Chapter 4
"Caught you," he purrs darkly – and suddenly, shockingly, everything changes: her eyes flare hot and her whole attitude alters. Confidence, almost arrogance, seeps into her posture. He responds instantly, matching her arrogance and exuding male dominance, falling into the spirit of the tango. He pulls her in harder than he would have a moment ago: confident and sure.
"You can't keep me," she asserts.
"Oh, I can," he rasps, and holds her much closer, more tightly. "I just won't let you go." She tries to pull away, and seems surprised that she can't. "No running. You run far too much. You're staying here."
Her eyes flash. "You can't keep me," she snaps, but he knows it's a façade, because she was disappointed when he didn't try to kiss her.
"Just watch me," he smiles dangerously. "You can't stop me."
Lanie had promised no gun… and he really, really hopes that's true, because this has just turned hot. Well. Hotter. Maybe he's been making a mistake for the last three months. Maybe for the last nine. Maybe he should have taken a lead much sooner. Maybe – he could have ended up as a colander, because for the first three months she'd rather have shot him than not, and the next three she'd have shot him on sight, and for most of the last three she's walked so wide around him he'd have needed to have Mister Fantastic's arms to reach her.
Her glare lasers out. Castle doesn't flinch, and turns her into the steps of the dance, moving her on before they cause a commotion. The dance floor is busy now, and the band and noise level loud. No-one is going to hear his murmurings.
"You can't run away now," he rasps. "Just like the dance itself. You're caught, and that's what you wanted." She shakes her head, and her heels rap down in contradiction. "You knew I'd catch you, all dressed up in a square inch of silk and midnight with starlight gleaming at the hem. You wanted to be caught."
She spins away from him, steps perfect, and he spins her back and pulls her forward, and this time her leg rises in gancho to wrap around his calf: his hand spreads from her bare back to leave fingertips at the very edge of the swell of her breast and his hips press briefly into hers to leave her eyes hot and wild and her breath ruffled, until he returns them to vertical and moves them on.
"Shall I do that again?" he entices, as smooth as sin and twice as silky. "You seemed to like it." She doesn't answer, and her gaze is flicking frantically from him to ceiling back to him. He knows why. "Pretty decorations," he smirks, and deliberately looks both up at the mistletoe and, stepping away from her a fraction, at her in that astonishing dress. He pays particular attention to running his eyes all the way up the long, lithe length of leg revealed by the almost-indecent split. "Someone must have spent a lot of time on them," he adds, returning his gaze to the dangling mistletoe.
She stares at him, and then recovers herself. "Waste of time. It's a parasite, anyway. Latches on to the tree and then steals its nutrients or kills it. Hardly a good symbol of Christmas."
"I like the other meaning," he oozes. "But I'm sure you don't," arrogantly stating her opinion for her. Without waiting for an answer, he moves them on again. Her eyes flash. Beckett doesn't like this game. That's just fine. Castle likes this game, but then again he's got the endgame firmly in mind. There is a piece of mistletoe which is dangling in a very convenient place. By the time they've got there, he'll know what the game is: whether it starts at once, or whether he first rescues Beckett to the haven of a bar or a restaurant.
The one matter which is not in doubt is that it will start tonight, because she's disappointed that he's not trying to kiss her, and she's not complaining or mauling him or killing him for touching her. Not that he could have resisted touching her in that unbelievably beautiful wrapping.
By the fifth trail of mistletoe under which Castle has flirted outrageously and then not followed through, Beckett's emotions of mixed annoyance at Christmas, outright anger with Lanie, unadmitted disappointment that Castle isn't trying to kiss her and conversely considerable arousal at the overt sexuality he has brought to the dance, are at an overspilling boiling point. Consequently, her dancing has improved enormously as she entirely fails to prevent those emotions being expressed in her movement and face, to the extent that, as they arrive under the sixth droop of mistletoe, close to the ballroom wall, she pulls hard away from Castle, who, without appearing to exert any real effort, whips her straight back in to be plastered against him and the motion of the dance makes it totally natural to bring her leg up in piernazo around his hip and it explodes.
