A/N—This is a pretty long chapter, so it took me a little more time to edit and finish up. Hope I caught all of the mistakes. Sorry for the delay.
Inspired
Post Unquestioned/After the Storm: Castle's Perspective (after the introduction)
"There's no need for you to do all this for us, Kiddo," Martha says, following her son as he gathers up their luggage.
"I want to, Mother," he replies, irritated that she seems to be monitoring him too closely as of late.
"She's right, Dad," Alexis chimes in, "We'll wait and go to Europe when you can come with us. Just close your door. We won't interrupt at all."
"Interrupt?" he scoffs a bit too flamboyantly, adding a forced and nervous chuckle, "what on earth could you possibly be interrupting?"
Alexis and Martha exchange knowing looks. "Your writing," his daughter finally comments, clearly suspicious. "Isn't that what you're planning on doing?"
"Right, yes," he grins, "I was just joking."
"Daddy, are you okay?"
"I'm fine, Pumpkin," he answers too eagerly.
"Richard, you seem…flustered," Martha states.
"Because I didn't realize I was being interrogated. You're pretty good, Beckett might be able to get some pointers from you."
"Speaking of Detective Beckett, even if you must stay behind, don't you think other priorities come before writing?" his mother asks.
"Like what?"
"The Detective, perhaps. What about her? How's she holding up, being suspended? Must be really hard for her. The poor woman practically eats, sleeps and breathes police work. What on earth is she doing with herself these days, sitting around her apartment moping?"
Castle looks up, a flashing memory hitting him hard. "Oh…I'm sure she'll think of something."
"Gram is right, Dad," Alexis adds. "Don't you think you should help her keep her mind off it? Take her to a show or dinner or maybe a poker game?"
"Don't worry about Beckett," he replies, shepherding them toward the door, and handing the luggage to the doorman waiting in the hall, "and don't worry about me. Have fun." They each kiss a side of his face as he cheerily adds, "Have fun! Love you!"
As the door shuts, Alexis looks at her grandmother and says, "Does he really think we're that clueless?"
Rick is truly nervous for the evening, and it's strange. There have been plenty of times Kate has made him anxious, but she wouldn't have called any of them 'dates.' Until now. He wants to make this official, to take her out on a real date to show her that the romantic side of him is still alive and well, and he hasn't forgotten that just because he's getting some. But if they have any hope of keeping things quiet, they can't go to any of the places he would like to take in her New York. Any of those options make an appearance on Page Six too likely. And, quietly, he's happy she's afraid to lose him as her working partner. Still he wants that official first date, something real, a chance for him to stare across a table, show her how he thinks she deserves to be treated without trying to hide his adoration.
They seem to have the sexual aspect of their new romance well under control. Admittedly he's failed at his attempts to convince her that her entire suspension should be served in the nude. She's laughed and rolled her eyes, assuming he is joking, but he is definitely serious.
He doesn't only want those private, stolen moments, mostly at her place when he can sneak away from home to be with her. As much as he's not ready for the barrage of questions and the ramifications that will follow once their love is outed, he also doesn't truly want to keep this hidden anymore. After only a few days, part of him is ready to strut around with her on his arm.
He enters her apartment when she opens the door, and she's dashing about, grabbing a few things for her overnight bag. "Are you sure this is safe?" she apprehensively asks.
"Yes, of course," he says, trying to grab her hand, but she avoids being caught. It's been a few hours since she's been in his arms. Far too long for his liking.
"I'm not sure going out is the best idea."
"Would you relax?" he insists.
"If we end up on Page Six and—"
"We will not end up on Page Six. Trust me," he tries to capture her hand again, but she skitters across the floor, refusing to be hindered.
"I just—" Kate begins, pausing because her progress is halted when his arm slings around her waist and drags her to him.
His hands on her shoulders, he says, "Everything is taken care of. Believe me."
The second she smiles at him, it melts his heart, and he can't avoid kissing her. He takes her face in his hands, intending to brush lips and whisk her away. Kate's affection is still a difficult thing for him to walk away from. The spark that ignites them is more accurately described as a hair trigger as of late. Before he even realizes, his arms are around her, his palms grabbing onto her ass and pulling her flush against him. Her hand forces its way between their bodies and fumbles across the front of his pants. He loves the newly exposed lusty side of her that can barely seem to resist him. And he almost forgets their plans altogether as she drags him toward her sofa. "Or we could just stay here," she suggests, her breath tickling his neck and ear and almost winning out.
"Wait, wait, Siren," he challenges. "I told you, I'm taking you on a date. Candles, champagne, romance."
"I don't need all that, Castle," she deflects.
"I know you don't need it. But you definitely deserve it."
Beckett smirks a little, shyness showing itself for only a moment.
"Now come on," he says more animatedly, "let's get out of here. I have a woman to impress."
"Fine. Give me a couple of minutes. I have to get my stuff out of the laundry, should be done now." She quickly offers a peck on his cheek before she disappears.
He walks causally around the space, his eyes pouring over her things. When he told her years earlier that snooping through people's medicine cabinets was part of being a writer, he wasn't joking. He sees the line of books she has with his name emblazoned, and it makes him smile.
As he sees the earliest ones, he runs a finger over each title. He can't help but flash to Beckett in her early adult years, and the thought of her hurrying to the next page or looking forward to an evening with one of his books makes him smile. There's something satisfying about knowing that he was spending time with her before he'd ever laid eyes on her. Young Kate probably took him, or at least his work, into her tub, or maybe she cuddled up in bed on chilly nights with his words. Oddly he feels robbed of those years with her, jealous that he wasn't able to know her at that same time, hear her words in his ears, see her smile, watch her brilliant mind at work.
