"...You told me after it all, we'd remember tonight,
for the rest of our lives..."
It's intense.
An intense to the point of pain kind of pleasure, and it's entirely her fault. He's not even touching her yet and it's there, burning under her skin, creeping up the backs of her legs and sizzling low in her stomach at the mere thought of being in his arms.
Again.
Just once and she's addicted, feels it more intrinsically than the need to breathe, her heart pounds and her fingers beckon, curling and pulling him towards her in a way she's never been able to before.
She starts it all with the whisper of four little words, sweet like syrup as they drip from her tongue. Words that spill free of her mouth and take her by surprise, words that burn in their escape, whispered fire over her lips that make her skin tight in anticipation.
He looks shocked at first, coming at her with heavy footsteps, body weighed down and still somewhat unconvinced, his eyes so wide, startling blue, his eyebrows high.
His face holds the same shudder worthy, knee-weakening look of passion and surprise that it did when she first came through the door, when he first laid his lips to her skin, when he first watched her break apart beneath him and she almost falters in her call to have him at her side. Yet as suddenly as the doubt springs upon her it dissolves, his fingers reaching back for her, and she watches his expression morph, lips lifting, eyes crinkling beautifully, Castle smiling at her with delight.
His eyes glaze over at the implication and he asks the obvious question. Not a smirked demand for memory of the time before, - the very first time - just the deep and fatal call of his lust fueled voice seeking answers.
She does that to him, brings that edge to his tone, that neediness, that utter want and desire and yes, yes when he has her crowded up against the wall and his fingers are climbing the backs of her thighs she's willing to admit it's entirely her fault.
She'll own every little bit of the responsibility if it means he doesn't stop.
He doesn't and he has her laughing, laughing loud and long and low as they move and talk into each others mouths, always talking, never shutting up, and laughing, laughing, panting for breath until he steals it straight from her mouth and damn him and the walls that seem to appear from nowhere, conspiring together, one hard at her back, the other glorious rock solid and pressed tight to every inch of her front. He kisses her and all the while he has her laughing.
She shivers into his arms and his hands slink around her waist and she hums as a surge of goosebumps erupt in his wake. He flicks apart buttons and draws slow material around her hips as she leans into him, he slips her bra straps down her shoulders - does it without even unbuttoning her the whole way - and the first waves of the familiar scent are back and assaulting her senses, driving her into him hard and fast.
The smell of his skin makes her hungry. Hungry for his taste and his flavor, for the sweet and salty bite of completion she savors in his kiss.
Somewhere between shirt off (again) - his eyes only slightly less greedy than his fingertips this time around - and pants down -
"Castle, I'll fall."
"No, you won't."
- with his hands holding her up as she stumbles, feet clumsy and yes, she runs in heels but the roughened caress of his hands under her clothes is undoing her, unmaking her, unraveling her thoroughly, with her nose buried in the sweeping curve of his neck, he fulfills her desire.
The stuttered spurt of water echoes through the bathroom and she feels him flinch, hears him hiss when her fingers dig into the flesh just shy of his ribs, her excitement getting the better of her. She squeezes and shivers into him, shimmies around him to watch the water fall, taking him with her and sighing when his mouth opens against her neck.
It's just that she loves the idea of his shower, loves the way she imagines him in it. Always has.
Lonely nights when she's crawled home broken, frozen and craving his touch, she's pictured him here. The heat and solid comfort of his body sometimes leading her into sexual fantasy, but more often than not the thought of him has calmed her mind and soothed the ragged ache in her chest. Maybe she should tell him that, give up all her secrets in one go tonight, but as the water swallows them up, the mist a smoky plume that ripples up her legs - his hands on her waist and lifting her up - she sees how much better reality is, sees understanding in his eyes when they lock and hold, clash and conspire.
She gathers strength from his touch and pleasure from his gaze, knowing she doesn't have to explain a damn thing. He already knows.
They move together, she steps when he does, their bodies reaching and yielding to each other in time, in sequence, with an ease that flutters through her stomach almost as harshly, as intensely as when he lowered her to his bed those few broken hours ago.
He owns it completely, the rapidly heating shower his domain as she knew it would be. He towers over her in the confined space, broad chest mapped under her demanding hands, easing them both inside the cubicle before dropping his mouth to her throat. His lips are hot against the side of her neck, licking, sucking and tasting her and she gasps loudly, stuttered breath at once swallowed down with steam and slow, steady seduction.
His kiss is drugging, like swallowing down the humidity that swirls between them, the heat, the desire and the scent of his skin tugging her eyes closed as she opens to him, tongue sweet and lips soft as they meet. She moans when he lets her go, when he pulls away from her mouth and touches the tip of his tongue to her earlobe. He murmurs her name and her knees shake, legs suddenly feeling like lead and helium all at once. She could fall at his feet and float over his head in equal measure and she reaches for him, wanting nothing more than to cling.
So she does.