His hand slips low into the curve of her spine, he slides them through an unnoticed door and drops his hand to her ass (and oh it feels so good there); presses her close so that she can feel hard, thick arousal to match the hot, wet clenching of her core, and takes her mouth with no gentleness and certainly no apology. She opens for his invasion, her back hitting the wall, and he's where he should be, where he should have been two hours ago: grinding into her and she rolls against him. He slides her feet apart and one hard, strong hand brings her leg back up to curl around his waist: holding her apart with his fingers slipping through the slit in her dress and searching out the delicate skin of her inner thigh, exploring and seducing and his kiss swallows the small mewls and whimpers that she's already emitting as his fingers roam so close and yet not close enough.
Finally. Finally, finally, finally he's remembered what his mouth is for and kissed her properly rather than dancing round under the mistletoe and ignoring it. (Not that she likes mistletoe at all, but she certainly does like these kisses.) She doesn't need Christmas. All she needs and wants are kisses, and then touches, and then…more. Lots more. And if that's greedy, she doesn't give a flying sleigh.
"Don't tease," she tries to say, but his tongue is stealing all her words, and his hands are wicked: experienced and erotic and she needs more but he's not giving her more, flickering everywhere close but not right there and just like in the dance he's leading and just like in her dream she likes it, wants it, is totally aroused by it and she half-sobs with desire and want and need and him.
"We're leaving," Castle states. "Right now. Where's your coat?"
"Wrap," she stutters, "at the table."
"Go get it. We're leaving."
She shouldn't let him tell her what to do, but she hates Christmas dances and hates Christmas and – admit it – she's so wound tight by what he's just done that she needs him to finish because she's right on the edge and it's not fair and certainly not Christmassy that he hasn't given her the rest.
She hastens to the table, Castle no more than an inch behind, collects wrap and purse, doesn't even think about Lanie, and is gathered back into Castle's forcefully protective arm so that not a single doctor comes within a foot of them. The twin glares might have just a little something to do with that, of course.
In the foyer, Castle takes her wrap from her unresisting hands, swathes it round her and takes the opportunity to stroke from nape to slim rear and back up again, finishing with his arm around her shoulders and Beckett tucked in. He plays with soft wisps of hair at her neck as they wait in the coat queue, and murmurs soft evilness into her ear, which seeps downward and puddles hotly between her legs. He only detaches for as long as it takes him to slip his expensive cashmere coat on, regathers her without request or hesitation, and steers her out to a waiting cab, where he gives her address to the driver.
"What?"
"We're going to yours." He ushers her in, curls his arm around her shoulders once more, and puts his other wide palm on her leg, a fraction above her knee. The cab starts.
"There's snow on your hair." He brushes it away, and continues the movement down, back to her slim shoulders, and a little further, fingers draping past her collarbone, tracing the edge of the wrap, slipping secretively beneath to the neckline of the dress, stops a hint above indecency, and slips back to caress her jaw and softly, inexorably, turn her face to his. Her lips part, her tongue peeks out to dampen them, her eyes are dark in the dim light.
He covers her mouth before she can take another breath: deep, sure and certain, as if he has the right to take and possess and keep her; the grip of her jaw firm and certain, keeping her in place for his kiss, the delicate shift of his hand higher on her leg an intimation that sends the heat surging through her once more. She forgets to argue about their destination, or to contradict his easy assumption of control: lost in the scorching relit flames of mutual desire. Her hand wanders over the hard muscle of his quad, and he draws in breath, tension rising as he swells next to her elegant fingers. His kiss becomes harder, more possessive, demanding surrender, and, just as in the dance, she concedes again.
They don't notice the time the taxi takes in the snow-slippery streets, cautiously picking its way to Beckett's apartment; they don't notice the snow falling ever heavier on Manhattan, covering the sidewalks and giving it a beautifully Christmassy gloss. Even if they did notice, Beckett wouldn't appreciate it. High heeled dance shoes and snow do not mix well.
