Charm
She didn't really know why she had agreed to dance with him. Maybe it was out of duty. He was her "plus one" for the night, after all. Yeah, that sounded good, even to the voice inside her head that screamed "RUN" every time he got close. But now that she was actually standing on the dance floor, one hand on his shoulder, one hand gently held in his, damned if she could remember why she thought it was a good idea. There was a shift somewhere inside and flecks of dust fell from mortar. This was dangerous. She wanted this too much.
He tipped his head toward her ear.
"I remember what this is like. Dancing with you."
His warm breath brushed her ear and goose bumps erupted. He inhaled with his nose barely in contact with her hair. Oh, she remembered this, too, all too well. His arms guiding her, supporting her, subtle and strong. His eyes so intent on hers that she really did feel she was the only other person in the room, in the universe. Last time she was in a dress he'd bought her. Enveloped in something he chose to fit her body. She hadn't been able to put that dress on since. She came out of her momentary reverie when he spoke again, voice all velvety-soft.
"We should do this more often."
"Not much call for dancing at crime scenes, Rick…" she could whisper in his ear just as seductively as he could, after all. This was definitely not affecting her. She was totally cool, calm and collected. Just a dance with a friend at a wedding. Why was she having to talk herself down from hyperventilating? God, who was she kidding, she wanted him closer. Right now. For the rest of the night. For the rest of her life. More dust was settling.
"I guess we would have to find another venue, then. Seeing as we wouldn't want to seem, unprofessional." He was still speaking quietly, only to her. And how the hell did he make that innocuous word conjure up images of sheltered intimacy in dark corners?
"I suppose that could be arranged." There was no way she was backing down on the innuendo. This was banter. This was them. She didn't have to be so aware of the heat of his palm pressed into her shoulder blade, fingertips caressing ever-so-slightly. She didn't need to catalogue the way the colored lights reflected off the planes of his face, the collar of his shirt, the curve of his perfect pink lower lip.
He raised an eyebrow, acknowledging that she had upped the ante. The tempo of the music shifted, melting into something smooth and Sinatra and serenading. She felt the pressure of his hand on her back, attempting to draw her into his chest. This was not a war; she was not conceding by taking a half step in toward him, pressing against his warm, solid frame. She hadn't laid her head on his shoulder. Now that would be a statement.
Damn. She laid her head on his shoulder. And he smelled good. Couldn't he be wearing some overpowering, obnoxious, overpriced cologne, instead of whatever this pheromone-mimicking swoon-inducing eau-de-Rhett-Butler-Indiana-Jones-and-James-Bond concoction was? She was in trouble. She thought she heard a chunk of brick hit the ground.
She felt his chest expand under her chin and his breath ruffle her hair. He had brought their clasped hands to rest between them and was systematically stroking the inner edge of her index finger with his thumb. Might as well have been a jack hammer for all the debris that was flying.
The song ended and the DJ announced it was time for the happy couple to cut the cake. Screw the cake. She wanted to stay here.
But this was the real world, and in the real world, one could not cuddle up to Rick Castle all night long without interruption, at least not without owning up to being completely besotted with him. Now how exactly could she manage to extricate herself from this embrace without betraying her crumbling excuses? She felt a kiss to the top of her head and took that as her cue to step back.
"Thank you for the dance, Kate." He hadn't let go of her hand yet. Just when she thought she might have put enough distance between them to escape with her dignity, he pulled her hand to his lips and kissed her knuckles. Holy crap, how was she supposed to fend off chivalry? This was just not fair. She was going to need a really big wheelbarrow, no make that a small bulldozer, to cart off the large quantity of crumbled bits of resolve that had fallen in the last 10 minutes.
"You're welcome." Funny, the meaning of that phrase, so often thrown around. You are welcome to ask again any time. Yes, in fact, he was welcome to ask again. And based on the expression of awe she was watching bloom over his face right now, he knew it. Great. She was done for. She had neglected to chart an escape route if her damn wall all came down at once and buried her in the rubble.
A/N: Could not resist a little post-ep for "'Til Death Do Us Part." It was as if A. M. and company wrote the end of the episode with an unspoken mandate to "go, write fanfiction about the rest of this right now" for the audience. And geez, two posts from me in one night. I must be crazy. Or have something else to do that I am procrastinating about. Maybe both.
K. C.