He looks through many of her books, noting the care she takes with them all, not just his. Her appreciation for words, written and spoken, is part of what intrigued him from the start. He takes Heat Wave from the shelf, noting that at some point she purchased a hard bound copy for her collection. When he turns it over to open it, he sees something her other books do not have. It's subtle, of course, but the corners on the pages of all the Nikki Heat books are subtly bent from repeated turning. He's already planning to tease her a little about this, find out how many times she's poured over these pages, maybe ask if she was half as turned on when she read the sex scenes as he was when he wrote them.
As much as he initially tried to convince her that the scenes were about the character, not her, he knew exactly who he pictured, heard, and felt, when he wrote.
He imagines her in her bed, wondering about her favorite methods of self-pleasure. Does she make the same sounds alone as she does for him? Does she look the same when she orgasms, winding her legs, clawing at sheets, neck tensely craned? When she comes down from that peak, do her sighs, moans and pants become all one unique sound, gradually slowing as her body relaxes again?
They've really only been paired for a few days, and he can, and does, still count the number of times they've been together. He wonders if it's too soon to ask her questions about the things she does alone, maybe get her to agree to let him watch her, even just for a few minutes. The thought of her finger disappearing into her body or strumming over her clit gives him a pleasure jolt, and a slight shudder before he reminds himself not to get carried away before they even leave her apartment. Things with Beckett have a way of getting out of hand.
He gazes toward her bedroom, wondering how much time he has, and exactly how angry she'll be if he opens a few drawers and peeks under the bed to see what sorts of little toys she may have tucked away. He sits at her desk chair, realizing that she probably won't be thrilled to find him rooting through her things. Of course he also doubts she'll be all that surprised. But he doesn't want to irritate her too much before their date, so he decides to limit the night's meddling to her shelves.
As he sits, weighing the potential for discovery against her impending irritation, something else catches his eyes. Behind her "Castle" collection, he sees a hard bound notebook, the kind with a ribbon bookmark attached to the spine. Naturally he prefers to hypothesize about it, and what purpose it serves, rather than to look immediately and spoil the surprise.
It's not a cheap book, expensive as notebooks go, which seems surprising given the fact that she's not a frivolous person, so he believes it must be somewhat important to her. It's blue, a slightly darker shade of cerulean. If it were black, and not so well hidden, it might be an address book, the typical little black book. If it were red…oh the possibilities, maybe a sex or dream journal, something scandalous. Beckett wouldn't write a grocery list in a hardbound red book. But blue…makes him think of subtlety and secrecy. Maybe case notes, personal thoughts or lists.
He realizes he's seen it somewhere before. Her nightstand, he recalls, not tucked behind other books out of sight. She moved it since the first night he spent at her place.
He opens it at the beginning, not at the place held by the bookmark. There aren't dates, so he doesn't think it's a journal. His brow furrows and he leans closer to the pages as certain words become clear. He shakes his head, struggling to confirm, but he knows he sees the words "Rook" and "Heat," written in her hand. He pages through, seeing sessions of writing begin neat and clear, and over time become more hurriedly scratched.
"It can't be," he says aloud, astounded and titillated. This discovery is too good to keep quiet. "This should not be hidden on a shelf."
Kate bursts back into the room, laundry basket tucked under her arm. "What are you doing?" she asks, catching the tail end of the words he spoke to himself.
"Waiting for you," he replies, keeping the book just out of her line of sight.
"Five more minutes," she vows.
Making sure she's not looking, he opens the book again. He quickly thumbs through it a bit more, confirming his suspicions, and then hides the book in his jacket pocket. He's almost giddy with the possibilities.
She comes out minutes later, truly dressed for a date. He's seen her in work clothes, formalwear, undercover clothes of various types, but now she's wearing a short black skirt, sky high pumps, and a thin, sleeveless black top that's just a bit sheer, enough to make him stare to try to find the outlines of her bra. She is breathtaking.
"You are jaw-droppingly gorgeous," he rasps. "My god."
His eyes are devouring her, taking her all in, already planning later activities. They need to get out of here, and he finds that he's trying to walk away, but his eyes can't yet be forced to leave their favorite subject.
He digs in his pants pocket and forces his stare to falter. He is more insistent about driving in their personal life than he has been as her partner/consultant, and she doesn't seem to mind much, but he hands her his keys and says, "You can drive."
"Ferrari?" she asks, growing a bit giddy.
"Why not?" he flirts, pleased when she doesn't seem to note any underlying motive.
"Wait…where are we going? If we're trying to blend in, showing up in a Ferrari is not—"
"Would you please give me some credit," he snaps.
"You're right."
"You're a really careful driver, right? Two hands on the wheel?"
He can see the gears turning behind her eyes. She's suspicious, but she doesn't press him. He thinks that maybe she enjoys this dance with him so much that she's willing to see what it's all about. With her ache-provoking coquettish stare, she closes the gap and nibbles his lower lip, and he very nearly forgets all of his plans. Again.
He's spent years dancing around this relationship with her, and although they're together, there is still a game to be played. It's fun, that's the truth. Their typical parry and thrust, give and take, is still exciting. To be with someone who can match his wit and throw it back only amplifies the draw. Part of what he loves is that tease she still employs. Beckett is exhilarating, as exciting now as before they were together. Maybe more so. As desperately as he wants to give up and have her immediately, absolutely anywhere she'll have him, he knows there will be time for that. Delayed gratification has always been part of their spark.
Her fingernails scratch down his back over his jacket, and he's not sure if he really feels the scrape or if his mind has memorized the way it feels normally when they're naked. Her thigh brushes him enough to make his interest stir, and she says, "You seem tense. Can I help with that?"
