Chapter 10

By the time the hotel was reached, Castle hadn't let go of Beckett for an instant – he obviously didn't trust her not to take some mischievous or downright frustrating action just because she could, and she had certainly thought of some – and walked her straight into the elevator.

Apart from that odd moment of awkwardness at the beginning of dinner, it had been a really good evening, she thought. Best of all, he hadn't noticed that she'd gone along with the idea of the museum because he'd really, really wanted to go; and she got to go to the plantations tomorrow.

Her happy confidence that Castle hadn't noticed was abruptly dented when he grinned happily.

"You enjoyed the museum, didn't you?"

"Yeah."

"You didn't think you would." He acquired an expression of interested enquiry. "You didn't want to go, did you?"

"Too early," she grumped.

"No, that wasn't it," he mused. "You weren't that interested. We could have gone anywhere, but – why, Beckett! You went along with it because I really wanted to go. Awww. How sweet. You did something to make me happy."

"It was that or listen to you whining," she muttered.

Castle smirked. "Don't belieeeeeeeve you." Astonishingly, he dropped the subject. "Anyway, we'll go to the plantations tomorrow."

Beckett was sure that he hadn't forgotten about her regrettable lapse into niceness, but if he'd dropped it, she was certainly not going to reopen the subject. Still, she couldn't let him think he was getting his own way. In fact... Castle had been just a little over-confident on the way back, and while her body was humming with need, desire and downright lust, he didn't get to do that and turn her into a slushy puddle of surrender any time he liked. (Sez you, said the brainworm cynically.)

She'd better make sure she was packed tonight, she suddenly thought, and on the idea, knew what she'd do.

The elevator doors opened.

"Thank you for a delicious dinner," Beckett said, smiling, stretched up the inch to his mouth, and kissed him leisurely. "I'd better pack. There won't be time in the morning." She turned to her door, and opened it. Behind her, she'd have sworn that she'd heard Castle's jaw drop and his eyes pop.

"Nuh-uh," he emitted. "You don't get to do that. Tease."

"No teasing. I have to pack."

"Do you? Right now?" He turned her around, and kissed her just as slowly as she had him. Invisible from the corridor, his hands roamed over her ass, and squeezed gently. She sighed softly. He took a step, which moved her inside. "I'm not kissing you in a corridor."

"Who says you're going to be kissing me at all?" she asked, a sleepy smile flickering at her lips.

"You're not stopping me."

That was entirely true. Annoyingly true. She wasn't stopping him kissing her and she wasn't stopping him stroking her ass and she wasn't stopping him walking her into her room, where he slid his hand down her leg and then up again, taking the skirt of her dress with him. His broad palm landed on the bare skin of her thigh, where it sent little tingles upwards which pooled and sparked between her legs. His fingers followed the tingles, creating more of them: a bow wave of heat rolling through her.

"Packing," she breathed out rather desperately, just before his fingers reached the point of no return. Castle grinned lazily at her.

"Wouldn't it be more fun if I helped you?"

Beckett glared suspiciously at him, with considerable justification. Castle's expression didn't exactly indicate that neat folding of her clothes was at the front of his mind. Leaving them crumpled on the floor seemed more likely, from the glint in his eye.

"Less efficient," she tried. Castle simply picked up her small suitcase, and plopped it, open, on the bed.

"Okay," he said happily. "Castle's extra-efficient packing service, at your service." Beckett gaped at him. "First" – he plopped Beckett on the bed, much to her indignation, and bent down to pick up her foot – "shoes." He took her high-heeled sandals off her feet, and placed them tidily in the bottom of the case, then returned to massage her feet. Somehow, he managed not to tickle them. More interestingly, the little tingles of heat had returned, more intensely. Then he stopped.

"Next, we" – who was we? Beckett was sitting on the bed watching – "need to leave you one set of clean underwear for tomorrow" – what? – "which I'll choose" – what? That cheating swine! He'd sandbagged her – "and pack the rest neatly round your shoes. Just stay there," he added, as she made to move.

Beckett watched indignantly as Castle rifled through the drawers and selected a set made of cream satin with a very delicate green trim.