The taxi comes to a halt outside Beckett's apartment. She tries to give the driver the fare, but Castle puts her money firmly back in her lap and pays himself.
"I can pay," she snips crossly.
"I want to," Castle replies. "Think of it as an un-Christmas present. Like an unbirthday present. Or coffee. An essential part of ensuring day-to-day life runs smoothly."
"What?"
"Just suck it up," he says bluntly, exits the cab, opens the other door for her, and silences her incoherent protests (which mostly seem to be complaining that he's paying: why on earth is she complaining about that? No-one else does) with another hard kiss as soon as she steps out and straightens up. He lifts off, doesn't take his arm from around her, and walks them into the lobby of her building, into the elevator, out of the elevator, and then, coolly removing her keys from her purse, walks them into her apartment and kicks the door shut. She hasn't emitted a peep of protest since he kissed her. How convenient. A guaranteed method of stopping Beckett complaining, in the best possible way.
And then he strips her wrap and throws it on to a table, shoves her back against the closed door, pins her hands in his and takes her mouth without compunction, pushing her legs apart and pressing between them; and when she starts to make small sexy noises softens and slips a hand behind her head to bring her closer. His other hand drops to her hip, and hers find his shoulders and lock on his nape. He isn't bending to her mouth today; he doesn't need to lift her; she stands as tall as he does and it is perfect. All his Christmases come at once. Well, not come yet. Ladies first.
She doesn't know how they got into a cab. She doesn't really know anything until they're pulling up at her apartment and basely and unfairly Castle isn't letting her pay. She pays her own shot. And then he stops all thought by kissing her yet more – this idea of kissing thought out of her head will have to be stopped but not now – and walking her upstairs and into her apartment while she's still brainless and reeling.
And then he compounds her total confusion by kissing her again until she's making little desperate noises (and she does not, absolutely not, sound like a small child waiting for a present. Beckett does not do waiting for presents. Presents (hers) are unnecessary) and then wrapping her into him in a very pleasingly muscular fashion and still kissing: hard and deep and searching and oh-so-very seductive and she can feel him swollen and hard right where he's sure to fit just perfectly.
They might have been dancing this evening, but in truth they've been dancing for months, and it's time to decide whether she's going to keep dancing.
Hell, yeah.
Her hand slips down over his back, strokes more firm muscle which she will quite definitely unwrap because presents (which she doesn't need) don't just occur at Christmas and anyway this can be a late birthday present, and ends up planted firmly on his excellently shaped ass. She squeezes gently. His hand on her hip becomes a hand on her ass and somehow they're even closer together than they had been a moment ago.
She pulls away from his mouth, not without a little regret (he is very good with his tongue: why couldn't he use it like that a little more often rather than talking all the time), and slips around to his jaw and then provides a mischievous nip on his ear followed by a wicked swirl of tongue just inside the shell. Castle gasps, tightens his grip on her, and then proceeds to return the compliment by dipping his head to her exposed collarbones (where did her wrap go? She didn't take it off – did she?) and then moving slowly and teasingly lower to the edge of her beautiful dress.
She is sure she didn't think about her next move, but somehow her leg is wrapped around his waist but this isn't about the tango. Oh no. This is very certainly about a much more intimate and private dance. She rolls against him to be as close as very thin fabric allows: the skirt opening at the slit to be out of the way, and Castle's clever, naughty fingers are exploring and – ohhhh – finding the zipper and undoing the fastening and – ooohhhh yes more of that – loosening the neckline and if she simply unwinds her leg for just the shortest, tiniest instant it'll all just, well, fall off.
Who needs presents falling off sleighs (and probably breaking) or down chimneys (ditto)? Dresses falling off her, courtesy of Castle's erotically educated fingers, is a far more desirable outcome than any of that, in Beckett's (jaundiced) view.
