Chapter 11

He woke up to the buzz of his alarm to find Beckett still nestled in his bed and indeed in his arms. That was deeply positive. Even more positively, he'd set the alarm to allow them a little time for...um... connection. Or something like that. His romantic soul got the better of him, and he planted a kiss on her lips to try to wake her.

It did wake her. In fact, it woke her into a far better mood than she'd displayed the other morning, because she sleepily murmured, "Come here," placed her hands around his neck and pulled him down to her. Not an invitation to be refused, and Castle certainly couldn't.

Half-awake or not, Beckett seemed to be in a mood to take control of the kiss. Castle let her, though all his primitive instincts (which seemed to come out to play whenever he was in bed with Beckett, or kissing Beckett, or thinking about Beckett's beautiful body with or without sexy underwear) wanted to pin her down and ravage her exceedingly receptive self. Something about her intensity, her ferocity, made him want to prove that he was a match for her: strong enough to take her, hold her, have her. She wasn't a woman who respected weaknesses. Which was, ultimately, just fine by Castle, because he wasn't a man who wanted a fluffy-headed doll. For now, he'd let her take the lead.

Letting her take the lead was an exercise in severe control not simply to take her. Beckett's mouth was like an oleander, gorgeously pink and lush and open – and deadly. Deadly to Castle's brain, that was for certain sure. She'd rolled him to his back, and straddled him so that he was nestled into damp heat but not allowed in, slipped and slid over him, playing, and all the time exploring and invading his mouth and teasing him till he couldn't help but growl and groan deep in his throat – oh God he shouldn't have thought of throat – and then she nibbled at his neck and down and teased his flat nipples and stroked at his pecs and he could feel her knowing smirk as she kissed further down and how could she bend like that because he was still touching her scalding core and then she straightened as she teased the arrowhead of hair pointing downward and he wanted so much to pull her back up but he had to let her –

Oh God he was never ever going to stop her. He'd been hard since she began: ready and waiting, but now he was iron, granite, and she hadn't actually done anything yet. She bypassed heaven to scratch lightly down the inside of his thighs and then cup him where he was tightly drawn and he groaned.

"You like that," she said sleepily, and stroked, never touching anywhere else. "You like a little deferred gratification." She couldn't use his own words against him like that: it wasn't fair – but he couldn't form words because all that would spill out would be more Beckett please Beckett and he wouldn't do that because she was to be the one who pleaded with him but oh fuck she was so good at it.

She placed a kiss very precisely on his thigh, turned her head a fraction and he wasn't even sure that she touched him but it was so hot and she did it again on the other side and he didn't tell his hands to knot in her hair but they did anyway.

"Let go," she said, but there was dark amusement in the words as she sat up. He did, though it cost him, and fisted his hands into the sheet to stop them returning.

"Good boy." Still that same dark smooth amusement. "Good boys deserve a reward." She leaned back down, and in one lithe movement took him into her mouth, then released him again. He couldn't stop the whimper as she left him. "You like that. I like that."

"More," he forced out.

"We'll see."

She bent again, and licked delicately up the shaft. His hips bucked towards her in desperate invitation. She declined it, and flicked once, softly, at the bulbous tip.

"Beckett!" he cried, and she did it again.

And then her mouth surrounded him and oh God oh fuck he just went deeper and deeper and she swallowed and his brain dissolved and he dissolved and that was surely Heaven that he'd just touched.

Castle's first coherent thought was that she was never, ever going to get away from him. His second thought was that Beckett wasn't actually there. His third was that the shower was running and he wasn't actually in there with her. His fourth thought was that his knees weren't working yet, so following Beckett to the shower was a non-starter.

Beckett reappeared in short order, gloriously naked and completely unembarrassed about it, and almost as quickly disappeared into her own room. Castle growled, and her head reappeared.

"Wait for me," he said forcefully.

Beckett smirked. "Better hurry. I want to have my breakfast and you're the one who booked us on an early tour."

"I'll be quick," he scowled. "But later, I'll be slow. Really slow." He licked one finger, and watched her eyes flash hotly.

His shower was exceedingly speedy. Beckett was not to get dressed without him being there to watch and assist – and provide some – er – recompense for that awakening.

She was sitting at the vanity unit, wrapped in a fluffy robe, finishing her mascara. It was surprisingly hot to watch: a glimpse of her private practices, a view into her secrets. He prowled up behind her, seeing them both reflected in the mirror, cupped his hands around her face from behind her, kissed the top of her head, and then retreated to a chair to watch.

She dressed in front of him as if she did it every day, a small, secretive smile, a shimmy of hips, the implied promise that he'd see more later, another request for him to zip her dress up. He did, but then spun her round, hands on her hips, brought her head down to his to kiss her until she softened and curled on to his lap, where she fit precisely into the cove of his clasp.

"Breakfast," she said briskly.

Castle thought that Beckett on his lap was a far better experience than breakfast, but he supposed he ought to eat before they set off. Still, while he disposed of his French toast and fruit and drank his coffee, he couldn't help but think how beautifully she'd aligned into his body whilst in his lap, how well she'd fit.

