"Oh," Kate breathes through a mouthful of deliciousness. She and Castle are sitting in the dining room, on opposite sides of the table; their knees brush occasionally, but right now all she can focus on is her plate's contents.

Vegetables have never been quite her thing – she likes them well enough, thinks they're a nice accompaniment for a meat dish, but she'd never eat them without anything else. At least, not until now. She chews as slowly as she can before swallowing with a twinge of regret and saying, "This is wonderful."

She takes another bite, closes her eyes in pleasure. This is incredible. No words can carry the delicious taste of the tomato and courgette and eggplant mixed together, melting on her tongue. If someone had told her it could taste like this –

A sound of complete approval escapes her, and through the haze of bliss she hears a growl coming from Castle. She reluctantly slides her eyelids open again, not quite ready to leave her little paradise of food.

Exasperation is warring with love in his blue eyes. Dark blue eyes. Oh. Right.

"You've got to stop making noises like that," he declares very seriously. "Or else I won't be liable for whatever happens next. Which might involve you and that carpet" – he nods to the floor – "getting to know each other on a more intimate basis."

Kate cannot keep a sly smile off her lips, try as she might. It turns her on, it does, when he uses such a detached tone to detail the dirty things he wants to do to her. Last time –

Oh, no, she's not thinking about last time. If she does, she'll never manage to finish that gourmet meal; and she really wants to savor it. So she refrains from making any litigious sounds and, too soon, her plate is empty.

Castle must have enjoyed his too, despite his complaining, because it is perfectly clean by the time Kate finishes hers.

"I'll go get dessert," he offers, jumping to his feet and stacking up their plates.

"There's dessert?" his wife asks disbelievingly. God, she has no room left in her stomach for food of any kind.

"Of course there's dessert," Castle laughs. "Didn't you see what that woman was like? I'd be surprised if she ever cooks a meal that doesn't include three courses."

He disappears to the kitchen, leaving Kate alone with her dilemma. This ratatouille, or whatever it was, just made it into the top ten of the best foods she's ever had; how could she not want to taste a dessert out of the same hands?

She's still torn when Rick comes back, holding two small glasses. Or well, they look like tiny glasses. Kate has seen those before in restaurants; they're verrines, she thinks. Apparently, it's quite the fashion in France – a combination of unexpected ingredients, either salty or sugary, set in a kind of jello and chilled until served.

She wants to sigh in relief; she can eat something that small and light. Cake or anything solid would be too much, but this seems made of yoghurt (or maybe ice-cream?), berries, and some unknown ingredients.

"There are more in the fridge, if we want," Castle comments with a small smile, as if he enjoys tempting her.

He certainly does. But turnabout is fair play, she supposes.

The verrines turn out to be every bit as delectable as the main course; Kate finishes hers in record time, and almost considers getting another. Almost. But she rests a hand on her belly – it was flat, once upon a time, wasn't it? – and this puts an end to her reflections.

She's eaten enough for tonight.

Her husband, of course, doesn't impose such restrictions on himself, and he happily saunters back into the kitchen to get himself another one. He gobbles it like a kid, taking as much food as he can at once, and when he finally rests against the back of his chair, satiated, Kate eyes the drop of yoghurt that has landed between his nose and his lower lip.

Did he do that on purpose?

On purpose or not, she is unable to resist: she eases to her feet as gracefully as possible – she feels so incredibly heavy – and circles the table to get at Castle. He watches her approach with dark, aroused eyes (on purpose, no doubt) and lets her throw a leg over his and settle in his lap, their faces only a whisper away.

Kate brushes her nose against Rick's, darts her tongue out to catch that white fleck of yoghurt. *His* tongue meets hers before it can retreat, and the moist, warm contact is too much for her – she kisses him, deep, dirty, a groan vibrating within her chest. She sucks on his lower lip, explores the inside of his mouth, alternating a slow, languorous pace with a more direct, aggressive approach.

Some part of her is aware of Rick's hands, the light caresses at her sides, the firmer touch under her breasts, his thumbs coming up to –

She jerks under his exploration, but Castle doesn't let her go far; his lips pursue hers, as determined and demanding as hers were only seconds ago. Her own hands are cupping his skull, her fingers clutching around locks of copper hair: he doesn't seem to mind.

She abandons his mouth for the side of his neck, and he whimpers, tightens his hold on her. His body is hard and hot against her; Kate finds herself responding to that, to the heart she can feel hammering inside his chest, the gasps he lets out when she sucks more intently.

There's no space left between them; she's pressing every inch of her body against his, undulates her hips –

"Ah, Kate," he breathes, a strangled warning that dies on his lips. She's not listening, single-minded as she is; Castle is the only thing in her mind, the divinity that the blood boiling in her veins is singing a hymn to.

She titillates his ear with her teeth, licks at the shell of his ear – her husband's hips buck against her.

"Kate, bedroom," he growls.

Bedroom. Oh, right. Cold realization trickles into her brain and Kate yanks herself from him, sits straighter, taking in the dining room's red wallpaper, the door open to the kitchen at her left. She lets that consciousness of their surroundings settle, ashamed that she could even forget about their not being home. Not being alone.

Castle is watching her with an expression that could be a smirk, except for the tenderness in his eyes. Damn, she must be blushing. Kate averts her own gaze, tucks her hair behind her ears. Right.

"Hey," he says, attracting her attention by rubbing circles on her thighs with his thumbs. "Nothing wrong with getting a little carried away."

His voice hasn't lost all of its aroused roughness; the sound makes her shiver in spite of herself. She eases off him, back to her own feet.

Nothing wrong? Anyone could have walked in on them. Including the blond children they saw earlier. How many times as a child did Kate herself go to the kitchen in the middle of the night, because she couldn't sleep, or was thirsty?