Her gaze is teasing, she wants to win. But his hands find her ribs, and he turns her toward the door. Standing behind her, he pulls her in tight and whispers, unflustered, "We have reservations."
"Oh," she replies, and he worries that she feels a sense of rejection.
"Hey," he tips her chin so she can see him over her shoulder. "Believe me, I love everything you're thinking about doing to me right now…but I have been waiting for years for a real date, and I intend to cash in."
There's a quick blush across her cheeks, and she adds, "It will be nice to go out."
"Exactly," he replies, and he grabs her bag and they leave her apartment, walking down the hall so closely their shoulders brush as they step.
They get in his Ferrari, and he sees the delight she tries to keep down. He knows how she appreciates a few of his expensive playthings. He mumbles directions and she takes off, leaving the city in the proper direction.
It's a chilly night, so the top is up on his car, but at least this way they can hear each other's words. After a few moments of small talk, he casually poses, "I've always wondered—"
"—here we go—" she interjects.
Without missing a beat, he ignores her and continues, "—what did you think of those steamy scenes I wrote starring Detective Heat and the roguishly handsome reporter?"
"What do you mean?" she queries with costumed innocence, and he assumes she's trying to buy herself time to decide how to proceed.
"You knew you were the inspiration for the character, probably suspected that I was working out certain, ahem, unresolved issues. What did you think when you read those parts?"
She shrugs, her face pinker, even in the dark. "What was I supposed to think?"
He leans toward the center of the vehicle between them, getting into her space. "Did you like those scenes? Think they were exciting? Intriguing? Alluring?"
"You're a great writer. You don't need me to tell you that."
"I'm not asking from a literary perspective, but I think you know that." Her hesitation affirms that he's on to something. "Did you find those chapters to be intriguing or alluring on a personal level?"
"Of course. Who wouldn't?" she retorts shortly.
"But you weren't just any reader. In some ways you were the subject. The focus of Rook's, and my, desire."
"You feeling insecure about your books?" she tries to deflect. "Is it really your ego you want me to stroke right now?"
But he knows he's poking close to the fire, and she's only trying to redirect. He vows to stay on course and continues, "I'm not feeling insecure at all. Quite the opposite, as a matter of fact. I've always wondered certain things, and now that we're together, there are questions I feel I can ask that I couldn't ask before."
"Get to the point then. What is it you want to know, really?"
"Fine," he gleams. She's right where he wants her. "Did the sex scenes turn you on? Make you hot and bothered? Make you wet? Maybe provoke certain fantasies about yours truly to the point where—"
"Castle!" she admonishes.
"Hey, I tried subtlety, and you told me to get to the point."
Without looking he knows she's rolling her eyes, putting on a show of exasperation. "Yes, okay. Of course they did. It was hot to read. To imagine." She glances at him and adds, "Very hot."
"And did this reading ever lead to any…after storytime activities?"
"Huh?"
"Masturbation, Beckett. You know, sometimes you make nuance and subtlety very difficult to employ! Did reading something I wrote ever inspire an act of self-love?"
She smirks, shaking her head and biting the inside of her cheek, thinking about her answer. He can tell she's enjoying this banter. "Yes," she practically whispers.
"I'm sorry, was that a 'yes'?"
"Yes, okay? You win. Your writing inspired 'self-love.' More than once," she answers like she's irritated, using his own words. Kate doesn't look irritated, though, despite her efforts. She volleys back, "Any more questions?" in a way that is supposed to deter more probing.
"Several," he replies, ignoring her attempt. "What did you think of during those solo acts? Did you think of Heat and Rook…or me and you? Some of both?"
She groans in protest half-heartedly.
"Fine. I'll go first. When I wrote that first sex scene between those characters, it took days. And I mean days. As soon as I had time, I locked myself in my office or my room, wherever I happened to be writing that day. Labored over every word. Every touch. I closed my eyes, imagined you and me…when we stopped trying to prevent the inevitable and let things happen. I envisioned every second, tried to imagine it, the taste of salt and tequila on your skin. That first furtive kiss. Your knees straddling my hips. Finally touching you, kissing you, feeling your naked body against me. I can't even pretend that I thought of Rook and Heat. In fact, afterwards, I realized that I accidentally used your name instead of Nikki's. So it required some revision, but the heart of it was written while I was fantasizing about us."
She glances over with knowing seduction. Her voice emerges with that desirous tone he seems to pull from her now. "Really?"
"Absolutely."
"And did these writing sessions inspire any acts of self-love?" using his own words against him again.
"Hell yes," he admits without shame.
"At your desk?"
"Sometimes. Several times, to tell the truth. It was your face I pictured. Your body, the bounce of your hair, the curve of your lips, those long, graceful legs. Your voice."
"Wow," she replies, taking it all in.
"Hey, our turn is coming up. Hop on 495 right here," he cheerily instructs, like the verbal foreplay wasn't making him crazy.
"Turn here?" she throws glares at him like he's lost his mind. "You want me to drive back to the city?"
"Just go with it," he insists. Before she can argue, he continues, "So…back to more important things. Now that I've been forthcoming, what about you? Reading, self-love, your favorite author as inspiration? It's your turn to dish."
"Fine," she cautiously answers. "I had to resolve some built up excitement after reading a few times."
"That's it? That's all you'll tell me?"
"And, maybe…there were a few nights when I went home and read just those parts…touched myself or, you know…opened the toy box."
"I want to see the toy box," his voice says, down a half octave from before, dead serious.
"Maybe. If you're good," she flirts.
"Good? What fun is that?"
