Prompt: Angry make-up sex
Originally submitted as a fill for Summer '14 Kink Meme.
The moment the smell hits her nose, she recognizes it for exactly what it is. It's rolling off him in waves as his large hands grip her waist and shoulder none-too-gently. She's smelled it on lovers, suspects, perfect strangers, musky and shadow-stung and seething. It makes her shiver, and probably every other female in the vicinity too, even if they're far too out of touch with their senses to understand what it is, let alone why.
Jealousy.
He's twitching with irritation and dominance, but his poker face is legendary and he lives up to his reputation. Outwardly, there's nothing unusual about their interactions. He smiles for the camera, parades her around like his prized possession. Castle introduces her to his writer friends who shoot him none-subtle looks that say 'you lucky dog,' showing off to everybody the "real" Nikki Heat. The Nikki he's about to abandon in favor of writing glorified fanfiction about a British Spy whose sell-by date is well past expired.
Not if she can help it.
If there's nothing more to Nikki Heat, nothing more to her that he can pump for inspiration, then why did he erupt with fuming energy and festering jealousy when she flirted and played with the lapels on the cheap suit of some publishing wannabe with an empty, pretty face? He skulked on the periphery of the party, eyes boring into her with rage and want, his expression rather like a child whose favorite toy has been taken. She feels like a toy tonight. A pretty, pretty toy, all dolled up for him, and it's taken her this effort to get him to play with her.
She wants him to play with her. Part of her still screams that starting something with the likes of Castle is a bad idea, but a part growing bigger and brighter each day says it's not. In fact, it's a very, very good idea, even though it scares her half to death to admit it. She's tried dropping hints, tried pushing him a little in return for all the times he used to push her, but he never seems to quite believe her attempts are what they seem. She's trained him too well, since she accepted him back after his push into her mother's case. He's been on his best behaviour and she's frankly tired of it. The suggestive comments that once flowed freely between them are toned down, he doesn't look for excuse to touch her. Castle needs a lesson, and if he's smart, he'll only need to learn it once.
Her fingers played the hem of her dress as she smiled big and bright for a photographer who'd forgotten all about taking pictures and was intently focused on the extra two inches of thigh she was showing. That's when the first chain on Castle's control gave. She saw it snap in his eyes, something less tame one step closer to being freed.
And here they are, posing pretty with snake-oil smiles for the press. The musk of his mood comes stronger, a fresh wetness coating her thighs over the marks of what resulted from their heated argument hours earlier. The hand on her waist squeezes menacingly, as hard as he can push it without risk of someone noticing it.
When they're dismissed from press duties and he maneuvers her off to the corner of the party, his shoulders rolling in a manner she's not seen before of her unconventional partner. It's predatory, animalistic, raw and ravaging, and she can't get enough of this. She takes the opportunity as she sees it.
"Like my dress, Castle?" she simpers, widening her eyes and brushing his arm with her shoulder, surreptitiously inhaling that addictive musk, now tinged with not a little arousal.
"Yes," he snarls angrily, beast rippling just under the surface of his overhot skin. Kate makes a show of smoothing out her blue dress, one she'd selected especially with him in mind.
"Good. That means I've picked the right dress to match what's under it."
With a swagger in her hips that draws concealed and open stares alike, she turns back to the party, leaving him to pick her statement apart and for the realization to dawn on him of what she meant. He's an impressive thinker; it takes even less time than she'd budgeted for, because she doesn't get ten feet away from him and halfway through a greeting to Mayor Weldon before his hand closes around her wrist, dragging her back to their private corner.
"That was rude," Beckett claims airily, as if admonishing a petulant child.
"I don't give a damn!" he snaps, his voice stunningly flat and his eyes splintering, treacherous spring ice. She counted on jealousy, but he's beyond jealous. He's furious.
At the look in his eyes, she feels a spike of churning fear and another wave of arousal with it. Most of the time she can forget how much bigger and stronger he is than she. He's her plucky sidekick, more ready with a theory or a cup of coffee than any demonstration of his prowess. But she's seen it, here and there. Little flashes of exposition that say there's more under those suit jackets and dress shirts than mere writer. She's seen him throw a seasoned hitman around with the ease of a cat playing with a lizard. What those same hands could do with her…
"What do you think you're doing?" Castle snarls, temper roiling just as highly as his arousal. It's obvious now. Were her back not to the party blocking public view of him, and anyone inclined to look, they'd see the clear outline of an intimidating bulge pressing at his pants.