"These are pretty," he said smugly. "You can wear them tomorrow."

"I don't want them," Beckett said sulkily, and completely untruthfully, from the bed.

"I do." Castle packed the rest of the underwear, only marginally hindered by Beckett's fruitless attempts to stop him removing the case from her reach.

"And finally," he smirked at Beckett's indignant squawks, "we pack the rest." He looked in the closet. "This sundress" – it had brilliant golden-yellow sunflowers across it – "for tomorrow." The rest joined the shoes and underwear in the case. "But there's a little more to go." He acquired a leonine, predatory smile. "Stand up, Beckett."

"No. I'm comfy here." She was not letting him have it his own way – huh? How was she standing up? She heard the zipper zing, and her dress fell off her shoulders to pool on the floor.

"Better pack this too. You won't be needing it again," he added arrogantly, and in three swift movements had it neatly in the case. He turned to look at her, heat blazing in his darkened eyes. "Now, isn't that a sight?" He looked her up and down. "Gorgeous." He paused. "Such a shame they need to be packed too." Another pregnant pause and intent look. "But maybe not just yet."

For a long further moment, he simply gazed, letting heat build between them, devouring her with only his eyes. She'd never been looked at the way that Castle looked at her: as if there were only she in the world, as if she were the first and only woman he'd ever seen. Simply his look was scorching through her, promising hard heat and hot nights, drenching her in her own desire.

"They're so sexy. They were sexy when you put them on and they're even sexier now that they've been on you all evening, moulded to your figure, damp between your legs." He took two long strides while she was still caught by the last few words, pulled her in and simply took her mouth, lifted off, whispered, "Mine, Beckett. Time to make good on all your flirting."

"You too," she murmured invitingly. "You started it." She caught his eyes, smiled sensuously, knowing he was as aroused as she – she could hardly miss it: he was...um...sizeable. "Remember what you were doing before dinner?"

"Sure I do," he said smoothly, "and I'm looking forward to doing it again." His eyes flared. "You like it."

"Mmmm."

"I like it too. I think we should do it a lot more."

Beckett blinked. Annoying brainworm commentary notwithstanding, she'd given no thought at all to what would happen when they got back to Manhattan. (Told you so, the brainworm said smugly. Now what're you gonna do?) She parked that thought. It wasn't helpful.

Castle was being helpful. In his own particular way, naturally, which seemed to involve a great deal of dangerously erotic touching and even more passionate, possessive kissing. Helpful, in that case, meant driving all thoughts out of her head except for Do that again and More, Castle!

"My bed," he said.

Beckett muttered wordlessly. Why move? She was quite happy here. Castle, quite unfairly, picked her up and carried her through.

"No case on my bed," he pointed out. She was sure that could have been managed, but then he laid her down, caught her hands in his, and began to play kiss-chase with her breasts. There wasn't much chasing required, since with her hands seductively trapped, she could hardly run away even if she'd wanted to. (Which you don't, smirked the brainworm. You're addicted. She'd swear it sniggered. And it was wrong. She wasn't addicted.) She arched under his mouth and used one long, lithe leg to knock Castle's knees out from under him – ooofff, the man had weight – so that she could curve her hips up and squirm against the thick hard erection which was now exactly where it ought to be though he ought not to have clothes on. She was pretty sure that Castle's intentions were that she wouldn't have clothes on shortly, so she was going to return the favour, whether he liked it or not.

She snapped her hands out of his grip while he was completely distracted by the possibilities of palming, rolling, stroking and even – lightly – pinching her breasts, and proceeded to open all of his shirt buttons with extreme alacrity – once she managed to wriggle her fingers between them, which she achieved by the simple method of starting at the bottom, as it were. He really did growl most satisfyingly when she stroked his ass, and the wriggle when she squeezed it had just the right effect. Of course, she couldn't leave him entirely unaffected, but a well-aimed grip and slide took care of that, and when that caused him to lift a little, she took full and immediate advantage.

"In a hurry, Beckett?" he gasped.

"I like you naked," she pointed out.

"You should have said."

His shirt hit the floor, his pants, boxers and socks followed. If she'd known it was that easy to strip him, she'd have suggested he do it where she could watch.

