Chapter 3

"'kay," came back to his ears, her legs wrapped around his waist and her hands around his neck: she leaned in and nibbled naughtily at his earlobe so he gasped and nearly dropped her. "Ow!" she emitted. "Loosen up."

"Don't do that, then. Or would you rather I dropped you?"

She wriggled, which was highly arousing and did nothing to improve Castle's balance or focus.

"Finding it hard?" she husked. "'Cause I'm finding it very hard."

He almost ran the last few steps into the bedroom, ignoring the creaking of the bruises from earlier, and fell over her on to the bed.

"Let's play," he purred dangerously, taking her hands in his and planting them by her ears. She opened her mouth, undoubtedly to comment, but he dived straight back in, most of his weight on his elbows but his hips over hers, his legs between hers: the hard mass pushing against soft damp folds under translucent black silk chiffon and a tiny edge of lace. She squirmed, giving him small noises of satisfaction and desire which he caught and swallowed into the deep, hard kiss, releasing her hands and cupping her face, stroking thumbs gently but intently along the hard edge of her jaw, over the sharp cut of her cheekbones, back to cradle her cheeks again. He lifted from the kiss, and traced the line of her lips, full and a little swollen, slightly parted and wholly inviting. She nipped her own lip, and soothed it with the tip of her tongue, wetly pink and provocative.

Castle's weight over her felt so damn good: wide in all the right places: full, thick and hard exactly where he should be; covering and capturing her perfectly. She reached down to stroke over his ribs, his back, the narrowing of his torso to his hips, and reached his well-shaped ass, slipping mischievous fingers into the band of his boxers and taking them with her. Playing should be mutual.

He growled deep in his chest, and Beckett flipped them over while he was still surprised enough not to resist, ending straddling him and capturing his hands to pin them by his ears as he had held her. He smiled lazily up, and allowed her to keep him there, straddled over him, proudly on display and completely unashamed of her body. She had to know the effect she had on him: he was barely containing his need to flip her back and simply surge into her. Her readiness was obvious as she slid over him.

"Is this you showing me how to do sex properly?" he murmured. "'Cause if it is, teach me, Beckett. Teach me good." And never, ever stop.

His eyes ran up and down her, fixing her lingerie-clad self in his memory (but he would see it again, for real: no need for photos or photoshoots to preserve this view), and then easily broke her hold and reached up to palm and play; to dance around her ribs to find and open the hooks that held the flimsy fabric together and let it fall away, and to watch her sensuously curve into his broad hands and then make the arch that brought her to his mouth.

He didn't refuse the offered feast: in fact, he fell on it like a starving man. He'd never need anything more than his own semi-photographic memory to be able to see this every time he wanted to: Beckett above him, naked except for her tiny, translucent briefs: honed and lithe and utterly beautiful – and all his.

"I don't think you need much teaching…ohhhhhhh."

"Come here," he grated, and rolled them to be above her: returned to his lipping and laving and lavishing attention on her breasts, a tiny, careful nip and soothe, and then a languorous, lascivious, long lick downward, circling her navel: a wriggle to the side, and then he eased her panties slowly down the length of her legs, spread them, resisted temptation because he couldn't wait any longer to be inside her and prowled all the way back up her body to reach her mouth again.

"Protection?" he belatedly wondered.

"Right here."

She reached down to sheath him with one slim, elegant hand: curved her fingers once he was covered and added a hint of a scratch. It zinged through his whole body and his hips bucked: she gripped and slid up and down: once, twice, and the third time she guided him home. Though it nearly killed him, he went slow: he wasn't small and, even as excited as she was, she was very tight around him. Fully within her, he met her lips, she opened to him.

"You feel amazing," he breathed, and moved very slightly: she moaned as he hit the spot, filling her full, and she mewed as he withdrew a little, came forward again.

"Shut up and kiss me," she gasped, and tugged his head down on to her mouth, then turned away. "This is no time for talking."

"You're talking," Castle managed. "But I think I know how to stop that." He dipped, took her mouth possessively, and began to move: she met and matched his rhythm and sure enough she wasn't talking. His wickedly experienced fingers didn't need taught to find the knot of sensitive nerves between them; her hands dug into his back and her legs twined tightly around his waist so that he could drive deeper, harder as she rose to meet him and then there was nothing but his motion and her magnificence and then he saw the stars with her.