"Well," she hushes, sidling close enough to feel the heat in his exhales, let his smell envelop her, tie her up and bind her to his presence, "it's not like I'm a detective or anything. How should I know? You tell me what I'm doing."
Clever fingers find his thigh and scratch their way inch by tempting inch up to his straining cock and she gives him a smart grin to tell him she knows just as well as he does what she's doing.
"You're asking for it," his voice is throaty and tight, another sign of the strike-slip shift of his control, but there's a hint of a question, a tacit request for permission despite the fact that her fingers are squeezing his throbbing erection in a very public place with a half-dozen photographers hanging around.
"Are you going to give me what I want?"
She knows it won't be gentle. She's counting on it.
Fuck British secret agents. Fuck the book deal. He doesn't need the money. He doesn't care if they offer him all the Queen's merry jewels and knighthood. He's not taking the deal. He knew it, deep down, the second Paula asked him to choose between Nikki and Bond. It was always going to be Nikki.
No, not even Nikki. It was always going to be Beckett. Nikki pales in comparison and Bond isn't even a blip on his radar any more. Not while she's around. Definitely not while she's around him like this, pulsating fast-slow with unmistakably sexual energy, pawing his raging hard-on and making clear in no uncertain terms what she wants. She might as well be bent over with a 'fuck me' sign taped to her back.
Her little display of temper earlier threw him off, but now he knows what that was all about. She was riling him up, making him mad so he'd do something. Her own twisted way of pushing him, testing him to see if she could push him out of her life, if he'd go quietly or if he'd fight for her.
He's going to put up the fight of his life.
Capturing a slender wrist, he pushes it flush against him.
"Yes," it's the answer that's been on his whiskeyed lips all night, ever since she started this wretched tease, flirting with men they both know she doesn't want in full view of him, making sure she shows him just how spoilt for choice she is. It makes him swell with arousal and pride that with the obvious availability, she wants him. That all this effort has been for him. To get him to stop playing the gentleman and waiting for her.
Well, it worked. Waiting's over. He'll have her. Finally. He'll have her tonight, and if he plays this right, much longer than that. It all hinges on if he can show her that he's not going anywhere and she's not going anywhere either, that he's going to have her back all day long and have her on her back all night. Though only proverbially, because he thinks he'd rather like her in every other position in addition to on her back. He needs to make her see that there's no amount of pushing she can do to get rid of him, once they go through with this. That she'd have to tell him definitively that she doesn't want him now or ever and that there's no hope there for him, in order to make him go away. He'll leave for nothing less.
"We're getting out of here. I'm expected to disappear from these things anyway," he tells her, unable to keep the resentment and disgust out of his voice. At least this time, it'll be true, what they print on Page-fucking-Six. Hopefully not the details of just who he snuck off with, because that kind of press would put a serious strain on things with Beckett, but it won't be pure hype. "Say your goodbyes and meet me in the gift shop in fifteen minutes."
A visible shudder runs through his muse's body, and he can see the faint outline of her stiff nipples through the dress. Fuck. She gives him one last twist of her talented fingers and she's gone, off to do what she's told. Presumably. He'll find out in fifteen minutes, he supposes. Typing out a fuck-you in 140 characters or less to Paula, telling her in non-negotiable terms that he will not be accepting the offer, he blacklists her number for the night and puts his phone to vibrate as he finds his mother and tells her he'll be out for the night. She gives her son a knowing look that doesn't even embarrass him any more and says she'll make sure Alexis doesn't stay up studying again.
It's a good thing the launch party's being held in the function room of a hotel. It makes it very convenient. Not to mention they don't have to leave through the press.
He smiles and charms the young girl at the front desk as he books a one-bedroom suite, top floor. Requesting a plate of strawberries and two bottles of sparkling water sent up for them ahead, Castle graciously signs a copy of Heat Wave for the starstruck kid and saunters off to the gift shop, room keys in his breastpocket.
