26: Death is nothing at all
Castle looks at his kitten kneeling in front of him and resists the temptation to pull her into his lap and turn her into a writhing, moaning mess that way: to use strong, clever fingers to take her to the edge and then keep her there for as long as he can stand before he takes her to the bedroom and simply possesses her. He's made her promises, all this long, frustrating day, and he will keep them.
"You forgot something," he says. "What did I tell you I wanted you to do, this morning, when we got here?"
Realisation dawns in her face, and she reaches behind her, finding the zipper of the dress and slipping it down; the singing of the metal echoing through the apartment, dropping the straps from her shoulders and letting the dress fall to her waist. The bra follows in one sinuous slither that slides it from her body and flutters the dress down to the floor.
"That's better. Just how I like you." He leans slowly a little forward, traces fingers over her full, damp lips, brings them back to the rosebud centre and pushes them inward, into the wet heat. She flicks her tongue across them, then twines it more erotically.
"You want to use that naughty mouth? Not that way. Not yet." He withdraws his fingers slowly, curves them around her face, encourages her to kneel up from sitting on her heels, and kisses her deeply. "I'll decide what your mouth gets." He kisses her again, firmly, trailing one hand down over her shoulder, slowly tracing her collarbones, down between her breasts. She tries to turn into his hand, but his other hand is at the base of her skull and holding her for his mouth and she gives in to the demand without a qualm.
It's all so easy. She wants this and she wants him and she needs him to give her what she needs.
Peace.
A peculiar kind of peace, she thinks, when she's naked and wet and later she'll be begging for release and screaming his name and wholly, utterly his, any way he wants, any way he tells her. It's her route to peace, though, a fucked-up peace for her fucked-up personality. A deeper peace than any other she might find, this side of the fall from the bridge.
His hand falls across her stomach, and she arches into it, not allowed to speak, to make a noise, to plead for him to give her what she wants. Further down, so near to where she needs the touch, winding her higher with the anticipation of the pleasure he can bring. She'd never known that her body could feel like this, not until one dark heated forbidden night six months earlier: had never regarded sex with any previous lover as more than a pleasant diversion that would leave her merely contented.
"When we were walking earlier," he stops and grins, suddenly mischievous, "which means, kitten, that we're walking out together," – the mischief drops away – "I knew, every step of the way, that you were waiting for me to take you to a private place and touch you. We'll walk out a lot, just like that. When we go dancing, though, it'll all be quite different. We'll both look good. You'll wear a dress, of course. The crimson silk one would be good, or the cherry one." It's not a suggestion. "Your necklace. You might wear the bracelets. Only I'll know that you're wearing them because I own you, and you're happy to be owned." Her eyes, dappled with shades of green and brown and flecked with desire, meet his.
"The evening starts with dinner. I might hold your hand, discreetly; stroke it. You'll know that if I slipped my hand under the table I could stroke your leg; slide my fingers over the smooth skin that the short side of that dress reveals; move a little higher, under the silk. You'd know where I was going, and you wouldn't stop me. You'll never try to stop me, because you want what I can give you." His voice is deep and arrogantly certain of his own power over her. If anyone had used that tone to her outside this scene, she'd have chopped them off at the neck, not the knees. But here and now, it flows down her nerves and pools between her legs and makes her squirm against his hand. He lifts it from her stomach and sets it high on her thigh, fingertips curving inward to the satin smoothness. "Just like this." His fingertips move slowly, aligned with his words. "You'd open for me." She does. "I'd give you a little more, move a little higher, take you up. Just before anyone could realise, I'd run my hand across you" – his fingers move swiftly – "flicker into you" – he slides one partway home, and she bites her lip not to make a sound over her fast, shallow breathing – "and leave you needy." He withdraws his hand completely. "Just like this."
He looks her over, hot eyes and cool, commanding smile. "I wouldn't kiss you. Not in public. I wouldn't stroke your hand where anyone might see. Not until you're ready." He brings both hands gently round her face, all the force he could deploy restrained, held back. "But here, we're not in public, and I'll kiss you whenever I please." He leans in, and she sits back on her heels, an arm dropping around her back to hold her, the other hand moving back to knot in her hair and tilt her face upward. There's only an inch between their lips. Castle lifts her back up to meet his mouth and take hers completely, possessive and passionate and predatory, never letting her out of his grip as he raises her to settle her on to his lap. His tongue explores, demands, and finally conquers, swallowing little almost-noises, feeling her arch in and rub against him, as boneless and as feline as he'd wanted.
"And then we'd finish our dinner, sip our wine, and drink our coffee. And you'd know and I'd know that you were totally naked under the dress; and you'd know and I'd know that it's because I told you to be; and you'd know and I'd know that when we dance there will be nothing but the thin, blood-red silk between my hand and your skin. You'd know, and I'd know, that when we went home the necklace and bracelet would become collar and cuffs, ready to hold you in whatever position I chose; just like my arms will hold you in position when we dance."
