Disclaimer: Absolutely not mine. Nope.
A/N: Another little Saturday Smut fic. For anyone who reads Number One and Two Hearts, this was the night their son was conceived. Basically. Since conception is a process and all that but this is the night that led to his conception. ;) Also a tag to 5x14. Yep...if you never did the math, then their first kid was a product of Valentine's Day. And it was completely by accident that it happened like that.
There's still a ball in her chest, a tight knot of nervousness that is slowly dissipating as she tugs at her clothes - being replaced by heat buzzing through her veins. Joy filling her limbs, and arousal dusting over her skin, making it sensitive to just the thought of Castle's touch. She's left him, standing like a speechless fool in front of his drawer because that's how she feels. Excited, nervous, and slightly worried that her gift wouldn't be enough. But it is. It's perfect. And now she just wants him. In her bed, completely bare of everything, skin on skin.
It's Valentine's and she's in a relationship with her writer, her partner. The man she's now thinking of, the hands that belong to him that touch her so freely, so openly. Rough against her flesh, velvet smooth all at the same time. And just the thought of what she knows those fingers can do sends a hard shiver down her spine, or maybe it's from the sudden loss of her shirt.
She watches him from beneath her lashes, the smug smile that takes over his mouth as he raises his arm, tugs at the end of his sleeve. She wants his mouth, wants to taste his lips, trace along the seam with her tongue until he opens up and lets her in. Wants to feel his burning kisses over every inch of her body, needs it. Just her thoughts have her on the edge, jumping to get out of her skin, to feel him hard and pressed against her.
She feels his eyes as he watches her for a moment, gaze darkening as she pushes her pants down over her hips and then he's struggling, trying to get out of his shirt and she's biting her lip, trying not to laugh at the thought of him being stuck in his clothes while she's already half way out of hers. Until she realizes what that means, the longer he takes, the longer she has to wait in the bed without him - without his hands pressing into her, without the heat of his skin burning against hers, without him heavy and crowding over her, without the mouth she wants a taste of.
She's already squeezing her thighs together, alleviating some of the pressure that's building much too quickly for her liking. He's still tugging, staring at his sleeve, when she presses her knees into the mattress, crawls over the blanket. Meet me in the bed. She's actually regretting those words, her eyes on him now as he glances over, flashes a slightly embarrassed grin her direction. She meets it with a little extra motivation, her fingers trailing down her chest, over the scar, dipping down the circle her navel.
He stops. Stands utterly still and she wonders if this feels the same for him, if the idea of being inside of her sends a flushed heat to take over his skin, a pressure that grows to the point of uncomfortable. Does he feel it? Her chest heaves out a breath, index finger slipping over the waistband of her panties and she hears him. A low rumble that resembles her name slipping through pair of lips she's staring at.
"Having a little trouble, Castle?" It's easy to tease him. Always has been but she knows he'll get her back for this - already waiting for it, something thick and wet settling low in her midsection when he falters. She knows what this does to him. "Need some help?"
"No."
"Are you sure? Maybe your fingers are just too big - mine are smaller and I've been told I'm pretty good with them." She doesn't even mean for it to sound quite as salacious as it does but it's enough to spur him into action.
He abandons the shirt, hands flying down to the zipper of his pants. A flurry of movement, quick hands and fabric rustling. Her palms itch, not satisfied with her own skin, wanting to help reveal his. To caress, grab, pinch at him until he's a thrumming mess, no longer coherent. As much as her body craves release, she wants to make him sweat, pleasure him in ways she knows drive him to edge. She wants to make him a bumbling fool incapable of words, incapable of anything more than melting into her.
But the moment he's naked from the waist down, she's not so sure her body will cooperate this time. Her thighs clench, hips shifting towards him as he climbs up from the bottom of the bed. Slithering over her, shirt brushing against her, making her eyes flutter. She surges up into him, a hand at his neck, the other bunching fabric at his shoulder, her body arching to meld into his, lips seeking. His mouth open, devastating against hers. Taking her as a prisoner, a hostage to his touch.
The fingers that trail up her side, nails raking over her ribs, brushing along the cup of her bra cause a sharp burst of arousal, a pulse between her legs. An ache she wants to soothe. He's the only one who does. Already hard against her, she can feel him, doesn't even pull away to look. Doesn't need to. Maybe it's a little strange but she's already got his body memorized. Every inch of it. The scar he has on his back from his young daredevil days, the lone freckle on the back of his ear, the lines of his palms, the curve in his spine. She's traced all of it with her hands, her mouth.
She's not in control this time. He is. He makes it known with a harsh bite at her bottom lip, a swipe of his tongue over the abused flesh. Payback for her taunting. The way he pushes his hips into hers, grinding against her with each suddenly soft kiss he ghosts over her jaw, along her chin, down her neck, it all just proves that she's not winning. And maybe she's okay with it this time. The night is young, she'll push him back, take over his body, make him writhe but not right now.
Right now, she'll enjoy this, let him have his moment. Arch her spine as his kisses move lower, gentle nips of his teeth along the soft flesh of her breast. His fingers tugging the cup down to reveal his prize. A flash of a smirk before his mouth closes over the nipple and her eyes slam shut. She reaches blindly, awkwardly tugging at the proximity of buttons, wanting his skin beneath her fingertips. But he makes it difficult with hot wet lips sucking at her, teeth barely scraping.
"Castle," Nothing more than a moan of his name, needing and pleading. She wants more. He's being soft. Easy. His hips holding hers down, pinning her in place as she wiggles against him. Eyes opening, she watches him, tries to collect herself enough to push him away but he's gentle, laving his tongue over her nipple, loving and tender. Driving her crazy, knowing she's already waiting and she hates him.