He checks his watch. Eight minutes. Gratefully, he notes that the elderly clerk is paying no attention to what's going on in the store. Certainly not a member of the press, or likely to sell what he sees to one. If he sees anything at all, besides his second-rate J.D. Robb pulp-pusher. Castle's idly browsing the magazine rack and attempting to maintain his careless air when she appears. A vision in blue, glancing doe-like and nervous around her.
"Detective," Castle husks, as if this were all a happy coincidence. "Right on time."
"I'm a minute early," argues Beckett. He chortles, genuinely humored and amused in spite of his lingering anger and desire to wipe the ability to think of any other man from her. She can't stand to not bicker with him, even now. He likes that about her. He likes it a lot.
"Do we need anything?" He hopes she knows what he's asking, and a sly smile is his answer.
"Nope, we're good."
Looping her arm through his and clearing the area outside the gift shop (always the detective), she pulls them out as if to lead, stopping only in front of the elevator and looking to him almost sheepishly as she remembers that he's the one knows where they're going. His turn. It's his turn to lead.
The ride up the elevator finds them at separate ends. Beckett leans against the glass wall and watches the near-empty lobby shrink below, arms folded over her chest. Castle counts the floors, all 49 of them, and the minutes tick by slowly. His glare at the panel is intense, as if stubbornly watching each button light up and listening expectantly for each tone will make the elevator run faster. He finds himself making irritating polite small talk while manning the control panel for several strangers who get on and off at random intervals.
Floor 50. He explodes. Hasn't felt this kind of pure sexual clarity in years. Decades, even. He knows what he's going to do with her and he knows exactly what he wants, what he needs, what she needs.
Manhandling her by her bare shoulders, he pulls her from the glass box and she has to jog to keep up with his bigger strides while his simmer comes to a boil again and he drags her down the hall.
He's still angry, watching her flirt with all those men was torture even though he knows it was only for his attention, but more than that, his arousal is painful and if he's not touching her in the next sixty seconds, he's going to come in his pants like an anxious twelve year old with his first pilfered Playboy.
Thick fingers become stupid with the cardkey and he nearly rips the handle off in frustration when it beeps and shows a red light. One more try, and perhaps in fear for its own safety it accepts. They're in.
The door slams behind them and he only manages to find the light to the bathroom, dimly lighting the entry to the luxurious suite and little else. The click of the lock is simultaneous to the press of her torso to an entry table, rustle of her dress, the rush of cool air across her ass and the hard drag of a zipper. Dress hiked up around her waist, he groans in appreciation. Kicking her feet apart swiftly so that she's spread and exposed to his view, Castle handles her roughly around her hips in just the way she likes. It's not something she'll cop to if asked, but she loves it, loves to feel small and played with and wholeheartedly wanted. She nearly comes right there when he shoves her further up onto the table, so that her high-heeled feet lift off the floor and she's completely at his mercy.
He wastes no time seizing the appealing thong she wore just for this occasion, inky-night blue and black with a neat bow in the back, and ripping it down her hips and quaking thighs with no proper grace or softness. The wetness coating her swollen cunt and thighs cools instantly, she writhes and tries to close her legs until a pair of fine sandpaper hands close around each thigh telling her exactly where she's supposed to be. A sudden slap stings the curve of her ass.
"Keep that up, Beckett, and I'll spank you full sore." The moan that responds on its own accord might as well have been an invitation.
"I'm sorry," she says, wild and entirely without sincerity. It earns her another spank, one that actually stings, and it's all she can do not to hum with pleasure.
The convex curve of his palm shoves its way between her stuttering spread legs and cups her dripping cunt, coming away a moment later positively lathered in her juices as more run down her legs. A moan reverberates from him, searing and humid and delicious. There's time for teasing and it's decidedly later.
Her teasing turns to momentary fear when she feels the thick head of his cock pulse as he drags it through her slit, teasing her folds and trying at spreading her. She knew when she played with him at the party that he'd be big, but... her thoughts cut off when he presses insistently forward, filling her, it's almost too much. Her sharp inhale stops him only a second, summons his palm to the front of her where he spreads her fluids over her clit and circles with thick fingers, pushing her to the edge of pleasure she's been on since their fight.