They're silent for a bit, and his mind is whirring busily. He reaches into his jacket and takes out the notebook he found earlier. Using the flashlight on his phone, he skims pages for the part he wants. "You're taking notes?" she scoffs.
"I was just reading over something from another writer."
"Someone wants you to review their book, or more of a can-you-pass-this-to-your-publisher kind of deal?"
"Not exactly."
"So some leggy bimbette handed this to you hoping that her physical attributes outweigh her lack of talent?"
"So jealous!" he gloats.
"Am I wrong?"
"She is leggy and her physical attributes are…truly impressive."
"Hah," she victoriously declares.
"But she's not a bimbette. And her writing has definitely piqued my interest." He clears his throat and begins to read, "'His broad hands surrounded her torso as he pulled her roughly onto his lap. She couldn't wait to grind her hips down against him. She wasn't disappointed, feeling his hot, thick erection through his pants pressing up at her. Even with his clothes on, she knew he wasn't going to disappoint her. His touch alternated between adoration and desperate fondling.'" Castle pauses reading to comment, "Not bad, really…for an amateur."
"What is that?" she says, panic rising, quickly looking between him and the road.
"You tell me. You wrote it."
"Where did you get it?"
"Behind my books on your shelf. It looks to me like you decided to elaborate on a few of the scenes I wrote in some very dirty ways. Am I wrong?"
"That's private!"
"Why didn't you tell me? You definitely should have shared this," he silently laughs when she tries to grab the book. "Both hands on the wheel."
"Give that to me. Right. Now."
"Why? I love it. I was thinking maybe we should write one or two of these scenes together…see what happens. I really like this part—"
"Don't read another word."
"I let you read mine."
"You published it. Everyone read it."
"So…was the reality of my…self…as 'hot and thick' as the fantasy? Were you disappointed?"
"I wasn't disappointed. Did I act at all disappointed? And for the record, it's not just a size thing. You're passionate, intense about the slightest thing. You are really there with me, in the moment. That's what makes it great. And your mouth. Oh, and those hands. God, those hands."
Castle chuckles more loudly than he'd expected to. "What about my hands?"
"They're…dexterous. The pads of your fingers are smooth and soft, but with all of that typing they're quick. There were a few times—are you laughing at me? This is why I didn't want to talk about this—"
"No. I love this whole conversation. Keep going. Please."
She sighs loudly, but finally complies. "There were a few times, before, when you'd touch me, subtly, your finger on my hand when you gave me coffee or we passed a file, or you'd hold my hand or touch my knee. Sometimes even that stuff made me a bit…you know."
She looks over, expecting an answer, but he knows he's just staring. He fights to swallow so he can reply. "Sometimes I still can't believe that you're with me. That you let me touch you and kiss you," he pauses and looks at her admiringly, "see you naked."
"I 'let you' touch me? Is that how you see it?" she looks a bit upset, and he doesn't understand why.
"You don't let me?"
"It's not that I let you, Castle. I want you. I'm with you because it's what I want. I need you to know that. I'm not just allowing this thing between us."
His heart is going to burst. He reaches over, placing his hand on her leg, his pinkie brushing the inside of her knee. He adds a few more driving directions, sounding like an aroused GPS, and she tilts her head with disbelief. "Are we going back to your place?"
"Just go with it."
His palm wanders up her thigh, and he hears her cop-voice caution, "I know what you're doing."
He doesn't answer though, at least not verbally, as his fingers walk in steps along her leg. He feels the tenseness from her, and knows that she's torn. He waits until she stops at a traffic light, after all, he doesn't want her to actually wreck the vehicle, and he knows she won't allow anything truly dangerous. His eyes on her silhouette, he sees the way she's breathing, lips parted, each exhalation rushing over that puffy lower lip that he's dying to suck.
Before the light can change, his hand moves higher, almost to the spot he's determined to reach, and he waits for her to smack him away. Instead he watches as she turns to look at him, and her eyes close slightly when he finally brushes contact against her warm center. There's a small moan that he might have missed, but he knows her too well, so he was waiting for it. Her legs actually fall apart just slightly, enough for him to note the sliver of fabric that separates his hand from her naked sex. Her mouth opens just a little more, the thought-numbing feelings of arousal clouding her judgement. He looks up at the lights on the cross street, seeing them turn yellow and knowing that in a moment she'll be expected to drive again. He moves his hand back to the relative safety of her knee and he whispers, "Get us home."
She appears frustrated with the delay, and her brows furrow, but she bobs her head, bringing her knees closer together, and presses the accelerator when she must.
The remainder of the trip is made in silence. It's only a few blocks that take an eternity to traverse even though she's deftly navigating the traffic. He had the upper hand, at least for a moment, feeling he was leaving her hot and wanting. But now he is left to stare at her pouty, full lips, and an expanse of thigh bared from the way he just touched her. He is probably more tortured than she.
She zips through the secure garage where he parks, bringing the car to an abrupt halt, and before he knows what's happening she flips over onto his lap. Her nails scrape up the back off his scalp, spreading prickles over his skin immediately. In the same move her mouth is on his, tongue savoring him. The woman knows how to kiss. She only stops when she hears another vehicle.
He finds that he's not quite sitting on the seat beneath him, half lifted up to her, his hands roaming broad paths over her back and legs. Summoning his resistance, he turns her wrist to look at her watch, and next to her lips he says, "We're going to be late."
He opens his door, carefully lifting her out so she's standing next to him while he exits. The way she shimmies her skirt back down her legs and straightens her top reminds him of the fun they just had, and things to come. He offers his arm and she accepts while he escorts her back to his apartment.
