Prevail
At first he sees them, sort of looming and unnaturally round, and his gut twists at the image, which is probably her point.
But as he sees her disappear through her bedroom door, his mind flashes back instead to two mornings before, standing in that room, light spilling through the window on to Kate. Kate half-dressed and letting herself be pulled against him, so warm and soft and easy to hold.
If he's going to remember a view from this case, there's no question it will be that one. Because he still can't believe he's lucky enough to get that view every morning.
He follows her, shedding jacket and shoes in her empty bedroom, hears the water turn on. She's brushing her teeth, standing at her mirror looking adorably-mussed, hair half-askew, never-ending legs disappearing under the hem of her sleep shirt.
She ducks to rinse her mouth, gingerly pats a towel against her lips to dry them, pulls a cloth from the little packet in her top drawer. As she starts to remove her make-up, her voice calls him out from his creepy staring.
"I can see you in the mirror, you know."
Huh. Now that's an interesting point. Stepping over the threshold, he watches himself come into view over her shoulder.
"I know you can't possibly find make-up removal this fascinating."
"Au contraire, Detective. I find everything that you do fascinating."
He's hoping he read her right in the living room, that her tease of a kiss was just that, an intentional tease. She had been the one to pull out the humor, diffuse the angst. And he knows her smiles well enough by now to read the relief and forgiveness and apology all rolled into her earlier beaming sparkle of lips and teeth and eyes.
Finishing a swipe across her lids for the last of her mascara and eyeliner, she lets the tiniest upward tilt appear on her lips. Tossing out the cloth, soiled with the last remnants of her day's mask, she runs the hot water to splash up over her skin, takes up the towel again as she leans over the sink to keep from dripping water everywhere.
Taking a chance, he places a warm hand at the small of her back, right where he knows the heels make it knot up by the end of a long day.
She's still hidden in the fluffy drape of terrycloth, but her body jumps a bit at his touch, and then, slowly, leans back into it.
So he was right. Forgiven. Probably not forgotten yet, though, if he knows her as well as he thinks.
Her sarcasm comes out slightly muffled as she finishes drying her face.
"More interesting than a nearly-naked entertainment reporter?"
Nope, definitely not forgotten. He kneads her tight muscles as she stands, finds his eyes in reflection, starts applying moisturizer.
"Infinitely."
One eyebrow rises elegantly as she dabs on the cream.
"I don't know, Castle, she is kind of your type. Short skirt, busty, high-maintenance."
Okay, enough beating around the proverbial bush. She deserves reassurance, and so he will give it to her, willingly.
"Let me tell you about my type. First of all, she's tall. Even so, she does this sexy thing with making herself as tall as me wearing these killer heels…" He adds a second set of fingers to his impromptu massage, and she steps forward to brace her hips against the sink, silently acquiescing to his ministrations.
"But I digress. She's so strong, stronger than me by a long shot, could kick my ass without breaking a sweat." He smiles as a memory of being pinned to his mattress that first night floods his brain. "And her mind is brilliant, and fast, and twisted with a wicked sense of humor." She's done with her bedtime routine now, but she seems content to smile softly and listen to his storyteller voice. Reaching up to remove the band trapping her curls, he continues.
"Dark hair, green eyes, has all her own original body parts." That gets a huff of laughter. "She's so ridiculously hot, that whether she's wearing pants and a plain white cotton shirt, or no pants and my cotton shirt, when I see her, my brain stops working on anything other than how to remove those clothes as fast as humanly possible." He gathers her hair to one side, strokes the back of one finger down the curve of her neck, punctuates his next words with a gentle line of kisses following the same path.
"And she would never, ever, stoop to using a tear-off stripper dress and a ridiculous bikini to try to make an unwilling man want her. In fact, she would know she doesn't need to lift a finger to make this very willing man want her."
Her head has tilted away to give him access, an invitation. He takes it, leans into her with his hips, lets her know what she does to him just by standing in her bathroom, mostly covered, with no make-up and messy hair.
"You can stand across the room, trying on clothes and freaking out about ridiculous insecurities, and all I can do is take deep breaths and blink hard to keep from wanting you."
His hands find their way around her waist, and his eyes find hers, heavy-lidded and dark, looking back at him. Aiming his warm breath at her ear, he doesn't break eye contact.
"If you have one single thought in your head that I would throw away what I've been waiting four years to finally have, to hold in my arms, to kiss goodnight, and make love to every morning? Then I have not done nearly a good enough job at showing you what this means to me—what you mean to me."
Her lids flutter and close, and he sees the goosebumps rise on her skin, everywhere it's exposed. Silently, she covers his hands with her own and shifts them to her buttons. He goes up; she goes down, and by the time her eyes have opened, so have the edges of her nightshirt. Nudging them aside with his thumbs, he closes over her breasts, soft tender teardrops that peak under his palms, fit and fill them.
