The morning after, Kate's POV
...
She wakes up in his arms.
For the first time in months, Kate wakes rested, at peace, a feeling of warmth enveloping her.
She's on her side, facing him, head lying on his massive arm, his other arm thrown protectively over her, keeping her snug against him.
The sun is just starting to light the eastern sky and as the reddish-gold rays sneak through the blinds, she marvels at the man beside her, the angular bone structure, the stalwart nose, his large, soft-as-satin lips. His face is relaxed, free of worry or age lines, chin dotted with fresh stubble, caramel colored strands of hair sticking up in disarray, making him look younger than his 41 years.
He's a heavy sleeper, long lashes (which she'll happily tease him are pretty enough to be any woman's) lie immobile on his cheeks, his rib cage rising with each and every heavy breath.
Oh Gawd, I could grow to love this, waking up to him. It feels so damn . . . right.
Memories of last night flood over her: his eyes piercing every pore of her flesh, looking at her as if she was the most exquisite creature on earth, displaying a rare reverence for her beauty as well as a restrained passion she'd never felt from a man before. He was the most unselfish lover she'd ever been with, his needs pushed aside as he concentrated solely on her, making her feel like her body was a blank artist's canvas. . . He the skilled painter, his tongue sliding across fevered skin, fingers moving and stroking, delving into every crevice and corner, - creating a beautiful, stunning painting of desire, one where two bodies won't survive without becoming one.
He certainly hadn't misled her, because what happened last night wasn't just for the sake of sex, to cave into their profound appetites to fill both their baser needs. . . He didn't just fuck Diamond, but the famous mystery novelist had actually made love to her, Katherine Beckett, proven with his sensual and soulful words and sinful hands just how much she means to him.
Moisture, thick with him, curls between her legs and makes her ache to wake him up by sprinkling kisses along his jaw before just owning that mouth of his, convincing him with a heavy press of her limbs just how anxious she is for round number . . .
Holy shit, she quickly reviews in her mind both times they had sex, and if she was uncertain before about the author, she certainly knows now he's a force to be reckoned with because she'd been so caught up in insatiable lust and electrifying desire that she'd broken one of her most sacred rules.
He didn't wear a condom the second time.
She's extremely careful with her job, intelligent about her decisions and doesn't take any unnecessary risks with her johns, making sure a condom is always in play.
She's faithful about being tested three times a year for sexually-transmitted-diseases. In fact, she just got her test results back last week so knows she's clean.
She fully trusts Rick as well to have used protection in the past for his one night stands so isn't concerned about an STD, but she is blown away with the knowledge that he trusted her enough not to wear a condom and scared shitless by what it means. . .
The man, pure and simple, has marked her as his.
He's let her know through overt teasing, subtle eloquence, romantic gestures and hot-as-the-fiery-pits-of-hell passion, that she's his future.
And her heart sinks with the underlying knowledge she's just not worthy to be anyone's future. . . Let alone a superb man with a heart-of-gold whose eyes could melt an iceberg and whose hands can bring unknown pleasures to a woman's willing body.
If she keeps seeing him, she's deathly afraid that soon, she won't be able to envision her own future without him a part of it, - a man whose boyish hero complex has slipped under her skin, whose gentlemanly nature has touched her soul and whose unearthly allure is now ingrained on her flesh.
She has to end this now before her heart, body and soul are so intermeshed with his that she doesn't know where one leaves off and the other begins.
She has to end this now before her baggage insinuates into his well being, - threading indignation, depression and vengeance throughout, those acidic qualities which will slowly eat away at him and fuck up his beautiful life.
He deserves someone who isn't floundering, who isn't broken.
She carefully removes his arm from around her body and gently sits up, scooting quietly to the edge of the bed.
He stirs, mumbling something incoherent and then flops flat on his back. She hurries to pick up her discarded clothing, the purple gown, the ruined black lace panties.
She's never met a man before who has the ability to make her soaking wet with just one blazing look from his penetrating eyes.
