Chapter 51: Use a little muscle to get what I need
An hour later, and most of a bottle of wine drunk, Beckett's gripping tension has not abated in the slightest and her temper is still burning as if it were ignited by rocket fuel. No theory proposed has yielded anything that might, however tenuously, be a whisper of a lead; none of the evidence leads to anything new. She's stalking round the apartment, twisting her glass in her hands, ripping everything to bloody shreds like a tiger on a deer, a lace of anger hemming every word. When she drains her glass and sharply sets it down, Castle rises from his seat, his own humming tension bleeding through the air, to prowl towards her. Dark currents begin to flow around her, as he approaches. When he reaches her, he speaks.
"Come here." She turns to find him right beside her.
"I want to work it out, Castle," she snaps.
"No. Not now." He pulls her in and kisses her hard; no need to bend down far to take her mouth tonight: she's close to his height with her heels still on. When he lifts off the anger in her eyes is at least half altered to arousal. "You've thought enough. Time to stop fighting the case, for a little while." His voice turns deeper, darker. "If you want to keep fighting, you'll have to fight me." He kisses her again, roughly, the way he knows she likes, exerting just enough force to hold her in, not enough to prevent her pulling away if that's her preference.
She doesn't. She pulls his head down, arches in, searches his mouth with her tongue for a weakness that will let her take the advantage; rolls against him and feels the instant response; the swift slide of his hands to nape of neck and small of back, to press her in; to use body and muscle and mouth and hands to make her, help her, forget the case for a short while, the only way she can. She pushes closer and brings her leg up so that she can rub over him, have him right where she needs him, trying to force him back to lean against the wall so she can take the friction she needs. She reaches for his shirt, and he stops her, catches her wrists and takes her hands behind her back.
"Uh-uh. You've been in charge all day. Aren't you tired of that now?" Dark heat flickers behind her eyes, and she leans in to collect his lips.
"No…" she breathes out. "You think you can be in charge, you have to take it." She needs to challenge, she needs the rough play that will force her to give in, give up, for the short time she has to take to reassert herself and close the case. She tugs her hands sharply, surprises him enough by doing so that they're freed, flicks his T-shirt up with the rat-a-tat staccato speed of machine gun fire before he pinions her again. "You're not doing too well with that idea, are you, Castle?" He growls gently into her ear, nips sharply on her earlobe, soothes it with soft lips, shifts his mouth to tease the spot on her neck that makes her wriggle and shiver so that he holds her motionless against him and carries on there, till she starts to breathe faster, shallower, flexes her arms and tries to free her hands from the tighter grip.
"Something you want, Beckett?" He starts to slide her own T-shirt up over her waist slowly, sketching tiny patterns across her skin. "Now who's not doing so well?" He takes the opportunity to finish pulling the T-shirt clear of her breasts and, leaving it there, starts on the fastenings of her pants, uses his free hand to push them down over her hips and puddle on the floor, leave her standing in heels and another set of fuck-me underwear which her T-shirt isn't covering. "You seem to be trapped, Detective. Looks like I'm in charge." This time when she snaps her wrists to try to free her hands nothing happens. The heat between her legs builds, and she steps into him, arches closer, glides her body over him with the boneless grace of a Siamese cat and Castle gasps and grinds into her in his turn.
"Something you want, Castle?" His own words, turned back on him. Oh, yes, something he wants. Fierce possessive need springs up in him and he shoves her T-shirt over her head and swiftly over her arms, leaving it on the floor and re-imprisoning her hands before she reacts.
"This is what I want. You." He wraps his free arm around her, leans in and very slowly bends her back over his arm just as he had previously, giving himself full access to her breasts in their thin silk covering, not needing to hold her hands now that she's positioned like this. But he has to check. Even now, even where she's invited it, even as part of the game. "What do you want, Beckett? Tell me. You can't have it if you don't ask."
"Kiss me, Castle." Even through her angry, spiking arousal, she recognises the need for her to agree overtly. "Touch me."
