36: Slow poison
"You were out running, down in the dark, weren't you? Looking for trouble." He's growling into her ear as they ride the elevator to her floor, grit and gravel and the rough scrape of danger. "I told you, you don't go looking for trouble, you come looking for me. But you didn't, did you? Well, trouble's come looking for you." She sighs softly and curves against his arm.
"Am I in trouble?" she breathes, and lets the physical reaction to him simply…take her away.
"Oh, yes."
"Just like last time? Oh good," she purrs sleepily, and quite deliberately doesn't think about what she's doing, or what might have been. All she needs is a space of peace, to clear her head of stress. And right here, right now, all she has to do is let it happen. She scrapes sharp nails across his neck as they fall through the door. Gentleness is not wanted or required.
Inside the apartment Castle takes the hint, remembering last time, crashes down on Beckett's mouth in reply and takes it hard and rough, trapping her between his body and the wall, scraping his hands up the outer side of her quads and then ripping open her pants and shoving them off her slender hips, panties following till she's revealed to him and he can roll against her, grind in and make her gasp and whimper. His mouth moves round, nips almost-painfully at her neck; his tongue licks wetly under her ear and she mewls softly, arches and rubs.
"I don't need to put your collar on, now or later. You don't need it to know you're mine, do you?" She merely shakes her head, once, and slips into the dream.
Dextrous hands slide across her, his shirt off and belt undone. He steps back, holds her pinned there by one wide hand placed flat against her from stomach to sternum: looks her over with hot eyes and hard desire.
"Pretty," he grates, "and all mine." He undoes her bra and drops it together with the shirt to the floor, leaving her naked in front of him.
"You want it?" he growls. "You want it rough?" His fingers dart between her legs once she's nodded, push her open and one thick digit thrusts into her, out again, joined by a second one until she's squirming and moaning and he's still plundering her mouth while he takes her hard with his fingers: she's digging her nails into his shoulders to stay upright.
"What do you want? You like it like this?" He presses his thumb on to her and she screams agreement. "You want me to fuck you? Take you hard? Like I did before? Say what you want. Say it." He flips her round to have her face to the door and her back to him and grinds against her.
"Take me. Please. Fuck me." Because if he fucks her there's no chance that she'll mistake anything he does, anything she does, for anything more than sheer physical want. She's been stupid enough. Time to wise up.
Whatever she wants, he'll give her. And it seems she wants it rough. He hauls her hands up above her head, and her body back against his, pushing her into a slight lean forward, cupping her with his palm as his fingers thrust into her again. She moans and his hand drops over her mouth.
"You'll rouse the neighbours if you make any more noise here," he growls dangerously. "So I'll see that you can't." His hand clamps round her jaw, and he fucks her with his fingers till she's twisting against his body and screaming into his palm and spasms around him and comes.
"Now it's my turn," he grates in her ear, rolling on the condom. "Right here, just like you wanted," and he surges into her in one powerful movement, covers her mouth again, rolls her nipples and forces her up and through another shattering climax that brings him to culmination too.
It takes him a moment to recover, to swing her up into his arms and carry her to her bed, to tuck her in, strip himself and keep her close against him. She's soft and lax, sleepy, he thinks, and pets her; but she turns in his grasp and draws sharp nails across him once more, eyes fierce and body suddenly taut.
"Again," she begs. "Like before." And he does, regardless of his own preference to pet her softly, hard and fast and rough, and this time, after, she doesn't ask for more, simply slips into sleep beside him, still as death, leaving him to follow, his arm across her waist, his hand over her heart, tucking her in.
She wakes in the early hours, and untangles herself to take a shower. When she returns, wrapped in her plain, comfortable pyjamas, she doesn't cuddle into Castle, but curls herself round a pillow, as she would do if she were alone. In a while, it's damp at the top edge. She doesn't make a sound. Eventually, she falls back into sleep.
Castle doesn't wake till morning, and when he does takes a little time to understand why this doesn't smell or feel like his own bedroom. Realisation that he's at Beckett's apartment is swiftly followed by realisation that she is not in his arms. She is, in fact, wrapped tightly round a pillow, back to him, and wearing pyjamas. Very unflatteringly plain pyjamas.
He slips out of bed, whisks through a very necessary shower, pulls on boxers and goes to put the kettle on. While he's doing that, he notices the scattered remains of Beckett's clothes, and domestically picks them up. He hadn't been thinking about that last night – but now he has them in his hands, he notices that she's back to the plain cottons that he had thought she'd replaced with silk and lace – that he had supplemented with more silk and lace – except he never had a chance to bring them over. But it'll be okay now: more than okay. She's his and he's hers, and everything is just fine.