He can sense she's about to object again, thinking this is all a ploy to get her straight to bed after a pointless run around. When he opens the door, her jaw drops. His place is barely recognizable. "How did you do this?" she asks, spinning around the room recently transformed into a space that looks like a fine dining establishment, perhaps something European, right there in his apartment. There's a small table with crisp, white linens, flickering candles, and a bottle of champagne in an ice bucket. The room is dark but stars are projected on the ceiling. Screens are placed around the room that make it look like they're surrounded by a cobblestone street and large decorative fountain, delivering all of the charm of a small, foreign town after dark. "This? This is why we took that drive? So someone could set this up?"
"It's not as good as the real thing," he admits, standing behind her and sliding his arm around her waist as his chin rests on her shoulder. His lips move against her neck as he adds, "There are so many places I want to take you, but for now—"
"No one has ever taken me on a date like this."
"Well hopefully someone, namely me, will be taking you on a lot of dates that will make this one look like cheap theatrics."
"I don't think so."
She is moved, and he feels himself blushing because he wants so badly to impress her, to make her feel half as adored as she actually is. Pulling her chair out for her, he kisses her cheek once she's seated and circles to his own spot at the table. There are a few dishes beneath silvery covers waiting for them to share. He uncovers them with a flourish and waits for her to try.
At first he sees the candle light flickering in her eyes, but as he eats, he notes that her gaze has fallen and she's pushing food around the plate with her fork. Covering her hand with his, he asks, "You don't like it? We can order something else."
"I love it," she quickly answers.
"Then what's the problem? You don't look like you're loving this."
"You are so rich."
"I do alright. Is that a problem?"
"No. It's just…I can't do things like this for you. I can't buy you trips to Europe or get you expensive gifts. I won't be able to keep up. I'll never be able to do the things for you that you do for me."
"I don't want you to do the same things for me," he swiftly argues. "I've been wining and dining myself for years, and it's really pretty boring. Now I want to wine and dine with you."
"Still—"
Sensing her sadness and hating it, he tries to destroy her doubt. "Do you know the best gift you've ever given me? My absolute favorite, without a doubt?"
"I'm guessing this has something to do with that position we tried last night," she playfully smiles, her worry still casting shadows.
"Actually," he replies as his own gaze falls, "it isn't a sexual thing at all. Don't get me wrong, each and every sexual thing we've done is a personal favorite of mine, but it's not the best thing you've ever given me."
She drops her fork and tilts her head, giving him the entirety of her attention, seeking answers.
He clears his throat, hating the rise of nerves he still feels every time he makes himself vulnerable with her. "Do you remember the day Raglan called you a couple of years ago?"
"Hard to forget."
"I'm sure. Well you showed up at my door, so lost and confused. You came to me. When things went wrong, you found me. I'm not sure if you asked Esposito or Ryan first, maybe I wasn't your first choice, but I was pretty high on the list."
"You were my first choice. I hung up, and I went straight to you," she admits.
He smiles, so warmly that he knows she feels it, and continues. "The best part, the greatest gift you've given me, was when Raglan reminded you 'no cops' were invited, and do you remember what you said?"
"He's not a cop."
"And after that?"
"I told him…you are someone I trust."
"Exactly. That was the best thing you've ever given me. Because I know how hard trust is for you, how difficult that whole situation was and is. And you said it without a heartbeat, like it was this huge, unavoidable, incontestable truth. Something so big, so difficult in your life, and you wanted me by your side. There isn't a thing money can buy that would mean more to me."
She slowly raises from her chair and leans between the candles, placing a delicate kiss to his lips that sends flutters out from the contact point.
Then they pick at the rest of a wonderful meal. She's almost always touching him somewhere. Her ankle crosses his beneath the table, and although the crackle of sexual tension is just below the surface, they share genuine conversation. She often tells him, 'You're the writer,' but he loves her words, her vocabulary, her finely honed skills at knowing what to say and how to say it. She doesn't have his need for eloquence, but she knows how to make a point in just the right way. It makes him think of her notebook again, and he's beyond curious to see how many pages she's written, if any of them were about anyone else, and exactly how tawdry the tales become. Still this is the date he's wanted for so long, and he doesn't want her to think his only interests are carnal.
He loves the subtle touches and shared thoughts, too. So much. She finishes her glass of champagne and excuses herself to the restroom. As soon as he sees she's gone, he retrieves the notebook from his pocket.
Tilting the book toward the candlelight, he reads as much as he can of one particular story.
The sound of Kate clearing her throat makes him look up, and he sees that the shirt she was wearing is now unbuttoned almost to the bottom, revealing the type of slinky lingerie that has pervaded his dreams. "Wow," is the only word he speaks.
"Give me that garbage," she demands, holding out her hand.
"It isn't garbage. Not at all. I mean, it needs some polishing here and there, maybe a professional's touch in certain places, but it's definitely working for me."
"Castle," she groans unhappily.
"I'm serious. Entirely serious. Especially…" he pauses, thumbing through pages, "this one about Nikki helping Rook finish up his article."
She pinches her lips between her teeth without speaking.
"You could read it to me," he suggests, but when she scowls, he reroutes, "or…less reading, more engaging. I'm more than willing to be your fantasy plaything." His eyebrows waggle as he shows her the page he's currently studying.
"I'll bet," she dryly replies.
"Come here," he whispers, standing and tossing his cloth napkin onto the table and finishing the last drop of champagne in his glass. He carefully tucks the book back in his jacket before he takes her hand, leading her through the screens, around the room, and into his office. It makes him flash back to the first night she brought him to his room and pinned his hands to the ground while she rode him. He knows he'll probably fantasize about that for the rest of his life.
