Chapter 2

Or he would stop her moving with his hand on her ass, except that he couldn't have stopped himself going further for all his Storm royalties. She's still fighting to take control of the kiss, still arching and curving and pressing into his chest and trying to grind against his thigh, and his fingers slip away from her ass and around to the front and slip and slide and glide between them and beneath the scrap of fabric and she cries into his mouth and he's got her.

She's drenched. He touches her intimately and she cries out again, muffled by his mouth still over hers; he slips fingers into her and it's scalding: he's so ready to take her here and now but no, not yet, not here: it's all totally out of control and he wrenches free of his invasion of the soft hot cavern of her mouth but can't stop himself licking wetly round to her ear and she writhes and mewls and he stills his questing, arousing fingers.

"You do so want me," he purrs. "As much as I want you. You'd let me take you up against this wall right now." He takes her with his fingers, and she gasps. "You've been talking to me with every step you take and this" – he slicks his thumb over her soaked core– "is what you've been saying. You're so wet and hot and tight and you want me to do this" – two fingers slide slowly and she clenches around him, little flutters and she's not fighting him for the lead now, oh no – "and take you right over" – he nips her ear, and licks behind it again, and strokes his fingers till she can't stand but for him pinning her to the wall – "but I'm not going to." He stops. "Not yet. Not here."

He removes his hand, and slowly licks his fingers clean. It's wholly obscene and utterly erotic. "We're going somewhere you'll talk with your mouth, not just your walk. You're going to admit you wanted me and then we're going to prove just how good it'll be. You'll be so wound up you'll stop pretending you don't know what you're doing and pretending you don't know what your walk says and you'll stop pretending you don't know what you do to me." He grinds into her again. "You know exactly what you do to me. Don't you?"

But he doesn't let her answer, instead plunges back into her mouth and fights her aggressive kiss till he turns it into her surrender; till her hands cling to his shoulders and her leg wraps round his waist and she is definitely not in control and not in charge – and not saying no or stop or anything at all that might not be wholehearted consent.

When he lifts off he simply says, "We're going back to yours. The town car's out front." His mother and Alexis have long gone. They know never to wait for him.

"Why?"

"Asks the woman whose leg's wrapped round my waist and who's been kissing hell out of me while I've got my hand up her skirt? Why d'you think? It's seriously not classy for the first time to be up against a wall in a dirty back lot." But if he hadn't stopped it would have been…and she wouldn't have made a single move to stop him.

She stares at him, scant inches from his face, eyes wide and pupils dilated, mouth swollen and damp; and bites her lip. He looks back, eyes hot and intent, still imprisoning her (not that she's trying to escape), consciously exuding forceful masculinity and an unspoken demand for her surrender. She's still not using her words, though her body is telling him volumes: all of it one X-rated story, printed into his frame.

But now she has to use her words. She has to say it. She has to say yes.

He waits, still fully erect where she's still open and pressed to him; restraining himself from leaning in that last inch and owning her lush mouth all over again; forcing himself to keep his hand from sliding back over the inner softness of her thigh and turning her into a hot mess.

She has to say yes.

She doesn't say anything. She leans back in and kisses him again, hard, rolling against him and taking control.

Trying to take control.

"No," he pulls back. "You want it, you say so, and we go back to yours."

"Yours," she contradicts. Oh no. Not at all. He's going to find out where she lives.

"Family. You won't want an audience," he adds with sublime arrogance.

"You" – she starts, which is surely going to include the words big-headed and quite probably asshole.

"Me. The one who had you right on the edge moments ago. You were right there. You wanna be there again. Or maybe you don't. Makes no odds to me." He creates a small gap between them.

"Like hell," she bites, still fighting. "This" – she palms over him – "is no odds? Feels like you're right there. Like you wanna be there again. Or maybe you don't. Makes no odds to me."

"Why are you still making a fight out of this? Just stop pretending and decide."

"You stop pretending."

"Me pretending? You're the one trying to pretend you don't want it. Me. Anything that might prove there's something worth trying. You kissed me."

"Like you objected like you're some shrinking violet virgin? I didn't hear you saying no."

"You weren't saying no either. You wouldn't have cared if I hadn't stopped."

"So why did you?" It's a taunt.

"Because I'm not screwing you up against a back-lot wall like you mean nothing when I could do the first time right and make love to you in private!"

And then he realises just what he's said when Beckett gasps.

"So just stop fighting and say yes or no."

"It means something?" she gulps with extremely unflattering disbelief.