While he's waiting for the kettle, he returns to the bedroom and very quietly investigates Beckett's underwear drawer. It contains nothing but plain cotton. A little focused further investigation finds a pile of silk and lace on an out of the way shelf in her closet, behind a pile of soft t-shirts. Out of sight, out of mind? Hmmm. Beckett hasn't moved since he's woken, either, still tightly and defensively curled up. She is sleeping, however, and she obviously needs the rest. He thinks about slipping back in next to her, but he doesn't want to disturb her and he's not sure he can be beside her without pulling her back to him, away from her pillow, which would certainly waken her. So, with some considerable regret, he snags his shirt and pants, and returns to the main room for coffee.
Beckett wakes, alone, the other side of the bed cool. She doesn't rise from the bed, merely rolls over, still holding her pillow, till she's face down in the linens. Nothing to get up for, really, and she's still tired. She nestles in, surrounded by faint traces of Castle's aftershave on the sheets, and closes her eyes again. He's not there, and the last faint shred of hope that there might have been more to it than sex and want and need dies silently. His absence confirms her thoughts of last night. It's all about the physical, and the aftermath of soft contact was merely part of the game. No more than that. Nice, but meaningless. She drifts into a doze, and then to brief dreams.
Shortly the smell of coffee wakes her. She pads silently out and finds Castle lounging on her couch, a mug of coffee in front of him, and reading one of her books. He looks up, and a strange expression flicks across his face. It's almost – assessing, she thinks. Sizing her up. Well, she knows what he likes, and how to play, and it's not as if she needs to do anything other than listen and respond and stay in the dream.
"More coffee? I'm having one."
Castle smiles lazily at her. "Sure." He rises and prowls after her to the kitchenette. Once she's put the kettle back on, he slides arms round her and tugs gently till she's firmly tucked into him. "That's better, kitten." He nibbles softly on her ear and turns her round to be kissed, encountering no resistance. On the other hand, he isn't encountering much mischief or life either – but then, a pre-coffee kitten appears to be as sluggish as a pre-coffee Beckett. He ceases kissing as the kettle boils and lets her make her coffee, and then his.
"Come here," he entices, when it looks like she's aiming for a seat that isn't right next to him. He wants to pet her, a little, the way he hadn't last night and couldn't this morning. Obediently, she does, her coffee mug clasped tightly in her hands. She still seems tired, but when he drops an arm around her she wriggles a little to become comfortable and smiles, saying nothing. He assumes that she wants him to take the lead – that, after all, is how they roll – but the coffee limits his opportunities and when her drink is done she stands before he can stop her, sets the mugs by the sink, and stretches, yawning.
"I've got to go shopping," she says, making a face, "and I have to see my dad this afternoon. He'll probably want me to stay for dinner, too." He will. Just as soon as she tells him that she's coming over.
Castle makes a face of his own. That hadn't been the plan at all. Still, they can have a little fun first, without damage to Beckett's plans. Well, only a little damage to their timing. He prowls up to her again. "What sort of shopping? Last time you told me you had to go food shopping and it turned out that you'd bought pretty little scraps of silk and satin and lace." He smiles slowly, wholly in charge. "You didn't show me them. Why don't you show me now, and then I'll choose some for today, to make up for not seeing you later."
Why not? It's all a game, and she might as well play along. It's not as if she doesn't like what he can do with her. To her. Let it play itself out. It's the one thing that she hasn't completely failed at. Yet.
She lets him steer her into the bedroom, and aims for the pile she'd hidden at the back of the closet shelf, where she wouldn't have to look at the waste of money it represented. Maybe she'll get some use out of them after all.
Castle looks at the pile now on the bed and back at his kitten, who is still not particularly kittenish. She isn't very Beckett-ish either. He knows she'd enjoyed buying it, and he thinks she'd enjoyed wearing it – oh. And he just bets she'd put it all away because she thought he'd walked out on her. Oh well. That can easily be cured. He hadn't, and he isn't, and he won't.
"So much prettiness," he drawls. "So much nicer than your current apparel." He strokes the pyjamas, incidentally undoing a button on the shirt. He turns back to the closet. "Which dress were you going to wear?" She turns round and extracts, without apparently looking or thinking, a cream dress with a delicate green tracery pattern.
The closet has quite a number of dresses, as before, but this time he notices that very few of them are deeply coloured – and two of those he had bought her. All the rest are cream, or pastel, with undemanding patterns on them. Soft coloured dresses in a soft coloured room with soft coloured linens. It's all so very… bland. No. Not bland. Serene. The lingerie she's bought is the same. No definitive colours, no bright shades. Cream and ivory and white, pale blue, or pale green, or pale pink. Castle picks up the light green set, examines it closely, and is satisfied.
"These ones, kitten. Should I wash you, first?"
"Already showered." She starts to unbutton, but Castle forestalls her by catching both hands and holding them behind her back.
"I'll do that. Nothing but what I give you, pet." He slowly traces a long finger down into the vee of the top, resting it for a moment where her cleavage begins, and her eyes darken and she bites on her lip.