He puts her back on her knees on the floor, and brings his hands back to her face to keep her looking straight at him. "When we're waltzing, I'll lead. I'll be in the driver's seat." She smiles back, complete contentment shading the lust in her face and eyes. "You'll be wrapped against me, my hand on your waist, yours on my shoulder, leaning into me, your head tucked in, trusting me to steer you safely. Tight against me, and we'll both know that it's only the precursor, we'll both know how much I want you, we'll both know how much you want me; we'll both know that after the evening we'll come back here and you'll be mine."
It almost sounds romantic, in their messed-up version of romance. It would certainly seem so to the outside world. Just an ordinary couple, having dinner and dancing like they're in love.
"But before we can go waltzing, I need to know that you're properly trained. It wouldn't do for you to become over-excited." He reaches back into the bag, brings out the bracelet-cuffs. "Hands," he orders, and when she stretches them to him puts the cuffs on her wrists, brings out the short length of chain and imprisons her hands behind her back, close together. "Now you can't touch yourself," he points out. "No matter how much you want to." His lazy smile turns feral. "You will want to. Oh yes." And back to the lazy, sleepy, sexy smile, totally confident.
The restraint sends liquid pooling to her core, heat surging through her. When Castle reaches for her again, slowly stroking her face, leashed power in his fingers moving oh-so-slowly downward over her neck and then, this time as he hadn't the last, sliding over the top of her breasts, her nipples proud before he's gone any nearer them, her skin prickling with need: with her hands bound she can't reach to try to move his hands to where she wants them. He plays for a while, stroking and moulding, soft pressure and gentle rolling, occasional pinches: every movement and touch controlled.
"Remember, kitten, no noise and no coming. I know what this does for you. You showed me, this morning." She had, and even just his hands on her are leaving her helpless as he plays her body. If he uses his mouth she'll be lost no matter how hard she tries to obey. She tries to stay quiet, but that doesn't stop her moving, twisting under his talented, wicked touch and pushing into him for more: her mouth silent and her body begging. Sensation is flooding through her.
He stops, only just before it's too much, waits while she drops back just a little, hands unmoving around her ribs, kisses her softly in reward. "Good girl. That's better." Then he begins again. Much sooner, she's back on the edge, balanced there; much sooner, she's trying frantically to stay quiet. The heat at her core scalds her, and thinking is long gone except to keep herself from orgasm. When he pulls her higher and puts his mouth to her breasts: licks and rolls her with his tongue, and then sucks to send her inner muscles fluttering around nothing, she abandons silence and pleads: no more, please. He stops, gives her a moment to come down a little.
"You're not being quiet. Naughty kitten. Strike one. Try again." And he carries on. At the first muffled moan he stops. "Two strikes," he says, ominously, and waits a little. This time the pause barely helps at all. "Do you like being on the edge, kitten?" She shakes her head. "I don't think you're telling me the truth," he replies conversationally. "You seem to like this a lot." He traces one fingertip swiftly and lightly between her legs. "You definitely like it. You're soaked, kitten. Hot and wet and desperate for me to let you come."
She looks at him, eyes huge and mouth a little open, a little glistening, and he paints her lip with her own dampness. She flicks his fingertip with her tongue, wholly provocative and so into this she can barely believe it of herself, and makes Castle suck in breath and sway towards her, momentarily out of control himself.
"Is there something you want?" He slips the same finger back into the slick heat, leaves it there, unmoving, and she squirms and tries – and fails – to bring it somewhere a little more useful. "I know what you would like," he rasps, still not fully returned to his previous calm. "You want your mouth filled." He slides three fingers into her mouth, and she licks lewdly over them, holding his gaze with the promise that she'll do anything he wants. "And I want to fill your mouth." His fingers slide gently in and out, a forerunner. "The only problem is" – he pauses – "that you're two strikes down and you don't deserve a treat." She bites back a mew before it can escape. "So we're going to play a game."
A game? That's… not, actually, a surprise. There have always been games, and they've always been rigged. Her eyes flit away, and jerk back. "A chance for you to wipe the slate clean." She's sure there's a catch. She's never won, once he's begun a game. The smooth links of the chain – or leash – trailing down her back tap softly as she wriggles. "The loser is whoever comes first." He grins. "That could be misunderstood. Whoever orgasms first." There might be less sexuality in a full-on orgy than is dripping from his words. And, slowly, light dawns. Ah. That's the catch. She's so wound up already that she's practically there, and if her teeth weren't in her lip she'd be whimpering and begging.
