The noises she's making will kill him. Actually kill him. They're as effective as a bullet cracking his skull would be. They course through him just as a bullet would leaving brains and blood splattered across the wall behind him.
Then she draws his tongue into her mouth and sucks it deep into her mouth. Okay, he was wrong. He wasn't dead before.
Now he's dead.
His forearm muscles twitch, quivering under the strain of contraction, of pressure, of her skin, her arse in his hands. They can twitch all they want, beg and plead with him to let her go, but he won't. Not ever.
He slides his fingers over her skin again, not bothering to stop as the elastic drags over his hands, following his ascent to her back. He feels her shiver, so he retraces, unhitches the elastic and presses his fingers into the small of her back again. Dragging his fingers over her arse may make her groan into his ear, make breathy demands and make her slide her tongue over his earlobe, but the way she arches as he touches her back causes her pelvis to arch into his lap and the two just don't compare.
He slides his tongue from her mouth as he drags his fingers up her back. He's positive she wasn't ready to let go yet, as she follows it with her own, chasing with her mouth, applying pressure even as he slides his tongue back. She nips the tip as he pulls it back through her teeth. But that's his chance to take. He kisses her mouth as it closes, sealing his lips over hers, simple and gentle.
But then she moves her fingers through his hair and pulls away with a huff, a protest.
He finds her spinal muscles, it's not hard, they're tight, running along the length of her spine, flanking the ridges and following the contours of her back.
It doesn't take long before she arches into his hands again, spurring him on.
"Hmm," she hums, brushing her mouth across his.
"You need to relax more," he mutters as she slides her cheek along his, along the angle of his jaw as he kneads the muscle, working his way up, climbing.
"Hmm," she hums again, then chuckles softly. "You're helping," she mutters to his skin, nose brushing stubble as she confesses.
He finds a knot, a hard twist in the fibres, a mesh, a disturbance, a section of muscle she's twisted, pulled then let hardened, too stubborn to relax.
He is most certainly helping, she's putty in his hands.
"I can tell. I can keep helping," he whispers the offer as he kisses a line down her neck, so grateful her sweatshirt is baggy, hanging off her shoulders a little. Maybe he's just pulling it off with his wandering hands. It doesn't matter.
"Hmm," she hums. She's dragging her lips over the stubble, kissing every half a second. "No more talk." He hears her mutters as she finds the corner of his mouth.
He couldn't agree more, for now.
He runs his fingers over another knot, working it until it's gone. This shouldn't be so intimate, so arousing. He's working knots out of her bare back while she straddles him on her couch. Actually, this is quite… appropriate, for them. A heat and a fire burning between them, an anchor point.
When he finds her shoulder blades, she rolls her scapula over his hands as he wedges his fingers beneath, working the tight muscles, the lifted bone providing a gateway to the tight muscle beneath. She lets his mouth go, makes a beeline for his neck, headed to his ear, apparently.
She goes about her movements while he continues his own, toying with anything he can find, knots and tight spots that make her stop breathing as he works them loose.
"Ah," she gasps suddenly.
He eases the pressure and cranes his neck so he can see her face, checking. "You okay?"
"Hurts," she answers, honestly. But she's leaning into his hand, urging him silently to reapply the pressure, to go back to kneading his fingers between two ribs.
He obeys her request, reapplying the pressure, watching her curiously as he does, waiting for a signal to stop. She doesn't give one so he travels further along once he feels the muscle slacken beneath his fingers. Her intercostals muscles should not be this tight, restricting her breathing. It would physically constrict her chest.
"Didn't your therapist loosen these?" he asks.
She turns to face him, looks up and meets his eyes. Then she smiles, wide and open, and he doesn't want her to ever stop, not when he's the reason behind it.
But then her eyes flash something else, darker, more intense and he loses her to her thoughts. He watches her chuckle, like she's just shared a private joke with herself at a memory. He's not naïve; she's been with other guys, touched by other men in ways far more intimate than this. He'll fix that, soon. But a therapist shouldn't have her giggling, chuckling. Not like that.
"What?" He's curious, concerned. She's laughing like her therapy was a joke, some dirty joke. Nothing about those scars is a joke. She wouldn't, couldn't be laughing about that.
But she can't be laughing about the other possibility… She wouldn't have… He's not sure he's ever considered himself jealous of a physical therapist before. But the thought of this guy touching her, his partner, his muse, his…
That wasn't what he asked about so that can't be what she's thinking.
