For the Dead Travel Fast
—-xxx—-
There was, at first, deep pain.
(He would never tell her that.)
But after the first staggering oh God, he found his feet again, struggled upright, staring down at the blood trickling from the rend in his wrist. The pain was lacerating, fiery, as if his very bones were drying up and turning to dust.
Then her tongue lathed gracefully around his forearm and lapped a dark runaway back to the opening (the torn-open bite where her teeth—) and that first suckle of her mouth sent an electric whip down his spine.
He crackled with energy, every cell coming aware, his hair standing up on the back of his neck, on his arms, a tautness to his skin.
She sucked and lapped at his wrist, a low tone of pleasure in the back of her throat that made his groin tighten.
It wasn't pleasure so much as it was… strange, electric, trembling. It was anticipatory. It was the feeling of leaning out over a leap of faith and trusting that it was going to be very good but not certain that it would, in fact, be the good he wanted.
Only that he was going to leap.
He waited for it, knowing the pain would fade because he would not let it be this bad between them.
Meanwhile, as she licked around his wrist and made a hungry noise, the heat started somewhere in his forearm and began to slide languidly down to his elbow, a sensation so startling, he almost lost track of what she was doing, how much she drank from him.
But when it bloomed, warm and damp in his chest, a kind of drunkenness slipped through his veins. The staggering returned, his hips crashing into the bed, his head buzzing, and it was no longer the hot dry fire of pain but a warmth both liquid and lovely, spreading through him like rich earthy wine, the kind that loosened and gave freedom, the kind—
A spike of lust drove a hot dark point through his hips and he opened his eyes. Fixed himself, in space and time, tore his gaze from the enchantment of her mouth to his own body.
The inside of his forearm, at the bend in his elbow, was where Dr Harris said he'd notice it first. And as she had said, yes, there was the bruise-like blotching forming, as if capillaries were bursting from the force of her hunger.
"Beckett," he rasped.
She latched onto his wrist.
The pleasure tried to take him again, take him floating, send him spinning—
"No," he grunted. Forced himself to focus past the warm heart-full pleasure to the bruising spider-webbing across his arm. "No. Beckett."
He squeezed the nape of her neck, digging in hard with thumb and finger. She grunted.
He yanked her off him, a fistful of her hair and that grip at her neck, and for one wild, half-panicked moment, when she was resisting and trying to get back at the torn flesh, he thought I'm not near strong enough.
And then her eyes cleared—shit, the ghost ring around her pupil, a white ring just where the color of her iris met those dilated pupils—
"Rick," she moaned.
The ring faded. As did his lust. The two of them locked, a pause in time, a moment.
She gasped.
He caught her as she toppled, his bloodied wrist pressed against her back, the painful thump of rawness as his heart pounded. She shuddered and gasped at his throat—he jerked back, but she sobbed his name and clutched at his shirt, trembling, and he pressed himself once more to her body, close, closer.
"Did it—not work?" he croaked. "Kate?" He gripped her harder, though he could feel the leak of blood from his forearm (a waste, he thought sadly). "Kate, did—"
"I'm… okay."
"Okay." He glanced down at her, the way her body had origami'd into his hold. Folded up. Something vital taken out of her.
She released the fist she'd made in his shirt. Pressed her fingers flat to his chest where his heart thumped.
He realized maybe his throat was too exposed to her gulping and trembling mouth though. The teeth. "You're okay?"
"Okay," she echoed. "Shaky."
"Did you… do you feel better?"
"Don't know," she husked. "Just… weird."
"Um." He felt his ears burn, as if the comment was a sleight on his performance.
Her head lifted, and he saw tears in her eyes.
"Kate?" he gasped, cupping her cheek. "Kate. Are you hurt?"
"Not at all," she whispered. Her eyes met his, finally, as if she had been afraid to. "It was so good. I feel so good."
He beamed.
Her face fell, and the tears as well, dripping over his fingers.
"Whoa, hang on, what happened to feeling so good." He cupped her face, a rough laugh caught in his chest. "Hey, why are you crying."
She squeezed her eyes shut. Shook her head.
"Don't cry. It was good. It was good, right?"
"It shouldn't feel so good. I… how is that possible?" Her eyes flared open. "You, what about you, Rick? Was it… you're still standing."
He laughed. "I am. Pretty intense, really. I'll tell you all about, but give me a second, let's dress my wrist before—"
"Oh God," she gasped. Pulled back.
It tore his wound from where it had begun to clot at her shirt, and as the rend opened up again, they both looked down at it.
Curious, Castle lifted his wrist to his lips and licked—
"God, no, don't do that, Castle!"
He shrugged. "No particular taste. Kinda gross. Guess that prevents vampires from sucking themselves dry, huh? Autoerotic exsanguination."
Her jaw dropped.
He tilted his head, waiting for it.
She began to laugh, dropping her forehead to his shoulder, great heaving laughs.
Part desperate, sure, but damn good to hear.
Castle cupped the nape of her neck and nudged down to caress the corner of her mouth.
She gasped, abruptly stopped laughing. Her breath panted against his mouth, her noise seemed one of wonder as her lips touched his.
She shivered. "Castle."
"Mm."
"Your… arm."
He startled, pulled back. Stared at her a moment. "Yeah. Should… yeah. Let's do that."
She gave a deep, shaky sigh. "And then we need to talk seriously about getting out of here."
—-xxx—-