Bucket List in Paris
co-written by cartographical, Sandiane Carter, and chezchuckles
19. Spend a year in Paris. (Sorry, Castle - is a month okay?)
Kate Beckett stretches in bed, eyes closed, nearly humming. A yawn erupts instead, pulling her body taut and long, joints popping.
Someone laughs.
Him, of course.
"Hush," she murmurs, slowly opening her eyes. He's faking sleep, smile flickering the edges of his lips. She curls onto her side, draws her knee up against his thigh. "You have no room to laugh, old man."
"Misery loves company."
She smirks and drops a kiss on him, wherever it manages to land - oh, his jaw, that's nice, the rough burn of his stubble.
"I'm going for coffee and a croissant. You coming?"
"No."
"Riiiick."
"No. Can't cajole me out of a warm bed at only - gasp - Beckett! It's seven in the morning! In Paris!"
"Which part deserves the gasp? All of it? You are certainly melodramatic in the morning."
She slides her knee over his hips, comes up to sit over him. His eyes dart to hers, hot and awake, so very awake. She rocks back.
"That is naughty," he groans out, raising his knees suddenly to spill her forward onto his chest.
She grins at him, cranes her neck to get at his mouth, a soft and pillowed kiss that tastes of stale coffee, morning breath, rich and velvet Castle. Mmmm...
"Can't make those noises at me, Beckett. Not if you want your breakfast any time soon."
"Who said anything about soon?" she whispers.
And then she licks the sweet spot at the corner of his mouth, takes his lip between her teeth, gives a throaty, breathless moan.
His hips jerk in response, and then suddenly he's rolling them so he's on top, staring down at her - all dark eyes and intensity. Dangerous.
The moan gets him every time.
"If they're out of pains au chocolat," she threatens, tugging on his arm to make him move a little faster down the stairs of their walk-up.
She glances over to see him narrow his eyes, affronted. "In no possible universe can this delay be construed as my fault."
"I wasn't the one who decided to get - creative," she says, twisting back again, smiling at the half-leering, half-nostalgic expression that's lighting up his eyes.
"I don't remember you complaining."
She swallows, caught for a heartbeat in the memories of the slick of his skin against hers, the trip of his tongue along her thigh, the heat of his body below her and the thin warmth of the just-risen sun on her shoulders.
"You will if I don't get my coffee," she murmurs, but he must hear the husk in her voice, because they hit the landing and his fingers are settling at her hip and he's twisting her so her back hits the wall. He ducks his head, sweeps his lips gently against hers.
"Breakfast," she murmurs.
"We're in Paris, Beckett. The city of lights. The city of love." He emphasizes the last word by inching his fingers beneath the hem of her shirt, fluttering along the soft skin at the bottom of her stomach.
She can't help her sigh as she arcs herself into him, leans forward, stops when her lips are just against his and whispers softly, "It's going to be the city of pain and certain death if you don't feed me breakfast."
She makes him laugh. It's always been like that - he loves that side to her, the sharp, biting side that won't take any crap, especially not from him - and her comment about the city of pain and death just gets his mind working, sparking pictures of Paris taken over by zombies, the blood-thirsty creatures crawling out of the catacombs. It ruins all his masterful seduction, because he just can't stop snickering.
Kate smacks his shoulder, eyes narrowed around the smile that hovers at her lips; he grabs her wrist and brushes his thumb to it, slow, lazy circles.
"Not sure what's so funny about me starving, Castle," she points out, but she's already softening, the arch of her eyebrow short-lived.
He shakes his head, a little breathless, caught up in it - how beautiful she looks, her eyes so tender, so very happy.
He makes her happy.
"Nothing funny about you starving," he says solemnly, leans in to steal another kiss, absorbing her spicy smell as he does. "So let's go get those chocolate croissants."
His hands linger at her waist still, not quite convinced they want to move; Kate smiles against his mouth, hums, and pushes on his chest.
"They're not croissants, Castle."
"Hmm, what?" He's utterly distracted by the way her fingers fly to the strap of her tank top, secure it back into place; he doesn't remember it sliding down to begin with, but now he wants nothing more than for it to happen again.
"Pain au chocolat. That's what I want. They don't make chocolate croissants here; croissants are plain or butter. Keep up, Rick. We've been here for three days, and you can't even name the food you've been having for breakfast?"
So hot.
Seriously. He's staring at the line of her neck, and she talks to him about language and how he's not using the appropriate word?