"Castle!" Oh. He'd missed something. "Isn't it time we went?"

"Yes. Plantations, here we come."

They walked down to the meeting point after checking out under an already-warm sun. Beckett had been perfectly placed to be encircled in his arm without apparently having had to think about it or even look to see where he was, and on the coach to take them out to the first edifice she leaned on his shoulder and stayed cuddled up.

Beckett was thinking. She wasn't entirely sure she liked her thinking, because her thinking was that she really, really liked being snuggled into Castle's wide shoulder. It was ridiculous to be so (addicted, sneered the brainworm) affected, when they would be back in Manhattan tonight and everything would go back to normal tomorrow morning. (That's not what Castle thinks, the brainworm pointed out sharply. He pretty much told you flat out that he wouldn't let you go.) What? He hadn't said that at all. Had he?

Had he? He'd only said... Oh. He'd said back in Manhattan. She ignored the next few words. He'd be the one in handcuffs. (Yeah, right. Sez you, the brainworm jeered.) He was just being (accurate, you blithering idiot, yelled the brainworm, now sporting a Union Flag beret in glorious anachronism. Beckett shot it. It bounced back up, and doffed the beret to her) ... anyway, it wasn't relevant.

"You're thinking too loud," Castle interrupted her. "Stop thinking and relax." Entirely contradicting himself, he added, "What are you thinking about anyway?"

"Nothing important."

"I don't believe you. You're scowling at the window," he added with an air of annoyingly Holmesian superiority. "Therefore it was important, unpleasant, and annoying."

"Obviously I was thinking about you, then," Beckett snipped with unjustified nastiness.

"Mean. And two-thirds untrue. I'm very gratified that you think me important, but I thought we'd fully established that I am neither unpleasant nor annoying." He tipped her face round to meet his gaze. "Though it's rather interesting that you were thinking about me."

"Wasn't."

"You just said you were," he teased gently. "Which is it?"

Beckett retreated into grumping. Sadly, Castle (so what was new?) didn't take the hint.

"C'mere," he coaxed, and cuddled her in further, shielding her from the coach aisle. "I've got you, and" – his tone changed to quieten and slide into deep, smooth possession – "I'm keeping you. My Beckett."

What?

"But..."

"Silly Beckett. Of course I'm keeping you. I said so."

(Told you so, gloated that damn brainworm.)

"But..."

"Are you sulking because you thought this would stay in New Orleans?" he murmured intently. "Because it's not staying in New Orleans unless you tell me to leave the precinct."

"I am not sulking," Beckett sulked.

"Yes, you are. It's cute" – she growled at him – "and so's that, but it's totally unnecessary. I'm not letting you go – Oh. We're here."

That arrival, Castle thought aggrievedly, was almost as well-timed as Ryan. He was perfectly sure of the problem: Beckett either hadn't listened or hadn't understood what he had said last night and this morning, though admittedly he hadn't been explicit. Unlike what they'd done, which was very explicit indeed and should be repeated – would be repeated – at every conceivable opportunity. Without the conceiving, to be sure. That should wait until after they were married – wait, what was he thinking?

He relapsed into a silence to match Beckett's, and followed the tour group into the Whitney plantation.

"That was... awful," Beckett said, as they rejoined the coach. "So much suffering."

"All those horrible stories," Castle agreed, heaviness in his voice. "All those words on the stone tablets, and every one deserved a better story. Someone should have told the stories – or found them out – much earlier."

Beckett shuddered, and Castle wrapped her in, just as shaken as she by the ugly reality exposed. Of course they'd both known about it – but somehow it was far more real in the victims' own words, however ungrammatical and brief: somehow the pain was more stinging. History in the raw, he thought, and cuddled Beckett as if he could find surcease there from the only-too-clear pictures in his all-too-vivid imagination. That tour wouldn't lightly be forgotten. Neither of them spoke on the way to Oak Alley plantation, lost in their own thoughts and the history they'd just experienced.

Oak Alley was pretty, historical, and considerably less disturbing and interesting than Whitney.

"Basically, it's Gone with the Wind, isn't it?"

"Mhm," Beckett agreed, vaguely. She wasn't paying much attention. She was still struggling to get her head round Castle's earlier commentary, and that damned brainworm screeching told you so every five seconds really wasn't helping anyone.

"I could just see you as Scarlett O'Hara."

"Mmm," replied Beckett, paying even less attention.

"Those tight laced, full-skirted, low cut dresses would be stunning."

"Mhm."

"I'd love to see you in a corset and nothing else."

"Mm," hummed Beckett, who had paid no attention at all for the last few seconds.

"So I'll buy you one and make sure I tighten the laces."

"Mhm," said Beckett, who hadn't heard a word. "What are you doing?" She found herself being forcibly seated on a handy bench.

"You're not paying any attention."

"I was," she said with a complete lack of honesty.

"So what did I just say?"

"Ummm..."

