A/N: Honestly, I got to thank Tree23 for reading and rereading a great part of this chapter until we felt it was good enough to show to other people (lol). While I'm at it, I'd like to give a shout out to fanfictioncaskett4 as well, who chats with me every single day and constantly pushes me to write and still reviews pretty much every chapter. You both are great ;)
Readers out there: please review if you have time – it really helps with the whole writing process. Hope you enjoy this chapter (the longest one yet!). As you can see, I got a little carried away writing this one…
It had taken Kate a little over half an hour to get ready for her homemade dinner with Castle.
After taking a quick shower just to freshen up, she had debated on what to wear for the evening, because lounging in her PJ's had been out of the question, but so had been dressing up to stay home – especially since Rick himself had arrived in plain jeans and a maroon sweater (coupled with a leather jacket that he would probably have neglected to her couch by then). Painfully aware of the fact that Castle had been cooking for them the whole time she had stood unmoving in the bedroom in her pensive mode, the brunette had decided on navy suede leggings with a black and white striped tunic top and black ballet flats – in hopes that it would pass for casual but not underdressed – and then walked out of her bedroom to help the writer in the kitchen.
When she reached the living room, though, Kate was greeted with the sight of her dining table all set, tableware and cutlery already in their proper place, and a pristine kitchen area. Castle was bent down checking the food in oven.
She was amazed. "You've done everything already?"
He turned to look at her, surprised to find her there, and nodded with a smile. "Not as hard as it seems." The writer turned off the oven and walked over to the table to open the wine bottle. "You look nice," He told her with an appreciative grin as he poured each of them a glass.
"Thank you," She said, accepting her wineglass and taking a sip. At least the time it had taken her to get ready had not been in vain, she mused. Pointing to the oven then, the detective inquired about their food, "Is it ready?"
"A few minutes to go. But we can have bruschetta while we're waiting," Rick announced as showed his date a plate with the antipasto on the table. He then took a bite of one of the grilled breads topped with tomato and basil.
"You prepared bruschetta?" She asked, impressed, voicing the word in Italian accent.
Still swallowing his food, he repeated in question, intrigued, "Brüs-ke-ta?"
Realizing that she'd inadvertently used the proper pronunciation, a rosy color tainted her cheeks – she hoped he wouldn't think she was a snob. Shrugging shyly, she explained, "It's just how the word is actually pronounced in Italian, and it kinda stuck in my head that way."
"Yes, I know that's the Italian pronunciation," He told her with a smirk.
Of course he does, she mentally slapped herself. Being a world-famous bestselling novelist, he'd probably eaten those stupid bruschette in a stupid Italian fancy restaurant in stupid Italy. Probably while in the company of a stupid Italian model.
"I was just wondering how you knew that's the Italian pronunciation," Kate heard him mention.
"Oh." She debated a second on what to tell him. "I just read a lot," She told him nonchalantly as she picked up a bruschetta topped with prosciutto for herself.
The writer didn't buy that for a second. "What, you read the NATO phonetic alphabet in your spare time?"
Beckett laughed. "Fine, I speak a little Italian," She relented. "I studied it my first year in Stanford."
"You went to Stanford?" The information wowed him.
"Just my freshman year. I ended up transferring to NYU during my sophomore year," She conceded the information, knowing she didn't sound as carefree then as she did a second before.
"NYU?" He asked, confused.
By the look on Castle's face, he was about to ask Kate why she'd traded easygoing California to come back to concrete jungle New York still in her college years, but she wasn't ready – nor wanted – to discuss that with him.
So, opting to give him something else to focus on before he had a chance to open the can of worms, she told him casually, "Yeah. Anyway, learning Italian came in real handy when I dated this guy from Rome during my semester abroad."
The novelist's brain started going a hundred miles an hour with these tidbits she was throwing his way. He didn't know if he'd want to hear stories about Kate dating an Italian man, though, so he concentrated on the 'semester abroad' part of her speech. "You studied in Italy?!"