"Still wanting to be in charge?" He traces his tongue wetly over each soft mound, dampening the silk so it clings more closely to her skin, worries the fabric so it strokes across her and hardens her nipples, points them toward him. She gasps. "I don't think you get to be in charge." He plays a little, biting, teasing, winding her higher. Gasp shifts towards soft whimper. "I don't think you want to be." He's standing upright, looking down, when Beckett brings her shoulders and head up in a move a gymnast would envy and is suddenly standing.
"Says who, Castle?" His own T-shirt is whipped off, while he's still faintly wondering how many sit-ups and crunches it takes to be able to come back up like that, and quick fingers trace over his zip, pleased inchoate noises following when she skims the hard outline beneath. It's all it takes to ignite the tension and turn it all to frantic, desperate, arousal. All Castle's jealousy-fuelled lust takes over and all he wants, needs, to do is show her that she's his; that no glossy Fed is going to get in the way; that he's the only man she's going to need or want. Only him. He hauls Beckett tightly against him, takes her mouth ruthlessly and pulls one long leg up around him so she can roll in and can't mistake how he feels when he answers in kind. He slides one hand across her ass and through her legs to stroke over damp silk and heat, slipping under the fabric to tease through the slick flesh hard enough to make her hips jerk into his hand, cupping her till she grinds frantically against him and he slides harder, faster over the wet heat and pushes two wicked fingers into her, flicks his thumb over her and she shatters in his grasp.
He doesn't pause, simply picks Beckett up while she's still shuddering and carries her to the bed, pushes her on to it, presses her shoulders against the pillows, watches her eyes bleed into the dark green-black of grass at nightfall and takes her mouth once more, biting on her lip, dominating and heavy and sure.
She pulls him down over her, nails biting into his back, and he lets her, lets her strip him, lets her roll him over till she's above him and smiling triumphantly. "I think I'm in charge. Again."
He smiles up at her very lazily. "You like quotations, Beckett." She nods, slightly disconcerted by the total change of subject. "Here's one for you that you obviously don't know. Sun Tzu, The Art of War. 'Let your enemy defeat himself.'" He pulls her to him, rolls her on to her back without her being able to offer the slightest hindrance and lies over her, pinning her down. "Now I don't need to take my attention off you for any reason. How long do you think you can keep fighting to stay in charge if I'm paying full attention, Beckett?" His smile shifts to wickedly, darkly seductive and he moves slightly to one side, trails delicate fingers down across her stomach and over her so she squirms under his hand and then moves more as his lips follow. He knows what she wants, hard and fast and rough, again: any moment now she'll try to take control, take them there. But that's not the only way to defuse the Beckett bomb. He turns his concentration to the gentle laving of tongue, soft kisses, gentle strokes; until she moans softly and tries to move, and then he holds her still and works her harder; not yet providing what she wants. She attempts to take more, tries to pull him to her breasts, to bring his hard body against hers: she needs him deep inside her, filling her full enough to take away the memories. To make her forget the times before, and the man she found she couldn't trust. She doesn't think about why Castle might make her forget that man's betrayals.
"I'll set the pace, Beckett. Just stop fighting me, and let go." He smiles darkly against her thigh. "It'll be what you need." He nips over her hipbone, slips fingers over the silk she's still wearing, blows across it and watches her writhe, moves back up to undo her bra and remove it; licks and kisses and then sucks on the taut nipples revealed, listening to her moan, pressing hard weight against her through her panties. He slides them off, takes her hands in one of his to pin them above her head and settles between her legs, his bulk imprisoning her. She tries to rub against him, whimpers when she can't.
"More, Castle."
"No silk tonight, no handcuffs. Just me, Beckett; only me, holding you down, keeping you still, till I allow you to move. It's what you want, how you like it, how you need it," he murmurs, sinful knowledge spilling on to her.
He slides over her, hard and hot, teasing through the slick folds. "You don't give in, till you're made to. That's why you like this. You need someone who can make you give in. And that's me." He sees the argument already rising in her throat, and kisses her hard to cram it back down. "You never let go till the fight's over." He has a sudden blinding realisation. "If you win, you just move on, straight to the next battle. You do it every day. Your whole life is a fight. You can't let go. You don't walk away from the fight until you've won or you're ordered to or you've lost."