When he could think again, he found Beckett tucked into him with his arm over her in a very keep-her-right-here fashion, her insanely long legs elegantly disposed over the coverlet. She was far too slim to be a Rubens nude: maybe Ingres, or Velasquez? In his currently sex-hazed eyes, she was more beautiful than any of them. She made a sleepy little noise, adorably cute and totally not like she was in the bullpen, and curled her hand over his where it lay over her lowest rib. Even so, she was too far away. Unfortunately, before he could cuddle, he had to tidy up a little.

He was swift, but even so she'd hidden under the covers before he returned. That was displeasing. He followed her.

"Wanna cuddle," he muttered, his arm around her already.

"Am cuddling," Beckett grumbled.

"Cuddle closer." He followed up by wriggling into her until he couldn't physically be any closer without wriggling under her skin. "That's better." His mind flittered. "I wanted to snuggle you in when you had that sweater on."

"It's my sweater. You can't pet it."

"Can so. Anyway, you said you didn't want the clothes."

"Then you forced them on me anyway. So now it's my sweater."

"I could take them to the thrift shop like you wanted."

"No!" she yelped.

"No?" Castle purred. "So you want them? I'm good, but I didn't know I was that good."

Beckett said nothing, which was rather surprising, since Castle had been expecting her to produce a brain-burning answer.

"Oooohhhh," he said smugly. "I was that good."

"Conceited ass."

"That's not disagreement." His fingers stretched a little, and found the undercurve of her breast, petted gently. "You were definitely that good. Wanna see if we can be that good together again?"

"Mmmm," she emitted. She approved of that idea, but when she tried to turn over to start the game again, he tutted at her.

"Uh-uh. It's my turn to start."

"Huh?"

"Well, you were the one who shut me in and wouldn't let me leave and then kissed me so I hadn't a chance to escape," he said primly, "so it's my turn to get my own way."

Beckett stared up at his wolfish smile. "You what now?"

"My turn," he said sweetly. "Just lie back and enjoy it." He licked his lips lasciviously. "I'm pretty sure you won't be complaining in a moment."

Beckett humphed, lay flat with her feet together and her arms by her sides, and closed her eyes firmly. Castle debated whether to tell her that the pouting lip was unutterably cute, and decided that dying wasn't worth it. "Very funny," he smirked instead. She humphed again. "You're just gonna lie there and pretend to think of Manhattan?"

"Yep."

"Okay."

Her eyes popped open. "You're not going to try to talk me out of it?"

"I won't need to."

He leaned down, slowly, the predatory expression on his face entirely wasted when she closed her eyes again, and whiffled gently behind her ear, where exploring the nerves had already produced the most interesting results. Even without touching her, she wriggled, though, from the twist of her mouth, she hadn't meant or indeed wanted to.

So, of course, he did it again. And then he added a zephyr-touch of lips, and then a more definite kiss, and then a teasing nibble, soft enough not to leave a mark (he really didn't want to die today). She wriggled some more; her cheeks bore a thin wash of colour; she bit and soothed at her lip which was unbearably sexy, and he'd never manage ever again to keep a blank face in public when she did it outside a bedroom; and her breathing had speeded up.

"Manhattan?" he queried suavely.

"Yep. Leaves falling in Central Park."

"Okay."

He licked straight down that wonderfully sensitive nerve to her clavicles, stopped there for just long enough for her to breathe out and pretend to be unaffected, and then ignored (oh, but it cost him dear) her pretty pink-tipped breasts, a little reddened with stubble burn – and proceeded straight downward to her navel. Now that was worth playing with, for a little while. Certainly for long enough to find that it – she – was a little ticklish there, and to make her squeak and squirm (oh God, Beckett, keep squirming against him like that, please).