And then she has no view at all. Her eyes have shut themselves in instinctive reaction because Castle has his mouth on her breasts and just don't stop Castle. He's making growling, sexy noises which are vibrating right through her and how is she not in bed right now already because the only thing holding her up is Castle. Her knees have gone south for the winter, and for the first time since December 1 she doesn't want to join them. He suckles, and the sensation goes straight down to her core: she gasps and curves to him, and he does it again, and again.
Castle is undertaking explorations for which he had been hoping for the opportunity for some considerable time. This is the best Christmas present ever. Beckett's breasts are even more beautiful uncovered than he had fantasised, and he gets to worship them. He could adore at this altar for ever, and, deep in the back of his mind where she won't spot it, he intends to. Of course, the altar of Beckett's body has more than just this area… but for now, when her head has dropped back and her body arched and she's emitting small sexy whimper-gasps and wanting more, this area will surely do. Christmas is traditionally the season of generosity and giving, after all; and in some respects Castle is a highly traditional man, so generosity is exactly what Beckett shall be given. The fact that he will enjoy it immensely too is entirely irrelevant.
On the other hand… or more accurately lip… this would all be a great deal more pleasant if he didn't need at least one hand to prop Beckett up. He straightens up, very briefly, casts a glance around, spots a door which has a slightly more feminine flavour of décor behind it, hoists Beckett up to a very kissable height, which causes her to wrap those utterly gorgeous legs around him, and conveys her there.
Beckett's bedroom, which Castle has never previously seen, is as spare and undecorated as the rest of her apartment. On the other hand, in his opinion it doesn't require decoration as long as it contains Beckett, a bed, and him; possibly with a floor which can be decorated with clothes. Fortunately, all of those items are present. He intends to make good use of them.
Beckett's feet have arrived on the ground, still in their sky-high-heels, which means, much to Castle's disappointment, that her legs are no longer wrapped around his middle. On the other hand, her perfect breasts are still pressed against his chest and – oh. Ohhhh. His bow tie is gone. His shirt is mysteriously open and he really hopes that he can find all the studs again because Alexis had given him them and – oh, she's dropped them on the nightstand, phew – and oh, God, they're skin to skin and how has he never done this before? He'd slide his shirt off, but then he'd have to stop having his arms around Beckett and stroking her gorgeous skin and he'd have to take his hand off her glorious ass and she might stop wiggling in that astonishingly erotic pattern and he can't bear to lose any of that right now.
He can't bear to lose any of that ever. His Christmas list has just shortened dramatically. It now has one item on it. Beckett. Two minutes ago, it had Beckett plus a few other things: a toy helicopter to keep his existing one company; a mildly tongue in cheek wish that his sales would always exceed Patterson's; his favourite aftershave; some silly socks…. Now it has Beckett. Naked Beckett, clothed Beckett, any flavour of Beckett as long as she's his Beckett: it's the only thing he really, really wants, for Christmas and for ever.
He kisses her hard and all emotional meanderings are incinerated in the hot flashfire of the astonishing sexual connection. She shoves his shirt away and perforce he lets go for an instant while it falls: snatching her back as soon as it's gone; she's undone his belt and button and zipper and the dress pants of his tux fall to the floor: he steps out of them and toes off his shoes and he can't think: he can only feel and sense and act and react.
Her mouth plunders his and refuses absolutely to leave, which is fine by him. If she wants to take the lead for a while, he'll just lie back – yes. Um. Lie. Why exactly are they standing up when there is a lovely big bed right here? Regardless of his intentions a second ago, he tumbles her on to the bed and, not entirely accidentally, lands over her and oh oh oh she's opened so he's right there and she's right there and just plain right and why why why do they still have any clothes on at all because his boxers and her panties are simply in the way and oh oh oh Beckett if she does that again those panties will never be wearable again and if he rips them apart she might kill him so he'd better just take them away and he's fumbling as if he were seventeen again and frantically he pulls them down and then his own and then without any further ado or even foreplay he's hard up against her soaked scorching centre and then inside.
Thank you to all readers and reviewers, especially guests who can't be thanked directly.