Come over

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This M interlude occurs between chapter one and two of my story Can't walk away, but can be read as a one shot. All you need to know is that it's two months after the Cops and Robbers episode (Season Four-bank heist), and instead of going home after the celebratory dinner at the loft, the night ended like this…

"Castle, I'm not ready. I'm not in a place where happily ever after is possible. Not yet. I still have more work to do before…" Before she is enough. Before she is all that he deserves. But after today, the thought of going home tears fragments from her soul and she is too weak to fight it.

Interlocking their hands, she moves away, walks backwards, her eyes staying connected with his, and she shifts them toward his room.

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The rain hits the window at a quiet yet steady pace. It's a constant repetition that reminds her of cold nights under heavy blankets, and the warmth of bodies huddled together. Not that she has that now; all she can feel is the heaviness in the air that comes with the season. Christmas is tomorrow; another year is about to pass and she battles the urge to weep.

She knows logically that her recent work-induced sleep deprivation is combining with winter and it's swirling together to create a dangerous snowstorm- her current dark mood.

She tears up at the abandonment that goes hand in hand with her past and January. Feels those tears fighting to break free over the messy situation she has found herself in; this thing with Castle is nothing but her own fault, yet she is somehow despondent over finding herself alone on Christmas Eve.

She was the one who had declared that she wasn't ready for more, she is the one using her wall as a buffer between them. Still, as her empty arms have nothing to wrap around but herself, she wishes that she could be justified in placing her current irritability on him. She wants to blame him for her stupid choices.

Mainly though, she just wishes she could hold him.

It had seemed like a good idea at the time to send him a message, a casual I'm home. What are you up to? But for her, for them, it's a big deal. She doesn't ask for him. The times that have followed their first night have been the result of late nights at the precinct, cases that were going nowhere to the point of frustration, and he had been by her side, more than happy to head back to hers to relieve some of that stress.

Sending out the text was foolish, and the more minutes that tick by without a response, the more agitated she becomes.

Stalking toward the kitchen, her half a glass of red is discarded carelessly into the sink; both of her hands coming to grip the hard edge of the counter while her head drops forward. The long loose strands create a shield, hiding the rejection she feels; the rejection that no one is here to witness.

Her fingers ache under the strain, the urgent need to hold on for dear life, lest she fall, crumble to the floor in defeat. Self-directed anger crashes against the feelings of disappointment. What did she really expect was going to happen? That he would get her vaguely worded prompt and come running?

Shoving backwards, she straightens but it doesn't help the twitching that runs the length of her body; the need to shed her skin and be free of everything is overwhelming. She wants desperately to rip herself apart, step away from what she is. Be someone new. Be someone better.

The knock on her door is strong and clear. The sound travels easily through the stillness that is her apartment and it catches her by surprise as she readies herself for bed. It's only a fleeting noise, but it has her heart racing, and the pulsating throb that started in her chest is suddenly flooding her system. Her fingers contract, the crescent half-moon of each nail digging firmly into her palms while the roar travels south, has her uncomfortably rubbing her thighs together to alleviate some of the tension.

Moving without realizing she is at the door, her hand poised, ready to allow him in when she is unexpectedly caught by a rush of anger at herself. At the stupidity of the situation. Now that she is standing here in her work shirt and panties, about to open the door to her partner, what is she going to say? That she was feeling sorry for herself and wanted the company? Or, that she missed him and sent him a subtle booty call?

Flipping the locks and yanking the door wide, her body guards the entry, her arms stretching wide as her eyes travel hastily over his body. The firm lines under his thick coat, the tight jeans that pull wide across his thighs, and the beat that's been pulsating steadily between her legs rapidly becomes a crashing of drums. The sight of him is enough to have her blood rushing heatedly through her body and her irritation rises.

He shouldn't continue to have this effect, not after she had explored his body the first time. It's ridiculous in a way, but she thought that after finally crossing that line, her all-encompassing need to have him inside of her would abate to a degree. Yet nothing could be further from the truth. Now it's all she can think about in some moments, usually at the most inappropriate times; the touch of his hand, the hard edge of him grinding against her as he pushes along her folds.

Her breath shakes as she attempts to steady herself, concentrate on the present, the fact that he is standing before her.