With her shirt split so low that he can see her lingerie, the way she looks is almost enough to let him forget his plans, but he realizes she looks like Kate dressed up as Nikki, the two truly one right before his eyes. It's almost too perfect.
He drapes his jacket over the back of his chair and sits down at his desk, his face lit by his laptop as soon as he opens it. He's not going to force her to play along, but damn he hopes she decides to on her own.
She walks closer, one foot stepping slightly in front of the other as she balances on her skyscraper pumps. "Thanks for your help on that case," she says, her voice soft and sultry, and he realizes she knows exactly which story he was referring to.
"Any time."
She starts to argue, even though this is just for fun, "I could have solved it on my own, but—"
She pauses as he scowls and asks with irritation, "You're going to argue that right now? You know this isn't real, right?"
Bobbing her head, she repeats her earlier statement, but without the previous qualification. "Thanks for your help on that case." She wrinkles her nose, but adds, "I couldn't have done it without you."
He grins, knowing that she's humoring him, but it feels really good anyway.
But even as he tries to role play, it's the two of them just the same, and his eyes are raking over her body, already envisioning his next steps.
"You have plans tonight?" she asks.
"Finishing up my article. I have a deadline," he barely replies, repeating a line on the same page of the book that he flashed at her only a moment ago, trying to remember that he's talked her into this little scenario. She leans on the desk just next to where he sits in front of his computer. When he tries not to stare at her legs, her breasts ensnare him, when he moves from there, he fixates on her mouth. Resistance is futile.
She clears her throat, giggling softly. "Too bad. I wanted to thank you. For the case. For being there for me no matter what," she answers. "Thought maybe I could buy you a drink."
He's not even sure if she's role playing or not anymore but his mind is swirling just the same. Whether it's Beckett, or Beckett channeling Nikki Heat, it's hot as fuck. He slides his chair away from the desk only a little, his hand moving to her hip and gliding her across the desk until she's directly in front of him between his knees.
"Not much in the mood for a drink," he replies. "But that doesn't mean I want you to leave."
His stare grows harsh, he can feel it, knowing that his draw to her is one of the few things that can make him stonily solemn. His eyes hanging on hers, he reaches for the two buttons still closed at the bottom of her shirt and pops them open. His fingers slide over the lacy black undergarment she rocks, his pinkies tracing the top of the skirt. He slips the shirt from her shoulders, watching its slow fall down her arms.
Shifting to the front of the chair, he accepts the invitation of her body. His mouth latches on a still covered breast, teeth scraping over the cloth and finding a rigid nipple to play with. Her hands brace on the desk, an inviting posture that pushes her chest slightly forward.
Beneath the actual physical excitement of the moment is the fact that this scenario comes from her mind. This is what she wrote, Rook pleasing Nikki or Castle pleasing Beckett, either way, while she perches herself on his desk. Not only is his beautiful muse gazing down softly at him while he touches her, but he knows, he's read, that this is something she's fantasized about, pondered, probably gotten off to before. This whole thing is such an incredible turn on. He lifts a little more from the chair, seeking a better vantage point, and finds his balls feel like thousand pound weights against him.
He brings her feet to the back of his chair, her knees parting before him. He kisses up her leg, his hand firmly massaging her calf. The tendon at the inner side by her knees seems especially ticklish, so his fingers linger there for a moment while he kisses more hungrily up her thigh. He nibbles up the lean expanse, the muscles so tight and covered in ridiculously smooth, warm skin. He bites down, listening to her cry out the most erotic sound on the planet (and, no, he isn't being hyperbolic). He sucks at the spot, knowing very well that he is marking her. So far, she doesn't protest.
It isn't like the thought hasn't occurred to him before, after all, he finds it almost impossible not to latch onto her neck when they're fucking, to find that spot back near her ear and right against her jaw that makes her go wild. But he never imagined Beckett was the type of woman who liked to be marked by anyone. That is, he never imagined it until he read her words. He guesses that as long as he keeps such things hidden by clothes, she may not mind.
He's absolutely obsessed with getting that book open, to read more, to find out what else she likes so he can be her best, so she can be ruined for others as he is. Judging by her reactions, finding that book was the sexual insight equivalent of winning the lottery. He wonders what other secrets she keeps hidden behind the curtain, what other scenarios she may want to play out and enjoy with him. She's always teased him about her more adventurous side. Those hints she's given over the years that she enjoys sex that strays beyond vanilla feel powerfully true.
Her body smells like cherries, and he wonders if she chose that body wash just to drive him wild, to remind him of how long he's desired her. He moves his other hand to her center, pressing his palm over her sex, giving her a little nudge to balance the other sensations. She wiggles to get the skirt up higher over her hips, and she's shameless in her attempt to chase her pleasure. Kate has never been a shrinking violet, and he will never deny that it's part of the allure.
Standing abruptly, his hands grab her ass and roughly pull her forward to his pelvis. It makes him somehow harder than hard when she wraps her legs around him, grinding against the front of his pants. He knows her wetness is rubbing on him, leaving the evidence on his charcoal trousers.
She wrests control for a moment, grabbing his balls in one hand and gruffly palming his covered dick with the other. She's hard to deny, especially when she's so insistent. Noting the way she's going for his zipper, he grabs her hands and presses them flat to the desk beneath his. He curls her fingers over the edge of the desk, not sure if she'll obey, but he lets go. Reaching for the scissors in his drawer, he cuts the black straps that support the lacy bra and bodice, and yanks down most of what covers her. Her tits are at full attention, she's pressing them toward him, his drive to suck, to latch on, feels omnipresent, so he caves to his whim, not looking at her face because he's pretty sure she's pissed that he ruined the gorgeous piece she wore just to entice him. But he doesn't want to deal with that right now, or apologize, he wants her to feel his desire, his longing, the desperation he feels to undress her and get lost in her body.
