Chapter 3

He knows just how sensitive she is when he lavishes attention on her breasts, so that's where he begins: nibbling and kissing down across her open throat, her head back as she had done in feline form to show her surrender to his body and touch; down over sharp, prominent clavicles, slipping on to the swell of breast and nipping gently to make her gasp. She arches to bring them to his mouth, and he's pleased to oblige: drawing one peak into his mouth and sucking, rolling the nipple with his tongue and using mobile lips to tease the areola: moves across and does the same through the thin bra.

While his mouth is occupied, his free hand slips down to play across her taut stomach, flickering over the soft skin and lean muscle; the lithe form shifting under his firm touch; silent pleading for him to move lower. He smiles wolfishly against her breast and dips briefly lower, then returns to her stomach.

"Don't tease," she pleads.

"But I want to," he says. "You'll enjoy it," and he does. His fingers dip down, but never for long enough; his mouth plays, but never quite hard or long enough.

"More, Castle," she mewls: hot and wet and wound up and he isn't giving her enough.

"Maybe…" he purrs into her ear. "You have to give me something first."

"Wh-ohhhh-at?"

"I think you've been keeping secrets," he murmurs darkly. "You've not been telling me the truth." His voice is a silky, dangerous weapon, and simply its wicked, midnight tone is winding her higher.

"Uh – ohhhh do that again."

He doesn't. "But you've been hiding things from me." He pauses, simply so that he can slip talented fingers over hot flesh and raw nerves.

"No-ohh lies."

"But secrets," he insists. "Tell me your secrets."

"Wha-at secrets – ohhh."

He stops.

"Don't stop."

"I won't stop if you answer me."

"No-oh-t fair," emerges on a long breath.

"No fair you keeping secrets."

"You keep secrets."

"I don't," Castle says. "Well, except for the next book, but you read most of that anyway before I knew you were Onyx which was totally cheating."

"You didn't tell me you wanted to date me," she says, which is entirely not true.

"Did so. You kept turning me down and then you turned into a cat and cuddled up to me and totally stole my heart all over again and didn't tell me it was you till I'd told you absolutely everything I felt. You stole all my secrets and now you're keeping secrets from me." He looks saintly. His fingers move like he's Satan at his most seductive. She writhes and whimpers. He teases her till she's barely able to talk, and stops again.

"You like it when I do that," he says lazily. "Don't you?" She doesn't answer, being too busy remembering how to breathe. "If you don't answer, I won't do it any more."

"Bully," she forces out, followed on a breathy sigh by, "Don't stop."

He gives her just a little more. "Do you like it when I do that?"

"Yesssss," and the sibilant slithers from her mouth as his fingers slither through her.

"Do you like it when I do this?" and he bends his head to her breast again until she can hardly form her assent.

"Yes," she half-cries out.

"As much as when I play with Onyx's ears?" he murmurs, in the same dark, assertive tone as every other question.

"Yes," she moans. "Don't stop!"

"You like my playing with Onyx's ears?" he says as he plays with something else entirely.

"Yessss."

"It's exciting, isn't it?"

"Yessss – ohhhhh."

He traces fingers through her some more: slipping over slick heat, dragging dampness over the nerves and building exquisite tension, deep pleasure and searing heat, till she's forgotten the questions and the answers and what she's been made to admit already and writhes and pleads for more, for everything, and his hands move in, and out, and over; a repetitive, controlled motion, touching the spot deep inside that takes her right to the edge.

"When I pet your ears you're left just like this, aren't you?" and he's sure she doesn't even think before her reply.

"Oh God yes don't stop please," and he doesn't stop and she cries his name on a high note and comes hard around his hand.

While she's still totally lax and blissed out he simply carries her upstairs (and thanks his stars for gym time and weight training) and deposits her on the bed while he strips (which she won't thank him for, but too bad, she'll see him strip plenty more at other times) and waits for her to recover, with a very satisfied smile. One theory proved, in the best possible style. Even better, she probably won't even remember that she answered.

