100 Sex Positions of the Kama Sutra
By Dana Keylits
Chapter Fourteen: The Curled Angel
A/N: Make sure to brush your teeth after this one, it's full of sugar. Sorry, but I was in a sentimental mood. :-) Thanks to Kristy and all of my Twitter peeps who keep me going. You guys are awesome!
She awoke with a start, the remnants of a disturbing dream still teasing the faded edges of her mind, taunting her, reminding her that she was, and always would be, a motherless daughter.
The grief that had become such an integrated part of who she was, of who she had been since she was nineteen years old, was something she hadn't necessarily minded carrying around. It was her duty, her responsibility as her mother's daughter to bear it, accept it, honor it.
But on nights like tonight when she'd had to inform yet another daughter that she was now motherless, it haunted her thoughts, her heart, and she desperately wished she could give it back; abdicate any responsibility for it, plead and bargain and cajole with whatever power in the universe that would allow her to blink her eyes and transport her into a reality where her mother had never been killed, her father had never spiraled into alcoholism, and she had never spent so many years of her life running away from the awesome ability to love with fear, to live with abandon.
They'd identified Jane Doe number three, a mother of two, and in so doing had broken the case wide open. But they'd also broken the hearts of the victim's two college age children. And, while Kate was good at that part, talking to the families of victims, breaking the horrible news to them with a compassion and understanding that can only come from one who's been on that end of the story, it always tugged at her a little, took a piece out of her, and it usually took a day or two for her to recover from it.
Today had proven to be no different, and Castle had been so good about it, knowing what it did to her, how it consumed her. So, he'd taken her back to his place, made her dinner and then afterwards had set her up in front of the TV with an episode of Nebula-9 and a mug of steaming homemade cocoa. He'd even skipped his usual snide remarks about her favorite Sci-Fi show, even though she could tell it was a struggle for him.
And, she loved him for it.
He'd taken care of the dishes, packing up and putting away the leftovers so when Alexis came to do laundry, she'd have something to eat, he even wrote her name on a slip of paper and attached it to the plastic containers.
And, while she sat curled like an indolent cat in the overstuffed chair, a hand knit throw draped over her knees, the cocoa sliding down her throat, spreading it's warmth across her chest and down her belly, she watched her show as if she were seeing it for the first time, as only a true fan could.
Castle settled himself in front of the computer and, like a puppeteer with his marionette, breathed life into Nikki Heat and Jameson Rooke; he was trying to figure out a way to salvage the love scene he'd already written.
She could tell that he'd wanted her nearby, but that he also wanted to respect her need for space as she tried to unwind from the case; something that had often been a solitary activity for her. She loved that he knew that about her. Loved that she didn't have to ask for it, or tell him, or feel guilty about it. He just knew.
And now, as the moonlight flooded in through the window like a spotlight on a darkened stage - her heart pounding in her chest as she looked at him, his face all scrunched up against the pillow, his breathing deep, heavy, measured, his eyes darting back and forth beneath their lids - she instantly felt better, more settled, calm. And the dream faded, retreating into the dusty corners of her mind.
She lay back down, facing him, her knees curled up, her body in the fetal position. He looked so good, so cute, so angelic, which was both wrong and ironic, and she smiled at him.
She reached out, bridging the space between them, and with one tentative finger swiped at an errant lock of hair that had fallen onto his forehead, whispering, "I love you, Richard Castle."
He stirred, and she froze. She didn't want to wake him. So, she pulled her hand back and rolled over, her back to his front. Tucking both hands beneath her pillow and closing her eyes, she tried to will herself to sleep.
But no sooner had her eyes fluttered shut than she felt him, heard his breathing change, felt the mattress dip behind her as he shifted position, and then felt his hand gently slide up her bare thigh, tripping on the hem of her shorts, roaming over her hips, the dip of her waist, his fingertips just barely brushing the side of her cheek before gently, slowly, moving her chestnut hair away from her neck.
She held her breath. Waiting, knowing, wanting, and then his lips were on her, a feather touch on the nape of her neck, soft and temperate, tenderly tripping along her skin, his breath warm on her cool flesh.
He spoke not a word, not a single syllable, but his mouth, his lips and tongue and teeth, sang a reprise as he traveled her jawline, her neck, her shoulder, and she pressed her body back and against him, a familiar, and welcome, stirring emerging from between her legs.
And, from between his.
She moaned as his lips pressed upon her shoulder, his teeth gently nipping at her skin, suddenly inflaming her, the hot tip of his tongue inflaming her even more as it left a wet trail along the column of her throat. She turned, her mouth meeting his in a deep, longing kiss.
