(Wicked) Wishes (Rated M)
The action in this chapter of Wishes fits in the middle of chapter two, and please note the rating change. Chapter four is again back to a T rating, so you can skip straight to it if the M-rating does not appeal. Happy Birthday, Alex!
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When he exits his bathroom, teeth brushed, face washed, Frosty pajamas tied and buttoned, he expects to find her reading, as she almost always is before bed, whether at her place or at his. A small stack of her current reading selections permanently occupies the nightstand on her side of his bed just for that reason.
But instead of sitting in her new reindeer-covered flannel, propped against his pillows, novel in hand, he finds her snuggled down under the sheet and blanket and comforter, her chin peeking out over the trim. And there is a suspiciously festive pile of clothing on the chair on her side of the bed.
"Pajamas not fit?"
"Oh, no, they were fine."
He slides under the covers on his side, pulling them up under his chin to match her pose, turns his head and meets her profile, in gentle relief against the moonlit window.
"Comfy?"
"Mmmmm hmmmm. Very."
What the hell? His girlfriend is presumably naked under his covers, and despite acting very interested in a little private merry making ever since agreeing to stay the night, now she's playing coy?
Maybe she's opted for the Green Lantern t-shirt that has become unofficially hers despite also being one of his favorites. She'll even steal it off his back to wear to bed, claiming it's the softest one he has. Secretly he thinks she likes it because it carries his rugged, manly scent, but tonight, its color would also be appropriately Christmasy. Assuming that must be it, he still feels the need to confirm she's no longer game for some big-kid Christmas Eve fun. Because really, Christmas comes but once a year...
"Sleepy?"
Her smile is slow to grow, curving up one corner of her mouth, then dipping in the middle, and finally finishing with the steady rise of the other corner into the perfect shallow "u". Good rarely comes of a grin that slow to materialize. Or more accurately, very rarely, something truly excellent has come of it...
"Not at all. Actually, I thought you might want to open one more present before we go to sleep."
Maybe she's got that little box from her coat pocket, all wrapped up in shiny red paper, with her under the covers? His confusion coalesces in a grin, because delayed gratification has never been his thing when it comes to Christmas presents. Turning on his side to face her fully, he inches over closer.
"Sounds like a great idea. Should I go get it from under the tree?"
"Nope, it's right here." Her eyes drop to the covers vaguely outlining her body.
That sounds like an invitation, and she doesn't seem to be moving to lift the blankets herself, so he reaches over, peels them back slowly, revealing more and more and more skin, until he sees that she's nearly naked, but not quite.
Oh holy Christmas cookies; his girlfriend is wearing nothing but a bright red bow and a smile.
His conscious mind has just vacated the premises, but his subconscious tells him this is the big satin ribbon he had wrapped around her pajama box, all wide and slippery and blazingly, riotously red.
Feeling like a deer in the headlights, no pun intended, well, pun somewhat intended, he shakes his head, tries to clear it, make a plan.
Kiss her. That's always a good plan.
But as he leans in toward her lips, she raises an eyebrow and places an index finger pointedly against one smiling snowman's nose in the center of his chest, waiting until she speaks to poke him firmly with the single digit.
"Hold your horses, Frosty. You have to unwrap me first."
Oh good god, it's the Bedroom Voice. That voice does things to his body, well hell, it's already done things, as if the bow tied around the narrowest point of her waist isn't doing enough on its own. He's done. Already done.
He's pretty sure his circulatory system has shunted every drop of blood that ought to be feeding his brain, directing it to give a witty, snarky response, to points south, well, one very specific point south... But the five remaining blood cells bouncing around above his neck finally conspire to orchestrate a smile, and that smile leans down and in until he's hovering near one pointed tip of silky ribbon, a ruby stripe through the porcelain expanse of skin. Just as he opens his mouth to take it between his teeth, he's stopped short by her voice, definitely no longer of the bedroom variety.
"Really, Castle? With your teeth?"
As he tilts his head up, he finds her eyebrow arched high on her forehead, lips down-turned in disappointment.
"You are my present, Beckett, and I feel the need to point out that presents do not have the authority to dictate how they are unwrapped by their recipients. Also, you are lying in my bed on Christmas Eve, wearing only this little red bow tied around your waist, grinning like the Cheshire Cat and asking me to unwrap you. I think in this situation, teeth are entirely in order."
Even her eye-roll can't dim the rush of Christmas glee that's suffused his whole body, flushed his skin, elevated his... spirit. With a smirk, he ducks his head again and delicately takes one end of the ribbon between his teeth, careful to allow the stubble on his chin to graze her belly just enough to tease, and tugs, pulling until one loop has nearly disappeared through the knot in the center.
Her abs contract in anticipation, and as he pulls down, the center releases, and her ribs expand. Continuing his smooth, gentle glide away from her, the knot works itself undone, and the ribbon slides along, dragging across the pale but flushing skin of her hip as it uncurls from her body. Goosebumps rise in its wake, and her back arches off the mattress as the end finally slithers out from under her.