"No," The detective replied as she picked up a second bruschetta, acting blasé. "Kiev, Ukraine."
Rick was floored, but still tried his best to remain cool. "You speak Ukrainian?"
"I do," She took a bite of her entrée. "But, actually, Russian is more widely used in Kiev than Ukrainian."
"You speak Russian too?!" He squeaked in complete astonishment. Coolness be damned.
"Yes," She smirked a little before recounting, "My maternal grandparents fled from Kiev in the aftermath of World War II. They were so young back then, Castle. Their parents had been killed and the city was a wreck... they needed a new place to build their lives. So, at first they moved to Montreal, but then a few years later they came to New York. They taught me the little Russian they still knew when I was growing up, but when I got older I thought it would be cool to learn more about my family heritage. So I spent six months in Kiev."
Rick was hanging on Beckett's every word, committing everything she was saying to memory, as if each piece of information were a piece of a puzzle he'd get the chance to put together later on. Way later on, it seemed, because, for the moment, the more he learned about her, the less sense she made to him.
"That really does sound cool," Beckett heard the novelist say, completely in awe of her.
She couldn't help but find adorable how his mouth took a little longer than it normally would to close once the words had left his lips. That's how entranced he was with her, and it made her feel proud and honored. However, even as Kate smiled at Castle's immersion in her words, the joy didn't quite reach her eyes. The detective knew that, although the story she had just relayed to him pretty much summarized her reasons for going away in 1999, she had deliberately omitted the fact that the trip to Ukraine had taken place a couple of months after her mother's murder.
It honestly seemed that, no matter the circumstance, the ache she felt due to her mother's death would always find a way to resurface.
The buzzing from the oven timer startled Beckett out of her funky mood.
In a heartbeat, Castle was already moving around the kitchen, picking up the ovenproof dish and carrying it to the table.
"Dinner smells amazing," The brunette found herself saying.
Awareness set it, and then Kate's heart quickened. She couldn't tell if it was the tone she had used or the words themselves, or if it was the fact that she was standing in her apartment with a man and had a home-cooked meal set on the dining table, but that short sentence, so unassuming – dinner smells amazing –, evoked a sense of intimacy and commitment she was not expecting.
It left her feeling flushed.
Then, as uneasiness started to set in instead, the detective became aware of Castle's curious eyes watching her fondly. "What?" She asked, now self-conscious.
In a failed attempt to cover up the fact that he was pretty much making goo-goo eyes at her, Rick told her, "Nothing. I hope you like fettuccine carbonara."
Beckett was sure that it wasn't 'nothing', but there was no way she was ready to call him on it. She definitely needed to clear the air, which was feeling heavy instead of comforting with all the tenderness and affection in the room.
"I do." She replied to his comment on the menu, accepting the form of deflection. "So, shall we eat?"
"Good idea," He told her, holding out a chair for her.
As dinner went by, Kate and Rick enjoyed their delicious meal – the novelist was also a great cook, apparently – and talked to each other about almost anything that popped to mind, from sports and travels to their careers and even their teenage years and past relationships. In spite of their acceptance of having personal conversations, they never breached anything too personal, as Beckett refrained from telling him about her mother's murder and Castle avoided anything that could lead to the topic of his unknown father or the reasons for his failed marriages.
In any case, they were having a great time together.
They finished their main course in companionable silence, just enjoying each other's company for a while. Rick was now even more in awe of her than he thought he could be; she was a complex woman, so serious and relaxed at that same time, and this somehow just didn't add up for him. She was definitely keeping something close to her chest – something about the person she had lost – and he was determined to wait her out until she was ready to tell him about it. Kate Beckett certainly seemed worth the wait to him.
Kate, for her part, was also trying to understand how she could be acting so controversially. She knew from her days in therapy that her mother's murder had made her build a fortress around herself in order to protect her from the outside world. It had taken her a year of therapy just to accept that she would have to let her mother's case go unsolved if she wanted a chance at living her own life. It had taken another year to work on being ready to let someone into her heart again, and that objective clearly hadn't been accomplished – she just had to look at what happened with Will.
