Nocturne Chapter One
"You can't see me yet, seeing takes a long, long time.
From the outside in, measuring each shift and sound."
-Mary Chapin Carpenter, Ashes and Roses, 2012 Rounder Records
No copyright infringement intended.
Oh God.
This is Kate's hand, clasped gently, palm-to-palm with his. This is the taste of Kate's mouth lingering on his lips. This is the scent of her rain-drenched hair tickling his nose.
And this isn't just Kate that appeared at his door and threw herself into his arms, at his mercy, begged forgiveness for everything she's said and not said, done and not done in four years of holding back.
This is his Kate. His.
He just had his hands on her body. His lips on her skin. His tongue inside her mouth—he can't even fathom the meaning, the magnitude—Possession, primal and fierce, sings through his veins.
Nothing, no over-wrought fantasy or half-lived dream, could have prepared him for the onslaught of this woman's voice and lips and body. Every nerve is firing, blood vessels pounding, heart beating out a steady pulse of "want" and "now" and "Kate."
The sound of her breath catching at his touch is on swirling repeat inside his head, and all he can think about is how badly he needs to evoke that exact noise again with no clothes or apologies or tears between them.
He turns to follow her, lets her lead, still afraid he's going to wake up, break the tenuous, gossamer spell.
Two steps into his living room and a bright blue flash floods the loft, followed immediately by a boom that rattles the windows. And then silent darkness falls.
In mid-stride, his chest collides with a now stock-still Kate, knocking them both off balance and forcing him to release her hand, clutch at her waist to keep from toppling her.
She's changed in that instant from the pliant, bending, giving, clutching woman he kissed against his door into a tightly-wound spring. He tries to soothe, works his hands over her ribcage to gentle her again, a vain attempt to get them back to that precious, impossible place where they were only a second before.
But she's caught, stiff and icy, by the flash and bang. The bubble has burst, and he fears there's no returning now.
Seconds stretch out in his perception, but finally he feels her take a steadying breath in, give a slow exhale.
He takes that as his cue to break the unsteady silence, schools his voice, keeps it quiet and close to her ear, reaches awkwardly for words to let her settle herself, to allow her to escape the moment, or the whole encounter, with dignity.
"I have candles in my office. Maybe a flashlight. It shouldn't be out for too long. There's a generator in the basement."
He is still pressed to her back, the chill from her damp shirt seeping in past his own. He tries a little nudge, not wanting to let go, so afraid she will want him to.
Pulling forward, but not away, she steps toward the office, letting him keep his hands on her.
"Candles could be good."
There is an unmistakable hint of a smile in her voice, and he thinks that maybe he's underestimated her recovery, underestimated the determination, the purpose and intent that went into what he feared was a whim.
Her hands cover his where they are still wrapped at the narrow of her waist, and he feels her chilled fingers insinuate themselves between his. She tugs them away from her body, and his heart starts to sink, thinking she's disentangling after all. But then her shoulders shrug, and she's pulling his arms tighter, wrapping herself up in him like a cloak. Joy wells up once again, buoys fragile, fluttering muscle. His chin aligns with her temple as he crowds over her shoulder, giving him a view of her upturned lips when she speaks again.
"If I didn't know better, I'd say you orchestrated this power outage."
Eyes upturned and sparking, she brushes her cheek to his, seems to be waiting for the banter, so he gives it to her.
"You got me."
She reads the depth behind it, and for once chooses to return it.
"I know."
Tugging his hands out again, she lets go of one and turns to face him. As she backs through the door into his office, she takes it up again and pulls him after her with eyes at once clear and unfathomable.
"And now you've got me, too."
His heart takes a slow turn in his chest, radiating warmth, filling his chest, spilling to his limbs, freezing his brain.
This is real. She isn't leaving. She isn't running or teasing or taking the out he's offered. She is walking into his office, edging backward toward his bedroom. Leading him to his own wildest dreams.
He isn't stopping for candles.
The look on his face must betray every thought in his head, because her lips curve up in a grin that drips with desire and decision.
Blue flashes again between them, the light stark and cold, but this time, she doesn't flinch when thunder claps; she lunges.
Arms around his neck, hard slick body pressed tightly to his, lips sealing and tongue sliding.
There isn't room for air between them. But he's fine with that—who needs air when he finally has her? Her mouth and skin and waist and hips and ribcage and god he will never get enough. Now that he knows what it is to hold all of this, touch it, dwell within it, he can't go back.
Her tongue is working its way along his lips, tracing the seam with barely-there pressure, just enough to light every nerve ablaze, bring his whole focus down to that one tiny stretch of slippery contact.