"No, I always throw myself into death defying danger just for the sake of a quickie. Of course it fucking means something! So can you just hurry up and decide already if it means anything to you so we can take this elsewhere before someone finds us and it's all over the papers?"

There's a shocked silence.

"Mine," she suddenly blurts out, and frantically looks around the dark lot for an exit. Castle spots a gap in the wall, grabs her hand and tugs her through it, round two corners and whips them both into his waiting car.

"Where to?" he says. Beckett gives an address, the driver acknowledges it and the instant the engine is turned on Castle puts up the privacy screen and falls on her mouth again. There isn't one single iota of resistance – though yet again she's still fighting for control. He is not going to be her toy. He fights much harder and places a large hand high up on her thigh, feeling the jerk of muscle and her desperate response to his hard kiss. His fingers slide upwards and he'll turn her to liquid before they've ever reached her apartment, leave her hot and wanting; wanton – his.

The town car is smooth, quiet – and far too slow for either of them. Matters have become far too heated in a very short space of time, and a mere moment more would have found them in an extremely compromising position. As it is, they each need a brief time to – er – tidy up, and their breathing is rather rapid.

The door of Beckett's apartment open, Castle gives it one swift, all-encompassing glance and then dismisses everything but Beckett from his view. Not that he can see much of her. Most of his viewing is being conducted by his searching, frantic fingers and his hard, possessive mouth: one hand knotted in her hair and holding her under his lips; the other finding the fastening of her dress and loosening it till the dress falls and she's revealed: a tiny hot pink bra; even tinier hot pink panties. Somewhere in the scorching, frenetic contact his shirt has become undone; they're skin-to-skin; still standing in her main room; and he lifts her clear of the puddled dress and she wraps legs around his waist and he rocks against her so she moans. He lifts off just long enough to spot the bedroom and then carries her there.

There hasn't been a single word since they got in the car. There hasn't been anything except the aggressive war for control of the uncontrollable, raging desire flaring between them. Beckett's whole luscious body is talking, though, and what it's saying to Castle is take me.

He's absolutely answering her physical conversation. He drops her on the bed, flat on her back and standing between her astonishing legs, looking at her soaked and panting and finally, finally, absolutely not in any form of control of him at all; pins her down and ravages her mouth and traps her hands because he's going to stay in control of this; he's going to make her whimper and gasp and moan and beg and then she'll say his name. Scream it. Over and over till it's – he's – branded on her.

He tears away from her lips, keeps possession of her hands and moves down: not seducing or flirting but commanding: straight to the point and straight south; his hands over her hands holding her open for broad shoulders and wicked, wicked mouth. He loves doing this. He loves the effect it has: the complete melt down of control, the surrender to his ability; the tangible and audible proof of exploding desire. He settles, licks – and even through fabric she convulses.

So he does it again. And again, and her hands clench almost-painfully in his hair where she's wrenched them from his, so he pauses to strip the scrap of panties from her and return with nothing to stop him turning her to liquid lust. She's writhing; dancing to his tune and her mouth is only giving out his name, and he sucks and thrusts and has to hold her down again when he stimulates her knot of nerves until she cries out his name once more and comes hard.

He's naked before she opens her eyes, removes her bra without a hint of a complaint.

"You were screaming my name," he purrs darkly. "You liked that. Your body was talking to me all the way. Let's have some more" – he pauses, wickedly – "conversation. We can talk like this all night."

She's reacting simply to his voice. He trails fingers over her body, through soft soaked folds and back to small firm breasts.

"See, these" – he strokes over the hard points – "are telling me that they want some discussion. Like this." He dips his head and sucks. She mewls. He raises his head again. "Are you talking to me?" he drawls. "'Cause your body's talking to me." He plays with her breasts some more, and she writhes and whimpers and can't reach to turn him into the mess he's sure she wants to create. "I think you're talking to me," he whispers darkly. She'll be the melted mess here. His melted mess, and then she'll be his melted mess for a long time to come. She's addictive, and he's not even trying to resist temptation.

She tries to pull him up over her, and fails: tries to bring his head to hers, and fails; tries to roll them, and fails. Castle has the distinct impression that failure isn't one of Beckett's – um, failings. He also has the distinct impression that her inability to take control is leaving her completely turned on, and, dimly through the fog of total lust, wishes he'd known that three weeks ago, because he'd have hauled her back from you have no idea and debriefed her in the most literal way.