Their eyes meet, yet silence reigns as they do nothing but stare at each other, and she now wants to shut the door, run and hide from the electricity that sparks. It engulfs her and her hand shifts slightly as if to close the door.

Confusion dances across his features and he seems at a loss, as if he is wondering if it was her that had sent the message. But in her defense she never asked him over; merely stated that she was home, and was curious about what he was doing.

She knows what she really wishes he was doing, and her legs tighten, squeeze a fraction at that thought, and his puzzlement clears. When he watches her, he sees, she knows this all too well, and right now, she must be painting a rather telling portrait.

Without a word he strides forward with determination, his body insistent against hers until she is forced to step back, her arms dropping to her side as he moves them into the room enough to close the door. His back does the work for him, and he suddenly becomes nonchalant, casually leaning against the wood, his gaze slowly making its way down.

And this pisses her off.

She doesn't particularly like this side of him, the cocky playboy that gets what he wants, has the world at his feet, a smirk on his face, but as his eyes finish their perusal, make their way back to her, they tell a different story.

All they contain is love. A love for her that remains unspoken, at least since that day in the cemetery. He maybe playing along with her- I didn't ask for you; I'm not here for you- game, but it doesn't change the fact that underneath it all is the tender man who loves her. Whom she loves in return.

And she's not exactly one to shy away from a bit of game play; he is here after all, ready to chase away the dark cloud that has been following her around of late, and who is she to reject him?

Sliding a bare foot across the floor, she moves slowly, exaggerating each flex of muscle as she closes the distance, until she can feel the heat leeching from his body. Rising a hand she flicks the top button of his shirt open, deliberately catches a nail across his skin, and she's rewarded with a low growl that pierces her center.

Buoyed by the success of what just one button can do to him, she continues releasing the rest, her efforts becoming more painstaking slow the further she makes her way down. The tension that rolls off his body, the amount of restraint he must be employing to keep so utterly still, has her impressed, and she rewards him. Leaning forward, his chest now exposed, she runs the length of her tongue across his skin, feels a shiver darting through his body, the vibrations that are emitted as he moans.

Catching his nipple between her teeth, she bites, a little harder than is necessary; her annoyance at herself is still haunting her and he suffers for it. Not that he appears to mind all that much. His nipple is hard against her lips as she kisses away the pain. He stands erect inside her mouth, and her free hand extends until she finds the neglected puckered skin on his chest, cuts a nail sharply across the tip.

Out of the blue she is spun, finds herself slammed against the door as he twist them around, pushing her front into the wood as he crowds her from behind. His large frame pins her in place, holding her motionless while he discards his outer layers, the coat and scarf falling to their feet.

But if he thinks she is going to remain passive in this, he has another thing coming.

Grinding her rear into the seat of his pants, she gets the reaction she was aiming for; is abruptly pressed into the flat surface in front of her, his hips digging into hers, the contained size of him managing to find its place between the cheeks of her ass. What little room she did have to move is taken away, and the purr that has been thrumming through her veins since his arrival is twisted another degree higher.

And then his hand finds her.

It's only a finger to start. The thick length of his pointer traces the edge of her panties, dips low as his body scoots back a fraction, allowing just enough room for his arm to fit between her and the door before he encourages her forward again, trapping himself effectively.

Curling his fingers ever so gently, he finally makes his way inside the material, lazily drawing lines through the trimmed hair encased in her panties before gliding across her wet lips. He doesn't linger though, heading north again, and she bites on the admonishment that wants to break free.

He's slowly torturing her and he knows it.

His free hand sweeps away the hair at her neck, giving him access to the arch of skin he has loved since their first night, and his mouth latches on, teeth scraping painfully into her flesh.

Lost in the sensation up top she almost misses the movement of his hand down low as he quickly palms her, two fingers entering without warning, and her body springs forward, yet has nowhere to go. Her breasts are crushed as she withers, attempts to change positions, but he doesn't allow it, and her internal ache escalates.

She needs him to move if she can't, because his fingers inside, stationary, are releasing the most frustrating of sensations. It's pushing her to her breaking point, flooding his hand and her thighs with just how desperately she needs him.

