2: Interior design
He plays with her some more, kissing her hard, fingering her wickedly and swallowing the noises until he knows she's close. Then he lifts her again and releases himself and brings her down on him and then she does cry out. She feels so good around him: tight and hot and wet and being inside Kate Beckett is the nearest he'll get to Heaven on this earth so it's just as well he can do it for the rest of their lives. She's so perfect, and she's moving on him and he's so close and she is and Now Castle please and Yes mine now come for me and she does and he does and fuck it's always mindbending.
He holds her tightly for a few moments, waiting for them both to come down a little. If they're both off the edge, they've got – he's got – a lot more options. Not socially acceptable options, however. Oh no. None of these options would be socially acceptable at all.
Beckett's happily snuggled against him, not that she has a great deal of choice. He has no intention of letting her go any time soon. He may love it when she plans his seduction but he isn't going to let her off lightly – oops, that should say get her off lightly – when she sneaked it all past him. And he is definitely going to find out how she got a delivery like that without him knowing. Also the place she ordered it from. There might be other colours…
He snaps back to reality when Beckett hums contentedly (he's the only one who ever causes her to make that noise) and curls closer into his chest. The silk glides against him, as delicate as her skin. Tight round her as she's laced it, now he's in a better state to observe, her breasts are close to spilling out and over the lace-edged cups.
"Stand up, Beckett."
"Why?" she flirts. It's perfectly obvious she knows why.
"I want you to. Stand up." When she doesn't, he lifts her away from his lap and puts her on her feet. "Now I'm going to take a proper look at this decoration."
He runs a featherweight touch along the neckline, fractions away from her skin. "It emphasises all the right curves," he says, syrup-soft. "Draws the eye to the perfect structure underneath." He retraces the path of his fingers with his tongue. "Frames the picture." His hand slips southward. "The little bows are very cute." Ah – and they're covering fastenings. Good to know, for later.
His naughty, questing fingers slide round her waist and turn her. "And then there's the lacing. Enclosing you, trapping you. Tying you up to be presented, to be handed over to someone else. Me." He slips a finger under the laces at the bottom where they're knotted, and runs a firm hand over her ass. "Next time you wear this I'll tie them." It isn't a request, it's a promise.
He turns her back round to face him and slides his hand down further. "It's very carefully constructed to leave all the …significant… areas open to exploration." He explores a little further, to prove the point. Beckett likes his explorations, if her commentary is anything to go by. A little limited in vocabulary, to be sure, but emphatic. "It's much more interesting than a garter belt." Which up until now he had considered the next best thing to heaven, when displayed on Kate Beckett. His definition has changed, just this evening.
His hand drops away to play with the tops of her stockings. It's not a popular change of emphasis. He tuts at her when she swats at his hand. "Not nice, Beckett."
"You're not nice. Play properly."
He smirks. She growls, with an undertone of playfulness, and takes a swaying step out of range, smiling in a very now-what-are-you-gonna-do way. Castle's not impressed by this change in the game. He doesn't want to play kiss-chase, just kiss. Et cetera. Lots of et cetera.
"Come back."
"Nope." She takes another sashay in the wrong direction. Castle stands up, takes one long stride and whisks her up over his shoulder, caveman style. It seems… appropriate. To him, anyway. Beckett doesn't seem to feel the same way, though her words, which are wholly unreasonably vile, aren't matched by her actions, which mostly consist of squirming and trying to slide back down his front. She's failing miserably. He doesn't often exert his far greater strength, but tonight is definitely the right time. He turns his head slightly, finds the smooth curve of her ass in range, and nips it. She squeaks, and wriggles.
"If you wriggle much more I'll drop you," he points out, laughter edging his tone. "Most undignified." He takes a few more steps towards the bedroom. She's still trying to escape, and promising him mayhem and murder when she gets free. "If you bang your head on the door frames that won't be my fault," he points out in an infuriatingly saintly tone. The wriggling stops abruptly. He takes the opportunity to undo her heels before he forgets. Last time he forgot he ended up with very painful scratches on his ass.
