Portrait

By Dana Keylits

He was sleeping so soundly she didn't dare wake him, even though, with every fiber, she desperately wanted to; so abiding was her need for him. She reached out with her fingers and gently stroked his adorably tousled hair. She wanted to lean down and kiss him on the forehead, still so full was she with the intimacy and familiarity of their lovemaking just hours before.

Instead, she silently crept out of bed, slipped her naked body into her short summer bathrobe, and wandered through the expansive Hampton's house. The place had a good vibration to it, and in spite of her initial misgivings, the jealous wanderings of her mind that led her to wonder, and vocalize, how many other women he'd brought here, she felt immensely comfortable, at home, even. Or maybe, it wasn't so much the place as it was him. That wherever he was, she felt at home. Especially in a space that was as infinitely a three-dimensional embodiment of him as this place was.

She padded barefoot into his study. It was decorated much as the rest of the house, seafaring décor in blue and white, but this room had bookshelves wrapped around it, every wall, every inch of space, covered in white bookshelves filled with all variety of books. She ran her fingers along their spines, some were very old, some new, some paperback, most were hardcover. Her fingers made a thwapping sound against them, reminding her of the noise her bicycle made after her father had laced playing cards through the spokes of the baby blue Schwinn; a gift from her parents on her ninth birthday.

She smiled at the memory, so priceless were their faces when they surprised her with it. She had been so overcome with excitement that she'd burst into a puddle of tears, laughing and crying simultaneously as she buried her face into her mothers neck, trying to hide from the embarrassment of her outburst. Even at that tender age, Kate had a protective wall around her. She didn't abide emotion well. And now, running her fingers along the books in Castle's bookcase, the smile on her face fading, as it always did when she thought about her mother, because no matter the memory, no matter how happy, the unfathomable truth of her mothers absence in her life always wormed it's way in there, she felt her heart swell for him and she had to wrestle away the need to protect herself from it.

The only break in the bookcases were at the two large windows that faced the beach. She opened one window and perched herself on the spacious padded window seat, the salty sea air immediately venturing in through the open window like a thief in the night, swirling above the room, and then settling around her like a warm blanket. She closed her eyes as she hugged herself, her long legs drawn up to her chest, and then she sighed, the wholly satisfied, hearts content, paper flowers and butterflies, sigh of a person who was blissfully in love.

And, it scared the crap out of her. When was this going to burst? When, and how, would it end? She swatted away the thoughts like she would a fly, she didn't want to ruin this moment. This pure, perfect, happy moment. She hadn't had a lot of these in her life.

"Hey, there you are."

Startled, Kate turned to see Castle walk sleepily into the room, the heel of one hand rubbing his left eye. He was wearing his pajama bottoms, a pair of blue and grey vertically striped cotton pants that gathered at his ankles, but no top. The moonlight bounced off his bare chest and she had to hold her breath, so enamored was she at the sight of him. Her belly stirred.

"Hey," She replied, gifting him with a broad smile.

"What are ya doin'?" He asked, returning the grin. He was standing over her now, leaning his shoulder against the window frame, his hand finding a resting place on her bent knee.

"Oh," Her eyes darted out the open window and then back to him, "Nothing, really. Couldn't sleep."

"Ah," He replied with a gentle nod of his head.

He stepped back, his eyes greedily taking her in. "Do you have any idea how fucking beautiful you are?"

She chuckled, blushing. "Castle."

"No, I mean it," He replied, and then quickly looked around the room, searching for something. "In fact," he walked over to his massive desk and snatched the notebook laptop from the top drawer. "I want to paint a picture of you." He turned one of the comfortable blue canvas covered chairs around until it faced her, and then he plopped down in it, the laptop resting idly on his knees.

She rolled her eyes and dropped her right leg, letting it dangle from the window seat. "Castle. Don't you need a paintbrush, and paint, and..."

He raised the laptop a couple of inches off his lap. "With words, Kate. I want to paint you with words."

She snorted. "I don't know..."

"Please?" He asked, flashing her his irresistible grin, his eyebrows raised with giddy excitement.

"Fine, but do I have to pose?"

"Yes. Just stay there, just like that, you're perfect." He opened the lid of his laptop, firing it up, and created a blank document. Then he looked at her, he looked at her so intently that it made her cheeks burn, she cast her eyes down, her heartbeat racing, the fire in her belly spreading. She suddenly felt like she'd swallowed the sun, she was so hot.

She could hear his fingers fly across the keyboard, his eyes alternating between the screen on the computer and her. Every time he looked at her she felt it, as though his eyes had a direct line to that vulnerable space between her legs.

And then the typing stopped. He set the laptop aside and moved to her. Like an unstoppable force, her whole body responded, every sense of her on high alert. Her breath shallow and labored, she watched him watch her. He reached out, running one finger along her neck, slipping it just below the bathrobe. He tugged at it, "Can we?"

She gazed at him with misty eyes, open mouthed, not moving an inch. Her body had melted into the surfaces that supported it. The night air, that had been so comforting before, now seemed suffocating. She wanted to pounce on him like a lioness hunting her prey, but something kept her rooted to the spot, the cool surface of the window pane hard against her back, the soft cushion caressing her bottom, her leg dangling freely from the seat, all amplified by her highly aroused state, glued to their spots.

"Can we lose this?" He inched the robe down her shoulder. "I want to see you. I want to paint you in the nude."

A barely audible "yes" tumbled from her lips, and, as if in slow motion, their ravenous, hooded eyes locked, he unclasped the tie and gently opened the robe; he slid his hands beneath the fabric, she jumped at the touch of his hand on her warm skin as a shiver radiated from that spot to the ends of her, and briefly squeezed her eyes shut, she was panting, unable to control the in and out of her life's breath. He let the robe fall and it tickled her spine on it's way down, draping the seat now, instead of her body.

