AN: For N, who got my wheels spinning.
Thanks to J for the edits and to A for finding me the first two lines.
"You wouldn't want to join me, would you?"
"Actually, I'd love to."
He stops in his tracks. Sometimes that woman takes his breath away.
"Beckett, come in. I've got everything set up. Projector screen, projector, Mr. Woo is all queued up, popcorn on the coffee table." He turns and leads the way in as he talks. "Let me just grab the beers."
She smiles to herself at his enthusiasm and crosses the threshold. She takes off her wet jacket, hangs it, and dries her hands on her jeans. "Wild night out there, huh?" She'd gotten drenched even in the short run from the taxi to the lobby of his building.
"The perfect night for The Killer," he answers excitedly, appearing from the kitchen with two Coronas in hand, limes wedged through the lips of the bottles.
"Coronas?"
"It's Cinco de Mayo weekend, Beckett. We have to celebrate like the red-blooded Americans we are."
She lifts an eyebrow.
"As in highly spirited. Not, not..."
"Mmm hm." She smirks at him.
"Come on, let's start. I think we can get both in tonight. Here," he says, handing her a bottle and settling himself on the couch.
"Hey, how did Alexis's speech go?" she asks as she sits next to him. The overly large pillows taking up space on the ends of his couch leave her just enough of an excuse to brush her hip against his.
He turns to her, his eyes crinkle in pride. "She was great. She spoke from the heart. I'm so proud of her. I wish you could have seen it." It's out before he realizes it. Was that too much? Is he allowed to want his partner to share his pride in his daughter? The line has been fading from view faster and faster every day. He can't tell if it's because it's disappearing or because he just wishes it would. He waits a beat for her reaction.
She grabs his hand and gives it a quick squeeze, thumb caressing his knuckles. "I wish I could have too." He feels his heart swell. "You didn't miss much at the precinct, you know. Orlando's old gang took him out when he couldn't deliver on the job. Ballistics were a match. Open and shut."
He lets go of her hand to reach for the remote. She settles into the couch and when he leans back, his arm overlaps hers. "Ready?" he asks, giving her a chance to shift.
"Ready," she assents, staying put.
He presses play.
The torrential rain on screen mimics the claps of thunder and downpour outside. She shivers and tucks her feet up under her to the right and leans a little more into the crevice between the couch and his body to her left. As the candlelit church fills the screen, he swears he hears her inhale into his shoulder.
"Beckett?"
She freezes. Then, before he knows what is happening and seemingly all at once, her right hand grasps at his neck, she shifts and throws her right knee over his lap, and her tongue is in his mouth.
Kate Beckett's tongue is in his mouth.
A half second of shock later and he's meeting her blow by blow, nipping at her lips, one hand seizing her hair, the other sliding from her back toward her jeans.
He draws her in closer on his lap while leaning forward over her chest, trying to get closer, closer, ever closer to those elusive Beckett lips. Those lips that smirk at him so maddeningly. Those lips that barter smiles for lattes. Those lips that are trying to drink him in right this very second.
When did she undo his shirt buttons? But there's no time to think because she's already reaching up, sliding her hands over his collar bones, and pushing the plaid material back and down, off his shoulders, off his arms. Then her hands are gripping his biceps and he pulls back just in time to see her close her eyes. He flexes. He can't help it really. Can't stop every inch of his muscles from trying to leap out and get closer to her touch. "Castle," she lets out under her breath.
Then she's back on his mouth again and he's falling back, twisting to the side, landing face up on the couch. With Kate Beckett straddling his lap. Kate Beckett huddled over him. Kate Beckett's hands refusing to leave his biceps, her kisses frantic, peppering his lips, his cheeks, his jaw.
He might black out. He might black out from the things she's doing to him, from the scrape of her nails, from the roll of her hips, from the tang of lime on her tongue.
"Unff. Umm, Beckett?" he asks again as they break off one kiss. Why did he stop them? Why would he talk now? His mind is racing faster than his heart. Faster than the blood pumping through his veins. That's the only excuse he can think of for trying to use words when Kate Beckett is using her tongue to do that.
She leans back, eyes wide, looking just as shocked as he feels. "Sorry, sorry, I just..." she starts to scoot backward and shift off his lap.
"No! No." He answers. "No. Don't be." He pulls her head down to rest sideways on his chest, over the thump of his heart, while his other hand presses against her back bringing her in tighter, not willing to let her run. "Please don't be sorry."
She stills and listens to the pound, pound, pound, pound of his heart. "Okay," she says, calming her own thunderous heart with a kiss to the white cotton over his. "Okay."
Fin.