No Other Choice
I know how to fix that.
And it's gonna be fun.
Castle shifts to follow her, taking note of the strong lines of her forever legs as she steps away from him, the tails of her shirt rippling. Her hair is messy and caught in a pony tail, a half-hearted attempt at containment.
He loves it when she's got it styled and in a beautiful tumble around her face, waves off-setting the sharp line of her cheekbones, the dark desire in her eyes. But the pony tail is adorable and he likes that in a different way - where he gets to see Kate giggle at him because she's so relieved that it bubbles out, where he gets Kate in just her sleep shirt and no make-up and the distress of not liking him being single in public.
She didn't tell him to go home; she just walked off, knowing he'd follow.
So he follows.
"Kate," he calls out, shedding his jacket and leaving it on her couch, stepping out of his shoes even though he knows it's a little presumptuous, but yeah. He's presuming. Hell yeah, he's presuming. She giggled and smiled at him like that was the best news she'd heard all day.
He's presuming the hell out of her, and he'll erase those images she can't get over.
"What are you doing, Castle?" she says, rolling her eyes at him as he comes through the door of her bedroom. She's tugging the sheets down, shifting her pillow to one side. "I thought you were gonna see yourself ou-"
"I just got here," he objects, then reaches out and snags her by the hand. "Come watch tv with me. I wanna see-"
"If you say the nightly news, the gun willbe coming out."
He chuckles, shoots her a look over his shoulder as he leads her back out of her bedroom. Best avoid that whole. . .area for now. At least until he can replace those images in her head. "No, Beckett. No news. I programmed your DVR for a surprise."
She growls at him, but it's so lame an effort he doesn't even pretend to believe it. He tugs her across the dining room towards her office and the television mounted in the corner of the room. It's not comfortable here, but it's also not the couch. They'll work up to it; he's got to do this step by step.
It took four years to get in her bed, but he'll be damned if a pair of fake boobs kick him out of it.
"Where are we-"
He drags the chair from the living room - that deep armchair he likes, made for tall people so that he sinks right down into it - and he positions it close to her desk. She could sit in her office chair if she really wanted to, but he knows she won't.
Castle flops down in the chair, points the remote, and turns on her tv. He thinks it's interesting that both of them keep their tvs in the office, rather than in the living room or bedroom like most people. He wonders what it says about the way their minds work.
Sympatico.
When she stands there a moment, furrowed brow, bottom lip half sucked between her teeth, Castle reaches out and tugs her down into his lap.
She huffs out a breath as she comes, but she angles her trajectory and perches on the arm of the chair instead, her feet tucked under his legs. Totally not what he was going for, but when he turns his head only slightly, her bare thigh is right at his jaw. His breath skirts her skin.
He can work with that.
He selects Temptation Lane, an episode that they both missed since she went back to work, and he hears her soft little sigh of acceptance.
Castle slides his arm around her waist, fingers stroking at her hip, and as the opening scene comes onscreen, he not-so-subtly brushes his cheek against her leg. The catch of his stubble against her smooth skin has him breathing deep, and he opens his mouth against her thigh in a barely-there kiss.
Her fingers scrape across his scalp and clutch at the nape of his neck; he can hear the stutter of her breath. When he touches his tongue to her skin, she slips off the edge of the easy chair and down into the corner of the chair, wedged against his thigh, legs tossed over the other arm so that her knees are nearly at his chin.
Castle watches her face then, the darkness deepening in her eyes, and runs his hand up her shins to her knees, strokes his thumb at the short material of her nightshirt. He cradles the side of her face, but he doesn't try to kiss her.
Her fingers feel soft at his neck, smoothing his hair, and she studies him as if searching for the answers to his mystery.
But he's never been the one to hold back, never been the one needing to be figured out. It's all out there on his face; he's kidding no one.
He slips two fingers to the valley between her knees, trails back down the ski slope of her pressed together legs until he gets to the flare of her ankles. She arches her foot in a silent command and he glides his palm back up, fingers curving around her leg so that his fingertips brush the seam of her legs.
This time he goes back down her thigh, inching under her shirt until he finds her-
His hand pauses, eyes narrow on hers. "You're not wearing any underwear, Beckett."
She's not even coy, not even trying to be tempting; she just watches him, silent and alluring in that intense, unbreakable stillness.
But he won't kiss her until she says, and he won't touch her if she won't let him kiss her. He's not looking to seduce her, he only ever wants them to make love.
Just when he's about to have to ask please, can I? - and the humility of it will make his voice rough - her phone rings from the bedroom.
