He won't let her fall.
Words slurring, eyes hazy, senses alive, hands most certainly wandering, but he won't let her fall.
He sets a hand on her hip as she sways a little on those impossibly high heels.
Why she insists on wearing them is beyond him. But he's certainly not above complaining.
He doesn't care what she's saying to the rest of their table, just presses with his hand in harder and finds her ribs, not gripping, not wrapping his hands around her small frame, just hovering, knuckles grazing material.
She sidesteps him, but he catches her.
"This way," he mutters.
She chuckles. "Problem?" she asks, feigning an innocence she doesn't have, not in this moment.
He takes a larger step forwards. "You know my problems," he mutters it against the side of her head, body bumping hers.
He's not drunk. He's just got this happy haze surrounding him, lose and carefree. Reality is teetering on the edge of his subconscious. He knows this game is dangerous. He has to change the game and quick. He won't have her run.
"Where?" she asks, stopping in front of him, letting his body crash into her back, hands bracing on her hips by reflex.
"Um."
He can't think.
"Castle," she snaps.
Oh, she's gone, forging ahead – without him.
He swallows, shocked. But he follows, catching up, following her path through the crush of tables, the roar of the people, all drinking, eating and laughing.
He's not drinking, not anymore.
He won't be eating anything more either.
And the laughter, he has a feeling that's about to cease too.
He catches her as she pauses at a doorway, peeking around a corner a little. He sets his hands on her hips, trying to urge her forwards, begging her to move. But she spins in his arms and falls heavily back against the door jamb.
Not what he expected.
"Kate?" he asks quietly, a hand sliding over her stomach, one moving around her back as she watches him, flustered and bewildered.
The flush that rises on her cheek is remarkable, like in this second she's realising what's happening. Where they're going and most certainly what they're going to do.
He watches the line of her throat as she swallows, slowly. It's so tempting to crush her against the thin piece of wood and slide his mouth over the lines of her throat, the curves of her body. But they're not alone.
He realises she's flicking her eyes, motioning him forwards, directing him to move around her and head down the thin corridor ahead of her.
He does so reluctantly, removing himself, sliding hands slowly from her body, deliberate. He doesn't want to move away because she's about to-
She shoves him, hands on his hips as she moves herself off the wall, running her hands around his body, touching and directing. Apparently she can't bear to lose the contact either.
"Castle," she says softly.
"Huh?" he huffs, soft and deliberate, forcing himself not to turn around because she's still pushing on his back, hands fisted in the hot clammy material, knuckles grazing his skin, and if he turns around, if he thinks about this and is honest with her, she'll run.
He can't let her run, not from him and not from them.
And he thinks, just thinks, he has a way to stop her.
The fists lift, drag across his back, touching skin through material. Then he realises she's untucking more of his shirt.
Open palms is all he can feel and then the graze of her nails as she teases the skin on his back. He wants to stop and force her to continue, let her take her time and torment him, in all the best possible ways.
But they can't.
This is a public place.
"Go ahead," she says softly.
Now he's confused.
He wants to ask, but vocalising it just seems to make the point moot.
He spins and faces her, hands already so close to her body that he can feel the material of her dress beneath them.
But then it's gone.
Or maybe it wasn't there in the first place.
Her hands are on his arms, hard, fingertips pressing into all those tiny muscles, drawing them apart, squashing the tension and the tendons. But she's raised an eyebrow at him. "Through the door, Rick." He watches her struggle to say it, and he feels like an arse for it.
Until she backs him into the small room, drops his arm and reaches for the knob herself, almost toppling him over, his weight so set against the wood that it moves quicker than he expected.
He's hazy not drunk. But he finds a grip on her elbows, insistent and certain, but still not tight. He won't mark her, not there.
"Stairs," is all she says, barely a whisper but it's a warning. A serious warning.
She doesn't want him to hurt himself, fall on his arse and ruin whatever moment this is.
He chances a glance behind him and sure enough, stairs. Not too many of them, probably six, but enough that if he fell it would certainly put a dampener on their evening.
But then she's moving around him, taking the lead once more. Why exactly he isn't sure. Hell, he couldn't even tell you what part of the restaurant they're in – all he can do is focus on her. And not falling down the stairs.
Not falling down the stairs is important.
But his foot stomps the ground then, searching for a step much further below the one his foot finds.
He stops.
And she doesn't, stepping away – just out of reach.
But her fingers are on his forearm, his still at her elbow and she tugs him closer, not with the elbow, but with her fingers, drawing him along, pushing buttons. He is so attuned, he just knows.
Follow her.
"You coming? Or are you just going to stand there thinking about it?"
He drops her elbow, grabs both her hips and forces her through the doorway. He is most certainly not going to stand there thinking about it.
And neither is she.
