too sexy for his own good.
She arches an eyebrow, and he nods at her shirt. Ah. Fair enough.
.
-off. Now. He needs to touch her, needs his hands against her skin. He has to master this urgency and tame it, make it as soft as her, make it good for her, so that she can't forget, can't deny it, can't do anything other than mewl and whimper for more.
He wants to make her cling, make her weak, make her love him-
.
In one swift move, she peels the tank top off her skin, trying to decide if she's glad that she's kept her bra on. It's dark, and simple, with only a bit of lace; but the look in Castle's eyes, ablaze, so intense, convinces her that it really doesn't matter.
.
-just too good. Ah, Kate.
He drops his hands. Navy scraps of material framing her body, holding her, an edge of lace that takes his breath away. He wants to map her skin, learn every valley and ridge, trace it out to the edges, come back for more.
He steps closer, drawn to the fire, his chest rising raggedly. He's determined to make this good, make it right. He's determined to slow this down and make it last, in case it has to last him as well-
.
They're standing so close. She thinks that she can feel the heat rolling off him, but maybe it comes from her own body - impossible to tell.
He tugs on her forearms, aligns her with him, their noses, their chests, their hips touching. He teases her, a touch of his lips, a touch of his tongue, refusing her his mouth when she tries to take it. She sees the teasing light on his face, the easy smile, and it only makes her long for his kiss, burn harder.
.
-last. He brushes his mouth lightly along the apple of her cheek, grazes her temple. He hovers over the beauty mark just below her eye, traces a line to the one below her cheekbone, angles for her jaw, circumnavigating the wide, yearning landscape of her face-
.
And then he does kiss her, hauntingly slow, a detailed exploration like he's taking the measurements of her mouth for some experiment. It itches inside her, the need to set fire to this, throw his care out the window, seek the passionate man she fell in love with. But she refrains, because she's also aware that this infuriatingly lazy pace is doing things to her.
Deep, dark things.
.
-lifitng his head, and he sees her eyes: feral, dark, fathomless. His stomach clenches, his hips jerk towards her; now, he needs her now-
.
When he finally loses the battle for control, and his teeth graze her lower lip in a renewed, unbridled assault, she wraps one of her legs around his, claws a hand at his back. If she's leaving marks, she doesn't care. It's proof, and commitment.
She will claim what's hers.
.
-the scrape of her fingers at his back, the lock of her leg as if to knock him down. He's good with that. He wants her all over him, wants to be over her, wants to do terrible, good, deep, lasting things to her. . .
The thudding of his heart brings the pulse of need to his mouth, rich and aware; she tastes like coffee and a dark night, she tastes like the way she smells, so so good.
He has to slow it down again, he *has* to control this. He needs to make this good, and right, and excruciating for her, so that she never wants him to stop-
.
When he breaks contact to feather her collarbone with kisses, run his tongue across the hollow of her neck, Kate moans, arches.
"Rick," she pants, and this absurd feeling of gratitude springs in her belly. Among other things.
He lifts his head to look at her; the arousal on his face must be mirroring hers. There are other things at play there, surprise, delight - things that melt her heart. He seems to be considering something.
.
-says his name. His name, and something secret in him wants more, wants to bring dreams to life, wants to make it flesh and blood and hot, liquid French, just to see, to check-
.
"Will you -" He starts, then stops, shakes his head like it's ridiculous.
"What?" She wants to know; she doesn't want him to think that she'd ever laugh at him. Not now, not here.
He shoots her this piercing glance, straightens his back.
"Will you say my name with a French accent?"
.
-not kidding here. But instead of her laughter, instead of a slap to the face (both of which he expected, honestly), Kate's dark eyes dilate with a level of arousal he's never seen before. Part playfulness, part hunger-
.
The request stuns her, has her gaping at him for a second.
A French accent?
But then awareness sneaks its way into her, stretches her lips into a pleased, knowing smile. That's his fantasy, huh? Kate Beckett speaking French? Is this what he dreams about?
"Richard," she breathes without thinking, drawing out the 'e' sound in the first syllable, letting the second one trail off, since the 'd' is silent. He is taut against her, immobile, barely breathing, as if he's trying to contain all the things he wants to do to her.
She doesn't want him to contain them.
"Richard," she says again, taunting, making sure her hot breath washes over his skin. The effort of holding back causes his biceps to tense; she sees that, brushes her lips to the hard line.
She loves that, without being muscle-man, he still keeps himself in shape. To fight crime at her side. Her sidekick. Her partner.
.
-ahhh, he's not gonna make it. He's not. . .
He should've saved this for later. Her voice, hot and teasing, the breath of her against his skin, the urge to take her, take her, not let her have a moment's peace tonight, just have her, all to himself. . .
He should've asked for this later, when he's certain, when it's daylight. Because now, there's this tiny voice in his head asking him if this isn't the dream itself, if this Kate in front of him is the fantasy, not the reality, and if that's true, he's not going to make it, he's not gonna survive being without her-
.
A tiny sound of need escapes his closed lips. This man.
"Rick," she murmurs, elated, so dizzy with it that she sways on her feet.
He catches her, clutches her to his chest, a little rough, a little panicked. Like she's going to vanish any second. She's not, she's not: she tries to tell him that, her mouth at his neck, and tightens her own hold on his waist.
.
-trembling like a frightened boy. But her arms are tight around him, her mouth brushing magic into his panic, like sprinkling fairy dust with her lips, making everything okay again. Making it good.
He cradles the back of her head with his palm and curls around the long lines of her body, this woman he loves, Kate Beckett-
.
"Castle," she sighs at last, coming full circle, his beloved name finding its natural way to her throat.
And then his mouth is on hers again, and this time there's nothing gentle about it.
.
-All of her-
.