Castle makes a snap decision, steps away from her, and turns to make his way back to the bedroom. It's a ruse, but he doesn't even care. He'll pay for it later, but he seriously needs her again.
"Castle?"
Oh. Right. How to get her to step into their room again?
"I forgot something," he says, pausing long enough to look back at her. "In the bedroom. You can wait for me here if you want."
But of course she follows. He might not be the manipulative sort, generally speaking, but he does know Kate well enough to anticipate her responses.
Well. Most of the time, anyway.
He swings the door open and makes his way to the open mouth of his suitcase, kneels down to rummage through it; he's watching her from the corner of his eye, and when she's stepped inside, leaned against the wall, he gets up again.
Kate shoots him a confused look when she sees him empty-handed, but before she has time to say anything, he's shut the door and pinned her to the wall in one smooth move, his mouth instinctively finding that soft, vulnerable spot on her neck.
She gasps in surprise, her hips rolling against his - oh, so good how she does that - and when her hands come up, it's so her fingers can thread through his hair.
"Do you have any idea," he breathes, kissing his way up to her ear, delighting in the way she squirms against him, "how hot it is when you do that?"
"Do-" she makes this strangled, wanting sound that completely undoes him, "-do what?"
"Correct my language," he says, sliding a knee between her thighs (he loves it when she wears skirts, because it's so un-Beckett-like, and because it makes it so easy for him).
Her fingers are working at his shirt and he lets them, too happy to get the fabric off. Why do they even bother getting dressed?
It's stupid.
"Anytime," Kate drops, her voice halted, breathless, beautiful.
He's completely lost the thread of their conversation, if there was one, but he hauls her against him, her top so thin that she's almost naked, her body so tense and ready, and yeah, yeah, Kate-
Anytime.
"You forgot something," she huffs into his hair, stroking her fingers along his scalp.
"Pardon my French," he murmurs, laughing to himself.
Kate slides a sweaty thigh along his, tries to pry herself away from him. He grumbles at her, tightening his arms around her, hauling her back.
"I gotta pee, Castle. Let me go."
He growls and offers a rough and sloppy kiss of his lips before he tries to dump her off the bed. She catches herself with a laugh, shoves on his shoulder as she walks away.
For a second, she debates shutting the door, then sighs and leaves it open. He might read too much into a shut door; he does stupid stuff like that. He's so the girl.
She stands naked in front of the tiny window in the bathroom; Castle found this old home with rooms to rent for the month, so everything is wood, everything creaks and moans in time with them.
She presses her fingers to the glass, feels the slight chill in the air; it snaps her out of the haze of love and reminds her why she's in here. Kate uses the bathroom, washes her hands, runs her damp fingers through her hair. Make-up is smudged, practically gone, but she doesn't even care. She no longer looks tired without the eyeliner, doesn't look pale and half-formed without the mascara and eyeshadow and blush. Not any more.
A smile pressed into her lips, Kate turns and finds him lying on his stomach, watching her from the bed, his eyes sleepy but studying, cheek mashed against the thin pillow. He holds out his hand and curls his fingers at her, beckoning, and she comes, can't resist the lure of him in bed.
He brushes at her hip before snagging her, dragging her down. She lands on all fours over him, a knee at his thigh that she quickly shifts, but he'll be bruised. Kate leans down, her hair spilling on his back, and lays her open mouth to his shoulder, breathing hotly against him, then slides a hand up his side.
He turns onto his back, grinning at her, hands coming up to tangle in her hair, cup her cheeks. "I really should feed you," he whispers, eyes that relaxed and humming blue.
"You should," she agrees, dips her head to press her lips to the scar above his eyebrow, the dent of flesh at his forehead. She gets her teeth at it, makes him whine low in his throat. The animal noises make her shiver, make her whole body flush.
He angles her head away, tugs her down to lie beside him, using legs and arms to keep her from rising up over him again. She frowns, gets a hand between them, but he's laughing and jerking back.
"Pace yourself, Kate. We have a month."
"Not enough time," she says slyly. "For all the things I want to do to you."
He huffs out a laugh that sounds choked and she grins. But he shakes his head at her.
"You need food. Hell, I need food, if this is what the rest of the month is going to look like."
She sighs, but yeah. Her stomach is eating itself with hunger and her caffeine headache has blossomed.
"If I get dressed, I'm dressed for good, Richard Castle."
He sighs in return. "I can accept those terms."