Eventually, and consequent upon some severe damage to his ears, he stopped amusing himself with Beckett's reactions to being tickled, and slid down to his goal. She'd long since stopped gluing her legs together, and she wasn't exactly quiet any longer, and he was pretty certain that Manhattan, or any area which wasn't the few square inches he was aiming towards, wasn't in her thoughts. If she had any thoughts, which he doubted, he was going to eliminate them. First, a little teasing…

"You know what I'm going to do next," he purred, and before she could answer, blew across her. "Don't you like it?" He blew again. She half-whimpered. "You do." And a tiny flick. "I do too." Flick. "You taste so good." Flick-lick-flick, and she moaned. He slid his thumbs over her thighs, inward, sensing the taut tension in lean, lithe muscle; her anticipation obvious and growing, flowing. Flick-lick-suck, and Castle, she jerked out, and her hips shuddered and bucked.

He carried on, winding her up without stopping, flick-lick, in-out-round, his mouth evil, experienced and wholly erotic: his hands fully occupied in holding her wide for him; he was fully aroused again, already, just from her taste and smell and the touch of his hands on smooth skin over her writhing body. He didn't need sight, though she was a gorgeous sight; he wouldn't need photographs, even in his capacious memory. The moment was all about his other senses, and on the thought he heard her crying out Castle, Castle! and she shattered against his mouth and fell, lax and sated.

He slithered back up, and kissed her, tenderly, so she tasted her desire and his together. "No Manhattan now."

"No…"

"Just us."

"Mhm." She shivered, and tried to pull a cover over herself. Castle gathered her in, and kissed her again. She liked that. Kisses and cuddles were good. Even if photoshoots were not good, the aftermath was pretty good. She nestled closer, and luxuriated in being enclosed in strong arms and a broad chest. He smelled nice: a hint of cologne, and a whole lot of male. She tucked her head on to his shoulder, locked an arm around his chest and a leg over his, and made sure he couldn't escape. He rumbled happily, deep in his chest, and played with a tendril of her hair.

Beckett suddenly realised that she felt safe. Not safe from innuendo, or indeed from thrice-damned photoshoots, or from being presented with far too many expensive clothes from said photoshoot, but safe within the arms of someone who – she concluded from the quality of his embrace – cared about her. It felt nice. She closed her eyes.

Her pillow was making noises. It shouldn't do that. Pillows didn't have heartbeats, and they certainly shouldn't snuffle. Maybe it was some sort of trick pillow that Castle had switched out – Castle – Castle! Castle was in her bed. Sleeping. And naked. As was she. Memory returned to her. Hmm. Castle had been deeply unselfish, and she'd rolled over (well, into him) and promptly gone to sleep. Not very fair.

She'd better make it up to him. She wobbled his shoulder, which produced only a somnolent, wordless grumbling sound and no wakening at all. She wobbled a bit harder, which also didn't work. She considered, then she smiled. She really didn't think he'd object.

Nope, that wasn't objection. Surprise, certainly, but followed by considerable delight, expressed in considerable detail and profanity. So nice for her work to be appreciated. Well, not work exactly. More, um, pleasure. For both of them. She lavished oral attention upon his, hmm, substantial assets, and enjoyed every groan, jerk, and forced out profanity, until he lost words altogether and then all control.

It took a while for him to be able to speak, Beckett discovered. No speech was an interesting – and welcome – change, though it didn't mean no action. She was presently caged in Castle's arms with no reasonable prospect of escape without causing substantial damage to those arms. She'd do that, if she'd wanted to free herself in the astonishingly unlikely circumstances that Castle wouldn't let go the instant she asked him, but it would be a terrible shame to spoil those lovely strong arms. How lucky that it would never happen, no matter how many nights they spent together...

What? Many? Uh…that was one night. Preceded by months and months of flirting and innuendo, said a sensible (and unwelcome) part of her brain. So it's not surprising you're thinking about doing it again. And again. And some more.

She cuddled in (not that there was much choice) and contemplated that thought, not without some panic. Then she metaphorically slapped herself upside the head, and told herself not to worry, but to take it one day at a time.

The following day passed off relatively peacefully: Castle – having been drilled by a laser-intensity glare the first moment he made a comment – deciding to save his salacious statements for later.

