Misconception
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She has her fingers tangled with his, ignoring his mother because Martha makes her nervous and somehow ashamed even as she's proud of herself for doing this at all. Martha is nothing but gracious, if rather nosy and loud, and Kate has only been treated kindly, but she's absconding with the woman's son for - for - well everyone knows exactly what it's for.
Still she keeps this loose tangle of their hands, knowing he can feel her heart beat hard between their fingers, the base of her wrist. His thumb does this sweeping circle in the cup of her palm that makes her absolutely lose herself, gone. It's not like this is their first night together; it's not like she doesn't know exactly how he feels, this feels, the intimate press of bodies and the attention he pays, such close attention, and yet she's having trouble breathing for all the imagining she keeps doing.
Her thoughts are scattered, hopelessly, no chance of gathering them back together.
He has a bag over his shoulder, kissing his mother's cheek as Martha flutters around them, good luck and don't worry and what is it Kate shouldn't be worrying about? She is anyway. Her anxiety gnaws a hole in her stomach where all her giddiness just slides around in her guts and makes her want to throw up.
This is where it starts. For real. This isn't a hotel room one night in selfish memory. This might be just as tawdry, but it's for keeps. They're going to have a baby, and Kate is very good at doing this wrong, and tonight has to go so very right. So right. Not just for her, but for the little thing who deserves parents who get along.
At least the body is a different, easier kind of language. This is what she's good at - actions. Speak louder, they say, and she does too. She's unable to stop saying, every time she gets close to him. It's a constant, non-stop chatter she's doing, just by holding his hand, bumping his shoulder, nudging hips, letting herself smile at him. Hell, she can use her mouth all night if it's like this, no problem.
Oh, that's crude.
And seriously erotic. Her mouth. And not for smiling, though she's burning with that too, lips spread. She really has to - she cannot be having these kinds of pictures in her head while Martha kisses her cheek and winks at them.
Castle rumbles something about saying good-night to Alexis (oh, no, Kate entirely forgot that Castle likes to be available in the mornings for his daughter before school), but now he's tugging on her fingers and pulling her out the door.
"In a hurry?" she says, but the effect is ruined by her absolute urgency.
"Hell, yes," he mutters. He's taking full-length strides down the hallway to the elevator, not even bothering to see if she can keep up (she can, of course; she will always keep up), and he jabs the call button viciously. Repeatedly. A tattoo that mimics her heart's desperate pounding.
She can't keep the grin off her face. They're getting out of here; they're free. He looks ready to do physical harm to the elevator if it doesn't hurry up, scowling and fierce. Warrior Castle, rather than Writer Castle, and while she's daydreamed about the man with all the beautiful, arousing words, she never quite imagined this.
The man who will fight. Take. Battle her. He has been waiting and now he is done.
Her pulse skitters in her veins, racing and slowing, unable to keep pace, and then the elevator doors slide open. Subtle teak interior, chrome facings, swanky in its details but classy in its tone.
Oh, God, why does she care about the minutiae of his elevator? She only cares about the way he yanks her inside and stabs at the lobby button, the way his hands come back to claim her waist as if her hips have vacancy signs.
He growls and shoves her against that teak panel, presses his body into hers as he devours her mouth. Devours her mouth. Insanity. She grips his shirt, not breathing, and he has definitely done away with waiting. Kate moans at his invasion, hooks an ankle around his calf to draw herself closer, opening her-
The elevator jerks and dings as it opens. Castle's forehead crashes into hers with a curse, his chest like a great bellows, heaving breath, one of his hands fisted in her hair (when did that happen?) and gripping her tightly to him. Keeping her in place.
"Gotta get off," he husks.
"I know," she growls. "Soon. Damn it. Very soon, Castle. I've had enough foreplay."
He jerks back, gaping, and she realizes he didn't mean it like that, but at least she can keep him guessing. At least she can leave him wordless. And turned on, oh yes, there is that, and his mouth opens and closes and the doors stutter and begin to shut again.
He shoots out an arm and catches them, never taking his eyes off of her.
A throat-clearing over Castle's shoulder makes them both snap to attention, straightening clothes (how in the world did he already unbutton her pants?), and then they attempt a graceful disembarking past the older man in his narrow black tie who gives them only a condescending smirk.
Graceful is not quite the word for it. Heart-swallowing is what she's doing. Repeatedly.
His hand is so wide around hers, pressing apart her fingers where they lace together.
"Castle, I love you," she blurts out. Her heart soars; its own freedom.
He turns violently and pins her against the wall of his lobby, fierce. "You can't say things like that to me right now. Or we won't make it to your place."
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