She knew she wasn't ready. She knew she still had a lot of armor. She knew she still kept a foot out of the door when it came to relationships.
Yet there was something about Rick Castle.
Beckett knew she was attracted to him – hard not to, considering Rick was a sexy, 6"1, broad-shouldered man with big, strong hands and soft blue eyes. But attraction wasn't even half of it.
So, what was it about Castle that made her heart beat a little faster? How was it that he managed to make her feel a little bit more like her younger self?
The writer was playful. He was thrilling, and kind of wild, and surprising. He was fun.
Kate missed fun. She missed being fun.
She really did need someone fun in her life.
And, okay, so maybe she wasn't ready to be "all in" in a relationship. But Kate didn't think Castle was ready either – he said he wanted something real, but he still was a playboy, right? That's not something he could change overnight.
So, she was still safe inside her walls. Rick wouldn't push her. They could have fun together, and, whenever she felt like it, she could take a peek outside her fortress.
Baby steps, she thought.
"What are you thinking about?" She heard Castle ask, lightness in his voice.
His question caught the brunette off guard. "What?"
Oh, right, his mind clicked, remembering that Kate Beckett apparently didn't do well with forthrightness. Rick had to work on his subtlety. And use his humor.
Baby steps, he thought.
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to pry, but –" He was stopped by the look at her face.
"Really, Castle?" She told him, disbelieving. "You didn't mean to pry? 'Cause, since I've met you, that's pretty much all you've tried to do."
"Fine, I meant to pry," he relented in mock insolence. "But only because you've been gone up there in your head for, like, five minutes."
She had, hadn't she?
"I'm sorry," She told him guiltily. "I guess I got a little caught up in my thoughts."
"Anything I can help you with?" He offered, honestly.
Kate wasn't sure if she was expecting an immature joke or even some sexual innuendo, but she certainly wasn't anticipating Castle's thoughtful reply.
Trying to get a hold of herself, she lied, "Nah… it´s just work stuff."
His eyes gleamed. "So it is something I can help you with."
That actually got a chuckle out of her. "How can you be so excited about my work?"
"You're an NYPD homicide detective. What's not to like about that?"
"Death," She told him immediately, with a touch of sarcasm. "Loss. Injustice, tragedy…"
The writer considered cracking a joke or pointing out all the cool aspects of the job in his opinion, but her last words had held such respect for the victims, her eyes showing just enough personal pain, to make him think better of it. Still, he needed to keep up his side of the banter. "Yes, that's true," He started, in a conciliatory tone, "but, you also get to do car chases, and shoot-outs, and arrest bad guys…"
She appreciated his effort to lighten things up. "You're making me come off as the female John McClaine, Castle."
"Ooh, a Die Hard reference! A woman after my own heart," he told her, beaming. "But no, you're not the female John McClaine."
"You sure? I can do a mean 'yippee ki-yay' when I want to."
Rick smiled, awestruck at the woman in front of him for a moment. Focus, his brain told him.
"You're more of a John McClaine meets Sherlock Holmes," The novelist clarified. "I can't say about the 'yippee ki-yay', but I know you do have mean detecting skills, Detective."
Despite her best efforts, Kate smiled bashfully at the open compliment. Trying to throw him off his game, she joked, "Wow, Castle, I didn't know that you could give a girl a compliment without turning it into something sexual."
"I'm glad you noticed," He told her in mock relief. Then, knowing that she was probably expecting it and not wanting to disappoint, he leaned forward and added in a deep voice, "Makes you want me more, doesn't it?"
"And there it goes," She rolled her eyes at him half-heartedly.
After dessert – some peanut butter & chocolate chip cookies that Castle had bought in a delicatessen on his way over –, Castle and Beckett had retired to her couch, bringing their wineglasses with them.
