WARNING: Rated M.
Fantasy Fridays
Chapter Nineteen: Mile High
She wakes to the clatter of metal and a sharp pain in her ankle. She doesn't remember leaving her foot in the aisle. She fell asleep almost as soon as they took off and, judging by the blackness outside of Castle's still-open window shade and the corresponding dark hum of the cabin, they're in the small hours of the morning somewhere over the Atlantic.
The steward, a peppy fellow whose quiff of hair and tailored uniform are immaculate despite the hour, apologizes in Italian. He offers her a selection of pre-poured cups of water and orange juice, and even though her mouth is dry, she shakes her head.
She slides the thin partition between her seat and the aisle closed, tucking herself and her fiancé into their own little cocoon. She stretches until her feet disappear under the seat in front of her, then she lays her head back down on Castle's shoulder. It's still warm, molded to the plane of her cheek like it was made for her. She can't usually sleep on flights, but having her own personal teddy bear, hot water bottle, and pillow all rolled into one makes it a lot easier.
Her hips ache from being frozen in one position for so long, making her regret insisting on business class seats when they were booking the flights yesterday. The return to New York was a last-minute decision and naturally, the first class seat prices were extreme. Just because she's going to be his wife doesn't mean she's going to suddenly start shopping like Meredith or Gina. Castle insisted he didn't mind paying extra, but she told him in no uncertain terms that while she didn't mind paying for nice things if they could, they weren't about to shell out an extra twenty grand just to sit in a chair that reclined a few degrees further for a couple of hours.
Okay, so nine and a half hours.
It's the red-eye part that's getting her - spending a day on a plane after a good night's sleep is one thing, but spending a night on a plane after a hard day's walk through the Italian countryside - while stopping at every vineyard along the way for tastings - is another.
Castle mumbles something beside her, but she can't hear his words over the white noise of the engine. He talks in his sleep a lot actually, and sometimes she's floating close enough to the surface of consciousness to hear it and snicker to herself at the strange made-up languages he talks in. When morning comes, she never remembers what exactly it was that he said.
She nuzzles her cheek against his shoulder and thinks back to the first flight they took together. When she was more wary of his charm, and he more careful with his affection. When she sat in awkward, upright silence, unable to sleep, reading and re-reading the letter in her hands.
He murmurs again, this time her name, followed by a purring noise that she thinks she recognizes.
She turns into him and slides her hand under his blanket, intending to wrap her arm loosely around his waist.
Instead, she bumps into something.
Something…firm.
She smiles and rolls her eyes. Trust Rick to have a naughty dream about her while he's sleeping sitting straight up on an airplane.
She tries to leave her arm still across his lower belly, but it's just too tempting. The pressure of his arousal feels so familiar, so addicting, that it draws her in like a magnet.
First she brushes over his tip with just her forearm. He's wearing dress pants instead of jeans, and she can feel every contour of him. Heat collects under the blanket, magnifying as she brushes slowly against him.
She stops to study his face, his breathing. He's well and truly out.
She almost giggles, because he inspires her to do ridiculous things. Things he would do. Things she secretly always wanted to do. She has no doubt that if he found her wet and wanting under the soft jersey dress she's wearing, he'd start exploring, see how long he could work at her until she woke up panting and begging for release.
She carefully navigates to his button and undoes his pants, drawing the zipper down slowly and silently.
An older woman passes down the aisle on her way to the lavatory. The partition doesn't offer much privacy, really, since anyone who's standing can see over it. Kate freezes under the blanket and squeezes her eyes shut in feigned sleep.
She waits until she can feel the presence pass, scanning through her eyelashes until the coast is clear.
Then she slides her hand down under the band of Castle's boxers, over the wiry brush of hair at the base of his cock until she's got him under her palm. She used to think the adjectives used in romance novels were ridiculous, words like 'throbbing' and 'straining,' but she can't think of better words to describe him.
Well, her mouth isn't dry anymore. He's delicious, and she loves tasting him, but she's not sure how much she can get away with on a plane full of people, so she just wraps her hand gently around him and strokes, drawing him out of his pants to give her room to move along him.
He growls in his sleep. At least she thinks he's still asleep. She kind of doesn't care anymore.
She closes her eyes and feels her own cheeks flush as he grows harder for her. Her strokes are leisurely, rolling tugs, slow and sensual, and her pulse thuds in her neck, harder and harder until she can feel it in her chest, her stomach, between her legs.
She wants him badly.
