It was almost too much, the raw want that he was finally allowed to embrace. His emotions collided with the eyes that pled, the hair that dripped, and the shiver that crawled; after years of maintaining some semblance of control, he was losing his grip on it startlingly fast. Her carefully constructed walls had been well-acknowledged, but his had been overlooked, even as they had strained with the ferocity of his love for her.
Four words from her and they'd crumbled entirely.
The lightning spoke for him when she touched her fingertips to his face, his words incapable of capturing the sensation. They continued to fail him when she slipped the shirt from her shoulder, the thin strap of her bra caught with it, and he realized he was willing to stay quiet for the rest of his life if she would keep revealing herself to him, nuances of skin and sentiment alike. Sweeping her wet hair aside, he stared at the sharp slice of her collarbone, a reminder that she'd always be Beckett, even as everything else about her whispered Kate. It didn't really matter; he loved them both.
He eased her backward onto the bed and held himself above her for a moment. Before he could press his body into hers, she wrapped her fingers around his arms and lifted herself into another kiss. Beyond the hint of coffee, he was certain he could taste surrender.
The shiver that rocked her lithe frame might have been flattering if he'd thought it had anything to do with him. Instead, it simply awakened them both to the realization that she was still the victim of rain-soaked clothes, a punishment he'd never have thrust upon her, no matter her sins. He nipped softly at her bottom lip, a promise to return, before pushing himself away. Hoping to answer the question that lingered in her eyes, he smiled reassuringly.
Carefully straddling her thighs, he reached for her freezing hands and used them to pull her up. Then, taking them between his, he let his warm breath carry over her skin, stopping to kiss her palms before continuing to massage the life back into each trembling fingertip as she sighed with relief. When he found a way to let go, he dropped to the hem of her shirt and quickly tugged it over her head; her bra was gone in the next second. In his wildest imagination, he'd never thought he'd pry himself away from her topless body so insistently, but she remained trapped beneath the wet fabric of her pants and warming her was far more important than his need to touch her naked skin. He placed a gentle kiss on her shoulder, then eased himself off the bed.
A subtle nod of his head was all it took for her to understand what he was going to do next and she lay back down while he gripped the back of her knees and dragged her to the edge of the mattress. His arousal rumbled as insistently as the thunder, but he ignored both for the sake of ridding her of the rest of her clothing without further delay. He hurriedly removed her boots and socks, then she lifted her hips to allow for the slow burn; he was certain the rough and wet denim would leave an uncomfortable fire in its wake, but he moved as quickly as he could. Her jeans landed with a wet slap on his bedroom floor and she was left spread before him in nothing but her panties.
He knew he had to get her under the covers, but he couldn't resist soothing the goosebumps that resulted from her skin's clash with the cool air. It was absurd, but he wanted to kiss them away, let his mouth bring comfort with each exhaled breath, so he knelt on the floor between her legs and used his lips to chase away the chill. He forged an adoring path, with the whisper of words she wasn't ready to hear and his hands rubbing promises into her skin. His tongue broke free along the inside of her thigh and he heard her gasp his name at the sudden contact. Following the line of her panties, he eventually found her hipbone, pausing there with concern.
Perhaps it was just a shadow; the room was only occasionally brightened by another angry flash from Mother Nature and his eyes had yet to fully adjust. Still, he was afraid he was looking at a reminder of her earlier confession, a mark left behind when she nearly died, the beginning of a massive bruise forming just below the quiet cotton. But maybe it wasn't, or maybe he just didn't want to believe it. He kissed the darkness and chastised himself for the selfishness that had allowed her to remain bare for too long.
He scrambled to his feet and moved to pull the duvet and sheets aside, working around where she rested until there was room for her to scoot backward toward the pillows he'd adjusted. As she crawled beneath the covers, he stripped down to his boxers and joined her, years of attraction causing an incontrovertible pull. They curled to face each other, eyes locked and secrets shared.
Finally.