Now he knows that fondling her ears is blatantly sexual (well, he knew that already and it's the same for him) and that it makes her come, he is going to have considerable fun reminding her at a convenient moment. All he needs to do to follow up is do exactly the same about the brushing. Later. Or tomorrow. Because right here, right now, all he wants to do is take Beckett slowly, and thoroughly, and with all the power and passion and possessiveness at his experienced, extensive command.

He props himself up over her, sneaks an arm under her neck, and she wriggles into him with a wholly satisfied purr and drapes an arm and leg over him.

"You liked all of that," and there's a predatory note in his voice which she's not heard yet, though it coats her synapses with sex and shivers her senses. She squirms against him, quite deliberately, and he unclasps her bra and slides her panties down so she's as naked as he is and rolls her on to her back and rises over her, sliding thick weight across her and imprisoning her hands by her head: the knowing, heated look in her eyes a come-on in itself as she wraps her legs around his waist and welcomes the slow, powerful thrust that fills her: she's tight and hot and wet around him and everything he's ever dreamed of; everything he wants and needs: together they're all in all to each other.

They fall asleep still wrapped together, as close as can be.

The next morning the weather is filthy. The temperature's dropped, and it's sleeting hard. Playing chase is quite definitely off the erotic menu. Staying cuddled up under the quilt for some little time longer – simply snuggling – seems like a much better plan. Castle nestles Beckett into his arms, makes sure he's holding her comfortably, and closes his eyes again.

When he wakes again, he's alone. This was not the plan. He humphs. Not only is he alone, but the space where Beckett ought to be is cool. She's sneaked out of bed and left him. Humph, again. He likes waking up with her in his arms, or furrily tucked into the perfectly sized hollow between his shoulder and neck. And the sleet is still lashing against the windows, which means there is still no chance of so much as sitting on the porch, never mind chasing Beckett through the woods.

He showers and shaves, dresses and fixes his hair to be beautifully groomed, and ambles downstairs. Beckett is not visible, the panther is not visible, and even Onyx is not visible. It's very disappointing. He makes himself some coffee, finds a bagel and chews it slowly and dispiritedly. Beckett should be here. It's not fair that she's sneaked off and left him all on his own in the deep dark woods. He even peeks outside to the porch, but there's nothing there except puddles and the driving sleet. Not at all the place for a respectable feline.

Where would a respectable feline go? More to the point, how does – oh. Silly Castle, he thinks. You know how to find her. He shifts to panther, sits silently, and listens, and sniffs the air. He can't hear anything, but there's a faint scent of cherries flavouring the air, trailing towards a closed door. He doesn't remember her showing him that room – then again, they've been a little busy since they got here. He pads over to the door on massive, silent paws, stops just outside it, and listens with the cat's ultra-sensitive ears. He doesn't hear anything that's worrying, so he nudges the door with a huge forepaw and pads in, still silent. He's not sneaking. No. He does not sneak. He pads. Silently.

The scent of cherries is much stronger in this room. He prowls up to the bed, and raises his black head to inspect it. Beckett is lying on the bed, deep in a book. He plants his nose on her shoulder. She squeaks loudly and jumps, which is deeply satisfying.

"That was mean!" she says. He jumps up on to the bed and pushes his large head into her neck, as she so often does to him as Onyx. It smells nice, and the skin is soft, and he rubs against her and she giggles, veritably giggles, and wriggles – she's ticklish there, and his smooth pelt is tickling her so he does it some more and she squeaks and wriggles and tries to fight back and fails as he simply lies down over her middle and pushes his head into her hands because after all he likes his ears fondled too. Lots. So he is very pleased when she does. Very pleased and very obviously pleased.

He changes back, realigns, and falls on her, hotly kissing her, hands everywhere and she curves to him and suddenly she's as hot and fired up as he is and clothes are gone and bodies are hot and slick and intertwined and it's hard and fast and he nips down on her shoulder and touches her intimately and she opens and pulls him to her and brings him in ohhhh Beckett and then it's all the heat and the depth and his strength and her, always and only her.

"That was unexpected," she smiles at him, mirth in the green-gold flecks of her eyes.

"You didn't show me this room before." Castle looks around it. "Was it yours?"

"Yes."

"Mm. I should look around it. Understand baby Beckett and Rebel Becks."

"Knock yourself out. Nothing to see."

