"Do it holding hands if you've got the notion."
She laces her fingers through his, the air crisp and beautiful as they walk, and she ignores the way his step falters.
She knows his eyes are trained on her now and she ignores that too. Tugging him along after her.
"Get moving, Castle." She teases, tugging again.
She's only holding his hand, jeeze.
Then she realizes...she's never done that before.
Their fingers glide, slick with sweat. In and out of the recesses and curves of the other.
They cling.
They adhere to one another, tight, so very tight. They cherish.
Exhaustion and exhilaration breaking between the beats of their hearts, they drag each other closer to the edge of a triumphant fall, a plummet too powerful to resist.
Palm to palm their fingers curl, each finger divided by the other. They touch everywhere, are joined everywhere and, fingers squeezed tight, they surge forwards.
Together.
He's holding her hand under the desk.
Every single person she works with seems to have appeared from nowhere to traipse the corridors and roam the room.
Her desk suddenly the hub of all activity as they stop by to drop off folders, borrow pens and staplers, highlighters everything imaginable, and he's holding her hand underneath it all.
He squeezes to let her know he's fully aware they are in a rather precarious situation, all his fault, but at this point yanking his hand out from it's happy place, curled around her thigh, is going to draw more attention than just leaving it where it is.
And she seems to be in agreement because her fingers aren't holding his in a death grip anymore.
That doesn't mean he's not going to take full advantage though. Because right now she's just a little trapped and her hands, her beautiful, soft, delicate, strong and sensual hands, are literally his for the taking.
His fingers dance in slow circles over the back of her knuckles, the tip of his middle finger leaving a blazing trail down the length of her little one.
She really wants to look up, her cheeks pink with the effort of holding in the moan of bliss, because since the moment he touched her, so warm and tender as he slid his hand across her knee and pressed his fingers between her own, all she has been able to think about is the spread of his hands across her naked body.
His hands.
The way he widens his grip to pull her closer, the way he curls just right, touching her how she likes, how she needs. The way he wraps them in her hair and tugs or twirls the strands between each digit.
She feels slender, dainty and womanly when she's wrapped in his embrace, however small the amount of skin in contact, he makes her feel adored. He makes her feel powerful and bold, loved and worshipped.
Right now he's doing all of those things with four fingers and a thumb, the heat of his palm and the love in his heart.
He astounds her, and she clings not wanting to let go, not caring where they are.
He's holding her hand under the desk and she likes it. In fact, she lifts her eyes finally giving in and smiling at him, she loves it.
Her hands are in his hair when she cries his name into the mist and steam of his shower.
Clinging to fistfuls of dark silk for dear life, her eyes wide with intensity and the shudder still rolling through her. It escapes through the tips of her fingers into him, she can feel it as she caresses his ears in time to the rocking motion of their bodies, pulling water droplets away from his skin.
She circles his eyes, thumbs the darkness of his lashes. She touches his mouth, his jaw, his throat. Her hands map his face a million times, never satisfied, never needing less, always craving just a little bit more, a bit more time to touch, a little longer to know him.
His hands glide over the wetness of her skin under the heated spray.
It's divine. It's inspiring and it spurs her on.
The tips of her fingers slide over the bridge of his nose in awe, her lips parting on each panted sigh, touching at the smudge of love and exertion that stains his cheeks. His eyebrows, the furrows in the center of his forehead and the crinkles at the corners of his wide open eyes.
She cradles his face in the palm of her hands, devoted in her connection, fierce in her need, and she pulls him back for another kiss.
She pushes the cup into his hand, holds it, waiting and hoping.
She won't move and when his fingers don't immediately curl around the offered warmth the spark of fear that has been burning in her chest starts to ignite.
It sets light to doubt, smoldering with panic and what if.
She's an idiot. "I'm sorry." She whispers and the words singe her throat as they leave her body, the truth in them leaking from her eyes.
He takes the cup before the first tear falls and he grabs her by the shoulders, tugging her into his chest.
She thinks he says it back but it doesn't matter.
His hands are in her hair, lifting her face and the warmth of his fingers as they wipe away her tears is more than enough.
Her thumb drags a long line of chocolate across his bottom lip and if the idea of kissing his mouth, licking at his plump pout, wasn't delicious enough, she's just gone and made him damn near irresistible.
He catches her wrist as she retreats, his hot wet tongue darting out to provoke her pulse, making it stutter an unsteady beat against the pulsating muscle and waiting haven of his mouth.
Sinful seduction laced through his lips when he brushes them over her.