His fingers brushed against her check and threaded through her wet hair to tug her closer. They opened their mouths to each other, as quickly in sync in his bed as they were anywhere else, hesitant kisses being neglected in favor of tasting the truth they'd long denied. He rolled her onto her back, one of his legs pressed between hers, and continued to tease with his tongue while she bantered back. It was intoxicating; a familiar moan echoed from deep in her chest and he answered with one of his own, backing it up with the sharp drag of his teeth against her bottom lip.
When he broke the kiss, she began to whimper her disapproval, but he silenced her by trailing the tip of his tongue along her jawline and she grasped the back of his head in a desperate attempt to retain some sort of control. He felt her hot breath wash over his shoulder when he sucked on her earlobe, and couldn't help but thrust his hips downward when she dropped her hand to claw at his back. It was exactly the type of thing that would normally send him into a tangled and sweaty end to the evening, but he'd waited so, so long for her; it wasn't worth speeding up now. He returned to her mouth, slowing them both down and making it known that he wasn't in a hurry.
She took several seconds to catch on, or maybe it simply took her that long to agree, but she finally let his tongue skate against hers more languidly. It was a rare acquiescence from her, but it was a night already full of surprises, so he smiled into the kiss and let it be. Their bodies had found a gentle rhythm, rolling as one.
Satisfied that they were delightfully slowed, he pulled away once more, kissing his way down the long line of her neck and working toward the scar she'd bared to him by the front door. This time, when he was struck by her mottled skin, nobody could have convinced him it was an illusion of the shadows; she hadn't managed to hide the quick gasp of pain when his lips had touched her there and it didn't matter that he couldn't make out the details. It was clear that something, or somebody, had been wrapped quite dangerously around her throat. He stared for a long moment, then found a way to meet her tear-filled eyes, certain that his were just as affected. She simply shook her head and silently begged him not to ask any questions.
His mind reeled at the realization that someone had gotten close enough to choke the life from her and the acknowledgement that the experience had driven her there. He brought his fingertips to her neck and traced the bruises, finding himself swallowing back a lump full of both outrage and appreciation, and he watched her contain a sob of her own. He had to make a decision; they could either break down, weep in each other's arms until the sun rose again, or they could move forward, letting the darkness be absorbed by the storm clouds crying above them.
She raised her head from the pillow and captured him for another long kiss, and the choice was made.
One of his hands eventually fell to her breast, cupping it tenderly and studying her reaction as he slid the pad of his thumb over her nipple. Her skin had already puckered in response to the way their bodies had been moving against each other, but now he could watch the arousal flicker across her face as he slowly applied more pressure; employing a bit more force, he rolled the peak and was rewarded with a plea for more.
He continued to observe each slow blink of her eyes, the swipe of her tongue over her lip. He listened for the hitch in her breathing, the tiny moans that tripped forward from the back of her throat. All it took was another subtle change in the way he touched her breasts, teasing one moment and committed the next. Both got equal play – he was nothing if not fair – though he soon figured out that her left side was slightly more sensitive, causing her to cry out a bit louder, to squirm a little more.
Eager to catch the next moan with his mouth, he lowered his head to hers and got lost once again. It had been hard enough to let go after their undercover kiss long ago; there was no way he'd be able to stop kissing her after knowing what it was like to feel her heartbeat tap its secrets into his chest. Then she rocked her hips into his and reminded him that there was still more of her to learn. He was happy to be her student.
His tongue was still deep in her mouth when he began to sweep his hand along her side, stuttering almost imperceptibly when he came to the scar left by the surgery that had saved her life. It made him as outraged and appreciative as the marks around her neck, but it wasn't the time to dwell on that either. He journeyed on, reveling in finding her sensitive spots along the way.
Rolling away to make room for his curious fingers, he was struck by the heat between her legs, such a contrast to the painful chill of earlier. And as much as he wanted to touch her, run his fingertips through that warmth, he needed to find her eyes again, to catalogue the responses she couldn't possibly hide. Her mouth fell open and his name tumbled out; he allowed the tip of one fingernail to mark the route to where she so obviously craved him, sneaking his hand beneath her panties without another thought.