"Turn towards the aisle, Kate." He whispers it in against her forehead, startling her so bad that she squeezes him, earning another growl.
"You're awake," she whispers back, eyes flying open to meet his in the shadows.
"Kinda hard to sleep when you're jacking me off. Turn towards the aisle."
She shuffles over, turning her back to him, wondering what his plan is. He adjusts the blanket, spreading it over both of them, and even though it's thin, she's burning up as soon as they're under together.
Thank goodness the armrest folds up all the way, she thinks. He tugs her back into the cradle of his hips, and even though it's an insanely uncomfortable position to hold, she thinks she can hold it long enough for what he has in mind.
He grinds into her through the soft fabric of her dress, and she wonders if he has his eyes closed like hers, still a little drowsy, but mostly trying to look like just another sleeping couple if anyone passes.
He slows down until she thinks he's fallen asleep again, then suddenly he starts moving again, walking his fingers up between her thighs until he presses two against her underwear, finding the taut little ridge under the damp cloth and circling.
She bites her lip to keep from gasping.
It's dreamy. Surreal. The gentle way he's rolling his fingers over her clit, the sleepy noise of the plane.
And then he traces the edge of her underwear with one wet finger, until he gains entry and slides under the fabric and into her body. His finger feels thick and long, and he knows just how to angle it to get her instantly on edge.
He draws in and out, over and over, sometimes staying longer to massage her from within until he can feel her tighten, hear her on the verge of a moan.
Finally, finally, he pushes her skirt up over her thighs. She checks that she's still covered by the blanket before she presses back into him suggestively.
His cock is standing at attention, and he uses his hand to angle it down, to press it between her legs.
Then he uses it - not his fingers - to push her underwear aside. He's nothing if not talented.
He slides into her on one full, slow push, and she wants to let out a corresponding noise, to make a sound as loud as her pleasure.
He feels even bigger than usual.
When it's slow like this, when both of them are enjoying every millimeter of ecstasy, they can make sex last for hours. But obviously it's not the time or place, and Castle must know it too, because he shifts his hips until he finds the spot within her that drives her mad - the spot that almost aches it feels so good, and then he brings his fingers back to her clit.
She focuses on a seatbelt sign over the middle row, watches as it flickers on and off with each flutter of her lashes.
The electricity gathers, drawing in tightness from every end of every nerve in her body. She pulses around him, hoping to help him get there with her, flexes her most private muscles in the effort of sucking out his orgasm.
When she comes, she loses her hearing for a few seconds. The blood rushing in her ears drowns out even the volume of the jet engines, and it takes her a full minute to flutter back to reality.
She's not even sure if he made it with her, until she shifts her hips and feels the gush of warmth. He clamps a hand on her hip.
"Do you think they still pass out warm washcloths on these flights?" he asks in a happy whisper.
She clamps a hand over her mouth to stifle her laugh.
The things this man can get her to do.
A few days later, back in New York, Kate collects their mail from the boxes in the lobby. It gives her a little thrill to sort through the letters, to see her name on some of them. She hasn't moved into the loft yet, not properly, but it's a step, and she finds that she likes it. Loves it. That even their mail sleeps side by side every night.
There's a tiny bubble mailer with her name on it, and she frowns at it, trying to think of her recent orders. New high-heeled boots in a gray suede leather, and a super-size pack of coffee filters from Amazon, but neither of those is small enough to fit in this.
In the loft, she sets down her bag, kicks off her shoes, and sinks down next to Castle on the couch, sorting the mail into two piles on the coffee table while he catches up on last week's episode of Wives of Wall Street. She rolls her eyes - she can't believe he still actually watches that horrendous show.
She waves the bubble mailer at him. "I got a cute little package."
"Ooh ooh ooh can I open it?" Castle asks, suddenly alert.
"My name on it, babe," she teases, holding it just out of his reach. She rips it open and shakes the contents into her hand.
It's a pair of matching golden pins in the shape of wings, with a tiny airplane engraved in the center. Surrounding the airplane is a circle inscribed with the words "Mile High Club" on the top arc, and "Member" on the bottom.
"I guess I don't have to ask who ordered these," she says, throwing an exaggerated glance of exasperation at him.
"Come on, you love them. Let's wear them right now!" He grabs the pins from her open palm and goes straight for her shirt.
She rolls her eyes - again - but she lets him attach it. She wears it for the rest of the evening, and even lets him stage a reenactment on the couch.
A/N: Hope that was satisfactory! Have an awesome weekend, folks. :)