I'm not too articulate when it comes to explaining how I feel about things. But my music does it for me, it really does. There, in the chords and melodies, is everything I want to say.
-David Bowie

After a moment Kate recovered her composure - somewhat - and followed Castle toward his kitchen. Passing by the piano, she noticed music paper strewn all over it and the small table beside it; the pages were riotously strewn with musical notes and scrawled words, and she realized that this must be his new opera in progress. The temptation to peek was strong, but she resisted.

"Wine?" Castle asked as she came over to the kitchen island. Then, catching himself, he looked over at her and added, "Or is that on the list of things you're not supposed to have before singing?"

She bit her lip, thinking about it. It was probably okay to have a little wine the night before a performance. "Maybe just a small glass," she said. He nodded, and poured from a bottle he took from the fridge.

"Dinner won't take long," he said, sliding the glass over to her. "Turkey meatballs okay?"

"Sure. I can help," she offered, but Castle shook his head.

"Nope, you're the guest. Sit."

So she sat on a stool at the other side of the island, and watched as Castle sliced mushrooms and sauteed them in olive oil, then added homemade tomato sauce and meatballs from a jar he took from the fridge. He had a pot of water on another burner, and when it boiled he added spaghetti.

Kate was mesmerized by his hands, those hands she couldn't stop imagining on her body. Her mind whirled with confused thoughts and desperate desire. She could still feel the ghost of the touch of his mouth on her neck, spreading heat throughout her body.

She took another sip of her wine and asked, "Can I use your bathroom?"

"Of course." He nodded toward a hallway behind her. "First door on the left."

She took her time in the bathroom, giving herself a chance to cool down a bit, looking at her flushed face in the mirror.

She supposed that this might be the moment to decide that coming here had been a mistake, but, somewhat to her surprise, she didn't feel that way. If Castle touched her again - no, when he touched her again - she didn't know whether she'd be able to resist. But if she were truly honest with herself, she'd have to admit that she didn't want to resist him. Hadn't she just been thinking that she needed to remember how to have fun?

She knew that she should figure some things out first; she should talk to Castle before doing anything reckless - figure out what he was thinking, what he wanted - what she wanted - while she still had a hold on her self-control. But that hold was slipping, and maybe letting go of it wouldn't be the worst thing in the world.

She blew out a long breath, nodded shortly at her reflection, and went back out.

In the kitchen, Castle was holding a large bowl in which he had constructed a salad. "Marshmallows?" he asked, looking up to raise an inquisitive eyebrow. Kate blinked in confusion as she slid back onto her stool.

"Um ... what?"

"Do you want marshmallows in your salad?" He pursed his lips, looking into the bowl again. "It needs something."

Kate opened her mouth, closed it, opened it again. She honestly couldn't decide whether he was serious. "Have you, uh, do you always put marshmallows in your salad?" she managed.

"Nope, never tried it," he replied, "but it could be good, don't you think?"

"No, I don't," she said firmly. "Castle-"

"How about walnuts?"

"Okay," she said cautiously. "Walnuts are good."

"Yeah." He tossed a handful of walnuts into the salad, stirred the pasta, stirred the sauce. "Ready." He nodded toward the dining table in a corner of the living room. "Have a seat, Beckett."

Castle felt a little reluctant to leave the safety of the kitchen. When he was cooking, he felt at ease, but as he carried the food over to the table, he suddenly felt a very unfamiliar nervousness. He hadn't been this flustered around a woman since ... well, maybe never.

He had to force himself not to think about the way Kate smelled, the taste of her skin, the feel of her body in his arms. Food, Rick. Focus on the food.

"It smells amazing," Beckett murmured as he put the plate in front of her. "Thanks, Castle."

"Any time," he replied, seating himself. He noticed that despite having lingered in the bathroom - presumably to restore her composure - Kate still seemed a little flushed. Her breathing was a little faster than usual, her eyes bright. The knowledge that she was as affected by him as he was by her went a long way toward restoring his confidence. He saw her watching his hands as he served the food.

