AN: Set anytime before "Always," I'm envisioning somewhere mid-season 4; just pick a time. :)
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Lure
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He hovers above her body, his arm muscles bunched tautly, holding his weight. His body is poised, rigid from the strain of maintaining the modicum of space between them. She lays beneath him, stretched along the mattress, her limbs motionless. Only her chest moves, her rib cage rising and falling softly with every controlled breath she takes. Their thighs are aligned, the heat of his skin mingling with hers through the fabric of both their jeans and his heart thunders in his chest, her nearness an alluring draw that holds him captured. He moves again, grasps for control he fears he doesn't possess but she looks up at him, her eyes wide, shimmering dark and trusting in the bright lights of the hotel room.
His movements are slow and deliberate as he shifts above her, moves forward and back, mimicking the thrusts of a sexual encounter with her while their torsos don't make contact, separated by only a couple of inches of heated space. He squeezes his eyes shut for a moment, wonders how they keep getting themselves into these ridiculous situations he's not sure he could even think up for one of his novels.
Their suspect is a peeping Tom, a pervert who appears to have watched his victims from a building across, happily married couples, watched until he'd seen what he'd come to see, and then he sought out the husbands, left them stabbed in the dark alley off the delivery entrance of the hotel, leaving behind three tall, slim widows with long, dark hair. So here they are, on top of the sinfully soft sheets of this expensive hotel, play-acting to lure a murderer.
They are the bait.
The two-way radio crackles on the night stand, static noise filling the silence for a moment and he freezes, his eyes startling open. It is their only connection to Esposito who is with the SWAT team in the building across, silent but deadly as they move up floor by floor, trying to catch their suspect red-handed, watching them. They know they can be seen, their silhouettes stark shadows that dance against the thin light curtains they have drawn, giving them a modicum of privacy. Allowing them to at least keep their clothes on while they stage this act of love-making.
She blinks up from under him, her eyes alluring under the dark curtain of her lashes, and she mouths 'keep going' to urge him to move and he knows they have to, knows they have to keep performing until Espo gives them their signal even though his body screams, for distance, for release, he doesn't know any longer. All he knows is her scent, fresh and flowery, the ever-present hint of cherries lifting off her skin and the heat of her body close, so close and yet not close enough. And the yearning for her that lives mostly dormant inside of him now flares to life, a gaping gash, harsh and bright in his abdomen.
Every muscle of his body is clenched, controlled as he mimics another long stroke, but she shifts her hips at the same time, just slightly, and he knows it was unintentional because they both freeze when his pelvis bumps harshly against the vee of her thighs. Fire ignites in his veins, and she hisses air through her teeth at the intimate contact.
"Beckett," he murmurs, absolution and apology both, remains still with his body suspended above hers. Tries to control his breathing, coax his growing arousal into a low simmer but the strain against his jeans is undeniable.
His biceps are starting to cramp, the muscles bunched, shaking from the unusual strain of holding himself high above her and he focuses on his breathing, gathering his strength, trying to protect her from his weight, his inappropriate, untimely desires.
And then he feels her hand wandering up his arm, her slim fingers tender and warm as she trails them up his skin, wraps them around his upper arm. He stares at her and her pupils are darkened, stormy; her lips glisten as she licks across them once with a sharp flick of her tongue and he can barely suppress a groan.
"It's okay," she whispers, her voice roughened while her fingers dig into his biceps, pressing, tugging and a surge of desire races through his midsection when he realizes that she is urging him down. He gulps heavily, seeks her eyes and she glares at him, her eyebrows knitted in a silent order, but he knows her well, can see the strain below the bravado.
"It's okay," she repeats softly, the words 'I trust you' hanging unspoken between them, and then he sinks slowly, carefully, until his body is flush with hers and his arms quiver with the release of the strain. He adjusts, leans on his forearms instead, his elbows digging into the mattress next to her head while she laces her arms around his shoulders.
She's so slight underneath him, soft and pliable as she takes his weight and he suppresses the groan that wants to escape at the feel of her. At finally feeling her, like this, and it is all wrong. The ache spreads in his chest, cloying and oppressive and his breathing hitches, choppy in his chest.