She gives up on his shirt, unable to reach and pushes her chest further into his mouth and palm as her hand slips behind to unsnap the clasp of her bra. He tugs it down, pushes it away from her skin, finally biting down hard enough to make her cry out, legs straining, hips undulating. Trying to find relief to the uncomfortable slick pressure that's coiling, spinning, tightening.
One sharp burst and he's back to soft, to stroking over her with a warm tongue, open lips, trailing over to the scar between her breasts. Spending more than enough time tracing over it. He doesn't do this often. Not anymore but he is now and she knows what it means for them. What the slide of wetness over the marred flesh signifies. Serious. He's serious. He's not playing.
She shivers against him, fingers finding purchase in his hair, palm resting over his ear, his name a sigh on her lips. He's slowing it down. Making them become something more than a frenzied raw encounter. Even though she's not against the idea, he is. But her need isn't lessening with his slow path down her stomach, it doesn't ease when he nudges his nose into her navel. It becomes more.
A strong intense burn that ignites when his thumbs hook into her panties, drag them down her legs, gliding back up the insides of her thighs as she kicks free of the scrap of cloth. Maybe it's better like this, a slow simmer, the caress of his hands over her. The thumb that brushes along her folds, stroking over her, drawing a moan from her lungs before abandoning her completely, moving up to trace over her hip. His face suddenly filling her line of sight. The lines buried in his skin and the dark storm in his eyes.
"Kate," She barely hears it over the blood rushing in her ears, the pound of her heart - maybe that's his? She's not sure anymore. She rests her hand on his chest, feels the racing thuds beneath. Both of theirs, probably. A staccato rhythm. He's not in a playful mood like she thought, not now and she's the one who cranes her head, lifts into him to press a kiss to his chin, his lips puckering against her nose.
She's not sure how or why it became this. How it turned from her inviting him - with seduction lacing every word - to meet her in the bed to this stroke of his hands, the feel of his fingers as they cup her, slip easily through her moist flesh, two sliding in and curling up. Making her jolt, body pushing into his, hands finally undoing the buttons that keep his skin from hers. She falters when he strokes inside, slow and easy. She's too wound up for this, tells him with a whimper that she doesn't need it. Doesn't need to be coaxed along.
"Next time." She lets it flow into the cavern of his mouth, hands sliding his shirt down from his shoulders, loosening the tight fabric at his wrists with an expert flick of hers and all barriers disappear. Nails moving to scape down his chest, a hint of a smile playing at her lips when he groans, leaves her body completely for a brief moment.
She's almost disappointed, almost frowns but then he's back, chest so close that with each breath her breasts brush against him. Thighs parted, one leg wrapping around, her heel digging into his ass to push him forward. To make him slide against her, he loses control for that split second, thrusts into her. Both moaning as he slips inside. An ease to it, making them both react. Her body surging up, cradling him as he pushes down, filling her, stretching.
His body is giving him away and she's taking it. The slight tremble in his arms, the softness in his kiss, the way he sucks her lip between his as he sets the pace. A gentle rocking that has her locking both legs around his waist, trying to find more friction. It doesn't come. Just the sweet torture of him. He's staring at her, eyes wide open as his mouth leaves hers and she's compelled to do the same, stare back even when he rubs in just the right way and her chest heaves. Air leaving her lungs as he raises a hand to cup her cheek, resting his weight against her. She doesn't close her eyes, not yet. Not when he's looking down at her as if she's everything.
He's begging her, with his body - the sway, the gentle thrusts, the way he stops, starts again with a a little more force behind it - and with his eyes to understand. She doesn't. Not at first. Not until he nudges his nose over hers in an eskimo kiss, whispers her name like a mantra into her parted lips. She gets it. It hits her full force, a crushing in her chest as she races for the finish line, body already beating her mind.
The drawer. This is all because of the drawer. The implication it has on their relationship. The fact that she's putting her time and effort into this to make it work. He's a romantic mess above her, within her, because it's Valentine's Day and she just pushed them into the next phase of their relationship. And she loves him. She adores him.
Hips meeting his, give and take, a slightly quicker thrust - her doing - and he's dropping his mouth to hers. Making her boil over, an overflow of the emotion he's brought into this. The sensation he creates, the burn in her skin, the feel of him sliding in and pulling back out too slowly. She swallows his groan when her nails bite at his shoulders and her muscles clench around him. Let's out a deep throaty Oh when he twists his hips, slips his hand down to brush over her clit, help her along. He's close, she can tell. It was never meant to last long and she really doesn't mind when he gets his finish before she gets hers but he does.
This isn't one of those times. She's already there, with or without his hand adding to the spring that's tightening into an almost unbearable ache. She steals his kiss, buries her face in his neck, clutching him tighter, pressing her entire body into his, trapping his arm between them, her spine arching, muscles tensing as she lets it crash over her. A wave of stunned pleasure, body unprepared for it. A pulse. A fluttering around him as she comes. Hard.
A haze settles, a pleasant buzz fogging over her brain, limbs heavy as she melts back into the mattress. Eyes opening on a smile when she hears the rumble from his chest, feels his body stutter to a stop, pushing into her, straining to be as close - as deeply within her as possible, head dropping to rest against hers.
She recovers faster than he does. Finds her words before his muscles ever relax.
"All this for a drawer, huh? Can't wait till your birthday." And even though she's teasing and he huffs out something similar to a chuckle, pressing a quick kiss to her lips, she knows it's more than just a drawer. They both do.
And before the night is anywhere near over, she lets him know that she understands the significance, why he's so amazed. With her mouth wrapped around him, tongue twisting, cheeks hollowing, his fingers fighting the sheets and her name slipping from his lips, she makes sure he knows that she's in this.
a/n: And that night...is what caused Cub.