Kate Beckett stretches in her chair at Castle's table, tries to work the kink out of her back. It's late and he's running his mouth about gift baskets to the top contributors, but her vision is swimming. She runs a hand through her hair, props her elbow on the table to look at him.
He's still been planning her mother's charity event, all this time, through everything. And that's. . .sweet.
She really should thank him for that. She just doesn't know how.
Her eyes are dry from exhaustion: double homicide in Central Park, a grueling canvas of the victims' neighbors, background checks, running down suspects, all kinds of exacting paperwork. It's over, and while she wanted to go home and sleep for twelve hours, she couldn't resist Castle's invitation for dinner at his loft.
Now that she's full, and some of the details have been ironed out, she can't keep her eyes open.
"Kate?"
Ah, does he need her to make an answer of some kind?
She tries to focus on his blue eyes, on the ripples his smile makes at the corners of his mouth. She'd lift a hand to brush over them, if every inch of her body didn't feel so damn heavy.
"Ti sei già adormentata?" He asks mischievously, the words rolling off him like a song, like a poem. His deep rumble like deliciously warm water, washing over her skin.
Italian again, really? She's not even sure she can deal with English tonight. She closes her eyes, just for a moment. A second to catch herself, to remember why standing up, going over to where Castle is sitting, and settling on his lap is a bad idea.
The contact of gentle hands on her arms is what has her eyelids flying open again. Castle is tugging her up, lifting her to her feet, and guiding her to the couch. She's too startled to protest (also, the couch looks sinfully comfortable, compared to the chair she's just vacated).
She's ashamed to admit that she sags into the black cushions without even making an attempt at gracefulness. The writer gives her an amused glance, but he doesn't comment. He wavers for an extra second, towering above her - she likes that he is so tall - before he finally makes his choice, settles right next to her.
Good.
He must read approval, somewhere on her face; his lips part with that boyish grin that warms her heart. His eyes, however, are soft, resting on her like a caress.
"Hai il diritto a essere stanca, lo sai."
She has no idea what he's said, but suddenly her lethargy is sliding right out of her, a breathless awareness starting in the places where their bodies touch.
His thigh to hers. His shoulder to hers. His fingertips stroking the top of her knee so that his long arm presses against her as well, elbow nudging her hip bone, the back of his arm brushing her breast.
She closes her eyes as the currents travel along her skin, penetrate to her bones. What happened to planning the charity event? What happened to sitting at the kitchen table with a respectable distance between them?
"Castle?"
She winces at the sound of her own arousal, then flinches when his fingers trail up her thigh, too light, not enough, too much.
"Castle. I thought we - I don't think we should do this."
He doesn't answer, his eyes on her thigh, absorbed by the movements of his own fingers, it seems. Up, and down, and up again. Random circles, mysterious signs that Kate wants to know the meaning of.
After a second she's hypnotized as well, like Mowgli from the Jungle Book (the Disney movie. She's tried Kipling, but he's definitely not her favorite author). His hand dances, light but poised, confident, and her own fingers yearn to do the same.
But no. She makes a fist, then thinks better of it, unfolds her hand and tucks it between her thigh and the couch. There.
He's stopped moving, she realizes belatedly. His palm now rests against her jeans, his warmth tingling even through the rough material. And he's... Ah. He's looking at her.
His intense gaze traps her, roots her to the spot, finishing what his fingers have started.
"Sei molto bella, Kate," he murmurs.
Her hand draws up out of its own accord, brushes across his cheek, the rough edge of his jaw, the words echoing in her body like a bell has been struck, the reverberations making her bones sing.
Beautiful. Such. . .
She leans in and lets her lips caress his, soft and hesitant, growing confident as he moves into it, her fingers curling around his ear, her heart rattling and rattled.
Oh, it's like a dream, his mouth just right, finding the place under her jaw that makes the arch of her foot draw up, her belly clench. A beautiful dream, his fingers at her thigh moving to her waist, pulling her towards him.
What the hell. She wants this, needs it.
She slides her knee across his legs and straddles him, flushed, breathless, her chest rising and falling into his.
He breaks from her to pierce her with a look so penetrating she feels her muscles contract deep, intense, hard.
And yet she doesn't look away.
"Sono inamorato di te," he says, his eyes grave, solemn, but the line of his mouth twitching, betraying his relief, his...joy. Yes, that's what it is, little sparkles of joy lighting up his face, the face she once peered at curiously on the back of a book jacket.
That face she's come to love. And this is what he's saying, right? Amor. Love. Amour, in French. She doesn't know the other words, but she does recognize the root of this one.
She unleashes her smile, lets it bloom, take all the room for once, before she slowly leans back into him, brushes his nose with hers, hides her face against his neck. She should say something, she really should, but the words won't come.
