Nocturne Chapter Seven

"How do I show all the love

Inside my heart?

Well this is all new

And I'm feeling my way through the dark."

"Through the Dark" K. T. Tunstall & Martin Terefe, Eye to the Telescope, 2006, Virgin Records (US)

In his dream, he and Kate had been making love on the beach—he had known it was a dream because of the lack of ill-placed sand or sunburned skin to tarnish the romance. He had been kissing her as she came down, sun setting, breeze blowing her hair to tickle his shoulders.

And then reality merges, melds, replaces, and he is actually kissing her—sheets replacing their beach blanket, the brilliance of her smile superseding the beams of the setting sun. Not yet fully awake, he is eager to recreate some of the other aspects of his dream, and she is complicit at first.

But now she's changed her tactics—has him pressed back into the mattress, noses her way down from lips to jaw to ear as her hands feather over every inch of him not covered by the sheets.

She makes it clear she wants him to be still—takes him by the wrist and gently lays his hands against the pillow when he tries to touch her. This must be a mission—the thoroughness of her exploration reminds him of her sweep of a crime scene—she leaves no inch undiscovered.

Kissing along his biceps, nibbling the curve of muscle, she hums in appreciation. Or maybe it's anticipation. He can't be sure since he hasn't really heard that particular noise before.

"Have I ever mentioned your arms make me completely crazy?"

His heart skips ahead. Kate is just so gorgeous. He knows he is nice-looking, but when something like that comes out of her mouth, he can't help feeling the little spark of pride. So of course he flexes. Subtly.

"Heh. No, not in so many words."

Not in any words. Well, other than the occasional "you're not so bad yourself."

She nips the round bulge of his deltoid and sort of growls… Yeah, definitely a growl… Wow…

The little giggle slips out, but she is undeterred by his mockery, makes her way across his collar bone and follows the outline of his other arm. When she reaches his wrist, her tongue darts out, tastes his pulse point, sends it fluttering. It's fascinating, watching her so focused on this task, like his body is a specimen to be studied, memorized.

Her cheek presses into his palm, and he sees a flash of pure, selfish enjoyment as her eyes close. Though he would love to pull her to his lips, share the silken slide, he stays still—behaves as she wordlessly requested.

Not lingering long over his hands, she returns to his chest, flattening her palms over his pecs, smoothing out and down, sliding the sheet lower and sending sparks south as his nipples react to the light contact. Her nose and chin follow his sternum down—warm breath trailing against his skin. Muscles jump when her tongue finds his belly button, flicks at it, wet and probing.

"Ticklish?" The harsh puff of the word from her warm mouth startles his now-moist skin.

Oh, but he is not answering that question. If she keeps this up, she'll find out soon enough.

Her downward path blatantly ignores his less-than-subtle erection, eliciting a sigh of relief tinged with disappointment. There is a good chance he would embarrass himself if she were to go that route right now.

A line of tiny kisses marches down his quad, veers around his knee to pick up again along the sharp edge of his shin bone. Her mouth is distracting him, or else he might have noticed where her fingers were headed, might have been able to prepare himself. But as it happens, the scratch of her nails along the sole of one foot finally does him in—he lets out a decidedly unmanly yelp as he flexes the tortured foot, draws his knee up to escape her reach.

But apparently she's not letting him get away that easily. Her other hand wraps around his as yet unmolested foot, and he catches her in a truly evil smile. She is such a tease. Nice to know that applies to their love life, now, too.

"Huh. I don't suppose there's anywhere… else?"

As hard as he tries, he cannot suppress the girly scream or the titter of giddy laughter when she goes after his trapped appendage. Her laugh rings out then, full and bright, and he decides desperate times call for desperate measures.

Before she can mount a defense, he's after her, making a guess that the spots that make her twitch and writhe in one context will prompt a decidedly different sort of writhing now.

Going for ribs with one hand and under her arm with the other, he gets his answer almost immediately, in the form of a high-pitched "Castle!" as she ducks into a defensive, shrieking ball.

Bingo.

She has let go of his foot, which is a definite win, but in an instant she regains some composure and manages to go back on the offensive, flopping on top of him and poking haphazardly at his ribs.

If there is one spot that never fails to disable him in tickle wars with Alexis, it is that unassuming span of waist just beneath his lowest rib. And now, Kate has found it. Damn. He's doomed for all eternity.

Laughing so hard he ceases to make noise, he throws up his hands in surrender, tries to turn on his side to just get her off of him already—she has made her point after all—but instead he manages to roll half on top of her.