She's earned it. Earned the right to give herself up to the moment, to throw herself into his embrace and to wrap her arms around his neck and steal kisses all her own. She's earned the right to melt into him if she chooses because he makes her feel so good, so loved, so alive with every touch and she does because she can see he feels the same.
He's breathing hard and she does that to him, brings that slow smile, causes that flush and the quiver of muscle through his stomach. She does that.
He turns her away from him slowly, easing her out of the long, claiming kiss to stand behind her and slope his hand up her side. He crowds her back, slick skin sliding together as he nudges closer and wraps around her, one arm low on her waist to pull her in tight, the other curving over her shoulder, fingers gliding past her breasts and settling over her heart.
His sigh would be lost to the thundering spray and cascade if he weren't so close, if his lips weren't pressed to her ear. If he didn't want her to hear it. He sighs and she smiles, leaning into him, her own fingers covering his and pressing between each long digit until his palm is cradled between both of her own.
The weight of his gaze falls heavy on her back as they sway under the shower spray, hot and silken over her skin as it drifts lower, a path he traverses with his fingers only seconds later. She doesn't need to see his face to know where he looks, how he assesses and learns and rewrites every inch of her body with his love and attention, she can feel it down to her bones.
And even if she didn't she would be in no doubt about where or when because he touches everything.
He sweeps and curls, caresses and cradles, strokes and taps - even prods - to get her attention when her eyes close and her mind drifts off through heavenly waves of steam and sensation, her body falling lax against his own, head tipped back into his chest.
She opens her mouth to speak his name but instead a sound somewhere between a sigh and a moan of pleasure escapes, taking her by surprise again. She feels herself freeze and wait, wondering not if he heard it, but what his reaction will be.
She half hopes to be teased, half desires to be spun around, that delirious noise sought out and multiplied. She wants him to taste it with his tongue.
He laughs and she turns in his arms wanting to see, to watch, to witness the exhilaration race through his blood, charge through his system and bubble up, out, rushing over his lips when he smiles. Her fingers climb his spine, skin so hot under her fingertips that she hums and touches the tip of her tongue to the epicenter of the scent that's been driving her crazy.
It's so new it's almost foreign and yet she's smothered in it. Surrounded by it. Drowning in intoxication. The first flecks of familiarity assail her senses and she's turning them, guiding him, on tip toe and wanting more.
She loves his shower and before she even questions her ability to love something she's had so little time to enjoy the pleasure of, she's smirking into his chest and thinking the exact same thing about him.
There's so much more of him she wants to get at, so many things they haven't done with and to each other yet and love, love, love lies so heavy under all of it that she laughs at herself, ignores her rambling, addled brain and sinks her teeth into the tendon in his neck just because she can. Because it's another thing they haven't done to each other yet. Because she wants to taste him and know him and feel his body when that knowledge permeates his skin.
His reaction is immediate, heated, shocked and dazzling, his fingers forget their gentlemanly removal of her underwear and though neither of them is completely naked her back is suddenly plastered with water, her hair matting and curling about her face, her body flush with his.
She gasps and tugs as he steps after her and the spray from the shower head arcs up and over them as though they've disappeared into a world beyond a waterfall, secreted away together.
Secluded.
Seduced.
Billows of smoky steam lift up and wrap around them and the tile at her back should be hard but it's not, his lips are feathering over her own and all she can think is how very much she loves him in his shower.
Loves him, everywhere.
Water ripples slip through his hair, claiming the lobes of his ears and she arches up onto the balls of her feet to suck them off slowly, her teeth shying away this time, just her tongue in motion and the slow slide of her warm wet hand down his back to trace the line of the boxers he's still wearing.
The curve of his ass finds its way into her palm and she smiles, remembers from only a few hours before the way his hips snapped to attention when she hooked her feet around his waist and she urged him on just so.
The bite of her name into the shell of her ear draws her cheeks higher, teeth pressing into his neck, she kisses his jaw and hears his breath falter so she does it again, squeezing, dropping back onto her heels and enjoying the steady coast of her hands up his sides.
His muscles ripple and shake under her touch and his fingers curl in her hair, raising her head to kiss the droplets of water from her lips.
He lingers with her at the bathroom door with a slow reluctance to leave her that weaves heat under her skin, stupid, shy delight circling her heart.
No, she's not going home. She wants to stay, wants to wrap herself up in this moment with him for as long as she can. His fingers trail her arm, skin still bare under the warmth of his hand and a soft smile raising the corners of his mouth all inviting her to stretch up onto the balls of her feet and press kiss after kiss to his lips. She did it before, she does it again, laughing into the last few when they land sloppily and shy of their destination, her knees wobbling when she tries to bridge the few inches that separate them.
He laughs into it too, holding her shoulders and leaning down before she topples into him. He shakes his head at her movements, grumbles about her antics and a mischievousness that is taking him unawares.
She clucks her tongue and utters four little words that send them both spiraling back to the first case they worked, the first connections they forged.