Kate still had a contemplative look in her face from time to time, so Rick just assumed she was worried about her work.
"Why don't you tell me what's bothering you about it?"
"Huh?" Kate really was distracted; being this close to a charming Castle was not doing her any good.
"The murder case – or else, cases," He clarified.
Oh, her cover. Right.
"Castle, you can't interfere. I told you that at the precinct," She told him, tiredly, before remembering something and changing her tone. "Which reminds me, by the way, what the heck did you expect to accomplish when you decided to ask my boss to follow me around, huh?"
He looked sheepish. "Uh, to follow you around."
"Why?"
"I thought it could be fun. Plus, I could use it for a book."
"Having trouble coming up with plots for Derrick Storm, Castle?" She teased him.
"No," He told her in a mocking tone. "Not anymore."
She was curious. "What do you mean, not anymore?"
He opened his mouth to reply, but cut himself short. He still had to tell Beckett that he planned to write a character based on her, didn't he?
Well, first things first.
"It's not important. You know what's important? Your murder cases."
Kate sighed. "Castle, forget about this. You probably have to leave soon, so let's just enjoy the rest of our wine and I'll worry about the case later."
"Come on, I can do this. It sounds like you could use some help."
"What I could use was some evidence. There's no way we can link Mason Archibald definitively to the murders with what we've got. We're missing something." She sighed again. "Oh, why am I telling you this? I'm not even supposed to discuss ongoing cases with people outside the precinct."
Rick watched Kate bite her lower lip in frustration. For some reason, that action set his brain in motion.
The writer rested his glass on the coffee table and then turned his body towards the brunette. "So, Archibald is a rich, powerful guy. He's in his forties, still single – a ladies' man, right? Well, not exactly. He used to be a party boy in his earlier years, but since he's become the CEO of his own company, he's turned quiet, reserved. He's rarely seen with women in public appearances – when he's seen in public at all. If it weren't for his wealth, people wouldn't even notice him. They barely do as it is."
Kate listened as Rick reported what he knew about Archibald, feeling confused. Why did that matter?
Castle didn't even take notice of the woman's reservations; he continued narrating, his tone shifting from explanatory to storytelling, somehow growing more intimate. "But Mason notices Barbara. One nice April afternoon, he comes to her art gallery to buy some new paintings for his penthouse loft. She's young, beautiful… fun. She's fresh out of her divorce, and she's feeling daring – starts flirting with him. He thinks, why not? So, he takes her out to dinner, brings her home for drinks… maybe more." The novelist's eyes turned a bit darker and his voice dropped an octave. "They meet up a couple of other times that week. A week turns into a month and, by the second month, Mason starts getting a bit possessive. He starts controlling Barbara, calling her all the time, showing up at her gallery for no reason... that doesn't sit well with Babs; she's just looking for some entertainment after her divorce. So, she breaks it off with him by the end of May."
Kate realized what the author was doing – he was painting her a picture of what could have happened in the murder cases. Suddenly absorbed, she watched as Rick stopped speaking for a moment to take a sip of his wine, the two of them never breaking eye contact, though. It was clear that the writer wasn't finished talking, and the brunette could already feel herself getting even more drawn into his story.
She would bet he could felt it too.
Not ten seconds had passed before the novelist resumed his tale, "Now, despite his not so charming personality, Mason Archibald is a prominent, influential man, one who doesn't do well with rejection and failure." Castle's speech sounded secretive then. "That's why he doesn't completely let go of Barbara – he still keeps tabs on her. Quietly," Rick whispered the word out, his raised eyebrows making a point to a fascinated Beckett, and waited a beat before adding, "Discreetly."
Without even realizing it, Kate found herself moving closer to Castle, his words pulling her in both figuratively and physically. The detective did manage to notice – faintly – that, despite the fact that he was the one doing the storytelling, Castle was intuitively leaning closer to her as well.