"See, you weren't." Castle wrapped his arm around her. "Stop thinking." He rethought. "Actually, don't stop thinking. Start thinking about what I'm going to do when I get you this corset." He surveyed her dropped jaw. "I think I'll get you a white one. Half-cups. Lots of frothy lace which only just hides those perfect breasts of yours. White lacing, pulled tight around your slim waist, giving you an hourglass figure. You'll be stunning." At that point, she wasn't so much stunning as staring, stunned.

"Uh?"

"If you'd been listening," Castle said provocatively, "you'd have heard me the first time. Of course, maybe you did hear me and you agreed."

"What? I did not!"

"You should have. Anyway, when we get back I'll arrange it. Ummmm..." his hands moved down her sides... "36-26-36 should do it."

She made a number of hugely indignant noises, none of which damaged Castle's happy smile by one single iota. "Am I wrong?"

More indignant noises, followed by a grumped, "No," followed by, "You are not buying me underwear."

"Nope," Castle agreed very amiably. "I'm not. I'm buying you a corset. Specific, not generic. Oh – and some stockings to go with it. I think I'd really like to see you in a corset and stockings."

He would. Right there and then. And he needed to stop that conversation because those bushes right over there were not sufficiently concealing for anything at all which he was thinking. Well. Not precisely thinking. More...lusting.

Beckett was still making indignant noises five full minutes later, much to Castle's private amusement. What she wasn't making were noises of denial, argument, or downright refusal. How...fascinating. More to the point, they were about to have a nice coach journey in which he could both murmur dirty talk into her ear and, if he merely slanted himself carefully, indulge in some provokingly erotic touching which would keep her nicely hot until they landed, at which time he would escort her home and make good on all of it.

"Time to go," he said over her black mutterings, stood up and pulled her up, taking the opportunity to cuddle her, in far too briefly.

Tucked into seats near the back of the coach, Castle arranged himself to block the view from the aisle, which wasn't hard since everyone else was closer to the front, slung his arm round Beckett in an assertive manner, and leaned in to be a scant inch or so from her ear.

"So," he murmured, "what shall I do with you?" He didn't bother waiting for an answer, which would only interfere with his plans. "If we had time, I'd take you back to the hotel and undress you very slowly, so that I could have a better look at that pretty bra and panties. You seem to have a lot of sexy underwear, and I'm going to enjoy all of it. Then I'll enjoy taking it off, and then I'll enjoy what's underneath. You like it when I do that." He consciously projected that same slightly dominant assertion of the first night. "You like it when I take control; show you the consequences of all your teasing." He placed a dirty little kiss on her ear, flicked his tongue over the shell, and smiled ferally at the small intake of breath. "But we don't have time for that. So I guess we'll just have to talk about it, till I've got some time to do it."

Beckett flicked a cynical glance at him, which wasn't hiding the desire at the back of her eyes in the slightest. "You never stop talking, Castle."

"Oh, I do," he oozed. "I have several other uses for my mouth, absolutely all of which you will definitely enjoy." The smile turned wolfish, and his hand dropped to her thigh. "After all, you already did." The fingers walked up to only just short of dangerous.

Then they walked back down to almost safe places. "But right now, I don't want arrested, so all I can do is talk to you. But first, I have a question."

"Since when do you not ask questions?"

Castle's wolfish smile would have dealt with a full pack of beasts. "I want to know, Beckett, how often you've worn a corset – or anything similar."

"Do you?"

"Yes. Because my spidey-senses tell me that you know more about it than you were letting on. You knew exactly what size it should be. I think," he said annoyingly, "that you might already have one."

That should work, Castle thought. He would give Beckett the opportunity to confound him by winding him tight, and in the process he would discover all her secrets and, more importantly, reinforce the idea that he would be coming home with her tonight.

Sure enough, her eyes darkened, she acquired a slyly knowing look, and her own hand fell on to his leg. He raised brows at her, waggling them. Her lips quirked secretively.

"And if I did?" she invited.

"But do you?"

"If I did," she said, emphasising the theoretical if, which he didn't believe for an instant, "why would I tell you about it?"

"Oh, I have no idea," Castle said casually. "It's not as if it would make any difference, is it?"

"You think?" Gotcha, Beckett. That had been distinctly offended – and challenging. "When you've spent the last half hour drooling at the prospect?"

"I do not drool," Castle said, even more offended than she had been. "I appreciate."

"With your tongue hanging out."

"I didn't hear you objecting to my tongue being out when it was" – he dropped his voice, not wishing to be evicted from the coach for offending those around him – "tasting every inch of you, teasing you, taking you higher... you taste amazing when you're hot and wet and desperate, and those legs of yours are" –

Beckett rammed her mouth against his and silenced his evil words with a brain bending kiss, being the only thing she could think of to keep him quiet. It suited Castle perfectly. When she let him go, with an irritated tug at his hair just to make her annoyance plain, he gazed out the window with a happy smile, designed to irritate her further. The one thing he didn't do, quite deliberately though with extreme difficulty, was pull her straight back into him and kiss hell out of her in return. He was quite sure she expected him to, so he didn't. With just a little more frustration, she would try to wind him up all over again.

Perfect.

Thank you to all readers and reviewers. Very much appreciated.