Clouds Lifting
He tracks the length of her legs with his eyes, admiring the jump of her toned calf muscles, the alluring sway of her hips as she walks toward her bedroom. He could already taste her against his tongue, his blood heating with the things he wants to do to her. Envisions those long strong legs wrapped around him instead, the grind of her hips into his, savage, demanding.
A different set of hips, encased in cloying red, jumps into his vision and he shudders, vigorously rubs his eyes to push away the unsought image. Feels her claws in his shoulders again, the weight of her oppressive, all wrong on top of him, her scent an assault to his senses. The memory leaves him nauseated and he sucks in a sharp breath.
Okay so maybe he isn't over it either.
He shuffles into Kate's kitchen, foregoes the bottle of red he had hoped to be enjoying with her tonight, turns on the coffeemaker instead. Decaf it is.
Damn. Not for the first time he curses that stupid date, his stupid helplessness, that entire stupid day. He rummages through her cabinets, finds the coffee grounds, fills the filter while his thoughts wander, jump over the course of events that led him here.
Kate was almost crying when they talked; she tried to hide it but he knew; he knows her. He sighs, leans over the counter while the coffee maker gurgles and hisses in his ears. He hates to be the one to hurt her and yet he seems to accomplish that with unerring frequency. Sometimes he wonders how he ever writes Nikki believably.
He's such an idiot. How did he ever think this was a good idea? Of course he didn't want to date anybody else; why would he want to when he got to have Kate Beckett in his arms, his bed, his life? Gorgeous, smart, witty Kate. Devastatingly sexy. Oh, that wicked mouth and the way her tongue darts…
The coffee maker flips off, the low clicking sound startling him from the spiral of his thoughts and he reaches for the mugs, fills both with the scalding, fragrant liquid. He adds the thick French vanilla creamer for her, adds a pinch of cinnamon, the blend of flavors cozy, sweet and comforting and exactly how she likes it when she curls up at the end of a long day.
She lifts her eyes from the book in her lap when he comes in, a soft smile playing along the corners of her mouth but he notices the lingering tentativeness that clouds her pupils.
"Coffee?" He holds up his inadequate offering but her smile widens, stretches to the corners of her eyes. She scoots over on the bed, a minuscule movement that is more statement than physical progression.
"Come here, Castle."
She won't have to ask him twice and he staggers forward, climbs onto the bed, sitting so close to her that their hips touch, a hot, overpowering press of her naked thigh aligned with his.
She quietly sips her coffee and he takes a moment to just breathe her in, soak up the fact that they successfully navigated their first relationship glitch. He didn't actually expect her to be quite as jealous though; doesn't she realize she has nothing to worry about? He'd been pining for her for four years, as well she knows.
"How did you even know?" He wonders out loud, startled by the sudden thought. "You barged in with your gun drawn!"
"Your phone call," Kate answers, turning toward him. "Sounded like you were in a bit of trouble."
"What phone call?"
"Oh I guess you butt-dialed me." She nudges her elbow into his waist, a small grin crinkling at the corner of her eyes and wow, he just loves this woman so much. Despite everything, she's actually teasing him.
"Yeah. Well, thank you for coming to my rescue," he adds, relief in his voice. This was by far the most bizarre moment she's had to save him from. "Couldn't get her off me without having to use brute force."
"Yeah, right," she snickers, the familiar fabric of laughter and disbelief woven through her words.
"No I'm serious, Kate. She was like a, a… panther, or something, you know, circling her prey, with her claws out…" His hand clenches into a claw shape as he speaks, his face scrunched in revulsion as he remembers his feeble attempts at escaping that vulture of a woman.
"She ripped her dress open, Kate, right down the front, like in a low-budget stripper movie!" He freezes; immediately wants to suck the words back into his mouth. Shit, what the hell is the matter with him? He needed to get these images out of her head, not put more in it!
Kate sit silently, even seems to have stopped breathing and he slowly, tentatively turns his head, tries to gauge how badly he messed up by the inevitable scowl on her face.
But she only stares at him, eyes widened in surprise. "She really did that?"
"Yeah. She just pounced on me, didn't let up. I tried to get her off me, but, well…" She knows how that ended up.
"Castle." There's such shock in her voice that he blinks, looks up to find her eyebrows knitted, serious and intent. "She assaulted you."
"Nah, it wasn't…" That bad, he wants to say, but the words are stuck to his tongue.
"Yes, she did. Castle, reverse the situation and think about what it'd look like if a man did that to me. What would you call it then?"
The bout of anger comes on swiftly, viciously and he balls a fist at the mental image of Kate struggling underneath some brute and he'd beat anybody to a pulp who… Oh.
Huh, he'd never even… But when she put it like this… And the worst part is that many, many years ago, he probably wouldn't have minded that approach very much. The thought is disconcerting. "I guess so."
"That bitch!" The swear bursts from her lips and he startles at the rough raw anger in her voice. "I'm gonna…" Kate's face is set, her muscles tensed, fingers clenched into fists, ready to go into battle to protect him, ready to fight.
