14th February

"Don't," she warns him, holding a finger out in front of herself, watching as he stalks towards her, backing her into the corner of his kitchen.

But he does, ignores her feeble protests.

Except, he doesn't do what she expects. She expected him to press his wet hands, his dripping fingers into the small of her back or touch her face with them, but he doesn't.

He slides his fingers, only touching the skin of her neck for a second, the warm water cooling rapidly in the air of his apartment before he slides them up, into her hair, angling her head as he brings his mouth down to hers. She shivers at the feelings. His mouth, his fingers and his chest looming over her, it's all startlingly real, there. He's there and she's here.

She's surrounded by him, but he's hovering over her, not close enough, so she tugs him closer, draws against her with hands curled in his t-shirt until he's got his thighs pressed against hers, his hips pressed into her own, not too much, but enough. She shivers again and slides her hands around his back.

She puts her hands on his shoulders, pushes him back slightly when he's makes her shiver a third time. His fingers dancing on her neck as his body looms closer, setting every cell on fire, jolting it into an alert state , but not yet. They need to finish stacking the dishwasher and Alexis will come back into-

"Hey," Alexis greets cheerfully.

She meets the girl's eyes over his shoulder and gives a shy smile, busted.

But they're not. Or she doesn't care. It's like she hasn't even noticed the fact her father has backed his partner into the corner, both breathing a little heavy, the panic she's feeling surely showing up on her face.

But then Castle presses his lips to her cheek and steps away, catching her fingers and tugging her back to the sink, the water still washing over the dirty dishes.

"Almost ready?" he asks his daughter, flicking his eyes over her body, studying her outfit.

She has to smile at her partner's daughter now, hand on her hip, jutting it out, striking a pose. She looks effortlessly dressed but Kate knows that it takes the most effort to look effortless. But she's won't draw attention to that fact, it will become apparent she spent a great deal of time this morning considering her clothes purely because she knew that after work she'd be coming straight to the loft.

He gives a nod of approval and she can see the pride, watching him with his daughter has always amazed her.

The sound of her name causes her to turn back to Alexis, a little too quickly.

She opens her mouth to ask her to repeat herself, then realises the girl didn't say anything else. Alexis is asking with a different pose what she thinks, her opinion apparently relevant.

She smiles at the girl, wide, open. "You look great." It's her honest opinion.

Then she's announcing her date is downstairs, that she'll be back at eleven.

"Wait, he's not coming up?" Castle is stern, but she's pretty sure he just wants to give the kid a hard time. Not too much, just enough to make him squirm.

"No, he's not." Alexis is defiant, certain.

Kate doesn't know where to look, whose side to take. She can understand both sides but even if she had a preference she wouldn't speak up, not now.

She realises they're still talking, quietly, quickly. She keeps rinsing plates, nudges him aside so she can reach the dishwasher, keep busy.

Then his hands are on her hips, his mouth at her ear. "I'll be back," he whispers as he kisses her cheek, breath against her ear.

She opens her mouth to ask where he's going, what he's doing. But then she realises. They must have compromised that he'd come down the lobby, meet the elusive date. She should thank her again, but a quick glance in front of her tells her she's already gone, her partner following suit. She forces herself to keep washing, distract herself from the dinner she's just had cooked for her by her partner and his daughter. She'll have to thank him again as well.

She stops rinsing when she hears the door click shut. She's standing in his kitchen, washing dishes, smiling like a right-fool, completely alone in his loft. With father and daughter in the lobby greeting a prospective boyfriend the silence of the place, the calm that has settled around her isn't daunting, it's welcoming. She's grateful. Though she's run out of dishes to wash and she's been here a few times, helped with cleaning up, but never turned on the machine. So she's out of options, out of things to do.

When he comes back he moves toward the kitchen, gets halfway across the empty space in the centre of the loft and finds she's not there, not even in the corner, hidden and out of sight.

"Hey," she says. Her soft voice carrying through the silence just as he's about to turn around and find her anyways.

He moves over to her, unable to control the smile on his face. She's curled into the corner of his couch, already moving her legs so he can scoot in close to her and pull her against himself.

He does just that, kisses her softly before she offers him a forkful of the cake she's taken it upon herself to start.

"Thank you," she says softly while he chews.

He swallows it too soon, needing to respond, feels the lump slide down his throat. "You don't need to thank me for anything Kate."

"Yes I do." She's insistent, but it's hushed, quiet, like her heart really isn't in the fight.

"Okay." He decides to let her win, but he's got a condition. "Thank me all you like, but don't use words."

Her eyebrows rise, just the reaction he expected, such an easy mark. She's opening her mouth to speak, to protest, to make an excuse. He doesn't know, doesn't care. He's not finished.

"Keep coming back here, letting me take you out, and inviting me over. Keep doing this with me," he gestures between them, their position, their proximity, her fingers gripping his shoulder, her other hand holding the forkful of cake she'd just stabbed, his arm holding her flush against him and then flicks his eyes to the hand he's just slide into her hair. He feels the prickle across her skin, under the pads of his fingers.

She just nods in response, swallows under his gaze.

He can't help but chuckle at her and kiss her softly.

When he pulls back she's got the fork at his mouth, a glare in her eyes at his laugh.

She feeds him the cake to shut him up, tries to glare at him but fails as he smiles around the fork.