She was naked, exposed, vulnerable – and aroused. She leaned back, closed her eyes, and savored the exhilarating feeling coursing through her body, her veins, every pore, every cell, every follicle of hair was alive with desire. When she opened them again, he was back at his seat, the laptop perched on his lap, his fingers tapping a portrait of her with words and characters instead of paint and canvas.

And, she loved him for it.

When his fingers finally arrested their assault on the keyboard, Castle printed the page and brought it to her. Her body having calmed, consigned to a low hum, she shifted in her seat, giving him room to rest beside her, and then leaned against him, her back to his front. She cradled the page in her hands, and began to read.

She rests on the windowsill before me, perfectly framed by wood and glass, the moonlight creating a halo effect around her, which is fitting because she is one among our better angels. Her long chestnut hair framing her face, falling below her shoulders, tickling her collarbone, falling just short of her breasts, which are shaped like teardrops, her nipples like small pink gumdrops. I savor the sweet taste of them, my tongue remembers their shape as it curls in my mouth, longing for me to nibble and nip and sample their saccharine properties again; and then again, and yet again. Never satiated.

She leans back against the window frame, the naked silhouette of her body ablaze in the moonlight, I am drawn to her curves and angles, the slope of her hips, the rise and fall of her chest as she breathes in and out. Her eyes find mine and I cannot breathe, so startling is her beauty. She has stopped breathing, too, her high cheekbones turning a deep shade of crimson.

Her long lashes hide her chameleon eyes (sometimes they are brown, then green, then hazel) when she looks down at her hands where they lay in her lap. Her fingers are long, her fingernails short and perfectly manicured. I am drawn to her hands. They are loving and kind, but strong, she uses them to seduce me, comfort me, or when on the job, to save the world; even if that means getting them dirty.

She absently licks her lips, just the slightest flick of her tongue over them, and I want to go to her, to press my lips against hers, but I stay where I am and I watch. Mesmerized by the full sensual shape of her mouth, the rose color of her lips, the perfect row of white teeth beneath. Her smile disarms me, and like a newborn, I am compelled to always smile in return.

Her graceful neck reminds me of Audrey Hepburn in Breakfast at Tiffany's, elegantly shaped, long and slender. I have kissed that neck many times, and it takes everything in me not to leave my mark there, as adolescent as that impulse is.

My eyes travel down her sun-kissed body, over her perfectly shaped breasts, the sternum that protects the contents of her heart like a mama grizzly protects her young, her ribcage, her well-toned stomach, to that delicious place between her legs. I have been there many times, too. My hands, my mouth, my...

She has long shapely legs, that when they wrap around me I am rendered immobile, trapped, a willing hostage, because although they are feminine and shapely and soft, they are strong, too - and powerful, fast, fast enough to chase down monsters; which she does almost every day. Her feet, for someone so tall, are delicately shaped, exquisitely arched, her toes cute and curled, I want to suck on them. Someday, she'll let me.

I am struck dumb by the sheer brilliance of her, the authentic beauty that I imagine is the perfect embodiment of the best qualities of her mother and father. But more than that, it is the contents of her heart, her intelligence, her drive and passion, her empathy for people she doesn't even know, that makes her so lovely. And it is that, her inner beauty, that amplifies the stunning beauty of her outer self.

This is how I shall see her, for all the days of my earthly life, when we are old, and wise, and far too sophisticated to care about the mundane trappings of life and love and beauty, I will remember her as she sits before me now, naked, open, willing, trusting, loving. It is this Kate Beckett that I will cherish until my own body is nothing but ashes, my soul cast out to the ether, where it will forever pine for her.

RC

She paused. Holding the paper in her hands, breathless, stunned, unable to respond. She suddenly remembered she needed to breathe to live, and took in a lungfull of salty air. Then she turned to him, her eyes misty and wounded. This shouldn't hurt, she thought to herself as unwanted and unbidden tears brimmed her eyes.

Like the pony-tailed nine-year old version of her, she buried her face in his neck, crying and laughing and vibrating from the raw, intense, uncomfortable emotions that were filling her up and threatening to take command. He enfolded her in his solid, reassuring arms, caressing her, gently massaging his hand down the long curves of her back.

She lifted her head, through the fog of her tears she thanked him. He could see it, that careful reserved emotion she usually had locked down so well, now nakedly reflected in the corners of her eyes. He smiled at her, then gently placed his lips on hers, a moan escaping her lips as they met.

She pulled away, "Rick, I don't know what to say. It's, it's, extraordinary. It's too much."

He grinned, "You liked it?"

She nodded.

"Well, it's how I see you, Kate. If you give me a couple of hours, I can polish it up, make it a lot better."

"No," She clutched the paper to her breast, "No, I love it just the way it is." She smiled up at him sweetly, "I wish I knew how to paint, or write." She blinked. "Or sculpt, so I could do the same for you.

"You already do."

She raised an eyebrow.

"With your body. You're like an artist, every time you touch me, I see it. I see you, us. Not just in my mind's eye, but with everything, every part of me."

She leaned back, grinning. "You sure do know how to turn a phrase, don't you?"

"What? It's true!" He insisted, feigning indignation.

"C'mon, Picasso," She reached for his hand and they both stood, "let's go back to bed."

He held her naked body to his, kissing her again, their tongues meeting, exploring, dancing, feeling that familiar stirring. She felt it too and pulled him closer. "We're going to be awfully tired tomorrow, aren't we?"

"Sleep, shmeep," He replied,

She grinned. "Toes, eh?"

He nodded, eagerly.

"Mmm'okay." She agreed.

They chased each other down the hall.

The End