She whimpered, his hand had inched its way below her t-shirt, exploring the warm flesh of her pale stomach, flattening, kneading, his palm molding itself over one breast. She was amazed by how quickly her body had shifted, responded - just the sound of his breath against her ear, his hardened arousal pushing against her back, his fingers as they pinched her nipple, elongating it, coaxing it - had transcended her pain, her grief, her fears, as if he was the balm, the salve that would heal her.
Her body had become a writhing erotic playground and he knew just what to do to send her spiraling into nirvana. He had a unique ability to transcend the mechanics of his body, of hers, so that they could thoroughly enjoy the rich textures of each other. They both knew, and this was what made them such compatible lovers, that sex had to be mixed with emotion, hunger, desire, lust, whims, impulses, and the deepness of their relationship, their feelings and love for each other, in order for it to be transformative.
Which, it always was with him.
Every. Single. Time.
She moaned again, her lips a gentle press against his stubbly chin, her hand covering his as it molded and kneaded the soft rise of flesh at her breast; the throbbing between her legs becoming almost painful.
"Kate," he whispered. "Do you...?"
She searched his eyes, loving him for seeking permission, tonight of all nights, when he knew she was still recovering from the heart-wrenching duties of her job, knew that when she was like this she usually just wanted to be left alone, and she smiled, her fingers scraping the stubble of his chin. "Yes, Castle. I want you."
She used her tongue to part his lips, slipping into the warm cavern of his mouth, meeting his, dancing, weaving. He tasted like vanilla and coffee, and she moaned a third time, rocking her hips backwards against his firm erection and then hooking her fingers over the hem of her shorts, the waistband of her underwear, and tugging them down. He helped her as she lifted her hip off the bed, and he slipped the garments down her legs, the cotton fabric tickling the bottom of her feet as he liberated them from her body, tossing them to the floor.
He quickly wiggled out of his boxers and t-shirt, and when she turned to lay on her back, he stopped her, murmuring into her ear that he wanted her to stay where she was. "Bring your knees, up, Kate," he instructed, his voice a hoarse whisper.
He molded his front to her back, like spoons in a drawer, and slowly, excruciatingly slowly, loped his hand up the length of her body, following the gentle curves and harsh lines of her folded legs, the slope of her hip, her waist, the ladder of her ribcage, massaging her breast, his fingertips a feather on her throat, her chin, her lips, and she took his finger into her mouth, sucking and teasing it, nipping at its tip as he extracted it and then used its wetness to tease her areola, rewarded by her nipple's immediate rise and transformation into the delicious shape of a gumdrop. He leaned over and took it into his mouth, sucking and licking, the taste of her salty flesh coursing his tongue, and he moaned as she raked her fingers through his hair, leaving a Zen-garden-like path of parallel lines in their wake.
He massaged the soft rise of her ass, dipping his fingers between her legs, feeling her wetness, her wanting. He positioned himself so he could slip inside of her, she lifted her leg slightly, giving him access, and without words, without breath or thought or sound, he entered her.
Even with his body curled around hers, draping her with his warmth, the hardness of muscle, the soft pouch at his abdomen, she felt vulnerable and open, but completely safe at the same time. She took his hand and placed it at her breast, covering it with her own as he squeezed and flexed against her. She closed her eyes, savoring the full feeling of him as he slowly moved in and out of her. This feeling of being seduced from behind, of feeling the tickle of his chest hair against her back, his pubic hair against her ass, it was exhilarating and new, and her flesh was a sea of goose-bumps as she closed her eyes, losing herself in his touch and breath, the rise of him inside of her.
"I love you, Kate," he whispered against her ear. "I love you so much, I love you so much." It was a litany, a prayer, a sacred song and she felt tears build up behind her tired eyelids as she struggled to reply. What came out was a tangled mess of garbled words and choked sobs, but he knew what she'd meant, and so he said it again, he said it for her. "I love you so much."
And, he slowly, languidly, moved in and out of her, taking his time, his body nestled against her, his flesh cemented to hers, only his pelvis having intermittent contact. And with each thrust of him against her, he whispered into her ear over and over, I love you, I love you, I love you.
And, it was almost unbearable.
But his words were like an ointment on a hardened painful scab, and she felt it loosening, healing, peeling off to reveal the renewed and tender healing flesh beneath, pink and new and sensitive to his touch.
Almost too sensitive, and she worried she might break apart into a million jagged pieces as the familiar waves of pleasure radiated from between her legs, rising throughout her body, coursing through her veins, and she couldn't help the tears that rolled down her cheeks as he expertly coaxed the orgasm from her, using his fingers against her clit as he increased his pace inside of her.