"Hot," he said in his low seductive voice, and smirked when her eyes flew up to his face, questioning.

"The food," he clarified, grinning. "Be careful."

"I'm always careful with what I put in my mouth," she replied, keeping a perfectly straight face, and he could only stare, dropping down into his seat with a thump, rendered speechless yet again by Beckett.

He just might be in over his head here, he realized dazedly. But there was nowhere he'd rather be.

"Tell me about the opera," Beckett said coolly, as they began to eat. "This character who's based on me. You said her mother was murdered?"

"Yeah," he nodded, feeling a strange mix of eagerness and reluctance. What if Beckett didn't like his opera? The thought was painful.

"Her mother gets killed," he reiterated, "and the cops can't solve the case, so she quits music and enters the police academy, works her way up to detective. She becomes the best homicide detective in the city, getting justice for others, all with the ultimate goal of catching her mother's killer."

"And does she? Catch the killer?" Beckett asked, her eyes never leaving his face.

"Yeah, of course," he exclaimed, wide-eyed. "It's a narrative inevitability. The story demands it."

"I see." Her eyes narrowed at that. "Does the story also demand that she has a love interest? Is he a composer by any chance?"

"Give me a little credit, Beckett," he huffed. "He's a journalist."

"Oh, a journalist. My mistake," she teased lightly, smiling down at her plate. Castle's chest loosened a little. She was eating his food and joking about his work; it couldn't be too bad. She hadn't said the plot was terrible yet. Nor the spaghetti.

"He's doing an investigative magazine piece about the best cops in the NYPD," he explained, "so he gets permission to follow her around, observe how she works. He finds out about her mother and encourages her to dig into the case again."

"Hmm," Beckett mused, thinking about it. "Sounds interesting." Then she focused on him again. "Does it have a title yet?"

"Oh, yeah. Heat Wave." He grinned proudly. "It takes place during the summer, and in the middle of the story there'll be some blackouts because of the heat. Great opportunity for interesting scenes in the dark."

"And for scenes where the leading lady takes off her clothes to cool down?" Beckett asked skeptically, but she was smirking now.

"Why, Beckett, I don't know if I like what you're implying," he said in an injured tone. "More wine?"

"No, thank you. And I'm not implying anything," she declared. "I'm saying it straight out: you always manage to find excuses to get your female characters half-naked."

"You really do know my work," he exclaimed, grinning, and she let out a real laugh at that, delighting him.

He refilled her water glass, and resisted the urge to ask her which of his operas was her favorite - how many times she had seen them - what she thought of his songs. Instead, he said lightly, "So what's next for the symphony orchestra, after Messiah? Do you start up rehearsing again on Monday?"

"No," she replied, "we have the week off, but I have a bunch of tutoring sessions scheduled."

"Ah," he said, quietly delighting in that little tidbit of information. She had the whole week off! Surely he could make something of that. But he kept his cool - mostly - and said only, "Tell me about your tutoring students."

A couple of stories about her students led him to recount a story about the time his mother had tried to teach an acting class, which got them both laughing, and before he knew it the food was gone and Beckett was still smiling, seeming much more relaxed than she had when they first walked in.

"Would you like some coffee?" Castle asked, standing up to take the dirty plates to the sink. Then, remembering, he amended, "Decaf, I mean. Or tea?"

"Tea is fine," Beckett replied, following him to the kitchen with the empty salad bowl and the two wine glasses.

"You don't have to clear the table," he scolded, taking the bowl from her. "Go and sit."

"I can help. It's no problem," she objected. Their fingers brushed as she passed him the glasses, and he felt a jolt of excitement shoot down his spine. He tried to take a calming breath as he turned to put the glasses in the sink, but the deep slow inhale did little toward soothing his nerves.

Somehow, when he turned back to Beckett, he managed not to push her up against the kitchen counter and ravage her. Instead he said, carefully controlling his voice, "What kind of tea do you want?" He reached to open a cabinet. "I've got chamomile, lemon, peppermint, mango..."