He tries to moderate his fervor, but the sounds, the tiny cries, sharp moans, and pants coming from her are so heavy they weigh on him. He's spent years being cautious, and it would be difficult to ignore all of that and show her the primal passion that simmers beneath if he wasn't so spellbound by her. My god, he is absolutely consumed by those basic drives and desires.
His clothed sex is against hers, and the way they're moving makes him think he may actually come while still dressed. Of course he can't have that, so he sits back down, pulling her long legs over his shoulders. The backs of her heels are against his shirt, and he realizes she never bothered to kick off her shoes. This woman is so damn sexy, so much hotter than anything he's imagined, and it feels like every time she's with him, she reminds him he still can't fully comprehend how good she is.
He wonders, fleetingly, if she feels as awed by him. For once, he feels a bit outmatched in the bedroom. If her current actions, her knuckles bright white hanging onto the desk, her heels digging against his back, or the incredibly pleasured look on her face are any indication, he feels pretty confident. Still he wonders.
The panties are part of the lingerie, so he can't just remove them, so he pulls the offending cover to the side, finally exposing her to his touch. When her body isn't as open to him as he'd like, he tears the lace away and buries his face between her legs. The only word to describe the taste of her is divine. She smells like sex to him, only her. He already loves how aroused she gets for him. Her abundant juices coat his tongue, lips and chin.
Her delicate folds are puffy and swollen with arousal, her clit jutting forward, inviting him to explore. He doesn't focus too intently at first because he knows how quickly he can end the wait for her. In fact, although they haven't been together long, he's certain he can push her over in just seconds, but he loves licking her pussy, and doesn't really feel the need to hurry it along. He wants her to feel the delicious torment, the continued delay and mounting desire, and wants it for himself, too.
He wants to be the musician who knows exactly how to play her. He can't even begin to describe the way her silky flesh feels against his mouth. There is no reason this should be as overwhelmingly fantastic as it is for him, but against logic, it is that good, jolts of expectation dancing along his nerve endings.
He closes his lips around her clit and slides along it, sucking while his tongue laps. She begins to squirm, really squirm, and he knows she's no longer controlling any of this. This is one of his favorite parts, the complete lack of coordination as sex tips from the realm of feeling good to absolutely orgasmic. Once she gets to this point she won't stop him, in fact, she'd probably shoot him if he did.
She drops back on her elbows with a jerk, still holding him to her with her heels, trapping him against her body. Her legs wind and try to close as it all becomes too much, but his body won't allow her to shut him out yet. He slows the pace of his attentions because he doesn't want her to pull away, he wants to stay with her during her orgasm, to feel the quakes he's caused and make them last. He knows her insides are twitching, and he wishes he could feel it, sense the rhythm of her bliss from inside her.
He stands while she's limp before him, his fingers stretching out her climax, and with his other hand, he quickly opens his pants. He's scrambling, yearning and craving, because he wants to feel her clench down on him before it's over. Without delay he hooks his elbows under her knees and drags her ass to the edge of his desk. Sliding into her, he doesn't deny that the animalistic groan that emerges is his. She makes a squeaking sound that tells him he's hitting her front wall like he wants to, making her feel the things he wants to make her feel.
Thank god he isn't too late, because he wants to be right here more than he could ever describe. She doesn't seem to come down after her last peak, and he is pretty sure he can wring another orgasm from her. He touches her clit with his thumb, sliding it through the plentiful wetness, careful not to make it too intense. She clamps down so tightly he isn't sure he can move. He's finally here, in his own heaven, buried within her. Nothing in the world feels as good as this does.
When she says, "Stop," he's certain he's dreaming. But she repeats it again.
"Hunh? Wait. What?" he asks, sounding like some form of life that doesn't have the capacity for meaningful communication.
"Pull out," she orders.
It hurts him to think of leaving, but he does so, wondering what in the hell he did wrong. Trying to ease his unhappiness, she smiles sweetly, winks, and whispers, "That was incredible. You are so, so incredible."
"Good," he nods. Speaking with rapid fire words, he adds, "So what's wrong? Is this because I cut your clothes? I promise I'll replace—"
"It's not about that."
"Then—"
"Because after that, I owe you." Her smile turns to a grin, and she stands, patting the desk for him to take her spot.
When he doesn't immediately, she nearly pushes him where she wants him. Standing between his legs, trapping his hard on between them, she smashes her body to his. She doesn't seem to mind tasting herself on him, because the kiss lasts and lingers. She pushes his pants down to the floor, and toes off his shoes. He feels so exposed. He's so hard and purple, the delay in gratification stretching to the point of too long delayed.
Kate whispers in her seductress voice, "Going down on me turns you on this much?"
He nods, eyes heavy and lips gapped, trying to think of a way to describe how badly he needs her.
She cradles his sac, weighing and gently rolling, it feels good, almost too good, but he's so ready for more that it's hurting his…well, his everything. Biological urges thunder through him, muting thought, blinding everything except the space they take up and the narrow distance between them. When her fingers finally encircle his shaft, he immediately jerks into her grasp, unable to control the thrust of his hips.
"Ah, ah," she cautions, relaxing her grip. "You didn't finish that story I wrote, did you?"
"I didn't have the chance."
Just running her fingers so lightly over his length, the feeling is almost worse than no contact at all. Now it's his knuckles that are white as he grips the edge of the desk and awaits some follow-through. "So you don't know the ending," she wonders.
"You could tell me…or maybe just show me," his words are a plea.