He spins her, catching the wooden door in his hand and moving her back against it. He is most certainly not going to press her against the toilet at the other end of the short room.
"The bathroom? Really?" he asks, cheek against hers as her arms hold him close, draped around his neck like this is the most normal thing in the world, like this is typical for them. it's not typical for them to sneak into bathrooms, it's not even typical for her to be this close.
"Hmm," she shrugs. "We couldn't leave, everyone would see." She's certain, and sure and it's making his body hum.
"Everyone already saw," he manages to form coherent thought. They stop though, as soon as the words are out of his mouth. His body is met with hers as he attempts to take another step, still yet to feel her hit the wall. But then she's sandwiched between the door and himself and he feels her inhale sharply, her mouth open against his skin already, teasing with her tongue, hard and insistent.
He's paralysed, but she's not, so he keeps his weight against her, letting himself have a second, to enjoy her certainty and her need.
She undoes a button on his shirt, maybe two, and opens the material, leaving his neck, the top of his chest and hints of his shoulders open to her attentions, awaiting her perusal.
He presses his mouth to her, her cheek long ago vanishing beneath his. The tendon is taunt under his mouth as he sucks lightly at her skin. But then he feels her swallow, quick and desperate, the ragged breath at his own neck sucking air across his wet skin, and it slackens beneath his mouth, just for half a second.
He nips it with his teeth as soon as it's tense then slides his mouth over the length of it, finding the crook of her neck and her already exposed shoulder.
She drops his skin as he nips and sucks on her clavicle. She's already breathless, breathing erratic beneath him, the rise and fall of her chest hitting his chin. He slides his tongue along the curve of the bone and feels her slide her hands to his waist.
He feels her untuck his shirt but he can't feel anything else, not until her hands slide between them and fumble with his belt. He wants to pull back, be helpful, but first, he presses her hands deep into his stomach, back into her own, as he forces himself closer.
He feels the breathy laugh against his neck, then the open mouth again, quick. "Give me a second," she whispers.
He does and reluctantly removes the pressure on his pelvis, removes himself from the heat of her body. He waits for her to tug at the belt, slide it free and drop it to floor. But she doesn't, it never falls.
She slides her fingers beneath the waistband of his pants instead, draws him closer again.
He takes that as permission to grind against her again.
When her breath catches he knows he made the right call.
She forces her hands between them again, fingers undoing the top button of his dark jeans, quick and efficient, as he slides his hands down her back. He can be as quick and efficient.
He draws her off the wall back against him with a quick movement as soon as she finds the top of his zipper.
He feels her laugh against his neck, mouth travelling again, so he arches his neck, lets her explore skin.
Then her hips are gone, removed from his and the zipper must be down because she's already moving along the top, fingers digging beneath, grabbing the elastic of his boxers as she goes, dislodging so she can-
She drops his pants, not far, just a few inches. And he realises-
"You are a tease," he offers, remembering. He has no work to do.
"It's not like this was planned Castle," she shrugs, shoulder knocking his chin so he drops his mouth, sucking on skin as she continues. "I couldn't find any clean underwear this morning."
He groans and presses her so deep into the door he knows it's creaking, shifting beneath their weight. He likes that thought, their weight, shared and common. Like they only have each other to worry about.
"All day?" he asks, astonishing and not caring. "You've been commando all day?"
"What? Did you want me to tell you what kind of underwear I'm wearing? I'll just send you a message each time I get dressed, shall I?"
"Please do," he manages between a nip at her skin. "Though it could be very-"
"No." She's serious, certain.
He doesn't care, like she'd ever agree to something like that. But he wants her to admit, progress. Though her mouth finds his ear, teeth at the earlobe, mouth open and insistent. That's progress.
"You can find out on your own."
He swallows, forces himself to clear his head and process what she just said. "What?" he manages, turning to face her, dislodging her mouth with his temple at her cheek.
"You can find out on your own what panties I'm wearing." She doesn't blink once. It's like she doesn't realise what this is doing to him.
"How?" He's an idiot, an idiot. But he goes with it, fists his hands in the material of her dress, hiking it up those same few inches she dropped his pants.
"You work it out. I'm not going to tell you."
Okay, now she's just being provocative. Which kind of teasing she's going for here, he isn't sure but he'll take either.
"How?"
Really, can he say nothing else?
She grips the elastic of his pants, dropping them another few inches.
He buries his face in her neck, in the loose hair and groans, sliding her dress higher. Too high, they're not equal anymore.
She drops a few inches and he curls his body around her, chasing the sinking shoulder to slide his tongue over it.
She's taken off her shoes.