"When you put me down I am going to kill you. Picking me up like some Neanderthal caveman…" she trails off in a mewl as he adds a nicely-judged stroke through some very sensitive areas.
"Nuh-uh. You won't kill me. You'd be sorry if you did. You wouldn't get any more of this." He strokes her again as they hit the bedroom and then drops her flat on her back on the bed. "Now, are you going to stay put and play nice, or are you going to keep being naughty and trying to escape?" He wiggles his eyebrows like a Victorian villain, and imprisons her with a muscular arm over her midriff. Beckett smirks back up at him with mischief and hot desire painted across her face.
"Guess," she grins, and flicks a quick, insinuating glance sideways to the nightstand. His eyes follow.
Ah. That game. Oooohhhh. She really has planned this out to please him, hasn't she? If he weren't so aroused he'd be dissolving in a soft pile of slush and love.
"You're not going to stay put? I guess I'll just have to make sure you can't escape. What you're wearing is definitely a felony. A crime against modesty. An incitement to disorder. And now I've arrested you," he purrs darkly, "and it's time to put you in cuffs." With his free hand he takes the soft leather handcuffs she's left on the nightstand and runs them through the discreet ring, hidden by pillows; leans a little more firmly on her as she makes a teasing, unconvincing, effort to escape his arm and evade the cuffs.
"There," he murmurs dangerously as he closes them. "Mine. No more trying to get away." Beckett smiles up at him seductively and quite deliberately bites her lip. It's an invitation he never even tries to resist, any more. Never has to resist, any more. He knows the differences in the ways she bites her lip and what each various nibble means. He leans down and kisses her, framing her face with his hands to match the way the corset frames her body, curving his palms and fingers to mould around her chin, her fine-cut cheekbones. "All mine."
"Now you've arrested" – she pours dirty sexuality over that word – "me, and cuffed" – more filthily insinuating tones – "me" – she pauses, and licks her lips wetly, twines her tongue over them – "what are you going to do?"
He loves a challenge, and she's just issued one.
"Why, Beckett. You don't think felons get to know their future the moment they're arrested, do you? They have to go to trial, first. Have their crimes listed, and assessed. Sentenced individually." He smirks. "Perhaps you should listen to the evidence against you." He always enjoys this: talking her up as much as touching her up; she's always loved the words right along with the sensations. Her eyes are dark, her lips full and bee-stung swollen still, the delicate flush of desire drawn along the sharp planes of her face. He sits up, a little away from her, positioned where he can see, or touch, all of her lithe body.
"Let's do this chronologically. We'll start with your earliest crimes: a crime of deception."
"Deception? I haven't deceived you." She's still teasing, slightly sardonic.
"You deceived me into thinking that you were wearing some of your existing underwear. You got dressed where I couldn't see you, before I was really awake."
"You could have woken. If you were that interested. Not my fault you sleep heavily. You snooze, you lose," she says smugly.
"I did wake. You not only deceived me, you deprived me of my property. That's theft, Beckett."
"Deprived you of your property? What property?"
"You."
It's just as well her hands are… unavailable. She squawks and complains and fails to say anything coherent for some time, while Castle sniggers evilly.
"Now, about your sentence for theft… I think that you should make reparations." He's growling gently. "I'll take something from you." There's a very slow, lazy smile. Beckett matches it, stretches gently and ripples her figure all the way to her toes. "I could take away this sliver of sin in fabric form." She smiles more widely. "But I won't. I think I'll take your speech instead."
He starts not by touching her but by removing his entirely unnecessary shirt and pants, full in her view, without scrupling to hide well-cut musculature. Then he spends some time simply running his gaze over her, lingering at her breasts for a little time, not at all hiding his appreciation of the view, then wandering slowly down to the glistening between her legs.
"Like the view?" Beckett husks, shifting slightly and completely comfortable in her skin.