She was wet. So, so wet. And logically he might have expected it, but the reality of her desire, slick against his fingers, was overwhelming. Temporarily forgetting his intent to watch her, he opened his mouth and found her tongue, giving back as much as he took. Her needy whine made him refocus, and he began to move his hand, slipping two fingers into her without warning, then dragging them back to where she was swollen and wanting. He circled there a few times, pressing against her and noting the way her entire body curled upward in response; when he dipped his fingers into her again, her legs clamped shut around his wrist, a futile attempt to keep him deep.
There was no way he was going to let her call the shots. Not like that anyway. No, he was going to practice the skill he'd spent years honing: observing Detective Beckett.
He played her with a patience he reserved for the times that truly mattered. Each brush of his fingertips, each thrust of his hand, each twist of his wrist…all of them were masterfully coordinated to the cues she offered, however subtly. When her eyelids fell shut on a slow blink, he drew out the pleasure he painted into her skin. When her muscles fluttered around him, he curled his fingers and pull back with a teasing smirk. And when she gasped, moaned and cried, he rubbed, grazed, and rolled.
With her positioned so perfectly beneath him, it was easy to feel the building tension thrumming through her body, the way her muscles tightened in anticipation of her release. She pled, desperation pouring from her mouth and eyes both. Wanting nothing more than to fulfill that need, he gave her everything she demanded.
The lightning struck again, illuminating her face as she came, the bright flash almost causing her features to freeze for a flawless moment in time. In the seconds that followed, he let the thunder hide his incessant chants of love, her name a vow lost in the ongoing sound. She was stunning and no series of books could have adequately contained the enormity of his love for her. He kept his hand moving through it all, withdrawing it only when he knew she was ready to ease her way back.
When she was finally capable of a shy smile, he leaned down to grace it with a kiss. Then, with the same contradictory blend of hesitance and certainty that she had showed when she'd reached for him earlier in the evening, he brought his hand up to her face and traced her lower lip with his fingertip. She opened to him immediately, pulling his fingers into her mouth with a wicked tongue and sucking them clean. The visual was nearly irresistible, but he took a deep breath and chased his fingers with another kiss, hungry for the flavor he'd yet to taste.
His attention was drawn away from her lips by the promising scratch of her nails, his nerves crackling with new awareness at each point of contact; she etched lines in his scalp, the curve of his shoulder, the too-soft plane of his stomach. Then he allowed her to watch the relief play across his features when she pulled him free of his boxers and wrapped her thin fingers around his length, grateful for the coolness of her palm against him. She looked pleased, maybe a bit curious, and he committed her expression to memory, the incredible calm she possessed even as they continued to tiptoe along this precipice. Everything was changing, but her hand was steady. She was steady.
He had been for years.
She began to stroke him, her pressure practiced and perfect, and he struggled to keep his eyes on her as the heat of his arousal swirled insistently. It was too much, too fast, but there was no way he would have been able to stop it; he'd seen that intensity, was familiar with her relentless pursuits, both good and bad. Maybe she'd loosened her grip on one quest before she showed up at his door, but it was obvious that she had no intention of doing the same with him. His forehead dropped to hers, his breathing labored, and she whispered encouragement into the sliver of space between them.
I'm glad I'm here.
You feel so good.
You watched me.
Let me watch you.
Her name was drawn out in a lengthy groan when he spilled onto her hand, and before he could thank her or apologize or cry or propose, she kissed him, all soft lips and careful tongue. He let his eyes stay closed for the first time all night, a new sense taking over as he fell victim to her touch. Though he realized they'd have to separate eventually, neither seemed eager to breathe on their own yet; he simply wrapped her in his arms and held her close. There was no hurry.
He couldn't help but smile against her mouth, amused by the restraint that had gone undiscussed but beautifully executed. It certainly wasn't how he had imagined their first night together, but perhaps they weren't ready for their last first time. Or maybe they'd silently agreed that the clear skies of the morning would lighten the solemnity of that final step. Whatever the reason, it didn't matter. Whatever obstacles there had been, they'd led her here. And whatever difficulties they still had to face, they'd do it together.
Those weren't the frivolous reflections of a heartbroken dreamer, they were the final chapters of a novel he'd yet to write.
As always, thank you so much for reading!