"At first," The novelist went on narrating, "he just wants to know what she's up to, figure out whom she's seeing. Two months go by, then three, and all Mason finds out is that Barbara's been having flings and one night stands. In September he's ready to let it all go, convinced she's not a woman worthy of his affections, but then Mason realizes Babs has become smitten with some guy," Castle said, his tone growing a bit colder, "Ian Cohen, he learns the name." Taking notice of Kate's captivated look, Rick continued. "Mason also learns that Ian is just like himself – powerful, rich, an entrepreneur. Only the other man just turned 30 and is way more charming than him – a social butterfly, people would say. Suddenly, Archibald no longer cares about Barbara's flaws; all he thinks of is how much he liked her when they were together and how she belongs with him, not Ian Cohen. If Babs is going to become serious with someone, it should be with him, Mason Archibald."
Beckett was so far into the plot by that point that she could almost envision the scenes playing out before her eyes – as it was, the female detective could already feel the words leaving the Castle's mouth. Her senses tingled as she took in the changes in Rick's posture; waiting expectantly for the bestselling author to reveal what was going to happen next.
It was an exciting feeling, she mentally acknowledged. Anticipation.
Kate was not disappointed when the novelist carried on. "So Mason decides to pay a visit to his competition. He goes out of his way to avoid the chance of being recognized – he mingles with a group of neighbors to get into Cohen's building, uses the stairs to avoid the elevator's cameras and then just knocks on Ian's door. He waits until the other man lets him into the apartment, and the two of them argue over Barbara. Mason can't take it – maybe the younger man tells him he can't have Barbara, maybe Ian tells the older man that Babs was never really into him, who cares? The point is, Mason is used to getting his way and no one," Rick raised his voice at the last two words, before reestablishing a more controlled tone, "should interfere with that – certainly not Ian. There's no way Archibald would let someone else take over what was meant to be his in the first place." The writer's eyes became strangely unfocused then. "That's what's going on in the millionaire's mind as he struggles with Cohen – you cannot take her away from me," Rick recounted, his voice turning to almost whispers. "That's the only thing that leaves Mason's mouth as Ian's throat collapses under the pressure of his hands – 'You can't have her; she's mine'."
Once the room became so quiet that only the sounds of their breathing were noticeable, Rick's gaze returned to Kate's mesmerized features.
The brunette couldn't help but feel dumbfounded by Castle's ability to spin a story. Of course she already knew he was great at it – she was a fan of his books, after all –, but to watch his mind at work right before her eyes was something indescribable. And, for the detective, it wasn't just about him being capable of storytelling; she was also impressed that he was so passionate about it.
While they silently regarded each other for what was probably a whole five seconds – although, in her mind, it lasted several minutes – Kate rapidly understood that Rick Castle was, in many ways, probably as devoted to his career as she was to hers, if not more. His motivation most likely didn't come from a personal tragedy as it did in her case, but his fervor for solving things was right there with hers. The writer clearly enjoyed his occupation, Kate could tell from the way his eyes lit up when he was developing a particular theory and all of a sudden everything made sense and fit perfectly in his story; Kate felt the same way when she was conducting an investigation and the detectives managed to piece together all the evidence to put the killer behind bars. Granted, Rick's profession didn't bring people to justice per se, but Kate knew firsthand that, sometimes, it could help bring a sense of closure to the loved ones left behind.
When she thought of him like that, Kate momentarily forgot that Castle could sometimes be a childish man incapable of taking things seriously. Right now, all she could see was an perceptive, caring man. Someone who devoted his time to creating stories that would provide entertainment for the general public and also some sort of comfort for those who were emotionally wounded by the injustice of violent tragedies.
People like her.
Kate was brought out of her reverie by Rick's voice as he continued his narrative in the same hypnotizing tone he'd been using before. "A few days later, when he thinks Ian's death isn't so painful anymore for her, Mason finally gets the courage to go talk to Barbara. He's learned enough about her schedule from his stalking days to know that she'll be alone in her gallery that evening. So he visits her there, going in through the back door to avoid the cameras in the showroom, but she doesn't even give him a chance to discuss them, just flat out tells him off. Once again, he feels his hand being forced; he doesn't even realize what he's doing, until he hears the thud of her lifeless body hitting the ground."