They're stuck somewhere inside, deep, unreachable. Maybe it's not such a bad thing; she's not sure she has words for this, his arms tight around her, his mouth warm and reverent at her ear, his pounding heart that echoes hers. She's not sure she *wants* words for this.
"Castle," she whispers, grateful and awed and aroused, and the responsive growl she gets tells her that it's enough.
She moves to take his mouth but finds his already there, demanding and insistent, a battle for supremacy she'll gladly lose, joyfully win, either way. His hands slide up her back, his fingers running against her spine like a kid obsessed with the bars in the railing, over and over, making her draw up in need, arched and taut.
He bows her back down to his meet his mouth; she curls around the arrow of his body, the blood rushing under her skin, hot and feral.
His fingers move to her ribs, his thumbs stroking her stomach under her shirt, and she wants more. Needs more.
"Castle. Get this off."
And she lifts up to let him at her, swings her hips off his, pulling against the clutch of his fingers so she has room to divest herself of everything between them.
But something shifts - he's too gentle now, hands brushing against her, not doing anything to help with her shirt or any other item of clothing.
What's wrong?
"Kate."
His voice sounds off as well. Instead of those husky, breathless tones, instead of the delicious Italian accent, there's concern, detached amusement. What -?
"I doubt sleeping on my table is the best thing for your back, or that lovely neck of yours."
Sleeping. Ugh. Again?
Kate cracks an eye open, flinches at the light, though it's not exceptionally bright. Her dream lingers, a haze of lovely, lustful impressions, and it's hard to separate the Italian Castle with his demanding lips from the Castle who's standing at her side, his eyes and his hands tender.
Hands? His hands at her waist.
"What are you doing?" she asks, careful not to slur the words. She is, however, unable to suppress those last traces of arousal from her voice. Maybe she can pass it off as disapproval.
Maybe not. Something dark and untamed crosses his eyes, but he quickly masters it, gathers a smile instead.
"I was *trying* to get you into bed without waking you, but you seemed to have other ideas."
Other -
Oh god. Oh god. Did she...? She tries to remember the dream, but the vivid images are fading now, dispersing too fast for her to piece it together, and she's left with the heat still pulsing inside her, the vague memory of his fingers caressing her ribs. No explanation. If she tried something with Castle in her sleep -
He reads her panic wrong, points out, a little indignant, "Not in my bed, of course. The guestroom."
Guestroom. Right. Okay. She tries to shake herself, but she feels heavy, sluggish, uncomfortably hot. And Castle's fingers are there, feathering her shoulder, her arm, her waist.
"Want me to carry you to bed?" He teases. She thinks she can hear a hint of eagerness behind the humor.
The answer's still no. His carrying her to bed, in the state she's in? *So* not a good idea. And it would never be a good idea, she tells herself sternly. She shouldn't even consider it.
"I'll be fine," she assures him, stumbling to her feet. The heels. Why does she still have the heels on? Stupid, stupid heels.
She has to hold on to him now, her fingers clutching his forearm for balance as she awkwardly shakes the shoes off.
"You know, you can take my bed," he offers quietly. "Not so sure I want to see you try the stairs right now."
Mmmh. His bed. With him in it?
Oh, no. No no no. She has to get a grip on herself, forget about the stupid dream, about the blood singing in her veins. She lifts her eyes to his; the increased height difference turns her on. Then again, she thinks sarcastically, what doesn't tonight?
"Come on," he says, gently pushing her towards his bedroom, and she's only half-awake still, so she can't fight both him and herself. And right now, fighting herself seems more important. She curls her fingers at her sides, stills them, her feet dragging against the hardwood floor because she can't be bothered to lift them.
His room smells of him, not in a heady way, just...nice. And the large bed calls to her. She unbuttons her blouse, shrugs it off, one of the straps of her tank top sliding down her shoulder. She reaches for it, but Castle's hand is there already, warm and soft against her skin.
He puts the strap back in place; their eyes meet, linger.
Her mouth goes dry.
She wants -
Castle's lips are on her cheek before she can do anything, before she can let loose one of those primal instincts fighting hard in her belly. She can feel his breath, a little shallow, a little fast - in and out, and then he's stepping away. Already.
"Goodnight, Kate."
He leaves without waiting for an answer, leaves her standing there, her heart in her mouth, dizzy with need and half-fleshed desires.
He shuts the door softly and she closes her eyes, sucks in a deep breath to regain her equilibrium. She pulls off her jeans, stepping out of them on the way to his bed.
Her heart pounds again - on the way to his bed - and she slides between the sheets with a ragged sigh. Her body, still humming with leftover arousal, melts into the cool comfort of an obscenely high thread count, and her arms slip under his pillow, her nose inhaling the musky scent.
She burrows into the softness, the sinful luxury of his bed.
When she dreams tonight, she hopes it's in Italian.