"You're not naked," he oozed. "I think you should be." Clever fingers sneaked under her back and divested her of her bra, then slithered across her breasts and downward to roll off the panties. Castle sat back on his heels and produced another instalment of the heated, arousing, intent gaze that took her higher without touching her. That was very nice, but a little slow for Beckett's current taste. She sat up (at last, a use for all those sit-ups), grabbed his shoulders, and pulled him down over her, opening for him to be perfectly positioned.

He didn't disappoint. Castle, at least in bed, could take a hint. He could also take a Beckett, and he was certainly taking: sure, strong and totally sexual. She melted into the man and the motion and let him send her soaring, joining her there.

Afterwards, though, both all cleaned up, he snuggled around her, cuddling her close and not doing anything untoward at all, stroking her side but – for once, and not entirely desirably – keeping it clean. He should be doing something a little more useful: after all, it was their last night here. She wiggled hopefully, and then turned in his grasp and kissed him when that didn't work.

What? No return kissing? They were naked in his bed, for God's sake. How could he not light up? Surely he couldn't be done already? Surely he couldn't be done with her already – he'd just said he wanted to do a lot more oral on her. But... She turned away again, and curled into herself.

She found herself pulled back.

"No running 'way," Castle mumbled. "Stoppit. C'mere."

She didn't appear to have had much of a choice about that, since she was pinioned against him and he'd tangled their legs.

"Wanna cuddle," he added.

Cuddles were all very well (no, said the brainworm, stop lying, you adore being cuddled and petted. You're just avoiding the obvious conclusion. Again. Dumbass.) but she felt so good (how about you phrase that correctly, said the pedantic brainworm which should be dead, dammit, you've never felt that good with anyone else because it's Castle making you feel that good) and she wanted it (him! yelled the brainworm) again.

"I wanna do something else," she purred, and tried to reach for him.

"Not yet. In a minute." Castle sounded rather more awake. "Just enjoy the moment."

That was the problem. She was totally enjoying the moment, now she'd been forced to think about it. She felt...safe. Cossetted. Warm and cosy and – oh fuck no. No no no no no. No. (Yes, cheered the brainworm. Finally! She shredded it. It stuck itself back together, and laughed at her.) It wasn't possible. No. Absolutely not. He couldn't possibly feel like that. He was an annoying man-child with a hyperactivity problem and a gift for flirtation (you mean hot sex. And you're wrong) who couldn't possibly make her feel loved. It wasn't real. His arm around her and that big, warm body enclosing her... wasn't love.

Oh, fuck. (Oh yes! Finally got something into your concrete head, cheered the brainworm.) No, no nonononono. She couldn't possibly have fallen for him in three days. (You didn't. You've been falling for months, you just wouldn't admit it. That damn brainworm was smug enough for twenty.) Now what? There was no way he could feel the same. Not that there was any same to feel like. She was not falling for him. (Clothheaded dumbass!) He was a...ladies' man, in the old parlance. A flirt. (The man who's set up a whole sequence of nice things to do together, the brainworm pointed out sardonically.) Never without eye candy. (Except since he hit the precinct.)

She curled up into a hedgehog-like ball and thought about wailing. It seemed like an appropriate reaction.

Castle didn't like Beckett curling up into a defensive ball. It wasn't the right reaction at all. She should curl into him and let him cuddle her and keep her safe and cosy and lov– oh shit. Oh shit oh shit oh shit. How did that happen? Oh shit. She was so kickass, badass and independent and she'd been making it totally clear for months that she wasn't interested and even though she'd fallen straight into his bed how was he ever going to make her see that he wanted her there permanently?

On the other hand, presently lying around her middle where it ought to be, she had fallen into bed. And flirted and teased and made it very obvious that she'd enjoyed it. All of it. Him. Surely she wouldn't have done that if she wasn't interested? If she'd only wanted a one-night stand with an (he preened) excellent lover, she'd have done it much earlier and walked away then.

He didn't like that thought, and growled irritably. There would be no walking away. His arm tightened, and hedgehog-Beckett was perforce tucked back in, where he could unfurl her. She wasn't readily unfurlable, he found.