The thick, blunt tip of his cock fits neatly inside her, and her body reacts, a small eruption of an orgasm already rushing through her.
"Fuck, Kate," he uses her name, her first name, and she wants to turn around and kiss him just for that, "you're too tight," he groans regretfully, starts to pull out.
"Don't you fucking dare, Castle," Kate snarls, surprising even herself. "You pull out of me and I'm going over to that bed and finishing myself off in front of you. Fuck me, Castle, just fucking fuck me. I don't care if it hurts at first."
Whatever concern he had for her readiness is gone. He pulls out fully, just to spite her, but before she can make good on her threats, his hand spreads over her lower back, dwarfing her with its size as his cock spreads her cunt and persistently pushes into her, inch by throbbing, swollen inch. It hurts a little, but it's the best kind of hurt she's ever felt, a thrilling tightrope walk between pleasure and pain. She can feel every ridge of him, every vein and curve, the dull ache of being penetrated so thoroughly and, well, it's been a while. Fuller than she's ever been, she bucks her hips back into him as much as the position and her complete lack of leverage will allow.
Giving an experimental thrust and receiving an answering moan of pleasure, he rewards her with another, and another until she's all pleasure and no pain, and he begins in earnest. Establishing a punishing pace and keeping two fingers rubbing at her clit, periodically dipping to feel where they're joined, where her molten lust continues to flow, Castle moves the palm bracing her back up her spine, unzipping her dress with no difficulty and throwing it off over her head. She groans, dark and deep, when his hand fists in her hair and pulls, forcing her to stand as he fucks her. The lewd crescendo of their bodies and voices fill the quiet of the suite, and she's barely holding on as is.
And then he starts talking.
"God, look at you, Kate," comes his ragged whisper in her ear, his chin rested on her shoulder as he turns her head toward him by the grip on her hair. "You're the hottest thing I've ever seen. Do you have any idea how much I've thought about this? How many times you've made me come in my hand like some fucking adolescent?"
She whimpers. His size invades her again and again and she thinks this has to be illegal in at least all fifty states if not in Canada too. He sets a slower pace now that he lacks the leverage of the table, but no less intense. Thick and deep and so rigid in her, he hits her in her deepest spots, brushing her over and over.
Until he stops. Withdrawing fully for a moment, he whirls her in his grasp and for the first time, his lips are on hers. He tastes of whiskey and jealousy and sadness and sex and she's addicted this now too. Except the sadness. She's banishing that tonight. He's not fucking leaving. She'll accept all his annoying habits and the ridicule of other cops and even the annoying press presence if it means he'll stay. In and out of work. She kisses him back, fiery and feverish, pouring the apologies and pleas that stain her lips onto his, issuing silent demands to finish what he's so admirably started.
"Do you know how much I had to edit down that scene in Heat Wave?" he asks her between bites at her lips and slack and swaying steps backward, "the first draft, I couldn't even send in. The second made my editor run away when she saw me after I turned it in. Five fucking returns, Kate, until they'd allow it published."
Her pussy flutters and grasps around nothing and she wishes he'd just...
"And not even the first draft is anything as good as the real thing. You must know, by now," Castle says arrogantly, "it was never Nikki and Rook." The image of him poring over the adventures of their alter egos, naked in his office and cock in hand imagining them together is too much.
Crying out, she brings an errant hand down to her sex, desperate for release. He catches her before she gets a single touch out.
"No," her legs meet the bed, then her arms are pinned above her head, her hair fanning out around her as it hits the comforter, "you'll touch yourself for me later, but the hell if the first time you come for me is like this."
She wants to fire back, tell him she's made herself come to thoughts of him a hundred times or more already and that if he can't finish the job, she's going to do it again right now, but he pre-empts her, spreading her legs on the bed and lining himself up again. That's all it takes. That and the sight of his blazing expression above her, his breathing heavy and his eyes copper-fire blue and more alive than she's ever seen him, his every mask and defense down.
Freeing one of her hands before he can take it back, she grazes his cheekbones before threading her hands in his shorter hair, pulling him down for a kiss as he shoves his length into her, her cunt weeping with relief and bursting with wild pleasure as her orgasm overtakes her, chases her blood down every extremity like play-prey and sets it on fire. Kate claws at his back, hating that he's still clothed completely and she's unlikely to leave marks.