One button opened, to reveal the upper swell and curve of her firm breast. He strokes a little, and it rises as she draws in breath, her hands behind her back keeping her shoulders back, her chest out.
A second button, more of the curves beneath displayed, and he bends his head to drop a kiss in the vee between them. A tiny gasp ensues.
A third disc, and now it's clear that the curves are flushed and tipped with hard peaks. He places another precise kiss between them, and the gasp sounds louder in the quiet apartment.
The final fastening, to let the shirt fall open and expose her for him, and now he takes each erect nipple into his mouth in turn, his hair darker against her ivory skin: licks and sucks, and when he nips she moans and arches into his lips for more, harder; wanting the roughness from last night. He's in charge, he sets the pace and the game, and she obeys the rules. Not forgetting, never forgetting, that one new rule. No falling in love. It's only want, and wanton need. His and hers, respectively.
In that moment, she hates herself for needing this, this way, this much. She's ashamed of herself for needing it – him – at all, as she had been in the beginning. Then, instantly, she thinks of it as a dream, just the way she had dealt with her unwanted desire at first, just the way he'd told her the story. Just a dream, he'd said, nothing in a dream is ever real in the morning. Only a pleasurable dream. There can be no consequences: even were he to forget protection she has not. The implant is barely detectable. Some risks she will not take, and some situations – some criminals – involve risks she cannot avoid. Only a dream, she thinks, and lets his mouth drag her out of reality, losing herself in the swirling fog of the hot sensations and her body's wants.
When the shirt knots around her wrists she accepts it, when his hands close on her hips she welcomes it, when the pyjama pants fall to the floor and hard hands widen her stance she pleads for it to become more, to take her up and send her soaring and plunge her falling like Icarus, flying too close to the sun.
"Tell me what you want, kitten." She whimpers, his words gusting over her in warm breath only an inch from her heated, liquid centre: his palms hard against her hips, holding her still; unable to move; he's kneeling in front of her but he's wholly in control.
"Please. Take me. Any way you want."
"No, no. It doesn't work like that. You have to admit what you want. You have to tell me that you want me to own you: admit that you're my pet, my kitten, my sub. We both know that I'm your dom, your owner, and now I'm telling you to confess what you need." He leans in, and licks, just once, and listens to her cry out.
"Face down," she murmurs, finally, and then, a wash of soft colour over her face, "rough. I want it down and dirty. Please. Please just take me." The last words are rushed out. Just take her into the dream, where none of this will be real tomorrow. Just take her, so she doesn't remember that she'd hoped it might be more.
His hands tighten on her, without his conscious desire. The smooth possession in his voice doesn't alter by so much as a semi-tone. "I'll take you, kitten. Any way and every way I choose." He takes another leisurely, languorous lick across her, finishing with a wicked curl around each part of the tight knot of nerve endings. She tries to writhe, and tries to plead. Each time she attempts words, he licks again, each time, he shifts his hands upward until he attains her breasts and rubs the heel of his hand over her over-sensitised nipples as he rubs the tip of his tongue over her over-sensitised core.
All she can do is emit a stream of half-vocalised pleading and frantic, desperate noises and then he stops, sweeps everything off her bed and pushes her face down on to it, just as she'd asked, frees her hands and stretches them above her head, forcing her fingers around the spindles of the headboard.
"Keep them there," and he dons protection, opens her again, covers her and pushes hard home, takes her rough and dirty and just as she'd begged him to and face down she needn't see him, needn't remember that it's not some faceless dream, and screams her pleasure without any words at all into the sheet and mattress.
"You'll need another shower, kitten," Castle points out smugly, as he pets her lazily. "What a shame you got so dirty. I'll need to wash you clean before I put your pretty silk on. I wouldn't want you to mess it up by getting your panties all wet." His purr turns feral. "We'll save that for another time."
She doesn't want to argue. It's another part of a very pleasurable game, and if he wants to keep playing she'll stay on the field of dreams. So she lets him wash her, and dress her as he wishes, and all of it is simply a dream that won't be real as soon as the door shuts behind him.
As soon as the door shuts, none of this will ever have been real. Only a dream, nothing more to it. Only a game, that they both want and enjoy. Only a game, with nothing more sought or asked for or wanted or needed on either side: a dream that lets her deal each day with hard reality and lets her forget her manifold failures. It's a good game, a good dream, this.
The door clicks shut, and, still barefoot, Beckett pads silently back to her bedroom, strips her bed of linen and her floor of the scattered underwear, puts the latter in her drawer with the plain cotton – one kind for dreaming, one for reality – starts the bed linen washing and remakes the bed with clean, cream, unscented new sheets and covers. Nothing to remind her of what she's just done, of her dark, deep, addiction to his touch and his body. Nothing to remind her that she had thought… Nothing at all.
And then she falls face-first into her clean, fresh pillows and cries until she can't cry any more, weeping for the death of all her dreams.
Thank you to all readers and reviewers. All your thoughts are appreciated, and where possible answered.