She's right. There isn't much to see. Bookshelves, with a mixture of children's books and adult books (far fewer of those); a couple of knick-knacks, the bed they're on, a closet and vanity unit. No posters, no photos, no pictures.

"I didn't leave anything here, really. When I came up after… after Dad, and after Onyx," she rushes out, and he understands that it was both escaping her father's fall and allowing her other selves time to play, "then I started using upstairs. It was… it was closer to my parents" – he doesn't miss the plural – "like it used to be."

He softly brings her in and hugs her. "I get it," he murmurs. "I get it, love."

He only realises what he's said when she stiffens and gasps and buries her head in his chest and holds him hard.

"I do, you know," he whispers in her ear, as she burrows in, and prays harder than he ever, ever has.

"Me too," she whispers back. "Love you too," and though it would barely be audible by a bat on the ceiling, Castle hears it and hugs her tighter and closer and never, ever wants to let her go. They stay curled together for a long time.

Eventually, they unfurl and clean up, which takes a longer time than it should. The shower was not designed for two and the conditions are rather cramped. The only thing for it is to stay very close together.

After another soup-and-sandwiches lunch, the weather is still vile. The cabin is cosy and comfortable, the book in Beckett's hands is absorbing her, the book in Castle's head is absorbing him, and they are peaceful together.

Castle finishes a paragraph, and finds himself devoid of inspiration. Rapidly and inevitably, this leads to him being bored. Equally inevitably and rapidly, that boredom leads him to mischievous ideas. This time, he recalls that he wanted to know about Onyx-Beckett-brushing. He can't play sexually teasing Twenty Questions again – she might spot what he's doing, which would totally ruin his affectionate revenge, so he needs to think of another plan.

Ah. Oh, yes. Castle is consumed with his own brilliance. He rises, wanders off and finds the brush he uses to groom Onyx, and returns.

"Beckett," he chirps, "Beckett, I've got an idea." Delighted enthusiasm is not precisely the dominant expression on her visage. More like outright worry. "I don't think it's fair that you get brushed by me all the time and I never get a turn." She looks less worried, and more intrigued. "I want a turn," he pouts adorably. "If I change, will you brush me?"

"Only if you're the cat. You won't fit on my lap as a panther and I'm comfy here," she says from her corner of the couch. "You got the brush?"

"Right here," Castle says, and tosses it to her, absolutely confident that she'll catch it. She does, picking it out of the air with ease.

"Okay, up you come."

Castle becomes the large domestic cat – he's about the size of a middling Maine Coon, which breed, he had discovered by a little simple research, does come in a pure black form. They don't have blue eyes, though. Then again, nor do panthers. He guesses that's just part of the magic – and leaps up into Beckett's lap. She oofs. He turns around a couple of times, and then settles down, splayed out, paws on the couch and body across her legs. She automatically strokes his flank, and it's just so good he wonders why he doesn't use this form more. The rumbling purr requires no thought at all.

And then she brushes evenly along his body and it is wonderful. Oh oh oh oh oh! Oh wow. Oh, Beckett! Don't ever stop. No wonder she likes this. This is arousal on amphetamines; seduction on speed; hotness on heroin. Ohmigod. Ohmigod. He's purring so loudly the cabin might collapse. More more more. He's utterly blissed out. On balance it's just as well she's wearing sweats, because this is all going to be hot and messy oh god oh god right now ohhhhhh.

"Why'd you never tell me it was like that?" he blurts out, back to human. "Being brushed is amazing and you didn't tell me. You kept it all for yourself and that's unfair."

Beckett blushes brighter than the fire burning in the stove, and even more hotly.

"First you don't tell me that fondling your Onyx-ears makes you come and then you don't tell me about brushing and you've been stealing orgasms all the time and not telling me," he pouts. "See, you were keeping secrets."

"I didn't steal them, you were giving them away," Beckett humphs.

"Not the point. You kept secrets. Unkind."

"How was I keeping secrets when I didn't know it would happen? I never knew petting my ears had that effect, or brushing. I can't pet my own ears" – Castle sniggers at the thought – "or brush myself, can I?" She has a sudden thought. "How do you know about the ears. I didn't tell you!"