She shakes her head in protest. She doesn't want dissected, analysed, or so clearly understood. But then she sees the heat and lust (and something more, that she doesn't recognise) on Castle's face, above her.
"I'll give you what you need. You know I can. You can fight as hard as you like, as you need to, with me. Just like you do. But when the fighting's over I'll still be here. Just like now, I'll be on top and you'll feel very, very happy about that, Beckett." He moves slightly and halts, just at her entrance. "You want me to, don't you? You want to be taken." He moves again. "Say it, Beckett. You have to say it. You need to say it." And it's not clear to her whether she needs to say it because he insists and she needs him inside her right now and he won't if she doesn't say it, or because she needs to admit to herself that he's in control so that she can lose herself in the motion and the moment and not need to think about keeping herself safe or apart.
"Take me, Castle. Now." And in the hard thrust of his body into her she lets go and gives in, gives up control, and forgets all the betrayals before now in the muscle and the movement and release.
Afterwards, for the first time ever she curls into the crook of his arm and the warmth of his body before he can tuck her in, head on his chest, arm across him, soft and pliant and relaxed. He strokes softly over her back, holding her close, not, yet, trying to arouse her again, and the contented noise that she produces definitely, he thinks, qualifies as a purr. His. Pliant and purring and open and his.
Finally, she's come to him.
Beckett's alarm wakes her frighteningly early: her need to get back to the case pushing her onward, through her routine and out the door to the precinct. Castle had left, at her – explained - request, before she slept: she'd have preferred he stayed but that's a step too far; asking him to stay, that's a request, tonight, to take care of her that she won't make, can't make. And she'd slept just fine, without him, as well as she usually does in the middle of a difficult case. She'd only woken three times, in the five hours she's slept. (She carefully prevents herself remembering that when he'd stayed after the terrorist case, she'd slept right through without waking till morning.)
"Where's your Feebie friend, Beckett?" Espo's insinuating tone cuts through the fog of early bullpen chatter and Beckett's absorption in the detail of the case.
"Maybe he's gone for breakfast with Castle," Ryan grins. "I'm sure they're gonna be best pals in no time." He smirks.
"Yeah, they'll be trading baseball cards and phone numbers and sinking beers together all night." Beckett looks askance at both men.
"Jealous that your friend Castle might be hanging out with someone else? I'm sure you two could tag along. You can all bond over Ryan's tie collection." Espo sniggers. Ryan droops, wounded, like a sad basset hound.
Satisfied that she's squashed the boys from going after any difficult issues – at least where she might hear them and have to keep a poker face – Beckett re-absorbs herself in the case and the detail of the birth mother, who'll be in Interrogation by the time civilised people start their day. She reaches for another jolting dose of concentrated caffeine, her sleep-substitute of choice, and necessity. She's been here well over an hour already, and it's barely closing on eight.
Ryan wanders off to the break room for his second coffee of the morning, followed by Esposito. They were in just after half-past seven, as focused as Beckett on making this come out right.
"What's up with that Feeb anyway?" asks Ryan. "Apart from the stick up his ass. He looks at Beckett like she's…" He looks at the idea unrolling in his head with some horror. "He looks at her like she's a woman." Espo laughs derisively.
"Yeah, bro, that's 'cause she is a woman." Ryan shakes his head.
"Not like that. An' nobody in this bullpen looks at her like that. 'Cept Castle. Well, yes Sorenson looks at her like that, but somethin' else too. Like he don't have to pay as much attention to her because she's a woman." Espo first looks annoyed, then amused, then annoyed again.
"Don't see Beckett puttin' up with that for long. She sure didn't yesterday, did she?" He sniggers nastily. Espo's not that keen on Feebies to start with (though he tries not to call them Feebles where anyone might hear) and he hadn't taken to Sorenson at all. "Didya see his face when she said Castle was her partner? I've seen less green on a Packers linebacker. I think that Feebie's lookin' for more than just Beckett's cop brains." It's Ryan's turn to smirk nastily.
"Should be interesting. Castle's not gonna like that." Espo smirks in return. At which point the coffee's done and it's time to stop flapping jaws and get back to the detail.
