Sometimes he wonders if her liking for being on top comes from the same place as her refusal to hand over her car keys. The need for speed, as it were, even as they're suspended in time, lost in the slide of skin and hands and mouths.
No one could blame him for wondering, he decides, because Detective Kate Beckett is very decidedly in the driver's seat at this very moment. Figuratively speaking, that is.
And speaking of her figure -
Her pale skin glows in the half-light as she pushes him deeper into the pillows, her breasts brushing his chest just enough to make him shudder. Or was it the delicate flicking curl of her tongue around his that did the trick?
He slides his hands along her thighs, relishing the tension he feels tightening her muscles, intent on hooking his thumbs into the elastic of her underpants. She shakes her head, her long fingers encircling his wrists as she pins his hands to the mattress with gentle determination. Her languid smile is an exact match for the one she wore as his Ferrari purred its throaty roar under her touch for the first time, and he gives her a slow smile of his own, his theory gaining more credence with every passing second.
Very interesting, indeed.
"Patience, my friend," she murmurs, amusement lilting through the words as she rolls her hips against his in a slow, maddening dance. "There's no rush, is there?"
"Friend, hey? I certainly hope you don't do this with iall/i your friends," he manages to quip as she arches her back, making him dislike the thin barrier of her underwear with a renewed passion, and is rewarded with a soft chuckle.
"Just you, Castle."
Time to test the theory, he thinks.
Two seconds later, she's staring up at him, looking as though she's torn between objecting to the sudden change in perspective (oh, now ithere's/i a neat piece of subtext, he must remember that one for Nikki and Rook's next sex scene) and wanting to plant one on him.
To his relief, she goes with her gut, and her mouth, of course, kissing him into next week with a hunger that he returns with an urgency that completely distracts her from the fact that he's at last managed to tug those damned underpants over the curve of her butt.
Things get a little hot and slippery and fast after that (almost like driving his Ferrari for the first time, he thinks dazedly as his senses spin out of control) and as far as he can tell, she doesn't care a jot that she's no longer in the driver's seat.
Figuratively speaking, of course.
Much later, as they lie together in a boneless, damp tangle on his bed, he finds the energy to slide his fingers through her tousled hair, gently kneading her scalp in the way he knows makes her toes curl. "Can I drive tomorrow?"
With her still half-draped limply over him, he feels her chuckle as much as he hears it. "In your dreams, Castle."
Okay, so the toe curling didn't work. He still grins as he presses a kiss to her damp temple, though, because whatever dreams he's going to have tonight about this woman, he's pretty sure they're not going to involve driving around in her beat-up old car.
As expected, she doesn't let him drive the next day, or the day after that, but that's okay. He's a patient man, and he's more than happy to wait his turn to be in the driver's seat.
Figuratively speaking, of course.