Repeat warning: M-rated until the dividing line.

Chapter 7

Still standing, Castle invaded: raided and ravaged Beckett's only too willing mouth; crushed her hard against him with a hand in her hair and a hand pressing on her taut rear; keeping her exactly where he wanted her most. She shifted her hips, and her heat blazed across him; he rolled into her, and she gasped out encouragement.

It was all he needed.

Her bra fell off: he swung her off her feet and then on to the lounger, paused a moment to admire her lean, lissom length, knelt beside her and eased her panties down and away, and then smiled wolfishly. "I didn't get dessert," he murmured.

He began at a point behind her ear that made her pant a little and wriggle a lot; holding her hands when they tried to push him in any direction that he hadn't chosen; moved down and nibbled wickedly across the sharp outcrop of her collarbones; down again, through the valley of her cleavage.

"What to do, what to do," he mused.

"Me, for preference," Beckett tried to snark, but it emerged as more of a plea than she'd have liked.

"Patience."

She growled at the saintly tone, but that came out as rather more of a stroke-me purr. He'd barely begun, though she knew exactly where he was going, and she was hot, bothered and soaked already; small muscles clenching deep within her, heat and desire surrounding her in this magical, unreal summertime.

"I think I'll just stay here for a little while," he decided darkly; tucked her nearer arm between his big body and the lounger; slipped one of his own arms under her neck, and let his other hand roam over her beautiful breasts: stroking and lightly pinching; rolling and softly rubbing. Electric sparks ran through her; from hard-pointed nipples to the wash of hot wetness between her legs and back again. She whimpered for more, and fingers were replaced by soft, mobile mouth: lipping and sucking, tiny nips that sent her higher; more and more; almost too much.

"Like that?" a velvety, sinful baritone inquired. "Good," it answered itself without a pause. "Because I think you'll like the next bit even more."

She couldn't form a coherent response, and didn't try. His mouth moved down, tongue teasing briefly and wickedly at her navel; a little nip, and then he spread her wide and moved to be squarely between her legs, sliding her down the lounger.

He began with delicate fingertip touches: a slow, soft stroke through her; a small circle over the knot of nerves, which dragged a moan from her; a warm breath to make her squirm and writhe so that his hands came to her thighs to hold her still and open for his predation. His tongue flicked out, and then retreated: sweet torture: she cried out, though not with pain, and he did it again; loving her taste, loving her frantic, helpless movements and his name loud on her lips; the mixture of command and pleading as she tried to force him further, faster; to take her higher and higher – and he would, but at his own measured pace. Her hands knotted in his hair, but he ignored the tugs. Long, slow strokes across her core counterpointed the long, slow slide of his fingers in and out: teasing, tantalising and tortuously timed to take her closer and closer to the edge, keep her there, poised to fall but never quite, desperate for him to give that one last push into explosive climax and release. He held her until he couldn't hold her any longer, until she had lost even the ability to cry out his name and made only noise, and with now-hard strokes of fingers he sucked on the over-sensitised nerves and she screamed high and thin and came apart against him.

He slithered up beside her, and cuddled. Cuddles were important to him…sex was great – and sex with Beckett was utterly spectacular – but if you couldn't cuddle afterwards, it lacked…affection. Yeah. Affection. He knew he didn't mean affection, but Beckett had an unnerving capacity to read his thoughts every time he really didn't want her to, and if she read his thoughts right now she'd run again. He didn't think she was anywhere near ready to hear passionate declarations of undying love.

But soon… because she was here, and she was tucked up beside him, and tonight – what was left of it, anyway – he was going to suggest that his bed was much nicer than hers. Just maybe, she'd say yes. Here in this time-out-of-time; this unreal summer time…just maybe, there were possibilities for joy and magic that she'd never sought but, unseeking, might find.

And maybe there were rainbow unicorns galloping out of the icy Atlantic, too. That would be almost as likely.

He squashed down the brief pang, and focused on enjoying snuggled-in Beckett. Naked snuggled-in Beckett. So many possibilities…

Oh. She had found at least one possibility. Oh, oh, just keep those fingers right there, Beckett, while he – oh, while she removed his boxers with strict attention to enjoying the contents. Ohhhhhh Beckett! Stop that now while he could still – okay, don't stop that. Her mouth was sinful: hot and wet and ohhhhh thought, words and mind left him.