Her eyes are unfocused, lips parted, and her arms lay limp against the pillow, framing her face as she watches the ribbon puddle near her hip and him climb back up the bed to her side.
Time to explore this present a little more thoroughly. Because even if he's had her in his bed a hundred times, well, one-hundred forty-seven times if you want to be specific, he will never, ever tire of finding new ways to make her crazy for him.
Voice gruff, a full octave lower than he remembers it, he stretches over her, holding himself up on hands and knees so that he's hovering above her-not touching-and lets his stream of consciousness spill over her body.
"I don't know what you've got out under the tree in that tiny little box," he finds the angle of her elbow still bent up above her head and bumps the tip of his nose against the soft skin on its inner curve, uses his warm breath and skimming lips to draw a line from there down the underside of her arm just because he knows it will set off every nerve, "but I'm afraid there's no way it's going to beat this present."
Arriving at the dip and rise of her underarm, he nuzzles against the soft skin, insistent even when she tries to fold that arm down self-consciously. She has a thing about letting him have the run of her body when she hasn't showered, but he finds that slight tang of sweat mixed with the remnants of antiperspirant and body lotion incredibly sexy. It must be some deep-rooted instinct, because it turns him on more than a whiff of expensive perfume or the scent of her favorite bubble bath. Maybe because this is just her, and when she leaves his bed, this is the smell he can bury his nose in her pillow and find. Not that he's done that before. Or waited an extra day to change the pillowcase when he knows he'll be on his own for the night. That would be besotted, and pathetic, and he smiles against her skin because he did it last week.
With her arms up, her back is still arched, pushing her breasts up toward him, almost an appeal to appreciate their round fullness, the rosy hue of her nipples. Letting his words wash warm over one peak, he sneaks a look at her face, finds her watching him, eyes dark and lids low.
"This gift is just my style, really."
Letting his tongue circumnavigate the tightening flesh, he draws a contented sigh from her, feels her chest rise in encouragement for him to take her into his warm mouth, and since when can he disappoint her? But he has other places to visit, so he suckles briefly, hums against her when she gasps and threads her fingers into his hair, then pulls back, escapes her hold, runs his roughened cheek lightly along the curving underside, ends his sweep at the faded pink pucker at her sternum. Though he won't dwell here, doesn't unless he's feeling maudlin or needs reassurance, he will acknowledge the spot.
"It's exquisitely beautiful-"
Pressing his lips just long enough to feel her heart beating beneath them, he moves on, leaves a wet trail at the crease of skin below her other breast, dips to find the other spot she's still self-conscious about, though so much less now than when they started doing this in full daylight.
"-powerful, but smooth."
His mouth traces the nearly flat line between her ribs, then wanders down to where the ribbon had spanned her waist, recapitulating its path across her navel with a tiny pause to taste that perfect round indentation.
"Very refined-"
Dropping to the spot where her hip meets her thigh, he tongues the imaginary line downward until he's over her center, lets out a warm puff of air, watches her hips flex up, her thighs subtly spread for him.
"-but so responsive."
How she manages to put together a coherent sentence when she's practically vibrating with arousal, muscles quivering in anticipation, he will never understand, but she does, though the smoky tenor reveals her flustered state.
"It sounds like you're describing your Ferrari."
Unable to help the smile at her snark, he catches the sparkle in her eyes as he dips his tongue into her folds, finds her swollen and soaking wet. His tongue gives her a long, thorough swipe, and her voice rings out above him with an incoherent groan as he settles himself between her legs.
"Oh, but this present is so much better than a car. This present can get goose bumps-"
Using the flat of his tongue, he gently cradles her nub, the purpling tip just peeking out from her delicate hood. Closing his lips over her, he swirls his tongue lightly, circles and then flicks as her body writhes and her breath catches. Disengaging, he gives her a moment to breathe, steady herself, because he has plans for a marathon, not a sprint. He speaks into the soft skin above her pubic bone.
"-and it blushes and sighs and even gasps if I do everything just right."
When he returns to her center and pulls her flesh gently between his teeth, she does exactly as he's just described. Returning to the soft hold of lips and the warm press of his tongue, he flickers fast and firm, then curls around her and sucks until he feels her hips pulse up and hears her voice break on his name. Then he's all softness and languid strokes, easing her over the peak as her movements stutter and ebb under him, her breathing harsh and halting as she falls.
Before she can settle, he slides two thick fingers inside her, curls them forward to trap the rough patch on her inner wall and stroke it with enough force to surprise her, make her desperate to climb again for him. That little mewling whimper that means she's acquiescing to more, letting him take her up, nearly makes him stop just so that he can be inside her the next time. But instead he shifts his hips against the bed, temporarily easing the ache of his own impatient arousal.
His tongue flattens over her, letting the movement of her hips dictate the pressure and friction she needs. But his fingers are more insistent, knowing he can drive her to distraction with just the right strokes in just the right place, and if the noises she's making are any indication, he's got her right where he wants her, which is nearly undone. Not wanting her over sensitized, and knowing if he hesitates, she'll get back inside her head and slow herself down, he perseveres, wants her to come fast and hard.