Her smile stops his heart.

It's the wide one, with all the teeth, and little pink glimpses of tongue peeking through, streaming out rays of sparkling joy, goofy and playful and free. And with her hair haloing her face against the dark sheets, she looks positively radiant.

This open, happy person laughing in his bed—this is who Kate can be with him. And miraculously, she's choosing to be. This is the Kate he knew deep in his heart must exist. And now that he's found her, he's never letting her go.

One eyebrow dips in question, and he realizes he has been staring down at her, maybe even slightly squishing her under his weight. In answer, he leans in, traces her smile with skimming grazes of his own lips.

"This is my favorite smile."

She laughs against him.

"You keep track of my smiles?"

Moving on to the ridge of her cheekbone, the arch of her brow, the dip of her nose, he figures he might as well come clean.

"If you want to have this discussion, let's do it tomorrow, because it could take hours. I filled a whole notebook just describing your facial expressions."

"You've got to be kidding me."

His answer brushes against the curve of her chin.

"Not kidding."

"Isn't that a little excessive, even for a muse?"

When he zeroes in on that spot that he thinks she likes, just below her left ear, he is rewarded with a sharp intake of air. It gives him the courage to finish his thought, thinking she might be distracted enough not to catch his meaning.

"Maybe, but not when she's also the only face I want to see when I open my eyes, and when I close them."

On down her neck, past her well-appreciated breasts and already-explored navel, he reaches the flare of her hip before she responds.

"In that case, I guess I'm gonna need one, too."

Pausing to let that wave of warmth swamp him, he looks up, finds her lips curving, eyes unabashedly bright, happy, ready to meet his. He doesn't push for more, just revels in that acknowledgment and continues tracing the crease between hip and thigh with his nose.

His hand slides down her thigh, nudges between her knees, and her legs part for him. Settling his body in between, he breathes out long and slow over her curls. Her breath is coming faster now as her hips press into the bed, back arching in anticipation.

Letting one fingertip glide along her folds, he feels the wetness pooled there, elicits a delighted gasp.

Slipping the digit inside her, he closes in on her center, tastes her arousal as he lays the flat of his tongue over her swollen clit. Her hips come off the bed at the contact, but he doesn't let up, just persists gently, eases her back down with a hand at the crease of her thigh.

Pressing deeper inside her and adding another finger, he finds her sweet spot and curls them against it, adding firm, rocking pressure. Her hips buck and she cries out his name, threads her fingers into his hair, clutching gently.

His own hips are moving in shameless counterpoint against the mattress, mimicking what he wants so badly to do next. But he wants this even more, wants her to fall apart under his ministrations, wants to know if she is as responsive with this as she has been with everything else.

Keeping a slow, methodical rhythm with mouth and hands, he takes her higher, hearing her staccato breathing escalate, feeling her hips move to meet him. Her knees begin to shake with the intensity, so he slides them wider, and she finally drops them to the bed, splaying open wide beneath his lips and tongue.

The shift pushes her up toward him, and he can feel her clench around his fingers as he flicks his tongue over her, circles around, presses down. She's almost vibrating with need, hips working in time with his fingers as they offer pressure and friction.

A desperate sound escapes her throat, and he knows she is close. Wrapping his lips around her, he begins to alternate suction with feather-light pressure, never letting up with his fingers inside her.

She breaks on his name, clenching tight around his fingers in rhythmic waves that he rides with her, uses to time his continued strokes, keeps her going until she finally tugs, tries to pull him up, whispers a tremulous: "Enough."

Complying, he tastes her on his lips and fingers as he climbs up beside her. Thinking she needs to recover, he pulls her against his side, but she slides a knee across his hips, straddles him, sinks down immediately, trapping him inside her tight, wet heat. The shock almost sends him over the edge, and he mentally curses his traitorous body. He wants her to come again while he's inside her, can't fathom going without her now that he knows that dark glory of union.

Long and lean and lying over him, her legs stretch out on either side of his, hips press tight. Finding her hand, he links fingers with her, presses their palms together, holds on. He's held her hand before, every time in awe of the depth of meaning involved in such a simple act—comfort, friendship, trust, a lifeline. But now, now it's love, private and quiet and theirs.

He doesn't move much, doesn't really need to considering how close he already is. But he does reach down, presses a palm against her tailbone, pulls her even harder against him. The friction seems to heighten everything for her—well, in his limited albeit enthusiastic experience thus far.