Peace was abruptly cancelled when Beckett's evening was interrupted by the doorbell. Since Castle was attending a school function, it couldn't be him. (And she wasn't at all disappointed by that. No, sirree. Merely a little…um…pensive. Yeah. Pensive. Which didn't mean she was mooning over him, either. There would be no mooning over anyone.)

When she opened the door she was greeted by a mobile clothes rack, which was unceremoniously shoved into her apartment by a bored, uncivil delivery driver who demanded a signature and left before Beckett could take a breath and berate him for his rudeness. She shut the door forcefully behind him, which didn't relieve her frustration, and examined the rail.

It had all the clothes from the photoshoot. The warm coats, the smart pantsuit, the little black dress, the white dress which she had so adored, and which looked even better than she remembered – and the lovely snuggly sweater. She watched them carefully, in case, like leprechaun gold, they might disappear.

They didn't. They were still there. She went to make herself coffee, and when she turned back, they were still there.

She rolled the rack into her bedroom and her capacious closets, and unloaded the lovely new clothes into her wardrobe, leaving the sweater out. It was so much nicer than her ratty, but soft and comfortable, sweats. She stroked the white dress. Light, filmy, feminine…all the things she usually wasn't. Well, sometimes she wanted to be light, flirty, and feminine, and the dress was just perfect for conveying that impression.

Right then, however, she wanted to be snuggly, and the sweater was the epitome of snugglement and cosiness. She stripped off her sweats, and buried herself in the soft grey wool, leaving the roll neck high. She nestled back into her couch with a good book and her coffee and was almost completely contented. The sweater cuddled round her as if it had been designed with her in mind, but it wasn't quite as good as – admit it – being cuddled by Castle. She drank her coffee, read her book – and every two minutes dragged her mind away from cuddles. Et cetera. Definitely et cetera.

It wasn't even that sort of a book. It was a perfectly respectable crime novel. So it was quite ridiculous that, snuggled up in her gorgeous sweater, she was restless and, well, not exactly frustrated because she could perfectly well take care of herself if she were (which she wasn't) but, um…

Oh, the hell with it. She was missing Castle. Already. One taste and she'd become addicted. Despite the photoshoot, about which she was still irritated. She surrounded herself with the irritated memory, and concentrated hard on her book. It was a good book. She was enjoying it. She'd nearly managed to convince herself of that, too.

She tapped out a text. Her brain had nothing whatsoever to do with that action: it was entirely instinctive.

Almost an hour later, Castle's distinctive method of ringing the doorbell echoed through her apartment and she sprang up to answer the door. She was quite ridiculously delighted that he'd arrived, which was entirely inappropriate for a grown woman who didn't need a partner to validate her self-worth. Her career, shield and gun were enough for that. Still, curls of heat gathered in her stomach and her eyes lit up.

Castle's eyes also lit up when he saw her.

"Sweater," he gurgled. "You're wearing the sweater." His brain had nothing to do with stepping forward and wrapping her into his arms. Neither brain had anything to do with the next while, though the sweater had to watch, forlornly, from the floor of the bedroom.

A week later, Castle bounced into the precinct, bubbling over with enthusiasm.

"Beckett, Beckett! I've managed to rearrange the rest of the photoshoot. I've cleared it with Montgomery and it's tonight."

"What the hell? No. No photoshoots. None."

"But you promised."

She had.

"But the clothes are all at home."

They were.

"I don't want to do any photoshoots."

She grumbled all the way to the studio, and when they were done – with a whole different wardrobe – grumbled all the way home again.

"Promise you'll never make me do any more photos."

"No more photoshoots."

Two years later, Castle looked over the restaurant table at Beckett. "You know you didn't want to do any more photoshoots?"

"Yes?" she said suspiciously.

"Well, um, I think you might want to change your mind."

"Absolutely not."

"Oh," he said happily, "I think you will."

He pulled out a small black velvet box. "Kate Beckett, will you marry me?"

Fin.

Thank you to all readers and reviewers. Very much appreciated.

The next story is taking rather longer than I anticipated: it will be no surprise to any frequent readers that it is longer than I had originally planned. However, I will be back to this fandom. In the meantime, I commend my original novel to anyone who hasn't been nagged into trying it: Death in Focus, by SR Garrae, on Amazon everywhere.