"Lemon, please," she said, and reached for the dish sponge, but he nudged her aside.

"None of that, Beckett. Go sit on the couch."

When he brought the tea over, she had kicked off her shoes and pulled her legs up underneath her on the couch. She was glancing through a magazine, looking entirely relaxed and comfortable in his home. His heart gave a little flip in his chest at the sight. He wanted to see her right there, just like that, every morning and night. He closed his eyes briefly and tried to push the thought away.

"Here you go."

"Thanks," she said, taking the mug from him. He sat down with his own mug, carefully choosing a spot just far enough from her to be polite, but not so far as to be out of reach. Just in case.

She sipped her tea, and he tried not to watch the way her tongue ran around her lips after the first sip, evaluating the flavor. Apparently she liked it, because she took another sip, savoring it.

Then she looked up and caught him watching her mouth. Oops. Busted.

"Castle," she said dangerously, and he gulped.

"Sorry," he said nervously, taking a sip of his own tea, then putting the mug down on the coffee table in case she was about to hit him.

"What are you doing?" Beckett demanded, her expression suddenly hard, and pained. He swallowed again, carefully.

"What do you mean?" he asked, although he was pretty sure he knew.

"This..." She waved her hand vaguely, indicating the room, the dining table, the two of them, the tea. "All of this. What's it all for? What do you want?"

Oh. So this was it: the moment of truth. The moment for truth. He was a little surprised that she had asked outright, so boldly; but when he looked into her eyes, he saw heat there, and thought that maybe he understood. She wanted him, just as much as he wanted her - the thought warmed him - but she was still unsure.

"Beckett…" He risked sliding a little closer to her on the couch. "What do I want? I want tomorrow to not be the last time I ever see you. I want to get to know you better." A realization hit him like a flash of light, and came out of his mouth in the next instant. "I want you to be the first person to read the new opera when it's finished."

"Castle," she breathed, her eyes going wide.

He plucked the mug of tea out of her hand and set it on the coffee table. When he turned back to her, her eyes were burning, deep green and fierce with what he thought - he hoped - was the same desire that was gripping him.

"I want to give you that hickey," he said, low-voiced, running his finger along her neck again and seeing her shiver. "Not tonight. But soon." He watched in fascination as her face and neck flushed pink.

"What do you want, Beckett?" he asked softly,

Instead of answering, she leaned toward him, slowly, studying his face. Her hand came up to curl around the back of his neck and pull him closer. He went willingly.

Then they were kissing again and he groaned deeply with relief and delight. Oh God, her tongue in his mouth and her arms around his neck, exactly what he wanted. He snaked an arm around her waist and tugged, pulling her across his lap. She didn't object; in fact, she pressed her upper body more tightly against his and moaned into his mouth.

He tasted the lemon tea on her tongue, and behind it the remnants of the food he had cooked, the wine, and just Kate. Delicious. His other hand was on her hip, fingertips flirting with the hem of her sweater. He slipped them under the fabric and found soft warm skin, and felt her shudder against him.

Breaking the kiss for air, he trailed his mouth along her jaw and down, toward the spot he had tasted earlier.

"No - don't," Kate gasped, though her hands were in his hair, holding him in place. "No hickeys."

"I won't," he murmured, "I promise," so he closed his lips and brushed feathery kisses along her neck, relishing the way she wriggled in his arms and the soft breathy noises that she made.

He felt her fingers on his shirt buttons, opening them and slipping her hand over the planes of his chest, but as he moved his way up behind her ear a thought began to nag at the back of his mind. And when he found the spot that made Beckett squirm and drew a higher-pitched mewl of pleasure from her throat, the thought abruptly solidified and he groaned with dismay, pulling back.

"Wait, wait. I can't, we can't," he panted, groaning again at the sight of Kate's flushed face, her tousled hair, her lips shiny and swollen from kissing. Oh God, this was going to be painful.

