A/N: This site keeps eating this chapter. Sorry for the delay on the repost. Thank you again for the amazing feedback. YOU are all amazing. This is the final chapter of this fic. Be forewarned that the rating has changed to "M". I hope I handled that tastefully, not just sex for the sake of sex. But, these characters have very PG-13 eyesex on my TV at 10:00pm, so I don't know how Marlowe is going to keep it on network TV when they finally get together. What a problem to have, huh, fandom?

This fic does not take place on the same plane as "47 seconds", which killed me by the way. I may deal with that angst in another story later.

A request with nothing to do with this story: Can you please say a prayer for my mom? She's had some serious health issues, beginning in January(I won't go into detail, but you can contact me through my profile, if you'd like). She has surgery next Wednesday and we're hoping for nothing cancerous. So, yeah, prayers would be awesome. Her name is Veronica.

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They move from their respective corners to step off of the elevator and onto his floor at the same time, then both step back, dance a little, then finally Castle holds the door open and waves for her to exit first. She nods a 'thank you' with a courteous smile and moves towards the entry of his loft. They've went from make-out-ready to cordial friends in two minutes flat. This is exactly what she didn't want to happen if they ever did…whatever it was they seem destined to do.

Stupid, stupid.

She's determined not to make this an excuse to run for the hills; her typical M.O. Why is it weird to almost-kiss (wasn't that where it had been headed?) in front of his doorman, but have very little trouble moaning into his mouth and practically groping each other in the midst of danger last year? Because they didn't have to talk about it, that's why. It had been labeled a "dumb idea" before anything even happened and that gave them a ready-made excuse-tied up for them in a nice, pretty little package. They were never forced to bring it to light—so it never had time to bloom into the thorny cactus of awkwardness. But now, they're heading into his home, preparing to drink wine and…talk. That's the problem. How can they not bring it up?

"So, Charlie seems like a nice guy." Nice subject change, Beckett. Head first into the shallow end. She slips out of her coat and places it in his outstretched hand, wandering around the living room while he hangs up both of their garments.

"He is. Usually nicer to me, though."

"What's that mean?" She watches him squat down in front of his wine cooler and peruse the bottles with his finger until he seemingly finds what he's looking for.

"Well, he practically shut the door in my face." He harrumphs and gives her a 'duh' look.

"He was hurrying ahead so he could push the elevator button for me. You're a big boy—you can hold open your own door. He was being a gentleman." She wants to stick her tongue out at him just to see his reaction. Poor Charlie is a sweet guy.

"Nothing gentlemanly in the way he was ogling you," he grumbles, mostly under his breath, but still loud enough for her to hear.

"Does that bother you?"

"He's eighty."

"Maybe I like older men." She bites her smile and waits for his retort.

"Maybe Lanie can give him my share of the Viagra."

Kate can't hold back her laugh at that. She tosses her head back with it, glad to know that they can still have their banter through this clumsiness. "Perhaps I just like that he thinks I have nice assets."

He pushes a glass of wine across the counter, their fingers both wrapping around the stem. Sliding closer, he ducks his head to meet her eyes; his own are filled with both sincerity and provocation. "I've always appreciated your assets, Detective." He pulls her hands into his, thumbs pressing into her palms, her fingers coerced into gripping them. "I remember a little while ago you were appreciating my assets. Let's go back to that for a sec." He urges her hands back to his chest and he sneaks his own back to her hips, leaving the two of them almost where they were pre-interruption.

"I don't remember what we were talking about," she fibs.

"Uh huh. I think you were saying something about how sexy I am."

"Is that so?"

"Close enough. You could say it now to clear up any confusion."

"I try to not to make lying a habit"

He scoffs at that. "Ruggedly handsome, then?"

"Eh." She curls her lips as if thinking about it then shakes her head. "I wouldn't want to encroach on the intimate relationship between you and your ego."

"How about cute? Surely you at least think I'm cute." He squeezes her waist and bears his teeth, presenting his profile to her, hair flopping in front of his eyes with the swing of his head. She could end this little game by telling him how adorable he is, but she likes the chase. And it feels like they're oh-so-close to the finish line. That's exactly where she wants to be. Finishing. With him. She doesn't even care who wins the race.

"What was the first option again?" Her impatient fingers sidle up his chest, ease along the flesh peeking from beneath his collar, then move to wrap around his neck, manipulating the fine hairs at the base of his skull.