The third finger stretching and curling and bearing down is what tips her over, and she lets out one sharp cry as she tenses, muscles clamping around his fingers, hips rocking up into his waiting mouth. When she's worked her way down from the peak, controlled her breathing, stilled her seeking hips, he slides out of her, pulls away, has shucked off his flannel in seconds and is back on top of her, pulling covers up over them as he pins her down against the mattress.
It's a warm, soft cocoon under the blankets, and she's slid down off the pillow, so they've sunk deep into his bed, carving out a hollow with the weight of their bodies. Her eyes are liquid amber, her lips a tender bow, cheeks flushed to crimson, and she's boneless under him, shifting to wrap herself around him until it seems only natural to immerse himself in her snug and welcoming heat. Moving slowly, he watches her as their bodies merge, sees in her eyes the moment he's filled her fully, just as his hips come to rest against hers.
They fit so well. After so many years of dancing around it, sex had come easily to them. Used to interpreting every other cue, finding ways to make her lose her composure had seemed almost laughably, delightfully simple. And he's been building on that ease for more than half a year, so even like this, with him so eager and her half-lulled into a post-orgasmic haze, he knows he can coax another climax out of her. Keeping everything unhurried, deliberate, he strokes deep inside her and stays there, circling his hips with each tight thrust.
When she goes from pliant and wreathed around him to arching against every smooth descent, he knows he has her. The little hum she repeats as he bottoms out inside her spurs him on, speeds him up, and she meets the faster pace, lifts her hips and squeezes her inner muscles around him every time he slides away. Her fingers have curled at the small of his back, but she unwraps her legs and plants her feet, skims her hands down to clutch at his ass, pull him in closer, urge him to work himself deeper inside her. He does, and she lets out an "oh" of shock, pleasure radiating from widening eyes, parting lips, gasping breath.
He's been biding his time, waiting her out, so focused on her reactions that it takes him completely by surprise when his body responds to hers with the sharp, inevitable tingle at the base of his spine, the sudden compulsion to just embed himself within her, swift and relentless and unceasing, until they both come apart.
"Castle."
The urgency in her voice is what does it, what lets that fierceness loose. And then his skin is sliding hot against hers, slicked by sweat and arousal, his muscles are burning as they flex again and again, striving for speed and just the right tension, the perfect amount of wild, spiking force to carry her up that final stretch with him.
The first flutter comes as he's buried to the hilt inside her, and just as she lets out a cry and tightens down around him, tilting to take as much of him as she can, he surges into her, spasming and releasing in time with her rhythm as her body pulsates, tries to pull him deeper. He doesn't even recognize that he's chanting over and over until his body stills, the last ounce of pleasure finally wrung out of him. But he hears himself then, "Love you, Kate," repeating against the background of her panting breath, her quiet murmur of "I know, I know," finally sinking in through the rosy haze.
Burying his face in her neck, he can't believe he's done such a stupid, clichéd thing. Those words never come out of his mouth when they're in bed, because he knows it would just put pressure on her to answer, and the last thing he wants is to hear her say those three words for the first time when she's out of control, or worse yet, feeling obligated or sorry for him. So he puts a vise around his heart to keep everything inside, because he wants to say it every single time. He's never been one to mix love and lust, never one to say those words lightly, and he thinks he can count on one hand the number of times he's said them in bed. But from their very first time, all those months ago when she threw herself into his arms and told him she wanted him, he's had to fight the overwhelming urge to let the joy spill out in those perfect words.
But she seems to have weathered his slip well, is stroking a hand along his back and another through his hair, not whispering some pity-laden statement in his ear. Rolling off to her side, he pulls her against his chest, tucks her under his chin, breathes easier for having unburdened his heart without handicapping hers. He's just drifted back toward the blissful thought that he has her with him, his longest and least probable Christmas Eve wish finally granted, when she takes in a breath to speak. Her words come out slow and measured, sending tiny huffs of air across the cooling skin over his heart.
"You left out one... very... important... thing that this present can do."
Ah, so she is okay-back to banter. He's surprised she was even paying attention to what he'd been saying as he worked over her, and the thought of her unfailing concentration brings out a smile he knows she can't see.
"Just one? I think we must have covered at least twenty."
That earns him a soft thwack against his stomach, where her hand has been idly drawing patterns.
"Those things too, but that's not what I meant. Something else."
Not sure where she's going, he decides to let her lead.
"I give up. No brain cells left to be clever right now."
She doesn't move, doesn't meet his eyes, keeps her cheek flush against his ribcage, in a perfect spot to hear his heart flip and roll and restart when she speaks.
"This present can love you back."
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Joy, my beta, you shall be eating Tex-Mex while I suffer on the East Coast for another week. I toast you from a distance with a very large Margarita in thanks for looking this over while driving cross-country. I'll join you shortly.
Readers, your response to the first two chapters of this story have been amazing. What a wonderful surprise to have so much lovely feedback on my little Christmas story. I'll probably try to keep it going for a few more chapters, maybe finishing by New Year's. Happy holidays, whichever ones you may celebrate!
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