"Come out," he enticed. Nothing happened. "C'mon. Come out and be kissed." She didn't move. "C'mon. Last chance before we need to go to sleep." There was a slight tensing of her back. Castle thought for a second. Surely not? But... well, it had to be worth a try. He mustered all his best, most arrogantly annoying (but sexy) game, and applied some considerable effort to ensuring Beckett's beautiful face was turned to his.

"I can't believe you spent all that time before dinner showing me how much you liked me going down on you and telling me you wanted me to do it more." He paused. Little flecks began to swirl in her eyes. "But if you're exhausted by my superb technique, that's okay. We'll get to it tomorrow night." She swallowed. Hmmm. Interesting. "Anticipation can be really hot." That was better. Her eyes were focused on his. "I'll be anticipating uncovering that pretty underwear you'll be wearing tomorrow. The set I chose. I like choosing your underwear. I can't wait to find out what other choices I'll have..." Every word implied that there was more to their...um...interaction than simply the few nights they'd shared. "And then I'll anticipate peeling it all off you slowly." He faked a sudden realisation. "Back in Manhattan, we'll try out those handcuffs of yours. You teased me with the prospect, so you'll need to make good on it." His arrogant grin turned feral and predatory. "You'll scream for me. All tied up where you can't escape me. I'll turn you into a hot mess and you, my dear detective, will enjoy every single second of it." He stopped. "I'll even let you do the same to me."

"Who says I'm going to let you choose my underwear?" she spluttered.

"Me." She'd either missed or skipped straight over the underlying meaning – that he was going to be doing a lot more than simply shadowing her from now on. "Not all the time, of course. I like surprises, too." She gleeped indignantly, apparently unable to form words. That was fine by Castle, Wordless Beckett offered so many opportunities... He pounced on her parted lips, and raided to his heart's content.

Kissing Beckett had only one problem, he decided. He – they, since she was emitting little noises and moving against him in a very hopeful fashion – couldn't stop. In fact, kisses were inevitably leading him to more emphatic kisses which produced curving and wriggles which put her breasts in his way and then it would be just plain rude not to kiss them... oh fuck her hands were evil... and the only way not to disgrace himself would be to get out of reach of her wicked, naughty fingers and the only way to do that was to move down and then, well, she was right there: soaked and heated and open and she was irresistible; not that Castle had any resistance anyway.

He wriggled his shoulders into place to hold her wide for him, put his hands firmly round her sharp hip bones to keep her moderately still, leaned forward, and took one long, slow, forceful sweep of tongue across her. She bucked and shrieked, muffled in a pillow, so he did it again. And again, and more, till she was right on the edge. Then he stopped.

"You like this," he stated.

"Don't stop."

"You want me to do this a lot more."

"Hell, yeah. Right now."

"Not just right now" – but he gave her a little more, and more again, and teased and tasted till she couldn't think or speak through the sensations building and then she cried out and came hard against him.

He slid up the bed and cuddled her back in. "You'd like more of that, wouldn't you?" he tempted. She breathed shallowly, recovering. "C'mon. Stop teasing me. You know you would, so why not have it? Fair's fair... I could have this, in return." He slid slowly into her, from behind. She squirmed. "You like that too." His hands roamed over her breasts, down to play with the slick, sensitised bud, back to her breasts: he murmured darkly in her ear. "We could have it as often as we wanted."

"Yes?" she said, but it was a question, not a statement.

"Yes."

And then he moved within her and his fingers moved on the outside and then they moved together in harmony and then there was only her and the glory and the stars.

"We ought to get some sleep," he murmured into her hair.

"Am sleeping," she mumbled, lying to him because how could she answer if she was asleep? "G'way." But her body snuggled into his to fit perfectly with him and she even liked the other side of the bed so surely that was a sign from the heavens that this would work? She had, after all, just about agreed that they should do this a lot more. And she'd gone to the WWII museum to make him happy. He slid into sleep feeling rather optimistic.

Thank you to all readers and reviewers.

To remind you all, should you choose to try it - and with massive thank yous to those who have! - Death in Focus, by SR Garrae (me) is available now in both e-book and paperback on Amazon.