It's staggering, to see her ruthless protectiveness, cracked open and exposed. For him.
"Hey…" He wraps a hand around her wrist, his thumb rubbing soothing circles over the tender skin while he tugs her closer, murmuring quietly. "It's okay." Her fist slackens and he folds it open, laces his fingers through hers.
She squeezes his hand. "It's never okay," she supplies seriously. He nods because she's right.
"But it's done now." He quirks an eyebrow at her. "And you already handled it, remember?"
Boy, did she ever. He certainly won't forget any time soon how Kate had ordered that scantily clad barracuda to get out, keeping the gun trained at her, staring with her most intimidating cop glare until the woman had clambered off his chest, hastily grabbed her stripper dress between two fingertips and scampered out of his loft in only her bikini-underwear-thing, shell-shocked and panicky.
Kate's lips quirk up in response as she draws in a breath, her body relaxing incrementally. "Yeah I guess I did."
"You did," he nods, pleased and so very proud of her, of the kind of person she is, protective and kick-ass and brave; sweet, vulnerable, loving. He trails his fingertips over her gorgeous face, the rim of her cheekbone and the swing of her jaw, and she tilts her cheek into his touch, her eyes closing on an exhale.
And it's as if he can feel it all slide off her when she nudges into his caress, that last layer of tentativeness, the lingering worry, the remnants of that visual clouding her senses, of him with… He pushes the thought away, not wanting to have to think of that ever again either.
"Thank you for not ruthlessly pouncing on me during those four years you were so desperately pining after me, Beckett," he grins, prodding her with humor, aching to hear the peal of her laughter, see the widening of her smile instead of the concerned frown lines on her forehead or the saddened tint to her eyes.
He isn't disappointed when her eyes spring open, the glint of challenge unmistakable as she smirks at him. "Really?" She scoots closer, her pointer finger digging against his sternum, the scratch of her nail a blazing tease through his shirt.
"You didn't want me to pounce on you, Castle?" Her words leave him shivering, his blood heating from the force of her proximity, the enticing warmth of her body and that isn't quite what he meant but-
"Didn't fantasize that I would?" Just the way she enunciates 'fantasize' sends all the blood to his midsection, the curl of desire dark and ruthless, hips quivering with the need to move.
"That's… different," he quakes, his voice entirely not under his control when her fingers paint abstract patterns over his shoulders, the panes of his chest, the wide stretch of his ribcage, her touch rolling waves of heat through his limbs.
"Then how about now?" She whispers the question to the shell of his ear, nips his earlobe in passing and he groans. "Want me to…" She swings her leg over, straddles him, her fingers digging into his biceps. "…pounce on you now?" And she grinds her hips down.
Everything stills. His breathing, his heart, the outside noises of the city rushing by. The moment narrows to just the two of them, like this, fervent and aching and amazing together.
Sensations trickle through him as if in slow motion, the weight of her body against his pelvis, the heat of her skin that blankets him, her familiar scent of cherries and mystery, so right and perfect. Her hands press over the curves of his shoulders as she pulls herself closer, her breaths coming in hot, skittering beats over his collarbone when she shifts, slowly circles her hips into him.
"God Kate, have you been not wearing anything underneath this thing the entire time?" He groans, sounding desperate even to his own ears but he can't help it, desires her with the same delirious want that's been only growing since the moment he met her. He thinks it will never be quenched.
"I was…" She gasps, loses her words for a moment when his thumb slides over the slope of her breast. "…gonna go to bed."
Oh, he'll definitely take her to bed.
He slides his hands up her thighs, slipping underneath her well-worn sleep shirt to grip her hips, the jut of her bones pressing into his palms as he holds her tightly to him. Resting his face in the curve of her neck, he breathes her in where he can feel the rapid pounding of her blood against his forehead, the leap of her heartbeat through her veins, and she stills against him.
Kate slides her fingers through his hair, her fingertips tender on his scalp until she bows her hands around his neck, cradling his head, her thumbs soft pressure points against his cheekbones as she tilts his face toward her.
He blinks open his eyes, can barely breathe when she looks at him like that, solemn and affectionate, and so much love radiating from her that he wonders how he ever missed it, how he ever questioned what she felt when it is written into every single expression on her face.
And then he stops wondering about anything but the hot, wet slide of her tongue in his mouth, the delicious caress of her lips against his when she kisses him, captures his mouth, drawing from him everything he has to give with measured precision. He understands, takes the kiss she gives for what it is, apology and forgiveness both and he tilts into her forays, leaves himself bare and open, answering her with every possible promise she might need from this kiss that she had to work her way back to.
It's an exploration, as if it's new all over again though her flavor is delightfully familiar and her touch well practiced. She whimpers and it's all so good, so very good, dark and luscious and fueled with fire.
He'll never want to kiss anybody but Kate Beckett, ever again.