When he parts for her, lets her inside again, she dives deep, dances along his palate, traces the ridge at the roof of his mouth, swirls down and tangles with him, hums her approval as he surges inside her mouth.
The taste of her—dark and sweet and lush—hasn't changed since that first time, so long ago now. Synapses of memory that have lain dormant for more than a year stir and ignite. Dreams have let him relive the one time she allowed this to happen before tonight. But those fleeting flashbacks coupled with figments of imagination do not compare to this.
He has gotten distracted from his purpose, lost in this kiss, but she takes a step back, wobbles and starts to lose her footing. Her misstep reminds him where this is supposed to be going, and he reaches down, catches her, grabs her hips, hauls her up in the air.
She lets out a squeak into his mouth, but she spreads her legs for him and wraps them around his waist, squeezing tight to find purchase. Wasting no time, he carries her toward his bed, still embroiled in the battle with her lips and teeth and tongue.
The new angle puts her above him, and she palms his cheeks with her still-icy hands to gentle him. A fluttering, shaky breath washes across his skin, and now that he has her wrapped around him, he feels the rest of her trembling, too. Knowing this is having the same nerve-rattling effect on her makes him bolder, and his palm finds the swath of skin just above the waist of her jeans, slides up under her shirt.
Why are there still clothes? Impatience roils up, spurs him on. He wants his skin against hers, as if that might put out the fire of burning bliss in his veins rather than ratchet it up to a full inferno.
His knees hit the edge of his mattress and he lets her go, tries to slide her down to his bed, but she won't release him, pulls him down with her until all his weight is falling against her, pressing her into the soft covers with his hard planes and angles.
This is gravity. This is the force of the universe finally pulling him to her, giving into the inevitable merging.
He needs his hands. He can't free them from underneath her fast enough, grunts out his frustration into her seeking, pulsing mouth.
Finally free, his fingers unfasten the last of her buttons, and he drags himself from that blaze inside her mouth to taste all the skin he's finally revealed.
She whimpers when he finds her belly button with his tongue, tracing a taut circle around the edge before dipping just inside. He can see her eyes, open and on him as he tastes her, catalogues every flavor, every texture. The edge of her ribcage, the flat expanse of her stomach. He's mesmerized by what he still can't see—has to reveal all of her, hot and hard underneath him.
Her hands haven't been idle. She's gotten his shirt undone, fingers tremulous but sure, clasping at the material, trying to shove it over his shoulders. He gives in—shrugs out of it before she can rip it from him. But then he's at his purpose again—finding skin. All the skin.
The irony of this moment hits him again. She wants him to peel away the layers. Maybe she always has. But now she's letting herself, letting him.
Her zipper is down, button undone and she's lifting her hips, letting him drag the cool, rain-drenched fabric down her legs. It's stuck over her boots, and he curses at the hindrance to nakedness. He hears her huff out a breath and finds her propped up on her elbows watching him struggle with her footwear.
Despite the fact that she's the one laid out on his bed, down to her underwear, flushed and mussed and still half-drowned, she has a smug little grin curling at one side of her kiss-swollen, pink lips. He glares at her and growls as the second boot finally releases, and then her pants are off—finally off. She's still watching him as he shucks off his own pants, slightly off balance and giddy with the same adrenaline that has her muscles jumping.
And then he's climbing up her body, making delicious contact with every possible point, shivering as heat meets cold at every inch. He realizes suddenly that she must be freezing, but he can't bring himself to break contact with all this glorious naked Kateness to drag them under sheets and blankets, so he covers her with his own warmth, wraps himself around her, tries to pull her inside his own skin.
His face is hovering above her when blue flashes again, lighting her eyes, black but for slivers of green barely visible in the near-dark. He's worked his hands up to cup her shoulder blades, and he lifts her up now, cradles her to his chest and breathes.
She's nearly naked in his arms, beneath him in his bed, not only allowing him to touch her, but wanting him to, and he thinks he might cry as the realization swamps him that all of this is happening and real and not one of his arsenal of taunting, teasing dreams.
So he holds her, holds on to her with everything he has, and breathes her in, imprinting the feel and taste and smell of her on his body, his mind, his heart, until every part of him is filled with her, surrounded by her, infused with her essence.
She's speaking, soft and slow against his skin, whispered words spilling out, and he hears but can't quite absorb the meaning.
He loosens his grip, lays her head and shoulders back gently on the bed, sees through the watery lens of unshed tears that she's smiling up at him.
"No more waiting, Castle."
Oh, but this is worth the wait.