This time.
Watching Kate Beckett come apart around him is, hands down, his new favorite sight in the world. He's seen it once and he's going to see it as often as he can, for as long as he's allowed. She's not getting rid of him. His hips jerk erratically into her, his thrusts coming shorter and harder now as he seeks his release into her and feels the telltale tightening of his balls, the pull behind his navel. She's staring up at him with something unidentifiable in her eyes, something between wonder and lust and sheer sexual overload. Hauling her up by her hair again, he strokes his commanding tongue into her slick mouth. The noise she makes is what does it, a squeal and a moan and a sigh of satisfaction all in the same particle-collision smash of a sound.
"You're mine, Kate," his hasty, too-soon possessive words spill viciously against her stung lips as his teeth graze her own. "Mine," Castle pumps frantically into her, sliding his fingers to the place where they're intimately finally explosively joined to flick roughly at her clit, send her back over the edge with him as his body finally gives in, filling her pussy up with his come. That thought alone prolongs his orgasm, the idea that he's put his mark in her. It's crude and feral and caveman-like and he's obscenely pleased with himself as they come down. She'll feel him well into the next days, and she'll be reminded of just how much of their story is yet unwritten.
The irritation begins to melt away on sight of her spaced-out half-smile, and it's gone entirely when she sighs and begins sliding the buttons on his shirt from their confines, touching his lightly-muscled chest aimlessly and searching for new places to explore.
Pulling away from her, he quickly divests himself of his clothing, removes her shoes, and sits back on the bed where she's resting, her breasts still heaving steadyslow and hypnotizing. He's about to ask her if she wants something to drink or a strawberry, but the sudden shift of her face from the pillow into his lap says her appetite is for something else entirely.
"Kate," he growls helplessly as she blinks up at him for permission. He's uneasy with this position. He's never let...
"Shhh," Kate shushes, her voice thick with some sweet unplaceable emotion. "Let me?"
His cock already twitches in her light grasp, her hand so much softer and smaller and more delicate than his. He can't deny her, not when she's looking at him like that.
"Okay," Castle acquiesces, his eyes fluttering shut when the warm cavern of her mouth wraps as much of him as she can take. Of all the fantasies he's had involving her in the last year, her bathing him clean with her tongue had never occurred to him.
But it should have. A tender counter to the frantic anger-passion-lust of their first of many, many times, the action is without guile or ulterior motive. He's unfamiliar with this, but it feels incredible; warm and dark and dream-like in its hazy pleasure. It's very nearly non-sexual, if not for the parts involved, but the sensations are as intense as they are pleasant. He can't quite verbalize it, not without sounding like a blundering fool, but he shows his appreciation, tries to anyway, by petting her sweat-damp hair, humming contentedly in an almost-purr.
How long they spend suspended in this state, he doesn't know. Her head in his lap gently so-gently licking him clean and him watching transfixed as her so kiss-bite pink lips play with him, run over his sensitive foreskin and suck eagerly at his swollen head, he concedes that he didn't, doesn't, and may never know all her secrets. But he'll happily stay and learn them.
She shifts, displaying her freshly-fucked sex to him, and he curses his biology, that he can't have the same recovery time as she does, has to just sit back and watch while she licks him hard again and their combined fluids seep out of her. When he's hard again, she lets his cock drop from her mouth, deeming her task complete. Castle holds a breath, waiting to see what she'll do.
If she'll stay. If she wants him to stay. His ire and bravado of earlier tempered with the mercy in her touch and the blossoming new softness in her eyes, he's not going to force his presence on her. Not if she doesn't want it.
"Are you going to take the book deal?" Kate asks falteringly, as if she doesn't want to know the answer, as if she's as scared he's going to leave as he's that she'll ask him to.
In lieu of an immediate answer, Castle gathers her in his arms, gently possessive and kind this time, and allows his recovering erection to press into her thigh as she sits astride him.
"I already turned it down, Kate. Before we came up here." Pulling her closer and kissing the surprise off the corners of her mouth, he affirms. "I'm not going anywhere. We've got plenty of stories left to write."
Would love to know your thoughts.