"If I win" – his expression is wolfish – "I do up that pretty chain and do whatever takes my fancy." The comment hits straight between her legs and leaves her right back on the edge, squirming at the memory of how it had felt. "If you win, we wipe out all your disobedience and you choose what we do afterwards." It's very clear from his face that he doesn't expect her to win. She's fairly clear that the expression on hers is that she doesn't expect to win either. She's not even sure she wants to.
"But we should make it a fair competition." He reaches round and undoes her hands. "There. No rules, no restrictions. You don't have to be quiet."
She's not at all sure she likes or wants this change. The whole point of this is that she doesn't have to make any choices or decisions. She had thought he liked that too. Why's he suddenly changing the game on her? What if he wants something different, and she can't do this right? What if it simply leads to another stale, flat encounter, neither of them satisfied; to another failure? She's starting to back right off her over-sensitised edge, and right out of the scene.
Castle picks up on the sudden tension and drop in sexual temperature almost at once. Something's spooked her, and while she's not exactly Beckett, she's certainly not fully his kitten and she's an awful lot closer to the scared uncertainty of a day or two earlier when he'd made her talk about everything. He takes the line of least resistance and most pleasure and lifts her up into his lap without waiting for her to say anything. They'd still be here in the same position come Christmas-tide if he waited for that.
He cuddles her in and strokes her soothingly and doesn't do anything else. Yet. He is thoroughly uncomfortable, and he had had several ideas for solving his discomfort. He had rather expected her to take up the – he had thought – fairly obvious invitation to use her mouth on him, while he indulged himself in playing with her. He was perfectly certain she wouldn't win the game, right up till thirty seconds ago. She was far too wound up. He had intended to send her shattering and screaming over the edge, and himself follow, then snuggle her into him, and then play some very enjoyable games with her in just the way that they've both liked.
And now she's quiet and spooked and she might be naked in his lap but it's all going in the wrong direction. Well, he knows how to cure that. Take the direction away from her. She's so totally different in the bedroom and – oh. How stupid of him. She doesn't want to have control or make choices or be in a position where she might fail: she wants to be completely submissive and never make a decision at all: the furthest she's gone is some mischievous suggestiveness. And he's just told her that if she wins she'll have to choose.
"I've changed my mind," he says. "If you win, we wipe out all your naughtiness today and start again. But you don't get to choose what we do. I do." There's a noticeable relaxation. He draws a slow hand easily over her hip, intimation of the next stop. "You won't win, though. I don't think you even want to win. I think you want to be controlled, told what to do. You want to be tied up, and tied down: held in one place for me to take and play with. You want to be my kitten: obedient and submissive and mine." His voice drops deeper, rolling over her, dark and slow-moving as treacle, and pulling out her desires and darknesses in turn. "You might be naughty, because kittens are naughty and cats are independently-minded, but you know that I'll deal with it. You want me to. Naughtiness has consequences, and you'll enjoy them even as you beg me not to." He stops. His words have brought her back to where she ought to be, excited, aroused, and back in the scene.
"So let's go back to the game, kitten." He strokes delicately over her breasts and down, slowly, letting her anticipate his touch; kisses equally delicately at her neck where the vein pulses frenetically; ends by taking her mouth inexorably and tracing firmly downward with his fingers as they slip into the wet heat between her legs. She writhes in his arms, lost in his words – they aren't even particularly elegant words: he hasn't managed elegant words with her for three weeks – and rapidly heating up to flashpoint. He'd never intended that she might win, but her insecurity at the thought of making sexual choices has left him determined that she won't. Even if he has to cheat to ensure it.
She's moving against him, seeking his touch, and he slides and rubs and brings her up higher; not reminding her yet that this is a game for the two of them to play, keeps her mouth under his lips and her body under his hand until there is no question but that she's desperate and almost there.
"Now for the game, kitten. Whoever comes first, loses. I already know what I'll do when I win." He's deliberately arrogant, confident: because surely even his bedroom-submissive kitten is not so entirely un-Beckett that she's completely uncompetitive. He's right. There's an indignant mew-squeak – if he'd used that I'm-gonna-win tone in the precinct he'd be mourning the loss of his left earlobe, or possibly his life, not listening to sexy-cute noises – and then a deeper breath.
"When you win?" Mostly, it's softly questioning and breathy. Under it, though, there's a hint of disbelief, a soupcon of competitiveness.
"When I win." He slides the chain gently back and forth across her back. The breath slides through a half-gasp to an almost-moan. The sound is so seductive it takes him a moment to realise that his shirt is now open and his kitten is employing her claws on his chest, very delicately, and scraping them downward, followed by her wicked, wicked mouth on his pecs and nipples and her fingers opening his pants and she's sliding out of his reach and back on to her knees. He needs to get back in control of this, fast.
How fortunate that he knows exactly how to.
Thank you to all readers and reviewers.