Yeah, not her best judgment.

"Come on, Kate. No harm done," Castle pleads softly.

She meets his eyes; a smile sneaks its way onto her face, because he knows her so well. She leans forward again, her hands finding the arms of his chair, crowding him. She gives him one more liquid kiss, their mouths fusing together like they belong with each other, and rests her forehead against his.

"Bedroom," she murmurs, the weight of certainty settling in her chest, happiness running through her veins. "You have ten minutes, Castle."

And she runs out of the room without looking back.


Ten minutes, uh?

He doesn't need ten minutes to wash their plates and glasses and put it all away. But he still lingers, examines the contents of the fridge with a distracted eye, tours the dining room without paying the slightest attention to the decor.

Kate asked for ten minutes, and hell, she's going to get them. He kind of hopes that she will spend most of those impatiently waiting for him in the large, comfortable bed, but well – this is Kate Beckett.

If he doesn't show up on time, she'll probably grab a book and do without him.

Or maybe not, he thinks, remembering gleefully how she straddled him, nipped at his jaw. After all this time, even with the ring on his left hand, it still amazes him. That she loves him back. Wants him back.

And not only does she want him back, but she matches his passion with hers, gives as good as she gets. His wife. His chest swells with a certainly misplaced but nonetheless delightful pride every time he so much as thinks the word.

Has it been ten minutes already?

Ugh. Only eight. He glances at the clock, at the stairs he can make out through the open door.

Oh, screw it. Two minutes aren't gonna make a difference anyway. He turns off the light downstairs, tries not to run towards the staircase. He fails, of course, and a jolt of pain in his knee lets him know that he overestimated the distance.

Castle hisses, feels in the dark for the stinging spot, and has to swallow a yelp when he finds it. He's being a baby; this is what Kate would say, and she'd be right.

Kate. He disregards the knee and hurries up, careful to put more weight on his right leg, the one that doesn't have raw, screaming nerve endings.

There's a very modest ray of light filtering under the door of their room; for some reason, Castle's breath catches in his throat, as if he were eighteen years old, as if this were his wedding night.

Well, no. He can remember their wedding night quite clearly, and not without a shiver of pleasure. Ah. Their wedding night. He forces the memory back, still stupidly taken with that ray of light, with the woman waiting for him behind that closed door.

Calm down, Rick. Breathe. He needs to be cool, in control. No one wants a teenage boy to make love to them. Relax. Right.

When he thinks he has it, thinks he can handle it, he pushes the door open silently, steps inside.

And then gasps in wonder.

Candles. Candles everywhere. This is why the light under the door was so soft and welcoming: there is no other light on. The walls are bathed in shadow, even though the candles are trying their best.

And Kate… Kate is on the bed, lying on her side, facing him. The curve of her hip, the dip of her long leg hypnotizes him; she's wearing a short, short nightgown, lace and some black material that is quite revealing. Her face is only half lit by the fluctuating flames; her eyes look larger, darker, framed by those long eyelashes and the gentle shadows that take up the right side of her.

Gorgeous.

"Kate."

The words won't get past his dry throat. He can't tell her what it means, how beautiful she is, the gratitude that threatens to strangle his poor heart.

This is for him, all for him.

Because he's a romantic idiot.

Well, if he's speechless, at least he still has action at his disposal. He steps closer, takes the time to unbutton his shirt, throw it onto the chair.

Kate watches him intently, her eyes bright, the corner of her mouth curving into her cheek.

He takes another step, sheds his shorts this time. The ruffle of fabric on the floor seems loud in the silence; the only other thing he can hear is her breathing. And his stammering heart.

Then she makes that sound in her throat, part amusement, part arousal – that sound he loves. Makes him want to lunge at her. But no. No. He knows the powers of slow, the sweet rewards it brings.

He'll take it slow.

"What did you do to your knee, Castle?" She asks, and her voice is velvet in the night, so soft.

He looks down at his own leg. His left knee is an angry red, even in the candlelight.

"Ah. A rushed encounter with a too eager step," he shrugs.

The smile on her face triggers the same response from his own. It's always like that. She bites her lower lip, gives him a coy look.

"Were you rushing here to see me?" She teases, even though she knows the answer.

"You know I was," he growls back, and he's so close now. He can see the goose bumps on her arms. It only takes one more step, and he's touching her.

"Cold?" He murmurs, running a finger along her almost naked form. Her eyes slide closed under his touch.

"Mmm, just waiting for you," she whispers back, and then opens her eyes to say playfully, "to warm me up."

He's not about to turn down such an invitation, especially when she scoots to make room for him in that large bed. What was this about taking it slow? He can't resist the smooth column of her neck, that delicious place where it meets the roundness of her ear.

Kate arches against him, moans in surprise. Her hand curls on his waist.

God, those sounds she makes.

"We don't know how thick the walls are," he says with a wicked grin. "We probably should try to keep it down, huh? Think you can do quiet, Kate?" he challenges, merely to see her reaction.

She glares at him for a half second before she answers with a too-sweet smile, "Sure, Castle. I can just bite whenever the urge to scream becomes too intense."

Ah. He's sort of deserved that, but that doesn't help with the sudden flight of blood from his brain. "You," he says, and he steals her mouth because there's no better way to say it. He kiss is deep and a little rough, a punishment for the laugh he felt trembling on her lips.

When he lets go, even though they're both breathless, she taunts, "The writer is without words?"

Evil, evil woman. He drops his head to lick at her collarbone, trail his lips along those fine lines, jaw, neck, shoulder.

"Words are not all that matters," he whispers against her pumping artery.

She doesn't contradict him.