"What?" she demanded, frowning, reaching for him, but he reluctantly pulled her hands away and shifted her off of him, back onto the couch. He scrambled for words, his brain whirling.

"I'm sorry. I'm really sorry, Beckett," he got out hastily, willing her to believe him. "I just, I don't want to be responsible for you being unable to sing tomorrow."

She blinked, her frown deepening as she struggled to understand. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"Well, if you hurt your throat, you know..." he ducked his head, embarrassed, "...if you scream too much and then tomorrow your throat will be sore and you won't be able to sing."

He risked lifting his eyes to look at her, his gut clenching again. Even scowling at him in a mixture of confusion and anger, she was still gorgeous.

"You can't be serious," she gritted out, and he shivered involuntarily at the husky rasp to her voice.

"I am," he insisted, trying to tell his body to shift away from her, though all it wanted to do was tilt closer. "I want to make you scream, Kate." He heard her suck in a sharp breath at that, and his own breathing hitched in his throat. "And if I - if we - I don't want us to feel like we have to hold back. Come on," he added, putting silky persuasion in his tone, "haven't you ever ... enjoyed it so much that the next day you could barely talk?"

Beckett's lips parted and she let out a slow breath, her gaze piercing. "God, Castle. That is so..."

"Thoughtful?" he offered hopefully.

"Arrogant," she snapped, her eyes flashing hot. Oh. Damn it. He did a rapid mental review of what he had just said.

"Maybe it was," he conceded, "but Beckett, listen, I didn't mean it that way. I just, I'm so-" don't say 'in love with you'! "-lucky you haven't killed me yet," he finished, sighing internally at his own incoherence. Arousal was still running through his veins, intoxicating, distracting.

Beckett was still frowning, arms crossed over her chest, but she cocked her head at that and said sternly, "Castle ... you do remember that I'm not really a cop, right? I don't have ninja kung-fu fighting skills."

"Why?" he exclaimed, pained. "Why would you disillusion me like that?" It was stupid, but somehow, by some miracle, his idiocy managed to break a crack in her demeanor. Her lips twitched slightly and he knew that things would be okay. Relief flooded through him.

"No, but seriously," he said, taking her hand, "I just don't want you to be mad at me. I mean, any more than you already are. I don't want to mess this up." He looked into her face and saw that she was softening. "Kate," he went on quietly, running his thumb across her knuckles. "Tomorrow, after the last concert. Promise me that won't be the last time I ever see you. Say you'll come out with me again for lunch, or dinner, or something. Please?"

She stared at him, her expression unreadable. He held his breath.

"Okay," she said at last, and his heart leapt. "But I'm still mad at you," she added darkly, pulling her hand back out of his grip.

"For not giving you a hickey?" he asked with a small teasing grin, shifting closer to her. She narrowed her eyes dangerously.

"Don't push your luck, Castle."

"I wouldn't dream of it," he proclaimed, lifting his hands in a gesture of surrender. "Ninja skills notwithstanding, I know you could find a way to kill me if you really wanted to. And no cop would ever be able to pin it on you."

Beckett's lips twitched again with amusement. Then she leaned forward, her palms cupping his cheeks, and planted a hot wet kiss on his mouth that left him breathless, wordless, and nearly brainless.

By the time he blinked his way back to planet Earth, she was standing up, her shoes back on, and halfway to the foyer closet to retrieve her coat.

"Thanks for dinner, Castle," she said as he helped her into the coat. "It was delicious." You were delicious, he thought her eyes were saying, but no, no, he was probably imagining things. Was Beckett teasing him? What was going on? He was in a complete daze.

"Uh." Smooth, Rick. "Uh, thanks for joining me, Beckett. I'll see you tomorrow."

"See you tomorrow," she echoed, and she took her belongings and left.

A/N: Thank you again for all the lovely comments. Please bear with me as the final few chapters may be slower in coming out due to a dramatic decrease in my free time this month...