"Never from that angle," she answers finally. How long has he been waiting for her answer? It feels like ten minutes, but it's probably been two seconds.
Then she wiggles against his hand, showing him he's travelled to the scar, that he's basically grazing her chest again, working every square inch of skin beneath his finger, gentle but persistent.
Oh.
"Hmm," he hums as he presses the pads of his fingers into her ribs, deep into her skin, the space. "I see," he mutters softly, stealing her mouth softly, gentle.
She scoffs at him, against his mouth as she touches her fingers to his face. "You don't see." It's so quiet he barely hears it. But he's certain it's a challenge.
He stills his other hand. He stops it rubbing futile circles at the ridge of her shoulder, soothing while his other hand worked, deep and harsh.
He withdraws it, sliding it deliberately back down her back. He catches the edge of her sweatshirt and lifts it slowly, half-expecting a protest, a stilling hand. But he doesn't get one.
She just presses her mouth against his, hard but tender, careful as she removes her hands from his face, stealing the edges of the sweater from him and tugging it up. He waits until the last second before he pulls back from her mouth and opens his mouth to watch her disappear behind the thick material, a flash of fleece as she pulls it over her head.
He slides his other hand up her back, trailing over the skin, no longer slick but scattered with goose bumps from the shock of the cold in the air, the touch of his hand, gentle and wandering, exploring.
He stills his hand, leaving it on her waist, brushing his thumb across her stomach as he presses the other into the scar, urging her to twist, spin, turn. She eyes him curiously but follows the instruction.
She wraps her arm around his shoulder, curling herself against him as he slides his other hand around her back. She understands. She trusts him.
He feels her shiver as he kneads the muscle again, both hands now.
"Hmm," she offers into the fabric of his sweats. He can barely hear her hum, let alone when she continues. "This is not what I thought you were going to do."
"Complaining?" he offers softly as he angles his head down following his thumb across the curve of a rib, the arch, trailing his mouth over the soft skin, the scar.
She grips his shoulder, tight, like she's going to fall over, like he's just pulled the rug from under her and she needs to get her footing, needs an anchor, needs him.
"Hmm," he hums, letting his mouth roam the skin, gentle and searching. He doesn't really know what he's looking for, but he's found she's relaxed, less tight, no more tension.
His mouth follows his hands again, fingers trailing as they follow the curve of her ribs. He feels her dig her fingers into his back, trailing them down and then back up, nails dragging, catching in the thick material.
He doesn't lift his head, but shifts her off him, a little keeping her at arm's length. No more hiding, not behind walls, not even behind him.
But then she's got her hands there, holding herself off him, away, trusting.
He feels her grip tighten as his cheek grazes the soft skin, chin skimming the swell of her breast as his fingers find the cartilage leading to her sternum. He follows the line until his fingers hit the bump, the swell of scar tissue.
He hears her breath catch and presses his mouth to her skin, blindly kissing the slope, making the descent.
He presses his mouth to it.
"No more," she mutters as she pulls his face away, back to her own.
He blinks, confused. But then he sees her face and he understands.
"Okay. I understand," he promises. He does.
But she's shaking her head. So apparently he doesn't.
"In the morning?" he asks. He wants to talk now but the way she's looking at him, she doesn't need to say anything. He can read every emotion, every expression. She doesn't need to even meet his eyes from him to see.
But she does and blinks heavily. He listens to her exhale, feels her breath on his skin. When she sucks her lip into her mouth and bites down, the pink skin turning white, he wraps an arm around her pulls her close.
"Kate…" he starts. But she opens her mouth, interrupting.
He watches her rolls words over her tongue, completely silent. Whatever she's saying, to herself, doesn't compute. She can't vocalise it. He's about to steal back the chance, the silence she can't fill, reassure and comfort. Tell her everything.
She's watching him, out of the corner of her eyes. Then she's not. She closes the gap in a split second, presses her mouth to his, hot and insistent.
That wasn't what he expected.
He tries to pull back but she follows, leans over him and wrapping her body around him.
"In the morning," she murmurs against his mouth as she grabs his hands, winding her fingers through his and moving them up with hers to her hair, her neck.
He isn't sure how long she stays there, mouth on his, hot and insistent, trying to communicate everything he already knows, everything she feels and thinks and wants and needs. Everything he's always known.
When she swallows and presses her nose against his, watching the rise and fall of her own chest, he fists his hands in her hair, rests them on her shoulders at the base of her skull.