Time stops, the sound of each frantic puff of air escaping her lungs a melody that he seems to enjoy as he joins her, his mouth detaching from her neck to find its way to the shell of her ear. He breathes in time with her, and it's turning her on spectacularly. To feel his body labor with hers as one, and his name softly flutters from her lips, a desperate plea she didn't know she was willing to make.

For whatever reason, it seems to be the siren song he was waiting for, and his fingers- thankfully- begin moving inside her while his thumb arches up, polishing a continuous circle against her clit. It's all too much, too quickly; the wait he had created has left her stretched thin, and it's not going to take a significant amount of effort to have her flying like a kite.

Her hips jerk in the smallest of spaces he has left her as she attempts to help the process, but he has other plans. His left hand grips her hip sharply, fights her actions as he holds her steady and her groan of irritation fills the air.

She prefers to be in control, would rather be a willing participant than to have no choice but to stand idly by while he plays her how he wishes, but the liquid that's sliding down her thighs mocks her for the liar that she is.

She trusts Castle; he's been her safety net long before they ever crossed the line into what they are now, whatever that definition may be, and his take-charge side is completely doing it for her tonight.

Sensing her approaching peak his thumb stops its grinding, his fingers exit, and it leaves her inner walls clamping on nothing but air. Her thighs squeeze in vain to keep him trapped inside of her, but he withdraws his arm and her curse shatters the silence.

What the fuck is he playing at now?

Her panties are shoved down the length of her legs and mercifully she comprehends where he is going with this and shimmies as much as she can to help their descent. He seems to take her assistance as a chance to back away slightly, the sound of his zipper freeing him hits her and another wave of liquid escapes as she anticipates his next step.

She doesn't have to wait long as he bends just enough to find her entrance, both of his hands bracing against her hips to encourage her up onto the tips of her toes. It gives her the height he needs so he can enter in one thrust, and her head smacks hard into the door.

The pain is fleeting as he stretches her wide, his chest against her back holding her in place so that his right hand can leave the skin of her hip. Gliding across bare flesh until it makes its way home between her legs, he finds her clit easily. Pinching the hard nub between the flat edges of his two fingers he rubs back and forth in time with each thrust, and her ability to stand upright is placed into jeopardy.

She reaches behind herself, both of her hands rushing to grip his shoulder but her fingers fail to get a good clasp on the material of his shirt which remains unbuttoned, but still on, and she has to settle for tangling her hands roughly through the hair on his head.

The confined area between them only allows the smallest arch of her spine but it has her head knocking against his shoulder, a constant beat in time with his body, with each push as he re-enters her from behind, with each stroke of his fingers.

There's nothing but the everlasting sensation of him inside of her. And she foolishly wishes that she could halt time, keep them forever locked in this moment. Not yet there, but so close that it hurts.

Twisting his hips dramatically, his teeth biting down onto her neck, he captures the uneven rhythm of her pulse, and the sensation of him, crowding into her, the feeling of containment, is suddenly enough to push her over the edge and she comes hard as he joins her.

He keeps going though, the movement of his fingers haphazardly sliding through the mixture of them as he brings her down from her high, his breathing labored as he pants against her sweat slickened skin before he withdraws. Stands back. And she has no choice but to let him go, to hold on to the frame of the door to remain standing.

Shuffling to the side, twisting so her back can fall against the wall, she watches through half closed eyelids as he fixes his clothes. Despite the evidence of them still coating him, he appears not to care as he adjusts his pants, re-buttons his shirt.

Striding forward, cupping her face, he cradles her tenderly before brushing a kiss across her lips, the first for the evening; he lingers a moment longer than she expects and she realizes why.

"Merry Christmas," he whispers delicately, his mouth lovingly caressing hers with his wish, and then he pulls away, opens the door, and leaves.

Unfortunately she has no choice but to remain, clinging to the wall for support. She can't find it in herself to move, but as her phone chimes she knows exactly who it is.

Stumbling the short distance, she picks it up, a hesitant smile breaking free as she reads the writing, For next time- the words you are looking for are 'I miss you Castle. I would love for you to come over.'

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Thank you to Jo and Nic, without them this would never have seen the light of day.

To say I am nervous about posting my first M story is a bit of an understatement!

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Comments are appreciated xo

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