"Mmmm. Definitely." He sits back down on the wide bed, idly playing at the neckline without achieving anything significant. He's going to take it slowly. His finger dips under and finds a nipple, rubs and then rolls within the confines of the fabric and boning. It's a little difficult, since her deeper breathing pushes her entire chest tight into the form-fitting curves. Still, he's not going to loosen it for her. It's far too pretty. He suddenly sees, in a way he's only ever poorly imagined, the exact definition of a swelling bosom. He wonders how any Georgian or Regency male ever achieved coherent speech, still less action. No wonder there was chaperoning. Just as well there isn't now.
He plays a little more, till deep breathing is replaced by soft moans and less soft suggestions that he might be a bit more adventurous. He ignores that. It's more awkward to ignore Beckett's foot, which – how did she bend like that? – is prodding at his back and ribs in a significant fashion indicating get-on-with-it-Castle. He picks the foot off his waist, examines it closely – and then runs his finger up and down the arch where he knows she's really, really ticklish and makes her wriggle frantically and shriek. Her corseted bosom (it's such a gloriously evocative word: bosom) heaves and swells gorgeously. The imprecations she's casting at him are not gorgeous. The correct word would be profane.
He takes a little pity on her, and slides his hands down her sides, exploring the construction, finding that it's composed of many thin strips – he supposes that they must be plastic, now, though he knows they used to be whalebone, or even steel – each in their own thinly padded casing, stitched into the widths of silk. It feels like the silk is over something, but he'll investigate that later. Nikki might wear one, for Rook.
His touch roams lower, and runs along the lower edge, dancing under the – ah, satin – binding. Beckett tries another round of instruction cut with imprecation, which has no effect whatsoever. Well, except that she still appears to have the power of speech and thought. He lies down beside her, threads an arm under her neck to turn her face to his, dances his fingers south of the front dip of the fabric, through soft soaked heat and kisses her hard as his fingers take her and slide and curl and thrust so she curves and arches off the bed as he finds the spot that sends her soaring, strokes and slides – and stops.
She is very satisfyingly devoid of words. Not silent, though, nor still. He waits a few beats, cuddling her in, (whatever games they play, cuddling is still more important than he could ever hope to explain. Perhaps it's because good sex is good sex, but love is far more than that) and waiting for her to quieten.
"I think that deals with the theft," he rumbles into her hair. "It still leaves the deception, and the incitement, though."
Beckett mutters something that doesn't sound polite at all, and tries to turn over and hook a leg around his waist to gain some leverage. He turns her firmly back and spoons her against him, tightly enough that she can't wriggle into any sort of desirable alignment without his active participation.
"I think the only proper consequence of incitement is to incite you," he rasps, "to begging." That mutter sounded very like unfair big bully just 'cause you have no self-control and then abruptly alters to fuck Castle when his fingers find the nerve centre between her legs and tease her.
"That's not polite, Beckett." He slips and strokes and glides some more and holds her so she can't turn and instead stays writhing against him (which is unreasonably difficult to cope with because all he wants to do is part her wider and simply slide slowly into her again and make them both feel unbelievably good because from behind he has freedom to touch her as well and he knows exactly how to touch her to send her flying, shattered and remade.
But not yet. When she brings the cuffs out it always means she wants the wait, the edge, the long, slow evening where he'll be allowed to play on her body as if it were a fine instrument. Some nights, she plays him: takes him in her mouth and makes him plead; strokes him and feathers him, takes his weight in her hands and leaves him groaning and breathless and rides him till he's wholly hers. He's always been hers, he just didn't realise for a time. Some nights, it's soft and gentle and romantic, a statement of closeness and love; some nights, when the case has been bad, it's hard and rough and primitive, reminding them both that they're alive, and together, and them.
So he strokes and rolls, takes his touch away and dances through wet heat and flickers naughtily in and out and back again to incite her further up and she's soaked and whimpering and soon, soon she'll be putty in his talented hands: as much his as he is hers.
"Castle," she whimpers, unable to catch enough breath to say more, desperate and frantic and increasingly difficult to hold close, her skin as silk-slippery as her clothing. "Castle, please."