The tips of his fingers soothe soft slow circles on her elbow as his other hand cradles her palm and pulls it to his mouth. He kisses her pulse again making the beat come to life. He mouths the flat centre of her hand, bites at the meaty flesh just below her thumb making her groan.
He catches her eye, making sure she's glued to nothing but the movement of his tongue before he parts his lips and draws her thumb between them.
He sucks the trace of chocolate from her skin, laving and lapping at the pad in a rising sensual rhythm that she feels everywhere, thrumming through her body.
She pulls her hands away when she can take no more, palms flat to the naked wall of his chest, she drives him backwards into his fridge and pins him there as her fingers roam.
There is a thundering splash when her car hits the water.
Her nails rip, shreds of skin and blood as she clings to the metal desperately. She calls his name when her grip starts to slacken, she cries that she loves him when something creaks and she drops another few inches, when she hears the splintering crack.
Then warm fingers are unfurling around her wrist and she feels something snap out of place in her arm with the vice like force of it.
He grabs her hand, fingers bruising.
Their eyes meet and she can feel relief amongst the fear and panic, but it's the touch of his fingers that ground her the most.
It hurts, it's painless, it's agony and ecstasy at the same time.
His frantic grip and the way he chants her name over and over again make her believe he won't let her fall.
But it's his fingers...
They dig and bite into the soft flesh of her palm, his nails slice her skin with the force of his hold. His desperation and need.
He crushes her joints, fingers knotting in pain as cramp ripples through her muscles, too tight, he holds her too tight.
She clings to him even tighter.
She hears something crunch, knows it's her fingers snapping, maybe the bones in her wrist again, and a surge of pain like intense fire, like scalding liquid to her flesh, ripples out, waves of agony that rip their way through her veins.
But he doesn't let go.
She screams, muffles it by biting her lip and she hears him curse. A string of angry painful words that sound too foreign to spill from his gentle lips.
He's breaking her wrist and she loves him for it, his grip is piercing and raw, harsh and tight, and every second she dangles his fingers dig in more firmly.
He refuses to let her go.
Her knuckles burn when he pulls her just a little higher, a little closer to safety. She hears her elbow pop out of joint as he hoists her up higher, drags her back onto the bridge with him.
He catches her when she stumbles, holds her as she quakes, he cradles her injured arm when she turns deathly white with the pain of it all.
He keeps her safe. In the circle of his arms, with the heavy weight of his fingers, he keeps her safe.
She cradles his head in her lap, her hand across his forehead, soothing away the fever that rages through him.
She lifts the cloth from the bowl at her side and wrings it out, lets some of the water splash over her skin before she slips one underneath him, palming the back of his neck.
With the other she drapes the cloth back over his face, circling his cheeks before letting it rest just underneath his hairline.
He sighs, restless in his fevered sleep and her hand thuds into her breastbone.
She has to fight to hold in the gasp as the love there, trapped in her chest, cascading out so violently, like fireworks exploding under her skin. She tries to muffle the beat of her heart, stem the flow, watching him croak out a cough and turn into her body, before she sees how very unnecessary that is anymore and she clutches at her own chest and just...lets it all go.
She wants him, has him, likes, loves and loathes him.
One hand over his heart, mirroring her own, she feels their echoing beats.
In sickness and in health, she wants it all.
He catches hold of her hand, drags her fingers to his mouth and sucks off the ketchup.
She hears his daughter groan and feels the blood flood her face.
Remy's of all places.
She turns towards him, smiles sweetly, and punches him in the shoulder.
His daughter laughs, he grumbles but she smiles and under the table her hand wraps around his thigh, high enough to make him flinch with desire and surprise.
Squeezing, she lets him know, she'll make it up to him later.
He curves her hand around his arm, angling her wrist into the light where everyone can see, and she laughs brushing her thumb across his knuckles.
She can feel the gentle shake of his body at her side letting her know he's nervous.
She laughs again, her head on his shoulder, because it's so silly that he's nervous. The hard part is already over surely.
She said yes.
Now they just have to tell everyone else.
She flexes her fingers, the single solitaire catching the flash of cameras, and the eyes of their friends, she hears a squeal, feels the fingers at her hip tighten.
She turns in his arms, her hand landing squarely on his jaw before she lifts onto the tips of her toes and kisses him.
The hand on his face is visible to the cameras as they flash, light reflecting from her ring, but their other hands, the ones hidden away from prying eyes, connect at his side.
And it's so very much like the first time she took his hand, the first time he laced their palms together, their first 'handshake' kiss, that they don't share it with the rest of the world.
They keep it to themselves, their lips pressing promises to each other, leaving whispers across skin peppered with kisses.
This is me, holding your hand, forever.