Arching into his touch, she lays her head back against his shoulder, lets out a tight breath.
Her eyes are on his hands; her hands are in his hair, and both are done with words.
The press of her hips back against him brings an involuntary thrust from his, and their eyes lock again. She seems to like their image as much as he does.
Dropping her arms, she reaches back, slips a hand between them, unclasps his pants. His hands join hers, finish the job and drop everything to his feet as she shrugs out of her sleeves. Left in just a very tiny, very satin pair of what he would almost call underwear, she lobs a challenging smirk at him in the glass.
Stepping back and tugging her with him by the hips, he nudges a knee between hers, and she spreads her legs, tips forward to lean on the edge of her vanity. Still reveling in the feel of his hard length pressing into the soft skin of her cheeks, he reaches around, dips a finger under the satin, traces a lazy path through her curls.
A little frustrated moan escapes her throat, and he acquiesces, slipping between her folds. His eyes widen when he registers how wet she is, how swollen and ready. God this woman is going to kill him, one way or another.
A self-satisfied smirk is playing across her lips at his reaction, and he can't help rocking against her from behind. He plays his fingers over her center, soft but sure. He knows how to please her, knows when she's this turned on, she doesn't want speed or pressure from his touch, just contact, light and consistent and circling.
He wants her to go just like this, so he can be selfish and watch her without being distracted by his own desire. A flush has crept up her chest, is turning her neck a pretty shade of pink, and her breath is coming quickly. When her hips tense, press forward and into his touch, he does speed up, knowing she's close. She lets out a throaty, incoherent noise and stiffens, but instead of letting her eyes snap closed, as he is sure she will, she keeps them open. Fixed on his face, she seems to want to watch him as he observes her lips parting, her chest heaving, her whole body trembling as she climaxes, intense and fast and wanton before him.
Before she can even recover, she's grinding her hips back against his erection.
"Castle, now. Right now."
He slides the tiny band of satin aside and sinks in, releasing a groan just as she does, watching all of the pleasure play over her features. He's never been able to see her face when they've done this, and the new visual adds a nearly-overwhelming dimension.
Everything works better when he can see her, gauge every reaction, watch as her lip gets trapped and tormented between her teeth in response to the way he fills her.
Knowing that once she's come for him, the second time can be exponentially quicker, he finds her again with his fingers, dances over her in time to his slow, measured thrusts.
His other hand cups her breast, rolls it firmly until she gasps and arches her back, the move allowing him to penetrate further as she presses into his palm. That shift is what he's been waiting for, because it means she's ready for more, ready to take him deeper and faster and harder. As he watches, she opens her eyes and pins his gaze, parts her lips, lets her mouth drift open as she draws in an unsteady breath. Floored by the wave of desire, and trust, and love he sees there, he chokes out the only thought echoing in his hazy consciousness.
"You, Kate. Only you. Always you."
And with that, he lets his baser instincts take over, slamming his hips into hers, pressing the pads of his fingers against her clit to let the jolt of the movement translate into the friction she needs.
So close that he can feel his release coiling tight in his belly, he leans farther forward, lets more of the weight of his body press down against her smooth back. Nipping at the soft skin at her nape, his lips trace her name there.
Her own version of his name comes out as a harsh whisper, and he feels her muscles quiver and tighten around him. She lets out a curse and clamps down, pulses hard as he finally gives in, spills deep inside her in bursts of the most exquisite pleasure he's ever experienced.
The look in her eyes is shocking in its intensity. This is his Kate, raw and exposed and utterly willing to let him see every emotion.
Still reeling with aftershocks, he plants one hand next to hers to help hold some of his weight, knees starting to give out as he comes down. When they have both stilled, he slides out, drawing a whimper from her. Peeling himself from her back, slicked with perspiration and flushed from all the sliding contact, he spins her, pulls her hard against his chest, clings with every bit of strength in his arms.
Her ribs are still working fast under his hands, and he loosens his grip to let her take in air. He finds her ear with his lips, uses his nose to nudge away the strands of hair, damp and limp with their lovemaking.
There must be words for this. There must be something he can say so that she will understand that no matter how earth shattering it is to be with her like this, it's nothing compared to how it makes him feel just to have her here in his arms. But the words won't come.
And then for once, she's the one to speak them.
"We will find our way."
# * # * # * #
A/N: Yes, another interpretation of the "Cloudy with a Chance of Murder" post-ep. I tried not to write this, really I did, but it wouldn't leave me alone. So now, dear readers, do with it what you will.
Joy, if you were a lawyer, you would be banking a serious retainer from me for all this on-call beta and word-finding. And yes, I do think too much. Thank you for making my brain shut up when appropriate. :)
-Kate
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