"It doesn't work," he purrs dangerously. "I'm not your toy. Pretending you weren't interested didn't work either. You should have used your words, and we could have got here" – his hand slips southward and she bucks – "much sooner. It's good to talk." His hand moves again. Talking is not the noise she makes. "Isn't it?" Another incoherent noise. His fingers take her again, thumb slipping wetly over exquisitely sensitive nerves. "Who are you talking to?" She forces out something completely profane. "That's not nice," he reproves, and winces as her nails score his shoulders. She clenches around his seducing fingers. "Who're you talking to?" He's taking her higher and there she will stay till she admits his name.

She tries to roll him again, and fails, again. "Not going to work." There's a thin, high noise of desperation, and she writhes and moves under his erotic torture. "Never going to work. Equals. I'm not your puppet." He stops, again. "So who are you talking to?"

She clamps her lips together. He leans down slowly, dangerous sexual intent in each line of his body, the look in his eye, and runs his tongue along the seam in time with the movement of his fingers, and she opens, instantly; despite all his intentions to make her speak he plunges back in and they mutually explore until he's so wound up himself that he barely remembers his name, never mind his plan to make her say it.

Just in time, he does remember, just before she crashes over, just before he takes her with all of his body and brands possession into her and on her. Just in time, he stops.

"Who are you talking to?" and this time, finally, she replies, answers him.

"You," she breathes out, but it's not enough.

"Who are you talking to?"

"Castle," she cries, and he rises over her and replaces hand with hard body and fuck, she's so amazing around him that he can barely hold restraint.

And then she scores down his back and he growls deep in his chest and the dam has broken because she's using her words and all of them are yes, more, harder, deeper, Castle, Castle! but his only word is Mine; and after that there's only her, and heat, and heaven.

After, the tenor of their bodies' conversation is completely different: despite their nakedness it's less blatantly sexual; a gentle discussion of comfort and cuddling and the necessity for her curves and length to fit to his muscle and strength. Words are not, as yet, in evidence.

He strokes softly over her skin – she's so smooth and silky, lean but still somehow lush, slightly sheened with sweat and the small marks of his possession blooming on her breast, her thighs. He can feel the stripes she's scratched into his shoulders: she wasn't gentle. He'd never expected her to be gentle, and though he'd hoped for purring contentment afterwards he's very surprised that it has eventuated. She's very soft, post-coitally, all her muscles lax and languorous, lazy in his clasp. He likes it. More than likes it.

But she's not talking, again. He pets and strokes seductively, trying to incite her to words, but all that happens is that she curves and purrs softly and snuggles against him. If it wasn't for the absolutely spectacular sex, she might as well be a cat, for all the words she's not emitting, though from the scratches on his back, she'd be a tiger.

"Talk to me," he murmurs into her ear, and nips it. She merely purrs again, a velvet noise without a single discernible word. "Words." She stretches, rubs over him, and smiles inscrutably. He's immediately aroused again. Her smile expands. Clearly, she thinks that she has the upper hand. Castle tucks her into him, his front to her back, and traps her there with complete freedom for him to play some more.

His petting and stroking becomes considerably more targeted and specific, but he matches it with dark murmurings, treacly tones to trickle over her: to seduce and slither through her synapses and pool and heat at her centre. She's still damp from the earlier round: he moulds a breast in one large hand, enveloping it, and deploys the other to run lightly between her legs and dip briefly in and out, stimulate the nerves there, push one leg between her knees to give him space to work her up and have her naked and gasping, squirming on his touch.

"Who's your body talking to?" he rasps into her ear, and licks that one key spot so she moans. "Who are you talking to?"

"More," she moans, and he rolls to his back and pulls her over to straddle him and slips slowly inside her again.

"Who're you talking to?" he demands. "Say my name, because you're talking to me." He moves slowly in and out, filling the tight heat full, and she's fluttering around him: her body talking with her legs around him and her hands gripped in his but she's not using words: she has to say his name. "Who're you talking to?"

"You."

"Who?"

"Castle!" and she's gone on the word.

"You're talking to me." He moves slowly, still hard within her. "And I'm talking to you. We need to talk to each other because this could be great."

"I don't talk," she breathes, provocatively.

"I noticed." He moves again, and kisses her, and lifts away. "You don't talk with words. Your body talks to me all the time, though," and he touches her till she arches to him and he thrusts harder and they fall into rhythm and come together.

"See, you should have talked to me before now," Castle says lazily, still holding Beckett close.

"Words are over-rated," she says.

"Hmm."

There is silence, for a while, till Castle speaks again.

"Even if you don't talk to me with words, that's okay." He kisses her hard. "You're still a brilliant conversationalist."

Fin.

Thank you to all readers and reviewers.

For those interested, the next story up will start shortly: No Flag on the Play.