Had that really happened? Because Beckett was snuggled into him again – it had. His boxers were not upon his hips. Therefore, since she had removed them, she had done everything else too, and it had so far exceeded his heated imaginings of so many nights that his neurons had fried.

"Mine," he muttered, and clamped an arm around her. Astonishingly, she didn't answer; merely cuddled closer and made happy little sounds. Outside, the night remained clear, but on looking at his watch Castle found it to be near to midnight. "Let's go in," he suggested. "It's really late to be out here." She muttered, and didn't move. Castle decided to short-circuit any discussion, and, as he had carried her here, swept her up and carried her all the way to his bedroom, and through to the en-suite. "Shower time," he smiled rakishly. "We're all dirty." He stood Beckett up in the shower, switched it on, and proceeded to wash her in a way that had nothing to do with cleanliness and a great deal to do with mutual enjoyment, after which they needed another shower that actually involved becoming clean.

Dried off and swathed in his enormous, extra-fluffy towels, Castle grinned at Beckett, mentally crossed his fingers, and regarded her with his best hopeful, pleading puppy-dog eyes.

"You want something," she said, but it was decidedly less acerbic than usual.

Castle's puppy-dog pleadings could only immediately be resisted by Beckett in the confines of the precinct, where she could preserve her professional shell. For that reason, she rarely went to the loft without a work-related excuse, and steered well clear of regularly or frequently inviting Castle over to her own apartment, for which occasions she prepared herself to resist.

Here and now, she wondered why she'd ever bothered resisting.

"Yep," he said, still hopeful and puppyish. "I do."

"What?"

"I want you to stay in here tonight," Castle rushed out. "With me."

"Glurp?" Beckett said feebly, not having expected anything so…well, affectionate. Suggestions of hot sex would have been less surprising; staying up here an extra day would have been good… "If you do something that I want," her mouth said without any benefit of brain and certainly without the permission of her common sense.

"Sure."

"I wanna stay here tomorrow as well," she said. "Can we?"

"Definitely," Castle said, so quickly that she wondered if he'd been going to suggest that in the morning. "So go get your nightie."

"Nightie?" she said awfully. "Nighties are for Victorian grandmothers. I do not wear nighties."

"Ooooohhhhh, say that you don't wear anything. I'd like that."

"I'm sure you would. But it's not true."

Castle's anticipation level rose so high that his nose wiggled. "Go find it, then. I wanna see."

Beckett departed. Castle prepared for bed, and waited. Eventually, Beckett reappeared.

"That's what you wear to bed?" he gasped. "That…that is so not what I expected."

"Layers, Castle. Layers."

"Those are definitely unexpected layers." He pouted theatrically. "I was hoping for a little black chiffon affair."

"I like a soft t-shirt," she said. "Anyway, chiffon is fragile. It tears."

"How do you know that?"

She smirked. "Wouldn't you like to know?" she teased, and followed up with a sashay to the bed. To Castle's disappointment, she took the opposite side to him. "But you could find out," she said, flipped the t-shirt off, and revealed a diaphanous, deep crimson piece of sexuality. Castle's jaw dropped. Other parts instantly rose.

Beckett smiled wickedly. "Is that more what you expected?"

"Oh, so much more," he said, his gravelly growl an octave below his usual tones. "So much." He dived straight across the bed and hauled her down with him, taking her mouth without hesitation. She rolled them over, and straddled him, giving him a perfect, tantalising view of her body beneath the semi-transparent fabric, rubbing on his hard weight. He pulled her down to kiss her again, and rolled them in his turn, capturing her below him.

The chiffon didn't rip. It did, however, lie sulkily abandoned on the floor for quite some time before it was replaced on its owner.

Beckett woke, warm and contented, with just a tiny stretch of well-used muscles reminding her of the previous night. A heavy hand on her hip told her that Castle was still in bed too; its laxity suggesting that he was asleep. She carefully wriggled around to watch him: cute and sleepy-tousled, face relaxed. She put her head on his chest and listened to the beat of his heart, hypnotising her back to a doze. She felt strong arms encircle her, and accepted it, drifting and at ease. She couldn't remember when she'd last been at ease, three days before Christmas. Castle had given her a priceless gift: peace. No Christmas present could have matched this benefice.