She heads into the restroom and takes a quick glance at herself in the mirror, - the flyaway, I-just-had-amazing-torrid-sex hair, the swollen lips testifying to her night of carnal ecstasy and, - she pauses, as she doesn't recognize the sublime bliss shining from her eyes.
What has he done to me?
She quickly dresses, thinking of nothing more than getting out of his bedroom and trying to start the difficult healing process of putting him behind her, but when she catches his striking naked torso out of the corner of her eye, remembers how he begged her to promise him she'd be here in the morning, - her heart stops, squeezes with the knowledge she's going to hurt him terribly, - possibly irreparably.
She can't leave him empty handed, waking up alone in a cold bed without some sort of explanation, some token of how meaningful the night was to her. She has to give him something to remember her by and it has to be sincere, significant.
She pulls out a pen from her clutch and reaches for a piece of paper on his dresser.
She pushes aside the thought, he doesn't want your words, Kate, only you, and pauses when the pen hits the paper.
This isn't her forte; writing is definitely not her strong suit and it's extremely difficult to put into words what this night held for her.
She wars with herself, - leery about exposing her true feelings and leaving her open, vulnerable. . . She finally decides he deserves nothing less from her than the truth.
In elegant script, she writes:
I'll never forget you.
Thank you for the most extraordinary night of my life.
You own a piece of my heart,
Kate
She places the note on the pillow next to him and pulls out her I-phone, quickly taking a snapshot of him, gorgeous bare chest, adorable messy hair and eyelashes as downy soft as a baby's.
At the last possible moment, she decides to pull off her panties and tuck them beneath his pillow, a raunchy souvenir she hopes he'll appreciate and eventually treasure. With one last look on his sleeping form she quietly opens his bedroom door and closes it behind her.
She's tiptoeing through the loft, looking for her favorite heels when a voice, matronly in nature, startles her.
"Are you doing the walk of shame this morning, my dear?"
Kate drops the clutch and it clatters to the floor, ruby-red lip gloss sliding across the hard wood, as her eyes land on blue orbs very similar to Rick's. She's at a loss for words as Rick's mother looks at her curiously, a smile with epic Broadway flair gleaning across her lips.
"I'm sorry for startling you. I certainly didn't mean to. Here, let me help," she says and the next instant she's on her haunches, gracefully picking up the gloss and handing it back to her.
"I'm Martha Rodgers, Rick's mother," she says and holds out her hand in greeting.
"Kate Beckett," she replies and takes the older woman's hand in hers, surprised by her firm, yet lissome handshake. "It's nice to meet you."
"Same to you," she looks over at the kitchen island where an array of fruits and veggies lie. "I'm just blending up my usual nutritious breakfast smoothie of kale, carrots, blueberries and cranberries. Come and join me as I'd love the company."
"Oh, thank you, but I can't." Kate looks away, unable to hold the older woman's keen gaze. "I'm on a tight schedule and have some things I need to do this morning."
"My rambunctious, full-of-himself-son scare you off, did he?" and her directness brings a smile to Kate's lips.
"Something like that. He's the most umm. . . " What can she honestly say about him? . . . He's the most intense, incredible lover she's ever had, the most unforgettable, the most satisfying? . . . Yeah, not anything she can reveal to his Mom.
Kate's cheeks blush a bright pink as she flounders for an answer. She fiddles with her clutch, finally settling on, "He's the most forthright person I've ever met."
A burst of laughter fills the air as Martha revels in her embarrassment. "'Forthright' being an understatement, and don't worry, Kate, I won't pry further information from you."
"Thank you as I don't think," she chuckles, instantly liking the flamboyant older woman, immediately sensing how much her son means to her. "I can handle further humiliation right now. . . Have you by chance seen my other Louboutin pump?" She holds up the black suede shoe with tiny decorative crystals.
"Ah, a woman after my own tastes. Those are extremely expensive, lovely shoes. And yes, it's over near the sofa." By the humorous tone in her voice, Kate knows she's assuming clothes went flying before they even made it into the bedroom, when in fact, only her shoes fell off when he slung her over his shoulder like a caveman kidnapping his woman.