He clears the arousal from his throat, rolling his eyes back to remember what they were talking about. "Sexy," he growls out.

"Sexy," she agrees. Her arms come around his back and she finds herself hugging him, drawing his torso closer closer; his answering arms tighten around her waist until they are pressed flush head to toe. The slow but heavy breaths disturbing the hair at her temple are driving her mad. Their embrace is both sweet and erotic and she has no clue what they're doing right at this moment and doesn't care. He smells so damn good and she scuffs her nose along the day old stubble speckling his jaw. With a mind of their own, her lips sink into the hollow of his throat, barely touching, featherlike presence there, there, there.

God, she's right there where he needs her, but he doesn't know where there is. Each nerve in his body is aware of where she is (everywhere, everywhere), but he can't stop to concentrate. It's too heavy and too light and he wants her so badly. His traitorous hips flex against hers crudely. His pants are constricting, he's too wound, coiled, too hard, too needy. He's going to scare her off. She hugs him and he tries to dry-hump her. How romantic.

"Are you going to kiss me?" The wait is killing her and he looks like he's thinking too much. Less thought, more impulse, Castle.

"I can, Kate. Kiss you. Yes. Yes." And he does. A peck at first and she thinks he's being mischievous, but his face holds no mirth, just pure concentration. He leans in again, same small gesture, but this time his teeth tug her bottom lip in retreat and his tongue comes out to touch the place he's marked. When he angles in once more, she's ready for him, her open mouth latching onto his, drinking him in. Her tongue presses against his, in his mouth, then in hers, pushing pushing. Wanting. Needing. Just a kiss. A kiss that tells tales. His story, her story. Their story.

She drags him to the couch and pushes him onto it unceremoniously. He looks a little shocked and a lot turned on and that about sums it up on her end, too. She climbs on top of him and wonders for a second where her dignity disappeared to until she remembers that this is Castle, not some stranger. And it's only imprudent because they haven't done this yet, not the other way around.

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"No no no," he groans into her mouth. "Don't," he pleads as she eyes her phone. His hands become bolder as he tempts her not to answer the shrilling device, pulling her hips back to his, torturing himself even more in the process. As she leans back from his lap to reach the coffee table, he takes advantage of her extended form and slips his fingers to the button on her pants, sliding it free. "Please, Kate."

She grabs the phone just as his fingers fumble around the zipper to find the lacy waistband of her panties. "God, Castle." She's breathless and her eyes are closed, but she can feel him staring at her, deliberating on if he's taking this too far. He makes no move to dip his hand lower, just lets it linger on the skin of her lower belly, too too close to where she needs it. Her phone. She's obligated to answer the damn thing.

"Beckett," she pants into the receiver. The dispatcher won't ask, but she's got the "I was exercising" excuse at the ready. Her thighs do burn—close enough to the truth.

"Tell them to call Esposito. He's had time to reach this base." His teeth scrape her skin as he snarls the plea into her neck.

"Daddy!" She shrieks into the phone, part surprise to find her father, not work, on the line, but mostly because Castle's fingers have chosen that second to ease into the moisture between her legs. "Hi, hi. Hang on just a second, Dad."

Shit, shit, shit.

Castle tosses her off of his lap as if she's scorched him. Kate holds the phone above her head to get a second to catch her breath. She leaves her pants undone, but jerks her shirt down over her exposed panties. She watches Castle pace the room, completely rumpled and running a hand through his already tousled hair. He's untucked his button-down, probably in an attempt to hide his palpable arousal. She won't tell him that it isn't doing a great job. She closes her eyes to get control.

The whole situation reminds her of when her mom caught her making out with Jimmy Fletcher on top of the covers of her bed when she was 16. He had just grabbed her boob (fully clothed-without her permission) when her mom opened the door. They had both scrambled up and Johanna stood her ground in the doorway seemingly enjoying their discomfort as they both fumbled to fix their clothing. Jimmy looked like a caged animal until her mom moved into the hallway and waved her arm, allowing him to run past. She wasn't 16, but damn if she wasn't as embarrassed now as she was then. And her dad hadn't even seen her and Castle, surely had no idea what they were doing.

"Okay, sorry about that, Dad. I was just taking care of something. No, no, you're fine. No, I left a couple of hours ago. I'm, um, actually at Rick's."