She shrugs, and, tightening her hand slightly, she whispers, "You're still wet from being inside me."
He looks brain dead, probably because he is. Beckett talking dirty is definitely on his top ten desires list. He doesn't have the capacity for role play any longer.
"Slippery. Makes it so easy to pump my hand over you," she purrs. "Have I told you how much I love your cock?"
This is too good. He looks down, watching her hand stroking him. He's grateful for the length and strength of her fingers and the way they wrap around him.
"No wonder you're so smug," she adds, surrounding his sex with both hands and increasing the pressure. "I used to wonder if you were all talk, but you definitely aren't. Long enough to fill me up, so nice and thick that you hit all the right places. Best of all…you always seem to know exactly what to do to get me off. You know how to move, how to fuck, how to lick, how to touch me in the right places at the right times. You're patient, thorough. It's probably good I'm suspended right now, because no matter what I'm doing, I can't stop thinking about you and me, like this."
Rick is completely aware that he's under her control, and that he stopped breathing several seconds ago. Like she has so many times before, she defies and supersedes every expectation. When he finally breathes again, it's stuttered and harsh, his abs twitching because they've been so long engaged. He can't hide from her watchful eye anymore. He swallows hard, hoping he can still form words. He looks over her body, her wrecked lace slinky outfit that shows more of her than it covers, and as much as he thinks, "You're all I can think about, too," the words don't present.
Her lips come closer to his chest, and she orders, "Unbutton your shirt."
His hands move to his buttons, shaky and hurried, trying like hell to remember how to shove a button through its hole. As soon as his chest is exposed, he feels her nibble at his collar bone, placing little bites down his torso like he did to her legs. He knows he, too, is being marked, and even if she isn't moving as fast as he needs, it feels so good.
As she lowers her body, he silently begs for more. She sucks the skin low on his abdomen near the top of his leg, so close to where he wants her, and the slight sharpness of that in a sea of urgency just makes everything so much more vibrant and focused. He tries to think of what to say, finally mumbling pathetically, "Apples," because he's sure the torment needs to stop and she needs to let him get off.
Beckett chuckles, and for a second he isn't sure she really gets the urgency. Apparently she understands, though, because she moves toward his erection, her tongue lapping at the tip before she swoops her lips down over him. Taking most of him into her mouth in the first attempt, her hands tightly conform around all that remains so that every inch is covered by her.
She moans over him, her lips, throat and tongue all vibrating from the sound. Kate doesn't seem interested in dragging this out any longer, thank god. She speeds up, swallowing as much of his length as she can each time. She switches up the pace, but he can feel the way she's gradually moving faster. He looks down, sees her before him, and she doesn't look like this is some chore she's performing for his benefit. He swears it looks like she actually likes it, that maybe holding his most intimate self in her mouth is actually arousing for her, too.
She opens her eyes and stares right at him for just a second before she takes a few sweeps of her tongue all over, tracing the veins and ridges before she takes him in yet again. The look in her eyes is all but the final straw.
"Beckett," he warns roughly, trying to caution her that the inevitable end is almost near, but she only increases her efforts instead of backing away.
At this point, he can't even tell exactly what she's doing anymore, his whole existence is the sensation of absolute perfection. His sighs are loud enough the neighbors may complain. He tries one more time, fighting instinct to use his words to say her name again because as much as he's dying to come in her mouth, he won't unless she wants him to. His fingers squeeze her shoulders, trying to avoid grabbing her head, but he has to hold onto her.
She doesn't stop, doesn't pull away, instead she reaches one hand around him, digging her fingertips into his ass cheek and pulling him forward so his hips are rocking as he's sliding in and out of her mouth, and the last of his resolve vanishes as he pours his desire into her. She's tied him into knots, and when relief finally hits, his torso stretches as his hands grasp onto her for dear life before he bows forward in spent gratitude.
He has no idea how loud he just was. He doesn't note the residual ache from the tension in his muscles that was so real it's as if electricity actually coursed through him, but he'll probably feel it tomorrow. He crumbles against her shoulder when she stands, and he's grateful to have her to lean against since he's nearly lifeless.
He hears Kate giggle. "Ya'okay, Castle?"
All he offers is a weak but stupidly happy grin.
"Stay still," she worriedly shouts, reaching over to the edge of his desk where his laptop is precariously close to the edge. "Sorry about your desk." She returns to her spot standing between his legs, and drapes her wrists over his shoulders. "Maybe next time you'll think twice before snooping," she lightheartedly warns.
His tongue feels fat and uncoordinated, like he's been on a three-day bender, but his synapses start firing again, and speech returns. "You actually think what just happened was a deterrent?" he finally chuckles and whispers against her ear, "You underestimate your talents. I think I should hire you in a sexual consultant capacity for the next few books."
"Sexual consultant?" she asks as his teeth tug her earlobe.
"We'll need hours of research, maybe try out a few things until we find the exact scenario… I think together—"
"Together we wouldn't make it through a single paragraph with our clothes on."
"Or…we could just accept the inevitability, start off naked. Get through a sentence or two, take a luvin' break, write a little more…"
She gazes down at her destroyed lingerie, her body largely exposed, but clothes still hanging from her in places. "I'm going to need a wardrobe budget…a big one," she teases.
"I'll be happy to accommodate your entire list of demands," he replies, pulling her tightly into his embrace and nuzzling his nose against her neck.
He reaches for his jacket so he can retrieve her notebook, and holds it up behind her to skim for more ideas. Knowing exactly what he is doing, she reaches over her shoulder, takes the book away from him and silently scolds.
He simply shrugs, "Can't put it down. I'm your biggest fan."