"You good?" he asks quietly, curious.
She flicks her eyes up to him and her tongue darts out, he watches her swipe her top lip then smile. He gives himself a second to watch it, take in the genuine expression before he flicks his eyes back to hers.
"I'm ready for bed."
He raises his eyebrows at her, gives her a wicked smile, playing it up, pretending he doesn't understand. "Oh, are you now?" he teases as he skims a thumb over the base of her skull.
"Hmm, I am." She finds his mouth again, soft and quick, habitual and sure.
He steals her mouth again, slides his tongue over hers, twitching his fingers over the skin at the base of her neck. When she quivers he has no doubt the mess of hair in his hands is tickling her neck.
"Peas?" she asks.
He laughs around her tongue, following it back into her mouth again.
She pulls back, leaving him with his tongue poised at the edge of his mouth. He closes his mouth over it.
"We need to ice it before we go to bed. Those cold packs won't be ready again."
He nods, agreeing completely with everything she's saying. Mainly the part about them going to bed.
She pokes his chest as he leans back in to seal his mouth on hers again.
"What?" he asks, curious.
"Did you not hear what I just said?" She raises a brow and he knows he most certainly missed something. Can she blame him?
He swallows and shakes his head.
She eyes him suspiciously, like repeating herself is a burden, a hefty task, weighted and meaningful. "I asked if you think you can walk. Cause I can go and get some pillows and we can camp out here if you can't it's fine."
He huffs out a breath and pulls her mouth down to meet his, quick but firm, certain. "I can manage. You'll just have to stay close, just in case I fall." He lets his hands unknot from hair as he wraps his arms around her, pulling her against his chest.
"Just in case you fall, huh?" she teases. "What do you think I'm going to do? Catch you?"
He chuckles. "You'd try." He wouldn't even make her consider it. He can catch a doorframe, the edge of the table, or just put pressure on his ankle. Swelling or not he won't be-
"Nah," she teases, shrugging. "Just let you fall down like a tonne of bricks."
"You wouldn't." He feigns the horror and drops his arms from around her to regard her, watch her cheeks swell as she smiles in response, the dance in her eyes as her lips curl.
"We'll see. You'll just have to have a little faith." She tugs her tank down, not completely, just so it's not hitched up under her armpits.
"Hmm, I suppose I can do that." He pulls the tank down at the back and she eyes him curiously. "What?"
She opens her mouth. "Just…" He watches her lip twitch as she considers the rest of her sentence. "You're you."
He raises an eyebrow and slides his hands back up the tank, twisting his fingers into the ends of her hair. "Indeed I am myself."
She rolls her eyes and slides off his lap onto the couch. His instincts tell him to follow her, lay himself over her and invest some time exploring a different position. He wants to curse his ankle, but if it wasn't for that he would have dropped her back to the floor earlier and walked out the door. Okay, maybe he would have wormed a cup of coffee out of her, but then he'd have been gone.
"C'mon Castle," she offers her hand to him now she's standing in front of him.
"Won't let me fall?" he asks as he takes her hand.
She pushes his fingers away, slides her hand so she's gripping his wrist. "We'll see." She smirks at him as she tugs on his arm, guiding him up till he's standing in front of her.
"Hey," he mumbles as he stands at full height, sliding his hand down so he catches her elbow. He doesn't need it. He's got his big toe as a point of contact, a balance. It hurts, but he's not leaning on her. She's holding herself up, together, here.
That's all he needs.
"You good?" she asks.
He shakes his head and she grips his forearm, tight.
He seals his mouth over hers, quickly, catching her of guard. "Okay, now I'm good." He rests his forehead against hers, enjoying the fact she's so short sans heels.
"Okay, peas." She steps back and pauses and he can't help but smirk at her. She's waiting for him to fall down.
"I'm fine, go. I'll meet you, somewhere in the hall," he offers, only half kidding.
He watches her bite her bottom lip and smile, amused.
"Okay," she whispers as she takes another step back, watching him as she retreats, still smiling around that well-worn lip. Only on the fourth step does she turn and head into the kitchen, finally trusting he's not about to fall into a heap on the floor.
He watches her walk, tank twisted around her stomach, hips swaying as she moves. She's doing it deliberately. He can't follow. He can't wrap his arms around her and carry her to bed. He can't let her fight and kick her legs out and pretend she doesn't want him to. But he can get there, wait for to follow. He knows she will.