Mmm, and what a yummy caveman he was.
"It's been ages since Rick brought a woman home so come sit at the kitchen bar and chat with me."
It's been ages? What the hell?
"Are you always this courteous to the women Rick brings back to the loft?"
"I hope so, but I honestly don't remember the last time it happened. . . Let me think," and she purses her lips while ticking off her fingers. One, two, three, four. "It's been four years since he's entertained a woman here."
She's grateful she didn't take Martha up on her offer to have a smoothie because if she'd been holding a drink in her hand, it would've slipped right through her fingers.
She's completely stunned, mouth falling open, eyes wide like a deer caught in headlights.
"Four years?" she gasps, "How is that even possible with his looks and devilish charm and, - " she can't believe she's actually discussing this with his mother. . . "bad-boy reputation?"
"I see you're not unaffected by him," Martha teases and then her eyes light up like her greatest pastime is talking about her son. . . "He's certainly dashing, isn't he? And I do take all the credit for his beautiful eyes and unblemished skin but that crooked nose and cocky nature are strictly his father."
Kate can't help chuckling, "Good to know."
"As to the latter, the tabloids exaggerate quite a bit his Playboy persona. His number one priority over the years has always been raising Alexis, and not bedding every floozy fan who asked him to sign her chest. Was he a saint? Of course not, but on the whole, my boy deserves way more credit for being a fantastic father than he does for being a ladies-man." Martha continues softly, "he's always had a special bond with Alexis that I envy. He is the greatest example I know of being a true, loving, devoted parent."
She didn't need to have Rick's mother confirm what she already felt. . . Rick Castle was the entire package, a great man among men, a brilliant writer, a doting son, a dedicated father, an unselfish lover, a gentleman in every sense of the word.
She didn't think it was possible, but having her impressions about the man solidified into truth, made him even more desirable in her eyes, and made it (achingly so) that much more difficult to say, "Goodbye."
God, how she wished she weren't so burdened, so damaged, so calloused.
How she wished she could just throw caution to the wind, drop everything and embark on a journey with him; one she knows deep in her soul would be the journey of a lifetime.
Tears glisten in her eyes as she pictures Rick's and Alexis' binding relationship. . . She knows without a doubt he was careful during her impressionable teenage years, choosing not to bring home a one night stand, not allowing anyone to meet his daughter who wouldn't have her best interests at heart.
It would be amazing to have that type of relationship with her own Dad, but after her mother's death, instead of becoming closer to her father like she anticipated, his alcoholism had consumed him and put a rift between them that to this day, still hadn't been bridged.
"I certainly don't know you, Kate, but I do know my son. He wouldn't have welcomed you into our home unless he cared about you. It means you're special in his eyes, and so, by association, special in my eyes too."
Ohh, this Rodger clan and their way with words, making her feel accepted and appreciated. . . She doesn't want to feel a connection to his mother as well, this is already difficult enough.
"Thank you, Martha. You did a wonderful job raising him all on your own."
"I'm extremely proud of my son, but I can't take the credit. I wasn't around enough to be that influential on him. It was all him."
"Don't sell yourself short," Kate says sincerely. "Mothers have a way of entwining themselves in their children's lives. My mother had a profound influence on me, so I'm sure you did on him as well."
Martha absorbs the sheen in Kate's eyes and wonders about her past, the difficulties she's faced and why sadness reigns in her soul.
"Forgive me as I'm probably out of line, but don't let that son of mine slip through your fingers. I have a feeling you're the one woman who can tame his unruly side, make him trust again, believe once more in relationships."
Martha's words stir something deep inside her, make her want to reassure the woman just how much her son means to her.
"Will you give him a message for me?"
"Sure, but I'm positive he'd prefer it if you told him yourself."
"Please tell him," and she hurriedly slips on her shoes, "I'll never regret last night. . . Tell him," and her throat closes over with emotion, "he deserves someone better."