Misconception

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When his forehead crashes into hers, Kate lets out a little laugh, caught by surprise at the intensity of his relief. His arms tighten around her, drawing her in, and she finds herself bowed backward by the force of him.

"Anything you like," he says. His words are rough and she can feel the jerky way his breath comes through his body. "Any ring in the whole world. Just tell me what I can get away with. Carats, cut-"

"I want you to pick it out," she whispers. She does; she feels girly all of the sudden, like she's fifteen and dreaming those dreams she never did when she was fifteen. That wasn't her - but now at nearly thirty-five, it is. Maybe it's him. Maybe it's the idea of having a baby with Richard Castle, oh my God.

"I can pick out your ring?" he murmurs. Some amount of amusement, but more than that, she hears a sweet sense of wonder and she can't help clutching his ears and angling her mouth to his.

Castle grunts and immediately turns aggressive, pushing into her until the small of her back hits the counter. His kiss is rough, need-filled, hungry, and for a moment, it's all she can do to just stand up under it, take it, swallow the rough desperation. He's fierce but he's good, his hands gripping and seeking and caressing in time, and she's strung out on him before she knows what's hit her.

And then she finds ways to battle back, nudging into him with her mouth, nipping with her teeth until her tongue strokes along his. He groans something feral against her, his hands unerringly pushing inside her shirt and catching her flesh, kneading.

She gasps, entirely more aware than she's ever been, thoroughly possessed and fiercely possessive, and her body demands it all, right now, no more delays. His mouth tears from hers and grazes down her neck, a scrape of his teeth over her throat that reminds her of that night, and how this all started, dancing too close with her shoes off so that her body fit just like this against his.

How this all started. And where it will all end, but not end. She really - really - hopes this won't end, please no, please - and not just because a baby is for life.

She arches her hips into him even as she tugs on his ears - why is she so obsessed with the curve of soft shell and the down on his lobe? who is she and how has he done this to her so fast? - and his face comes up from her breasts all smudged and dark with desire.

Kate strokes lightly over his ears to drown out the too-loud sound of their arousal, and the heat shifts, but doesn't quite wane. She runs her fingers down his cheeks, skims the taut cords of his neck - he's very into her - and then she hooks two fingers into the front pocket of his plaid shirt. The ultrasound is still there, the paper warmed by such close proximity to his skin, and she slides it out.

Castle's breath catches once, and then begins to even out again, though his hands drift down to her waist, bare, still inside her shirt, and his thumbs stroke along her belly. Her skin flutters all over but the picture has caught her.

At twelve weeks, it's definitely a baby; the image has distinct features, the skinny limbs and round belly and big Castle head that make it impossible to miss. "When I went, I didn't expect this to be real," she tells him, "so I didn't think to have you come with me. But the next-"

"Yes," he says in a rush. She glances up and he grins. "I'm assuming you were going to ask if I wanted to be there next time?"

"Yeah." She presses her lips together, some strong emotion clutching at her heart like a fist, and she glances down at the image again. That's her baby. "He looks like he doesn't have any arms, but he does."

Castle is practically vibrating.

She traces the tip of a fingernail over the round little skull. "She said his arms are up here by his head, curled up. Seems kind of protective. I hope he's not already sick of hearing us fight."

"God, you're adorable."

She jerks her gaze up to him, completely startled, but Castle is crashing into her - nuzzling? - down into her neck, lifting her practically off of her feet with the strength of his embrace. But the sound that comes out of his mouth is more ragged than whole, and she clutches the photo in one hand and tightens her grip on his back, afraid of how strong this is, all of it, how shockingly deep and immediate this love is.

She's not sure if it's the baby or him, but it feels the same as it did when she woke that night in the hotel room he'd rented just above the ballroom where they'd danced. She opened her eyes to find his body curled around hers, needful and close, his lashes beautiful in the moonlight and his arms so appealingly powerful that she would have pushed herself right into him and taken it all over again.

All but for the intensity of what it was she felt. It swamped her, like waking up with both feet in a bog and sinking, inexorably, into a mud so thick it would be impossible to find her way clear. And she was so heavy with burdens, the sinking felt faster and faster.

So instead of waking him with urgent hands, she got out of bed and found her dress. Never found her panties, and she assumed he has them, but he never got her note, so maybe those are gone too. Maybe this is the only thing left.

"Castle," she gets out, both of them still gripping too hard, clinging too tightly. "Castle, no more of this."

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