The female detective was so enthralled by Rick's talent and passion for storytelling that she had to swallow her gasps of surprise at the way the plot he'd created was unraveling.
But of course the novelist wasn't done yet. "That's when he notices the object in his hand, a bronze statue of a young ballerina tying the ribbons on her ballet shoes, and realizes what he's done. He doesn't miss the irony of it all – using a small sculpture of an innocent girl to take a young woman's life – but there's nothing he can do about it now. His hands are shaking, the heavy feel of the object he's holding too much to bear. He needs to go." A flash of discomfort crossed Rick's features as he said, "Mason feels remorseful at first, when he remembers how all he wanted was to tell her how much she meant to him and how they should be together; but then his mind is playing tricks on him and suddenly he's conjuring up these images of Barbara laughing at him, calling him pathetic." Different emotions flashed in the writer's eyes then. "He spits on her face – 'Can't laugh at me anymore' – and then leaves the gallery, going out through the same back door he used to come in and escaping into the night, undetected."
Beckett didn't even have time to comment on the story's ending, as Rick had swiftly snapped out of storyteller mode and let the comforting boyish gleam return to his eyes. "See? Tell me the jurors won't believe you if you tell it like that."
Kate tried her best, but failed, to hide her smirk from Castle. She had to admit it to herself: he's annoyingly cute. "Except we don't have evidence of any of that, Castle," She contested, anyway. "Just Archibald's saliva on Barbara's face."
"So?"
"So?" She parroted sarcastically. "So, this is wild speculation. We can't just arrest him based on a story you made up. We need probable cause – evidence corroborating that tale of yours."
"Well, I already told you what happened and how and where it all went down; you just have to find the evidence to prove it, then," He told her with a smirk. "More wine?" He offered, already picking up her goblet off the coffee table and making his way to the kitchen counter to refill their wineglasses.
"Geez, thanks for all the help," He heard her say jokingly, referring to the murder investigation.
He just chuckled.
When Rick returned to the sofa and settled back next to Beckett, his demeanor seemed focused. He passed her one of the wineglasses as he took a sip of the liquid in his own, and then he told her, "So, let's work with what you've found so far and see what we can come up with. I'll help you piece it together."
The spark in Castle's eyes told the brunette that not only was he serious about his offer but also excited about it. Suddenly, the detective caught herself thinking back to that week in September whey they worked together solving the Castle Murders, as she had dubbed them; something he had said about how all it took to solve a crime was to find the story. That's how Castle was going to help her now – by coming up with the story behind the murders. Actually, it was more than that – Rick would get her to think the same way he did when he was writing his books.
Kate was undeniably flattered to be granted an insight into the bestselling novelist's mind.
"Okay," She conceded, proceeding to relate everything the NYPD had managed to pull together so far.
Castle and Beckett had spent over an hour sitting on her sofa and going over the case files, thoroughly discussing every piece of evidence the detectives had uncovered in their investigation, until they had finally found the break the brunette needed to effectively link Mason Archibald to the murders.
All this time, their minds had been solely focused on the cases, the wineglasses long forgotten to the coffee table.
Their bodies, however, had been focused on themselves.
So, by the time the two of them came out of their unexpected theory building stupor, Rick's right hand was sensually grabbing at the left side of Kate's waist, his left one running up her right thigh, as both hands were pulling her into him. Not that she was being taken advantage of, considering that she herself had at some point placed her right tight over his left knee and had both of her hands on his strong, well-built biceps.