"Please?" he asks lazily, knowing perfectly well what she means.
"Stop playing, please. I want you in me." He moves against her, making it clear that his readiness is not the barrier to her wants.
"Do you?" He slips one finger into her, and slides his thumb gently just where it does most good. She bucks wildly in his arms.
"Yes."
"That's nice," he says blandly, and lets his fingers do the talking for a moment, till there's nothing but a long string of please Castle fuck stop please Castle don't stop please please please and then nothing intelligible at all. When he feels her inner muscles clenching around his fingers he withdraws them and waits again.
"Do you know how I felt all day?" he asks conversationally. "I knew all day that you were wearing something special. You got me all wound up and wouldn't even let me put a finger on you. You knew exactly what you were doing, and then you went and made me drive so I had to wait till we came home. I've been hard all day and all you did was smirk and snicker. How d'you feel now?" He's purring into her ear, soft and tempting and sensual and smooth and dangerous. "Still think that was a good plan, Beckett?" His voice drops, twines around her and wraps her in his spell, moves from purr to feral growl.
"I don't think it was. It hasn't got you what you wanted, has it? Now you're all revved up with no place to go." He rubs the top of her stocking against her thigh. "Sexy as these are, I think it's time to lose them. I wouldn't want them torn when I hold you apart."
He sits up and slowly unclips and rolls the stockings off, moving down the bed as he does, gripping her elegant ankles firmly enough to stop her wriggling when he passes the back of her knee where she is just a tad ticklish. Nothing like her feet, though. Those are thoroughly ticklish. He proves it, as each stocking comes off and slithers to the floor. He can only ever tickle her feet when her hands are tied, because otherwise she is quite capable of killing him with them despite – and probably during – the ridiculously girly shrieking. And if he doesn't hang on to both ankles her flailing free foot would probably break a rib or two. It might even be accidental.
She's watching him suspiciously – at least as suspiciously as she can manage when she's dazed with lust and panting and open and he's got his hands on her legs and is running them up the inside of her slim calves, her knees, the satin of her inner thigh, uncovered. He holds her gaze, dilated pupils no doubt matched in his own face, smiles lazily and wolfishly, and, when she's already squirming under the pressure of his and her own desire, hopelessly wet, now and forever she's the prettiest picture he's ever seen or is ever like to see.
Finally, he leans down, spreads her wide, and settles to feast on her: very nearly his favourite pastime. She tastes of seduction and sex, and he's addicted to that: but her mouth always tastes like heaven, and home, and that's what he's in love with: somehow, she's home for him. He runs his tongue along her, slow start, but she's so high already it doesn't take much and he moves on to some more direct stimulation and pretty soon she's twisting and crying out and then begging him to stop Castle interspersed with don't stop Castle – how is he supposed to know what to do? – but on balance he thinks it's time to stop.
He raises his head, looks up the length of her body, licks one last line right through the centre of her core to make her scream and then rises over her to undo her hands, run one of his into her hair and kiss her mouth deeply and appreciatively, then slide home and fill her as she'd like.
She's so ready he barely moves before she's breaking around him and crying his name and dragging him close and over her and simply over. He collapses over her, covering her, keeping her warm and safe, rewarded with her arms around him, holding him tight to her. He never stays there for long, quick to roll over and have her draped over him, to pet her and be petted and cuddle softly together.
There's only one thing that isn't quite right. His nimble fingers undo the knotted laces at the dimple in her back, loosen them. Then he slides her off him, deaf to her protest, and delicately undoes the front fastenings under their pretty, decorative bows to peel it away from her skin.
"I thought you liked it," Beckett murmurs, as he pulls her back into his embrace.
"I do," Castle agrees. "I surely do." He pauses.
"But I love you best without any structural variations at all."
Fin
Thank you to everyone who has read and/or reviewed. Reviews do mean a lot.
May I call on the collective wisdom of the board? If I were to go on holiday to New Orleans, round about Easter, what would you suggest I see or do?