She didn't realise that her eyes were wet until Castle gave a sleepy mumble of complaint about a damp patch on his chest. She sniffed.

"You can't cry, Beckett. It'll dent my ego. I'll think you don't like me and you have regrets." He stopped, body rigid. "You don't have regrets, do you?"

"No."

"In that case, stop crying. It's deeply unflattering even if I didn't cause it. You should be happy."

"I'm peaceful," she said, which told him absolutely nothing helpful.

"You can be peaceful without snuffling like a buffalo," he said provocatively.

"I do not!"

"It's cute."

"Buffalo are not cute, but I'm nothing like a buffalo. And I don't snuffle.

"Do you shuffle?"

"You what now?"

"Shuffle off to Buffalo," Castle sang.

Beckett punched his shoulder. "That's not appropriate," she stated.

"Yes, it is. At least, it's pretty applicable to me." His baritone rang out again. "Matrimony is baloney, she'll be wanting alimony in a year or so, oh, oh." He stopped singing, and smiled cynically. "Just like Meredith, really. She'd have run off to Reno if she'd had to."

"Dumbass," Beckett muttered, and only then picked up Castle's tension. "Her, not you."

"Phew." He relaxed. "Now, do you shuffle?"

"No. I am not a buffalo. I do not want to go to Buffalo. I would never, ever support the Buffalo Bills. I don't even much like buffalo wings."

"Sacrilege!" Castle cried dramatically. "How can you not enjoy buffalo wings?"

"Pretty easily. I don't like hot sauce."

Castle made a face at her, and then smiled. "I like breakfast. What shall we have?"

"Coffee," Beckett said hopefully. "Lots of coffee."

"Okay. Come on, then, and we'll see what there is to eat too."

Not long later, bacon sizzled in one pan, pancakes browned in another, and maple syrup, strawberries and butter were all on the table, along with a huge pot of coffee and a jug of vanilla creamer. Beckett was already halfway down her first mugful.

"You're sure we can stay here today?" she asked.

"Yeah. I don't think they've cleared the drive yet, but I'll check after breakfast." He sipped his own coffee. "What shall we do?"

"Relax," Beckett said.

"You? You want to relax? Who are you and what have you done with Kate Beckett?"

"It's peaceful here, okay?"

The stress note in her voice, which Castle was sure Beckett didn't know about, suggested to him that he should back off, quick. For once, he heeded the suggestion. "Okay."

He let her lead the way to the pool, after breakfast, taking the last of the coffee with them. When she'd drained her cup, she dived in, and began to swim in a smooth, distance-eating freestyle. Castle lounged, and watched her, admiring the flex of arms and long, long legs in an elegantly sexy bikini. She must have swum at least a mile, he thought, when she finally emerged, hair dripping, droplets rolling down her taut torso and legs. She flopped on to her lounger and sighed happily.

"That's better," she said.

"I thought you ran?"

"Yep, but when I can't run, I swim." She made a dismissive gesture at the icy outlook beyond the glass walls. "Like now. I don't wanna break an ankle on black ice."

"Not a good plan," Castle agreed. "Your leg wouldn't be half as gorgeous in a medical boot."

"I couldn't chase down suspects, either," Beckett said. "Which is much more important."

"Manhattan would be less safe," Castle pontificated, patronisingly. From her expression, Beckett was considering throwing something at him. If he were lucky, it would be cold coffee. Instead, she closed her eyes, wiggled into complete comfort, and did and said nothing. Castle went for a swim himself; the alternative being cuddling Beckett, who seemed to be quite happy to remain cuddle-less for a while. He did notice that the slight splash as he dived in opened her eyes, which followed him up and down the pool as his muscles flexed and body cut the water. He realised that his extra effort might have been a touch overdone when he stopped and found that, fit or not, his arms might very well fall off in the next moments.

He fell on to his own lounger with an ooff, but managed to turn his head and smile at Beckett. Sadly, she'd closed her eyes. He did the same, exhausted by his excessive efforts.

"Wake up." Someone was shaking him. He turned away from them. He didn't want to wake up. It was warm and he was comfy and waking up wasn't in the plan. He reached up sleepily and caught whoever it was off-balance.