He's amazed by the change it stirs in him, recognition that she's not as equal to him as he thought. She doesn't stand quite as tall, there is a rouse there, a false security, shrouded by a badge and three inch heels. But she's still herself, he's seen past the mask for as long as he can remember. She's just never realised how much, never let him see the truth by her own choosing, only letting him in a fraction on days when she can't hold the hatch shut herself. But stepping out of her shoes, being true to herself, it's like she's showing him. He wouldn't mind her digging the heels into his arse, but this, this difference, is better. He realises he's dislodged her dress and bra strap with his movements. He sucks the skin of her shoulder into his mouth, the slight dip in her skin where the bra settles, digging in and supporting her.
He feels her shift, lift her shoulder slightly, further into his mouth. So he sucks the skin deeper, soothing what he's sucking with his tongue. When he needs to breath, damn lungs, he soothes it with his tongue, breath ragged as she breathes beneath him, so far below him now.
"You okay?" she asks quietly, leaning back against the door to watch him, a hand in his hair, twirling at the nape of his neck.
He shivers and stops paying so much attention to her shoulder to answer her. He doesn't like towering over her; they're equals, so he stays at her level, bending his knees slightly so he can make eye contact. He realises she's drawn away from his body, their only points of contact his mouth and their hands. So he lowers his hands, letting the material drop over his hands now they're back on her thighs.
"I'm good. Are you?"
She nods and smirks, moving her hands to his shoulders and pressing down, urging him to lift her with a distinct lack of words. For someone who loves to read and for someone who writes, they don't use a lot of words. There has never been a need.
He barely has to lift her because she's already hoisting herself up to his stomach, setting herself there. Her hands back in his hair as soon as she's settled against him, legs secure, arms certain.
She guides his head back with her hands, away from the chest heaving in front of him.
"I'm sure. I get it," she admits. "Once we do this, we can't take it back. But…"
"You're ready?"
"Not what I was going to say." She shakes her head. "I don't think I'll ever be as ready as I want to be."
He presses his mouth to the underside of her jaw, quickly darting his tongue out, reminding her they haven't got all day. But showing her he understands.
"But I know now, I'm as ready as I'm ever going to be." She slides her heels down his arse, catching the material and tugging it further down.
He presses her into the door, hard, setting her there, so he can drop his own pants. He's not having the belt or the zip dig into her legs. They are not the marks he'll be leaving, not this time.
"Are you?" she asks quietly as he lets his pants slide down his legs, her legs lifted from his to allow them to do so.
He grips the underside of her knee, her thigh, grabs her arse, hooking her back around himself. "More than. But we do have one problem," he offers.
"Which is?" He watches her swallow, chooses to press his mouth along the line of her throat.
"I don't have a-"
"I thought you were observant, Castle?"
He swallows. He's missed something. He has to have, so he sucks the base of her throat into his mouth, dipping his tongue into the hollows and then nipping at her clavicles again.
"Pill," she manages, pushing his head to the left – her left, his right.
"Oh," he groans and presses her deeper into the wall.
"Stop stalling," she manages, fingers so tight at his scalp, heels insistent at his arse.
He speaks against her wet neck. "One condition," he whispers, knowing she can hear him. She would hear this over the thunder of a plane landing over them.
"Spit it out, Castle." She's getting impatient beneath him, arching as he sucks a blood vessel into his mouth.
"We do this again, properly, slowly." He swallows and presses his mouth to her skin. "Let me take you home, I don't care which, and show you properly," he mutters.
She nods, forehead against the side of his head. "Yes, I wasn't planning to go home alone after this."
"Oh really?" he teases, sliding his hands along the backs of her thighs, smiling against her skin as he feels her twitch, hips bucking against his stomach. She really is getting impatient.
"Yes," she bites as she grips his arse with her legs and pushes her shoulders against the door and draws him closer with her legs, forcing him to take half a step forward. It's a small half; the twist of his pants around his ankles limits things considerably.
"Wait," he says quickly. He grips her arse tight, holding her up because she's letting herself slide down his body, too impatient.
He feels her grip him, taking a second to meet his gaze to study his face. "What?" she asks, clearly he didn't provide an explanation, at least not one she understood.
"I haven't kissed you," he mutters, already moving closer. "I'm not kissing you and kissing you for the first time-"
"Do you not remember-"
"Hush." He raises an eyebrow, a 'let me finish' that she understands completely. "I want to kiss you properly, no disguise of cover and most certainly not in the middle of what's about to start-" he draws back as she chuckles.
"You're such a girl," she offers, by way of explanation.
"I most certainly-"
"Yeah, okay. What's pressing against my thigh is not at all-"
He steals her mouth, stops her right there in the middle of a tease, an innuendo, like he's wanted to do countless times before. But this time, it's as much the truth as it is anything else.
He feels her open her mouth and force her tongue along the edge of his mouth, he obliges another request.
When he feels her hands on his face he groans. He wants to touch her hair, they're doing this wrong.
So out of order.
But so them.
There will be more. I can't leave it there right?