She felt herself rise and peal, like church bells on Sunday, spiraling upward, outward, shining and coasting as the excruciating shards of the orgasm splintered throughout her. She cried out, his name coasting past her tongue, filling the quiet spaces around them, and he continued his litany...I love you, I love you, I love you.
She wanted him to stop, her heart was swollen and bursting and she didn't know how much she could bear, but she couldn't ask, wouldn't ask. Because she loved him, she loved him, too. And being with him meant accepting him, accepting this gift of him, his love, his devotion, what had always been there, had been there from the beginning, but she'd been too afraid, to hard, to stubborn to see. And so, she listened to him as he chanted in her ear, she listened, and she loved him.
She loved him so much.
He moved faster against her, his body growing rigid, his grasp around her waist tighter and harder, and she knew he was close, very, very close.
And, she finally found her words.
"Castle. I love you, I love you, I love you so much," she offered, her voice hoarse, raspy, whispered, but echoing around them, lingering above them like a talisman against the darker agents of the world.
And then he came, thrusting into her, emptying himself, her name bouncing from the walls as he cried out. She gripped him with pliant inner muscles, urging every bit of pleasure from him, cajoling, pleading, teasing him until he couldn't bear it any longer and then he gently pulled out of her, a whimper ghosting his lips.
She could feel him behind her, soft and warm, wet from being inside of her, and She turned around, stretching her legs straight in front of her, pulling off the t-shirt that was still inexplicably bunched up around her neck (how had she kept it on this whole time?), before rolling onto her other side and then climbing on top of him. She lay her ear over his heart, listening to it pound beneath her, her hair fanned out across the broad expanse of his bare chest. She curled her toes around his feet, wanting to drape herself as completely over him as she possibly could.
He wrapped his arms around her, kissed the top of her head, and scratched lazy circle-eights against the warm, soft skin of her back, his fingers strumming up and down the spindles of her spine. An I love you tumbled from his lips as he took a deep breath and closed his eyes.
"I love you, too."
He smiled, the corners of his eyes crinkled and shining. He gathered the sheet between his toes and inched it up their bodies until he could reach it with his hands, and then covered them, returning his arms to tightly hold her as she lay on top of him.
She mumbled, "Am I too heavy? Want me to move?"
"You're a feather. You're an angel. I like you there. Stay," he whispered, kissing the top of her head again.
She settled in, feeling cocooned, safe, loved, healed. And tomorrow, she would go into work, refreshed, and she would do her job.
And, he would still be there. With her.
Loving her.
Kate lifted the warm mug to her lips and savored the long sip of hot coffee, the bitter flavor bursting over her tongue, the warmth sliding down her throat and spreading throughout her chest like a warm blanket. She tightened the sash of her bathrobe (the one she kept at his place now), and then opened the book to page fourteen.
She gasped.
"What?" Castle asked, looking up at her from his place at the dining room table. He was in his bathrobe, reading the morning newspaper.
She picked up the book from the kitchen counter and turned towards him, the volume heavy and open in her hands. "Did you know?"
"Know, what?"
She crossed to the dining room and set the book in front of him, "Did you know that was the position for yesterday?"
He shook his head, "I didn't have time to look, why?"
She pointed at the picture, "Look."
He looked, then he looked back up at her, a coy smile gracing his lips.
She was pointing at the title of position fourteen.
The Curled Angel.
"You seriously didn't know?" She asked suspiciously, her eyes narrowing.
He held up his hands as if under arrest, "No, I didn't."
She looked down at the picture again, scratching the tip of her nose. "Weird."
He chuckled. "Yeah."
She flipped the page, and gasped again staring at the photo of the backwards bending man. She looked up at him and laughed. "Did you see position fifteen?"
"Yes," he answered, looking wounded. "Why are you laughing?"
She covered her mouth, hiding a gentle smile, gently shaking her head back and forth, her curls bouncing against her shoulders. "Oh, no reason."
"You think I can't do it, don't you?"
She closed the book and picked up her mug, reaching for the Sports page, "I didn't say that."
"You do! You think I can't do it. Just say it."
"Castle. It's. It's a very bendy position!"
He gazed at her, slack-jawed, "I can do it, Beckett. Come on." He slammed the newspaper down and stood up. "Right now. Right here," he pointed at the floor. "Let's do it."
"Castle," Kate scolded.
"Beckett!" he scolded back.
She stared at him.
"Get on the floor!"