"Let go!" a very familiarly sharp voice ordered.

Castle's eyes winched themselves open. "Beckett? Beckett! What is it?"

"It's lunchtime already, and we've both been asleep for hours. If we want to do anything today, we should wake up."

"I guess," Castle said unwillingly. "Or," he smiled, "you could just snuggle down here and cuddle."

"I could…" she enticed, "but I won't." Castle's face fell. "Lunchtime. And…if you want to, I'd like to walk along the beach again?"

Holding hands. Castle could definitely get with that plan. Okay, so he'd rather be more, um, intimate, but if Beckett wanted walks and holding hands, he was up for it. "Let's get lunch, then go," he agreed.

"Picnic?" she said hopefully. "It was good yesterday."

"Okay." Castle bounced up to put a picnic lunch together, which they both enjoyed. Beckett, indeed, was displaying some signs of genuine happiness, and munched down food with enthusiasm. Castle could swear that the tiny sharpnesses around her cheekbones and collarbones, just a little too noticeable in the harsh precinct lights, had receded in only the past two days; and the shadows under her eyes had cleared.

"Let's get changed and go, before we lose the light," he said. "It's the shortest day of the year today." He blinked. "We could have a bonfire and bring the sun back. Pagan rituals and all that."

Beckett raised her deadly left eyebrow. "Does this ritual include, say, a lack of clothes, a preponderance" – Castle hummed with pleasure at the word – "of alcohol, and possibly mistletoe?"

"No – but it could do if you wanted it to."

"Nope." Castle pouted at her. "Nope. It's thirty degrees out there at most, and I don't want to freeze."

"Let's go get wrapped up, then, and go."

Several minutes later they were swathed in warm coats, scarves, hats and gloves; sensibly flat, cosy boots in which, no doubt, fluffy, woolly socks kept their toes warm, and braved the cold.

It was a gorgeous day: thin winter sunshine splashed across the beach; the wind had dropped, and the air was refreshing. When the sun set, the temperature would plummet, but for now, it was the best sort of day for a winter walk; boots crunching in the snow. Beckett's gloved hand sneaked around Castle, and buried itself in his capacious pocket, where his broad fingers entrapped it. His arm settled around her waist, and they walked on through the snowdrifts on the beach, occasionally playfully kicking to cause a little fall of flakes.

"We could make snow angels," Castle said.

"You can. I'm not getting snow in my boots."

"Spoilsport."

"Yep. But I'll be a dry-footed spoilsport, and you'll have frostbitten toes."

Castle pouted again. Beckett rolled her eyes, as she always did when he pouted, but he saw the tiny spark of appreciation in her gaze. "Snowballs?"

Beckett considered. To her knowledge, Castle hadn't played any sort of sport involving accurate throwing – which didn't mean he hadn't, just that she didn't know it. On the other hand, she'd been damn good at softball. "Just a few."

"Okay!" Castle cheered. "I'm going to go fifteen paces that way, then we can each make a pile of snowballs for five minutes, and then have a snowball fight."

"Wouldn't it be nicer to make a snowman?" Beckett belatedly thought.

"We can do that afterwards. That'd be great." He lolloped away for his fifteen paces, by which time Beckett had already made half a dozen snowballs and was piling them up ready to fire. After five minutes, Castle called time, and then squawked. "You've got twice as many as me!"

"You snooze, you lose. If you hadn't wasted time making them perfectly spherical, you'd have had more."

"They'll fly straighter," Castle retorted. "Let battle commence!"

"You're going down!" Beckett cried, and started to throw.

Castle, she discovered, could in fact throw straight – but so could she, and she dodged better, and she had twice as much ammunition. "I won!" she crowed. "I won."

Castle made a you-got-me gesture. "I guess so."

"No guessing. I won." Beckett smiled triumphantly. "I won."

Castle humphed, and then smiled. "Snowman building time. Mine'll be better than yours."

It was. Castle had advanced snowman-building skills, and his was around two feet taller, with a face and stone scarf effect. "I won!" he bounced, and grinned. "Now we're even, but it's getting dark. Let's go home."

Arms around each other's waists, they went, reaching Castle's house just as twilight began to darken into night.

Thank you to all readers and reviewers, guests and not.

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Last chapter on Tuesday.

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