Her head snaps up, the connection breaking, and her body is suddenly tense. He realizes it's the ringtone assigned to anyone not already in her contacts.
He narrows his eyes and squeezes her thigh, drawing her attention.
"Is that. . .Chet?" he gruffs.
She arches an eyebrow at his tone. "Chip. And I suppose it is. How am I supposed to know?"
He's not jealous - what is there to be jealous of? She is New York's finest, and she's in his lap without any underwear on, and - as she said - the calls remain unanswered. All fifteen - now, sixteen - of them.
Still, it might be nice to show her how it feels - not being trusted.
When the phone goes silent, he asks: "How exactly does Chip happen to have your number?"
She flicks her fingers at his ear. "Castle. You saw me give out my card to practically every employee at that station. Of course he has my number. At this rate, half of Manhattan has my number."
He grips her thigh a little tighter and narrows his eyes. "Your card is for the phone at your desk, Beckett." And he's not jealous, he's not, really, it's just - she told him to act single. She said this was how they'd do it, and she doesn't get to punish him for the situation she created.
"That phone forwards to mine here - which you also know-" She stops when the phone starts up again, that clear and distinctive old-fashioned ring that makes it sound almost exactly like the phones at the precinct would have thirty years ago.
He swipes his thumb along the firm ridge of her thigh, his other hand at her shoulder, and lets the ring go on and on until it goes to voicemail.
He doesn't care. Castle has his hands on her, and that makes all the difference in the world.
She's staring him down, just daring him to blink first, but he's got a plan in mind. He's going to make her so certain about this that she feels exactly like he does right now: Chet can call her all he damn well wants, but Castle is the one she answers.
"Kate, it's not going to work - not will all of them." He tilts his head like the room encompasses the entirety of their closed social circle. She frowns at him, a shade in her eyes, but he hurries on. "Because they all know I'm in love with you. They're not stupid. I won't - I can't go into the 12th and pretend I've somehow managed to turn it off, that I'm fine and dating other people. Because I can't turn it off."
Her mouth drops open, but nothing comes out.
He strokes his fingers slowly over her thigh. "I'm used to poorly keeping it to myself, using the books to obliquely say what I mean. I didn't have much choice," he says softly.
She blinks.
"And Kate, I understand. I can even agree. In front of the cameras - to page six - sure, there's no one special. I'm used to handling that-"
"I saw how you handled that," she mutters, still choosing, apparently, to hang onto it.
"-for my daughter's sake," he continues, drilling her into silence with his eyes. "Maintaining a distance, almost two separate people."
She shuts her mouth, averts her gaze, but he can see her thinking.
"But don't think I can go into the 12th and fist-bump Esposito over someone other than you. Don't even begin to imagine my family will believe I'm suddenly on the market again after a year and more of waiting for you. Of insisting that you're worth it, that there could be no on else."
He can feel her breathing quickly in, feel her legs loosen against his hand, acceptance maybe. Please, let it be acceptance. She's got to know. How could she not know?
He so badly wants to touch her, slip his fingers down her skin, kiss her mouth so deeply she's sharing that breath with him.
Kate's head ducks and then her eyes come up to meet his again. "Lanie won't - she won't believe it either. If I suddenly - act like what you do - who you - act like it doesn't matter."
"She asked who the guy-"
Kate nods once, the side of her mouth quirking up. "I think that was her way of pointing it out. That a summer didn't - wouldn't - that she's not stupid."
He closes his mouth and mulls that over. "Will she-?"
"No. Course not."
"But Espo-"
"No, not to him either," Kate says, shaking her head and turning her knees towards him, practically curling up at his chest.
His hand is still trapped between her thighs, and he cups the back of her knee, holding her in place. Her fingers play at the button of his shirt, her eyes carefully on him.
"So maybe, Castle - okay, we're finding our way here and it's-"
"-looking less rocky now," he finishes, giving her a relieved smile.
She nods once, and her fingers slip between the button and then under to his skin, scratching. "So, Rick. You telling me you're gonna keep quietly pining away after me at work?"
He lifts the corners of his mouth into a grin. "You telling me that what I do - who - is gonna keep mattering to you?"
She hums a little, sounding noncommittal, but her fingers have popped the top button of his shirt, so he wriggles his trapped fingers against her knee.
Kate slides immediately to straddle his lap, raising up over him, his hands gripping her thighs automatically, and then she lowers her mouth to his in a kiss - soft, warm, delicate. When she lifts her head, her hands rest on his shoulders, her body pressed close to his chest, and he can't help but snag the back of her neck and pull her back for another.
This time she slips her tongue inside and sinks down to his lap, finally even with him.