She sets the plate in the curve of her stomach, keeping it secure and flat with her thighs. She kisses him gently, the corners of his mouth, the edge of his lips, tracing the lines with small catches, pulling away as he responds each time. Only when she feels him swallow does she press her mouth to his properly, sealing her mouth to his, sealing his words.

He doesn't hesitate to respond, probably anticipated it. But his tongue is gliding over hers, exploring every corner of her mouth but taking the time to meet hers, touch, taste and tease and she no longer cares about the cake she can taste lingering in their mouths.

She feels herself shudder as he slides his hands to the skin of her back, distracting her from his new favourite pastime. He lifts his thighs, shifting her so he can hover over her, press her back into the couch a little.

She realises the cake is still between them, probably slid off the plate onto her clothes or having his shirt dragged over it as he hovers, moves so he's next to her.

She swallows, pulls back, takes her hand from his neck, touches the edge of the plate, finds it still there. He's watching her curiously, smiling like he's realised the same thing too.

He feels him shift her, raise her slightly off the couch, her weight supported by one arm, her shoulder digging into his armpit. She waits for the reappearance of his other hand, can feel it sliding over her skin, across her back. When it slides over the arch of her spine, it lingers for a second, skimming once, twice, three times as he watches her, intent. Then it quickly slides up over her hip, reappearing as she chooses to follow it, not watch him watch her. She needs to escape his intense gaze, collect herself for a moment.

But she doesn't get the chance, she watches his hand steal the plate then lean over her, kissing the side of her face as he sets it on the floor beside them.

"No more cake," he mutters as she follows his hand, watches it reappear over the edge of the couch and slide beneath her shoulder, gone from sight more permanently.

Then his hand is in her hair again, his elbow pressing down into the couch, dipping her toward it, flattening her out again, rolling her off his chest as he supports his weight, hovering over her.

She watches him lean down and closes her eyes as he kisses the corners of her mouth, skimming the edges of her mouth. Pay back apparently.

She swallows as he catches her bottom lip, sucking it into his mouth, touching his tongue to it once, just a brief second before he lets it go and pulls back. He repeats the process with her top lip.

She swallows as he lets it go.

"No more cake," she manages to say, breathy, a husk in her voice not at all related to her still scratchy throat. She wonders if he's felt the effects of it yet, caught the bug. He hasn't said anything, but he might fear she'll stop this if he's sick. There would be no point, she's already got it.

Then his mouth is on hers, firm and insistent, but slow and gentle.

He isn't sure he's been lying here with her, but she hasn't made a move to leave. It must be late though. They're both getting lazier, dragging their lips across skin as they find the others mouth in response to a noise, a sigh, a breathy moan.

But he's not moving, he's not even going to suggest she leaves tonight. He wants to keep her against him while he sleeps, no barrier of blankets this time.

He's glad he rolled off her a while ago, slide beside her and kept his mouth on hers as she shifted beside him, pressing him back into the cushion now below him and slide herself on top of him he had groaned into her mouth and wrapped his arms around her, keeping her there, trying to tell her not to move, ever.

"What're you thinking?" she asks as she leans back, regarding him. He realises he slide his hands from her hair and crushed her to his chest again, delighted as the rest of her body came as close.

"That we're never moving." He slides a hand up between her shoulders and forces her to lean back closer, so he can kiss her mouth without moving.

"We have to move. I have to work in the morning." She pulls back to speak, but not too far, just enough that she can meet his eyes, just close enough that he can still lean up and steal her mouth, stop her words.

"We have to," he amends against her mouth, feels her smile. Apparently he took the bait she set out, he doesn't even care. That's an old argument, him not really working with her.

But then she moves to slide off his body, has a foot on the floor before he realises, he took the bait and assumed she meant the other. He grabs her hips, finds his fingers, his palms span their width. "Not what I meant and you know it." He speaks through clenched teeth as he hauls her back against him, too easy. He'll have to keep feeding her cake, get her a bear claw everyday not just every few.

Then his mind stops, she's got a brow arched, her chest heaving and her eyes wide.

Then he realises what he's just done. He's ground her hips into his, still is actually, pressing her down firmly, keeping her there. The curve of a smile on her lips, just a hint in the corners, giving her away, suggests he doesn't have to keep her there.

She leans down and kisses him once as he loosens his grip, not moving his hands, taking the opportunity to graze his fingers along the top of her jeans, skimming over her sacrum.

She presses against him in response, smiling against his mouth then his cheek as she kisses a line to his ear.

"We should stop," she mutters, her breath hot against his skin as she slides her tongue over the corner of his ear, teasing.

He groans and slides his hands up beneath her shirt again, skimming the skin of her back, safe. The groan is more from her mouth than his disappointment. She will be the death of him. He can be patient, take it slow, but doing those things with her hips still pressed into his will not make it happen.

But then she's gone, her body curled around his, her legs around his, her knees squeezing his, her socked feet between his own, toes squirming against the top of his foot, her arms curled between their chests, her head on his shoulder still, mouth on his neck.

"I should head home. Tomorrow could be an early one," she offers quietly, not very convincing as she makes no move to get up, not that he would let her. But she's barely trying and it makes him giddy with excitement.

He presses his face into her hair. "One more minute."

She hums in agreement and relaxes further against him, kissing the skin of his neck once before she exhales and shifts her nose out of the crook of his neck. He can kiss her forehead now.

"One more minute," she repeats softly. She doesn't sound like she's going to be moving anytime soon.

Okay folks I've got a short epilogue I'll post in a couple of hours. Thank you all for reading and reviewing, your responses have been overwhelming.