His fingers grip her tightly as he breathes through it.
His eyes dance with happiness when they open again. She did that.
Once in his bed (once in his shower) and somehow - the way she knew he would - he's stolen away all the pieces of her heart that didn't already belong to him.
He touches everything.
He's in the corners and the recesses, flooding light, illuminating her soul. He's in the nooks and crannies and crevices, lighting her up from within.
He's kissing her fingertips - that's new too, never done before - watching her with eyes that sparkle in the half-light, questions on the tip of his tongue that, for once, he doesn't bombard her with.
Silence steals between them, beats back the darkness that lingers at their outer edges, night their constant companion that has seen it all. It's born witness to their struggle, stumble and rush and he leads her into it, into the shadow, into his bedroom with the barest tug of his hand.
She goes willingly, follows him this time,, and finds she likes that too. He turns away, turns back again immediately seeking out her eyes and she curls into him as they stop at the foot of his bed.
She loves his bed. Loves him in it obviously, in more ways than one, but she adores the great wide spread of sinful comfort and roughened desire that it represents. She likes knowing he dreams here and that his sheets are still damp from her rain soaked hair.
She loves knowing that their scent is mingled and painted across every inch of this opulent canvas, tight into the creases of the sheets and lazy like a summer breeze over the pillows.
It has seen them tear and claw to free each other from their confines, clothes discarded in scattered haste and bodies meeting finally in triumph. This room has watched the shallow bite of her nails rake vivid red down his back and observed the dusted fingerprints that his frantic grip has left on her skin. He touches her cheek and she shudders as he reminds her that the shadows have tasted the flush of fevered flesh, arching spines, rumpled sheets and the call of broken voices raised high in ecstasy.
Together.
Forged in fire, ending in scattered kisses that left them both washed clean in the early hours. Twice and forever, always. It lingers between them.
It's late now, later, and she's not going home, in fact she's not going anywhere until he forcibly removes her, and the heavy insistent tug of his fingers on her towel leaves her in no doubt it won't be happening anytime soon. He kisses her slowly, grazes her skin with his teeth for the first time, inhales behind her ear for the first time, does a million things for the very first time until the world itself feels new.
The sky is inky blue and black between the flashes of lightning, and she drops her shoulders, raises her arms to wrap them around his neck and feels the flutter of her towel as it escapes her body and falls between them. He hums approval, mumbles something dirty just far enough under his breath that he can get away with it, smirking when it gets to her anyway, when she moans and repeats his words, licking her lips, her eyes falling shut.
She's standing naked in his arms, skin tight and tender, sated and sore, and he whispers, with his eyes watchful on her body, hands gliding and possessive, he whispers her name, how he feels and exactly what he wants to do next.
His fingers drift to her hair and he tugs one long wet strand, droplets and cold drips racing down her chest, reminding her of the shower.
He tells her he loves her but that's not new, he smiles when he says it this time though, and that is.
He tells her he missed her even though she's finally here and she touches his lips, his cheeks and sighs, knowing exactly what he means. He tells a million things that it hurts to hear, a million things she needs to know and then he kisses her, just because he can.
Her cheeks flush at the memories of it all, once in his bed and once in his shower, lifting her up and laying her down, holding her close and driving her body away with each powerful thrust. She smiles even as she drops her head to hide it from him, glad when he'll have none of it, when his fingers find her chin, curl there, stroke, his voice lazy and cradling her name with warm seduction until she's looking up at him and she's smiling back. Until he leans down and meets her waiting lips with an ease of repetition and promise.
Her eyes flutter closed, mouth opening slowly to savor him, savor the taste of love that lies between them. Her hands splay at his hips and her fingers ripple outwards, touching skin, tracing muscle, wrapping around him and holding him tight in her arms as she's wanted to for so long.
She links her fingers and squeezes, kisses him back, awed.
The warmth that fizzles deep down inside reminds her second after second it's new. It's everything. The ache for more building quickly, hunger for him burning deep, ravenous need guiding her fingers to the towel knotted low at his waist. Her tongue swipes his teeth as he laughs and she smiles through it too, fingers flicking out to leave him bare, as exposed as she is, as vulnerable, as safe. The towel falls, claimed by shadows, their night together illuminating the din, casting shards of pleasure and laughter in all directions.
It's a night she'll remember for as long as she lives, he told her so and he was right, breathing words of love over her as she quivered and broke apart and he followed her over the edge. He told her over and over and over again that they'd never forget this night. And he was right.
Now she pulls him to the bed, lowers herself into his lap and seeks out his eyes. Nose to nose she stares with him, watches, learns. No such thing as enough.
He opens his mouth to ask but she kisses him again, gentles him, strokes over his warmth and decides to show him instead.
She wants this time to be slow and easy. Gentle. Delicate.
She wants this time to last a lifetime.
Forever.
She wants this more than life beyond these four walls.
She wants him.
Nothing else.
Him.