By her burrowing lips, now parted and warm on his neck, he can tell she approves. Praying for self-control, he sets the pace slow. But she speeds him, encourages him to meet her faster, harder with every stroke.

There is no way he can keep this up, and he wants her with him, so he tries to temper the rush.

A frustrated grunt sounds near his ear.

"Please?"

Oh, he's misinterpreted this whole thing. She's already there, just needs him to push her over. He ducks his head, catches her lips, kisses her long and deep and gives her what she needs.

She stiffens in his arms, clutches tight to his hand, finds his eyes, lets him see as she gives in to it. The look on her face and the feel of her body spur him on, and he's coming hard with her, helpless to stop or slow down once the freefall has begun. She is silent, just lets the sudden halt and flow of her breath trace the final peak and ebb. As he meets her, follows, he too releases his elation in the quiet of the brightening room.

They recover together, still linked and needy. When he thinks he's back inside his body, he untangles from her a bit, reaches over her for the glass on her bedside table, can't quite get it without climbing out from under, then over. He is simply not capable of the coordination required for this right now, but he's suddenly parched, thinks she must be, too.

By the time he snags the glass, offers it to her, then sips and returns it empty to the table, he's nearly tipped out of bed with the effort.

Her knowing smile greets him, and she lets out a little chuckle as she enjoys her effect on his system. She turns onto her stomach, props her head on her hands, twists a bit to look in his general direction. But he's all flipped around, head facing the opposite end of the bed, covers crumpled underneath him. He gives up on righting himself for the moment when he notices he has a perfect line of sight on her tattoo.

And he just can't resist—he leans in and kisses the words again.

He wants the original story behind them, knows there must be one, but for now, he's happy to have been part of that story for so long, to be part of it for the foreseeable future.

"I like that I get to help you find the truth."

The sun is just pinking the sky through a crack in the blinds, not yet bright enough to flood the room. Looking toward the window, she takes a breath, seems to be steeling herself.

"I quit the force."

Maybe he has misheard. There is absolutely no way she would…

"What?"

"After Ryan and Gates pulled me off the roof, she was trying to suspend me, and I just decided I didn't want to go back."

Tracing a finger lightly over the dark lines of unfamiliar characters, he keeps silent, consciously waits her out.

"That truth I thought I needed? The constant searching I thought I needed to feel whole? I don't need it anymore."

She rolls to face him.

"I've already found the only truth I need, and it's right here."

Love, or maybe the first light of dawn, is shining around her, framing her face in a faint rosy glow. He wants this. This is exactly what he's wanted for longer than he can remember. But what if she…

"But if you do want it, if you want to keep finding the answers, helping people, you don't have to give it up. I would never ask you to choose between loving your job and… me."

As soon as they are out, he knows his words will bring either catastrophe or liberation. He has put the words out into the ether, foisted them upon her, probably unwilling and unready. His stomach seizes at the thought of a denial now, after so much progress.

Her eyes shift from the random spot on his wall back to his. He can't read them. Maybe he doesn't want to. And then everything in her expression softens.

"I know you wouldn't. What I realized today is that there is no choice. Because I don't love my job."

But she does love him. Hope and fear war within his battered heart.

"You might change your mind."

He's trapped in limbo, waiting for sorrow or redemption in this answer, speaking of so much more than her police work. His eyes drop to the bed, but she reaches out, lays her hand over his hip, draws his attention back up again. The first rays of light break over the horizon, catch in the green of her eyes, startling, luminous, undimmed.

"About the job? Maybe someday. About you? Never."

# * # * # * #

Happy Castle Monday, finally.

I have so enjoyed writing this story, and the feedback has been like nothing I've ever experienced. Thank you to every reviewer, follower, and reader for sticking with this. I just had an idea of what could happen between the night before and the morning after. Thank you for giving credence to my vision, and I hope you had fun.

Review that made my summer: 1822andallthat for telling me this was the post-Always she would remember as the one that happened. Wow. Just amazing. Still can't quite wrap my brain around it. Thank you.

This is for all my friends in the Castle Fandom, but especially Angie, Deb, Alex, Liv, Nic, AC, Brooke, Laura, and of course Joy. You all nudged, encouraged, read, and/or threatened at all the right moments. But above all, you inspired me to be better than I was before. Thank you.

-Kate

Twitter: Kate_Christie_

Tumblr: kathrynchristie dot tumblr dot com

One last update to the playlist today: Youtube dot com slash playlist ?list=PLnXP8GXCbzfUFfhqEpWCAz4-3xPWCzhKC