She slides her palms against his shoulder blades, caresses in slow calming circles until his heart stops hammering, and he finds her eyes, can see in their shimmering depths that she knows, understands. It rushes over him like a wave, foaming, gushing, fast, how much, how incredibly much he loves her.
She bites her lip, sucks a deep, fortifying breath into her chest and then she nudges his shoulders, reminding him that they still have a job to do.
"Come on, let's get this over with," she murmurs into his ear, a teasing lilt to her voice that brings a small grin to his face, adds the leverage he so desperately needs to continue to do this.
He glides up and down, grazes along her lithe, soft body, progressively speeding up to make their performance seem more realistic. Fiery sparks of friction sizzle and burst between them, cover every inch of their bodies and his chest bumps against hers on every move, his pelvis pressed tightly to her middle and he can hardly breathe, can hardly stand it because she feels so good, and this is everything and nothing he's ever wanted. It's too good, and so wrong, and he hates it, hates that he feels like he is using her for this.
He rests his forehead against hers while he moves, their noses aligned as he breathes with her, trying to be close, to communicate everything he can't say with words, not now, maybe never. She quivers in his embrace, her limbs rigid and clenched underneath him while her fingers dig into his shoulders. He shifts over her again and this time her body arches into him and he stills in shock. She blinks open her eyes and they are darker than he's ever seen them. And then he understands, when for an infinite moment he sees the dark swirls of raw, desperate desire, unguarded, pooling deep within her. Before she clamps down on it, squeezes her eyes closed, her teeth sinking into her lip so hard that he fears she might draw blood.
He shifts his face to her ear, curves his large palm around her neck while he holds her head cradled protectively against the arch of his shoulder.
"It's okay, Kate," he whispers, soothes, promises. "It'll be okay." Then he resumes his movements, adds pressure where he knows she needs it, his hips finding a tight curling rhythm against her. Bursts of breath and suppressed whimpers fall from her mouth, beat a staccato rhythm into the fabric of his shirt while she lifts into him, seeking ever more of him, her fingernails clawed into his neck.
His body is taut with repressed need, a yearning ache that threatens to swallow him alive but he focuses on her, only on her as she arches into his touch, wanton and trusting. And then her whole body clenches, he can feel the strength housed in her lithe muscles as she shudders beneath him. Her teeth sink around his clavicle, covering the noises that burst from her throat, a low whimper the only sound that escapes the confines of her lips against his shirt.
She goes limp in his arms, sinks back onto the pillow with her eyes clenched shut, gasping for breath.
The radio suddenly crackles to life, startling him with its loud stutter as Esposito's voice sounds mechanically from the device, blares through the sounds of their harsh breathing. "We got him!" He declares the end of their mission.
Castle shifts his weight off her body, settles beside her silently, his hand still cradling her neck while his heart leaps harshly in his throat. Words tangle against his tongue, strain to be let out but he doesn't know what they are.
She reaches for his hand that is still cradled against her, laces their fingers together and pulls it away from her neck. She squeezes his fingers, once, and then she drops it by his side, rises to a sit up on the bed.
"We should go." Her voice is rough, layered with things unsaid as she runs her fingers through her hair, untangles the knots that have formed from the friction of her head rubbing against the pillow and that thought, the realization of why her hair is knotted, of how it happened leaves him yearning to touch her again, to love her, long and deep and never-ending.
Instead he rises too, adjusts to the unforgiving tightness of his pants, his body still straining, roiling with ache. He drops his head into his hands, focuses on his breathing, draws long measured breaths into his lungs, and out.
He hears her swing her legs off the mattress, coming to stand next to the bed. She stills then, and he can feel her presence close to him, hears the low sounds of her composed breathing, the air between them almost suffocating with missed opportunities and unspoken words.
It's soft, barely noticeable at first when she grazes two fingertips over the curve of his shoulder, a slow heated drag that scorches his skin through his shirt before her touch drops off his arm.
Tenderness drips from her voice when she speaks, quiet words that simmer with understanding and regret. "Take your time."
And then she's gone.