Despite the fact that it was early November and that the temperature in her apartment was nowhere near warm, Rick could feel the heat in the room, heat that was coming off both of their bodies. Sitting so close together to each other, their faces pretty much nose to nose, the writer couldn't help but notice the way the room's lamplights were reflecting in her green eyes, darkened with arousal to an almost brownish tone. He was certain his dilated pupils left her no doubt he was feeling the same way.
Nowhere near as confident as he usually was in these situations, the bestselling author spoke in a throaty rumble, "I guess smart really is sexy."
Unconsciously, Kate moved an inch closer to his body, his right knee pressing up against her left inner thigh as a result. "It works for us," She agreed as she ran her fingers over the muscles in his upper arms. "You're surprisingly burly for a writer," she noted absentmindedly.
Her touch was driving him insane. "I'm naturally…" he gulped, distracted, before finishing, "large."
It was such a stupid thing to say, so suggestive and bordering on crude that she would have hit the guy who said this if he weren't Castle.
Only it was Castle, and for once he didn't mean to imply anything sexual. It scared the detective for a second that in so little time he had been able to get her to make exceptions for his behavior, better yet, to accept him as he was. This was Castle being Castle, tripping all over his words because she held that kind of power over him. And she liked him this way.
Beckett ended up moaning a husky "I guess" in reply to his claim of being large, and the guttural noise resonated unmistakably to the novelist's ears.
It drove him over the edge.
Castle pulled Kate's face to his, closing the distance between them in a long, deep, open-mouthed kiss that had them both feeling desperate with arousal and incapable of letting go. Without breaking the kiss, the brunette folded her slender arms around Rick's neck, lightly biting on his lower lip and drawing it into her own mouth; in return, the writer wrapped his own arms around her waist and tugged her onto his lap, causing her to pant into his mouth.
Beckett adjusted herself on Castle's lap, efficiently winding her legs around his waist without unlocking their lips. His left hand traveled up to the back of her head, practically merging her mouth to his, and he groaned into her when she instinctively undulated her hips over his.
Their kisses grew even more urgent and needy than the couple thought possible, Rick's tongue finding the sweet taste of her own as Kate's hand explored his body. She ran her hands over his abdomen, holding on to his sweater while she lowered her back onto the couch, successfully pulling the garment off the waist of his pants and dragging his body over hers at the same time.
In their new position, Castle finally found the strength to break their kisses, but only so Kate could swiftly take off his sweater and throw it somewhere on the living room floor. Her tunic top soon followed, and it took the writer a moment to fully absorb the image of a shirtless Kate Beckett, clad in a cherry red lacy bra, lying under him. Now naked from his waist up, Rick ran his lips eagerly over the column of her neck and then the skin above her breasts, already slick with their perspiration.
This time, Kate's moan was loud and clear. "Oh, God."
The sound coming from the brunette's lips caused him to push back to watch her, his hips inadvertently pushing into her anyway.
She looked into Rick's eyes as he tenderly pushed a strand of her hair behind her right ear and muttered, "You are so beautiful."
The honesty and affection he infused into his compliment left Kate feeling flattered and tense at the same time.
The brunette tried to sort out her conflicted feelings as the novelist, oblivious to her internal struggle, gently gathered her hair in his hand and started running his lips and tongue over the nape of her neck. When Kate felt him sinking his teeth into her neck and slightly pulling at her hair at the same time, she knew what to do.
"We shouldn't be here."
It took him a moment to fully grasp that she had said something, but, as soon as the words sank in, Rick withdrew from Kate's body. He closed his eyes as he tried to catch his breath and calm the beating of his heart. When he finally opened his eyelids to look at the woman still lying on the couch, he asked her, "You want me to go?"
Kate watched the writer for about two seconds – two excruciating seconds, if you asked him – before she finally opened her mouth to speak.
"No," She said, moving to a sitting position. She then stood up and offered her hand to him, a lascivious gleam in her features. "I meant we should move this to the bedroom."
TBC
(All characters and even some of the quotes in this fanfic don't belong to me. This is made available for entertainment only and not for profit. No copyright infringement is intended.)