Castle snaps his head around and shoots her an accusing glare as if she's damned him to a death sentence. "So mean," he mouths before plopping down in the oversized armchair next to the couch.

"We just got back from dinner. Yes. I know you did, Dad. I don't know, Dad." She whines the last bit into the phone and he's sure that her dad is onto him. Them. What they were just doing. Well, he was really the guilty one. He'll probably have him castrated. "Yeah, still on for breakfast in the morning," she agrees into her cell. "I'll…ask him. Okay, see you then. Love you, too."

Kate sighs and tosses the phone to the opposite end of the sofa.

"He's going to murder me, isn't he?" Castle's fingers pinch the bridge of his nose as he slouches further down in the chair, willing it to open up and swallow him.

"He isn't going to murder you. He, actually, asked me to invite you to breakfast," she says with a reassuring grin.

"Yes. So he can kill me."

She rises from the couch and moves to his chair, kneeling between his legs, hands enveloping his kneecaps with a comforting squeeze. "Castle, I'm thirty-two. We weren't caught doing it in the back of your car. Hell, we weren't caught at all."

"Kate, he totally knows what we were doing. And I don't care how old you are. If I caught Alexis with a boy doing…what we were doing…I don't care how old she was. I'd murder him. Torture first. Hell, Kate, my hand was…" he trails off and shakes his head.

"I remember where it was." His eyes shoot to hers. "I liked where it was."

"Um."

She's rising taller onto her knees and her hands parachute his shirt tails to make a path for her fingers to reach his belt. She makes no sudden moves, fingers loosely touching the leather. "Did you like touching me Castle?"

"Kate…"

"It seems that you like touching me."

He watches her magic hands undo his belt, the straps opening loosely to the sides. His body answers for him, the center of his need for her embarrassingly obvious, bulging ridiculously beneath two layers of fabric. His proud self-control is being melted by the heat of her body. She's staring at his lap and he squirms under her gaze. He lets out a sudden, protesting grunt when she presses the heel of her hand to him.

"What are we doing, Kate? Tell me what to do." Tell me what you won't regret tomorrow.

"Love me, Castle," she whispers and pulls him from the chair as she herself slinks up from knees to feet, all lithe and beautiful.

"I do." His answer is unpretentious and he doesn't try to stop it, doesn't want it censored.

"Show me. Then let me show you. Let me make love to you, Castle."

She is swept up, unexpectedly, roughly tugged against him. Her legs are bowed into his sides awkwardly biting into his ribcage as he hauls her to him and begins his trek through his office and into his bedroom.

In short time, she feels her back bounce against his mattress. She inches back until she's against the headboard, satisfyingly winded, each deep breath a conscious effort, a confirmation of life. She wants to kiss him, but he's too far away, still at the foot of the bed, slowly unbuttoning his shirt. He's staring at her and she sees, through the thick haze of arousal, through the glowing love, that he's giving her one last chance to renege. This changes everything, his eyes tell her.

"Come here." She crooks a finger at him with her best 'come hither' smile.

He returns the smile. He shucks his shirt to the floor and crawls up the bed, all feral animal, untamed beast. It's hot.

"I'm here." He's leaning back on his knees between her spread legs watching her as she unbuttons and discards her own blouse.

She's wearing a plain white bra and she almost groans a pout. Her panties are white, too, she remembers as he helps to shimmy her pants down her legs. She didn't get dressed that morning with the knowledge that she'd be showing her intimates to Castle that night in his bed. She finds herself mentally cataloguing what she would have chosen.

"What are you thinking about?"

"My ugly underwear."

His relieved laugh shoots straight to her heart. "Yes, they're hideous. We should take them off."

He's kissing her again and, oh yeah, she's missed that. As he busies himself with her earlobe, neck, collarbone, lower, lower, she finishes what she started earlier and manages to unbutton and unzip his pants and push them down as low on his hips as she can manage. "Get these off, too."

He kicks both his pants and boxers down his legs and…this is really happening. Her bra and panties are gone too, and this is too fast. And too slow. And she wants him yesterday. And tomorrow. And forever. Now, now, now.

"Just because my boxers had Superman on them…don't expect too much out of me here." He's teasing with an undercurrent of seriousness.

"Clark Kent, then?"

"It's been a long time since I've done this."

"So, I've heard."