Castle smirks evilly. "You did. You told me yesterday."

Beckett thinks, and then turns a fascinatingly lurid hue. "You sneaky rat!" she cries. "You unscrupulous ass."

"You like my ass, unscrupulous or not," Castle points out annoyingly.

"Now who's been unfair? You seduced me till I couldn't even think" –

"It was wonderful," he says happily. "Shall we do it again?"

Beckett growls fearsomely and then, totally embarrassed, turns into Onyx and turns a very sulky back to Castle, curling her tail around her.

"That won't work," he says in an infuriating tone of sweet reason. "All I need to do is brush you or play with your ears and you'll be totally happy and affectionate again. Wholly satisfied, I might say." He smiles in a saintly fashion. Onyx continues to present her back and ignore him in favour of some dignified paw-washing. Castle simply picks her up and plops her in his lap, intending to coax her into a better mood with some petting and brushing.

The flaw in his timing and reasoning is revealed half an instant later when he has a lapful of annoyed panther, displaying not just a mouthful of rather sharp teeth but four pawfuls of very large claws, which run in and out in a meaningful way in time with the angry lashing of her tail. Castle lets go, very fast. He doesn't think that panther-Beckett would bite him, or scratch – but he's not quite positive about that. She growls, and removes herself from his lap, and stalks away.

"Why are you sulking?" he asks. "You're the one who kept secrets. It's not my fault if you're embarrassed about it."

She turns her back again. It's very childish, and quite adorable, if you ignore the lethal claws and teeth. Castle wanders off to find his laptop and is shortly tapping contentedly, lost in the next phase of his story. Beckett lies down in front of the stove with her head on her paws and appears to be (sulkily) at rest.

Castle extracts himself from the realms of creativity and finds that panther-Beckett is sleeping: curled cat-like in front of the warmth of the stove. He settles himself beside her, and strokes, staying clear of her ears, and not brushing her. Eventually a green eye opens, and the panther's deadly gaze focuses on him.

"C'mon," he coaxes. "Don't be sulky." She bares her teeth, with the hint of a growl. "You know you are. Just because I worked it out, you're cross. You shouldn't be. Now I know it turns you on, I can do it with intent." He grins, as happy as a child with a new toy. "You know how much you like me turning you on."

His hands keep stroking the lithe length of lethality, not making the mistake of trying to seduce her out of her – wholly unnecessary – sulks. Those teeth and claws are scary. He has an idea, and suddenly he tucks his panther-self alongside her, warm against her silky-furred flank, pressing just a fraction; and then he nuzzles at her neck affectionately and rumbles happily deep in his chest. If he could speak in this form, it would be c'mon, be nice, you know you're being a little silly, love.

She semi-growls, and he nuzzles some more, nips assertively at her neck: alpha-male of their pairing – and she surrenders to the cat rather than the human in her; relaxes beside him and there's a tiny, barely-there purr and a tiny, barely-there nuzzle to his neck and, though it's hardly a feline gesture, he puts a paw over her shoulders in order to pull her closer. It's awkward, and uncomfortable, and he stops: instead twines his tail with hers and tugs very gently till she nestles in and their fur merges into one sweep of midnight, gleaming in the light from the stove. They stay like that for a while, until she gently nips at him and turns back to Beckett to fondle his ears until he's hopelessly aroused and she tells him to change and then he's hers.

"My Beckett," he rumbles. "My Beckett who lets me catch her. My Beckett who loves being brushed and her ears fondled and her breasts kissed" – she mews softly, and squirms closer – "and my fingers touching her like this" – her mewl is louder, and his fingers glisten in the soft light from the stove – "or this" – it's a moan, now – "and loves me doing this" – he rises above her in the firelight, a dark shadow looming over her, and slides slowly to fill her – "and just" –

"loves you," she says, and pulls him down.

Fin.

Thank you to all who come to this insane universe and who read and, especially, review. Guests - I can't thank you individually but thank you all.

Upcoming in a shortish time: Telling Tails - a slightly longer story in this universe following immediately on from Toddler Taming. I'm sure you'll all excuse me the appalling pun. Eventually.