The birth mother is no help. Her supposed petition for details of the child's adoptive parents was forged, and they let her go: their last lead the father. He's not happy to see them, tries to run, stopped by the combined presence of Ryan, Esposito and Castle. The boys take over; cuffing him.
Beckett forestalls Sorenson's attempt to join her with a sharp gesture and sharper words. He won't help here, and she doesn't want him near her. She has no confidence at all in his ability to stay second to her (he hadn't done before, and he hadn't done yesterday) but though he clearly hates the direct order that she takes no trouble at all to disguise, for once he does it. She breathes a hidden sigh of relief and goes to do what she does best, alpha interrogation, from the hard clack of her heels to her poise and posture, standing tall and radiating confidence. But this man doesn't need intimidated, he needs cajolement. She can do that too, it's just a little tweak to the confidence, a tiny softening of her voice, a tiny bend towards him and the understanding glistening in her eyes.
Castle, half-watching Beckett work the suspect, half-aware of Sorenson's predatory gaze toward her, consciously pulls on his superstar status and an air of smug, superior satisfaction with life, and oozes up to him. He just stands there, annoyingly silent and arrogant, letting the attitude fill the air around him, and waits for it to have its inevitable effect on the Fed. It doesn't take much time for Sorenson to open the next front in the hostilities.
"You're jealous. That I hooked her." Well, Castle would definitely prefer that there wasn't a history between them, but he's hardly a blushing virgin, so he's certainly not in a position to – nor will he – object to Beckett's past. Especially as the preferences her past has left her with so exactly match his own. A sudden memory of Beckett and silk scarves adds an extra edge to his next words.
"What's there to be jealous of? You couldn't reel her in." He follows up with an entirely wolfish smile: Casanova Castle, I've-had-more-women-than-you've-jerked-off heavily dosed with she-won't-resist-me-no-woman-does. No. Not more than she usually does, anyway. Sorenson's expression turns ugly as he takes the meaning Castle intends, and as soon as Beckett's finished with the suspect – leaving Ryan and Espo to bring him in – Sorenson's off. Castle prowls after Beckett to her cruiser, smirking, and making sure that Sorenson sees his gait. So far, although he'd have preferred to waken to Beckett in his bed (or hers) and in his arms, it's already been a pretty good day.
"Sorenson looked a little pissed as he left, Castle. What did you do?"
"Nothing," Castle says blandly. "Talking about the weather." Beckett looks at his smug smile and disbelieves him on general principles, all the way back to the Twelfth.
It becomes a less good day when the birth father's alibi checks out. Sorenson's not minded to accept it; won't trust the team's answers; won't, it's clear, trust Beckett's call. He may have said he thinks she's the best in the city, but he sure isn't acting like it. Castle's antennae twitch. Quietly, unobtrusively, he starts to pay attention, stalking this odd intonation and interaction, putting it together with the there-there tone from the previous day, the way Sorenson had leaned into her, the history between them. But when Sorenson insists on an ESU sweep despite the alibi, Beckett boils over.
"We're at square freaking one, and we got nothing. You can send ESU wherever you want. I'm not losing this one." She storms off into the bullpen, out for anything that will help solve this, or someone's blood, whichever comes first. Just for a moment, Castle and Sorenson look at each other and recognise the same feeling – complete astonishment at the depths of Beckett's personal commitment to the case. Castle seizes the opportunity to find out what's going on, from someone who isn't part of the precinct, before this shared moment of bemused maleness in the face of furious female disperses.
"What did she mean "not losing this one"?"
"The case we worked."
"I thought you got the guy."
"We did...but the kid was already dead."
Ah. So that's it. Not, this time, merely failing to catch the killer, watching the case grow cold, which is bad enough, but catching the killer too late to save the child. No wonder this one's hitting hard. The last was only gruesome, this one reminds her of failure. Castle knows what that feels like, and knows what's driving her now. So much worse, when failure equals death. He expects that somewhere deep inside, she still blames herself. (It's not your fault, Ricky. Don't worry, kiddo.) Hm. There had been an interesting flash of – humiliated discomfort? – across Sorenson's face, too. Hm.
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