"It might not last very long." Her hand finds him, hard between their bodies and she strokes him lightly, his satiny flesh heavy in her palm. He bites a sigh into her shoulder. "Totally your fault."

"My fault. Got it." She kisses up and down his jaw, sucks on his chin before claiming his mouth again, tongue bumping his lips to shut him up, fill his mouth, as he's opening it to speak again. "You talk too much," she grumbles into him.

"You've known this about me." He bumps her busy hands away from him. He really isn't going to last. How embarrassing. It's her own damn fault—if she wasn't so gorgeous, if she didn't make him love her so much, if she wasn't doing that thing with her tongue. Jeez.

His fingers find her, slide between her legs, feel how ready she is for him. She's whimpering, this pitiful and so arousing sound in his ear and he's dizzy with need. He needs to just make her…just once…because she might not when…come on, Beckett.

She's pulsing around his fingers and, oh God, this is the sexiest thing he's ever felt before. He eases away from where she's most sensitive and just watches her come down from her high, mouth open, back arched, chest heaving with exertion, eyes closed, brow furrowed in painful pleasure.

"So good, Castle." The insistent tugging on his thighs forces him so so close to his final destination. Home his author brain tells him, then he reminds himself that he doesn't write for Harlequin and this isn't some cheesy chick lit. But, he has no other word for it. Nothing else to describe where she fits in his life. She's…it. And this, what they're about to do, is just the pinnacle, the inevitability of that realization.

She guides him to where she wants him and he pushes into her, closing his eyes on a sob, one he hears echoed beneath him. His palms are pressed flat into the mattress on either side of her breasts and he uses that leverage to go slow, ease into her until he can move no further. As he draws his hips away, hers follow, not allowing the connection to be broken. He slides a hand to her thigh, holds her still, so he can pull out and drive back in. And again.

They find their rhythm quickly (they've always been good at that) and she's beneath him, crying his name softly. One of her hands is gripping his headboard, the other fisted securely in the sheets, her eyes squeezed shut tightly.

He stills within her.

"Am I hurting you?"

Her eyes shoot open and she shakes her head 'no'. She's biting her lip and her hips are still rocking beneath his, but he's not convinced. Something's-

"I'm close. Again. I can't usually…more than once. Not this fast."

"Oh." He almost comes right then. Batting averages, stock market numbers, fuzzy IRS math all swim in his head—he needs a distraction. She's gorgeous. He brushes the sweaty locks from her forehead as he thrusts into her again, slowly. She beams at him and returns the favor, both of her hands pushing his wet hair back, then scraping along his scalp, his neck, then down his shoulders, meeting at his spine.

Her forearms are tickling his ribcage, her knees keep brushing his outer thighs as she raises and lowers her legs…it's all sinfully stimulating.

He hums in his throat as he stills this time to get her attention. She eyes him questioningly, but realization dawns as he rolls over and takes her with him, leaving her straddling him and the angle, oh yes, the angle. She rises and falls on him, making love to him, what she wanted. His hands trail to her bottom to lightly guide her movements, but she's in control now, the shift in power, the balance of authority. Partners.

The next wave hits without her permission and she chokes on a breath and falls back, hands behind her on the bed, his first name loud and thick out of her mouth. She feels him still beneath her, spilling deeply, then pulling her down to his chest. He whispers nonsensical words at her throat, but she understands each of them. The language of love.

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"So, now that your equipment has all been tested…" she trails off, laughing he when raises the arm that was covering his eyes and leers at her.

"Does it meet approval?"

"Well, thorough testing is usually involved in cases such as this…where the equipment was faulty for this length of time."

He tries to glare at her, but a stupid grin is all that forms on his face. "Well, I think it comes with a lifetime warranty, so I don't foresee a cessation in the evaluations anytime soon."

"Is that so?"

"Actually, regular inspection is probably recommended."

"How frequent?"

"Frequent frequent." He says lowly, adding a hint of mock severity to the timeline.

She slides off of her pillow and moves up over him, wanting him again. Forever again.

"I think that can be arranged."

A/N: If you made it this far, thank you again so much. Please give me some feedback on the "M" stuff. My feelings don't get hurt easily, so honesty is fine on all accounts. I plan on writing more in this fandom (thanks to your awesome ego strokes, guys!), but I would like to know if I need to stay out of the Mature category or if I can continue on if warranted. I thought it would be easy to judge my own stuff, but it's not...at all. So, feedback, yes?