Be warned, this chapter is probably M-rated.

10: Time is on our side

This is not fair. Totally not fair. How is he supposed to think up theories or remember his brilliant ideas when Beckett is doing that with his – er – prime assets? He can't think at all, right now. Her fingers are wicked and when he's been watching her hands and those – ohhh Beckett – elegant fingers curling round her Glock he might have wished that they were curling round him just like – ohhhh – this but he'd never imagined how good it would feel.

He had a plan. He had a plan. A good plan. If only he could remember it. He's sure it involved Beckett getting involved and him getting involved but he can't remember how he was going to get them involved and there are far too many involveds in that sentence and stop Beckett! She does. He groans because it was so good but he'd had a better plan and he wants to remember it.

"Why'd you stop me?" she asks. Crossly. She's scowling at him.

"I had an idea."

"You stopped me enjoying myself because you had an idea?" She pouts at him. "Weren't you enjoying it? You seemed to be." She smirks. "You really seemed to be." Her hand moves again. Castle takes it away in self-defence, before he is totally undone.

"I've got a better idea. One we can both enjoy together."

"We were both enjoying it."

"You'd enjoy this more, Beckett. So would I." He carries on before she can stop him explaining again. However enjoyably she would stop him. "If I move you, you can slide up and down…" He halts, expectantly. Her eyes widen briefly, and then turn dark and sinfully knowledgeable.

"How very clever," she purrs dangerously. "Maybe you have some good ideas after all, Castle."

"Maybe? I always have good" –

"Crazy." –

"ideas. But this one," he smirks smugly, "is the best yet."

"I'll reserve judgement. I could move myself." she says. How unkind she is. It's going to be his best idea ever. He's just about to prove it. His hands smooth over her back, feather-light and delicate, slow strokes. He'd always thought their first time would be fast and furious, that they would be overtaken by the heat of the moment and the hammer of mutual desire, but it hasn't been like that, it's been built in injury and fear – hers, for once, not so much his – and destruction that has somehow, phoenix from the ashes, given this relationship birth.

"I know you can move yourself, but why would you want to when I can do it for you?" he entices. "Hands back on my shoulders, Beckett." Those beautiful, elegant, evil hands, land on him. She doesn't grip, only rests them over the firm muscle. His hands, wide, strong, grasp her waist again, surprisingly close to meeting over her back: she's so much slimmer than he expects at the waist, so much softer up top. Just so much more, in every way.

He lifts her without effort and without a jerk, holding her close to his chest and ensuring with every move that she is in no pain at all, and one of her hands wriggles down between them to position him delicately exactly where they both want him and he lowers her a tiny amount and oh that feels just so perfectly wonderful as he starts to slide slowly into her and her hand comes back up to his shoulder and as he goes deeper her grip tightens and her nails begin to bite and it's all in slow-motion: slow-motion heaven as she's sinking on to him and around him and yes he's in control of the speed of descent but it's so difficult not just to thrust up into her but he can't, just can't, not here, not now, not yet.

Oh fuck, she's glorious. Hot and wet and tight around him and she's pressed against him and her head has fallen back and he's holding her so close and she's his, all his and all here and she feels so perfectly right and he wants to make love to her in all the ways that he knows already she'll enjoy but that's got to wait for later because however much he could make her arch and move and scream for him now is not the time.

They'll have all the time they need. He moves slowly within her, barely shifting, learning the sensation and the placement and finding a spot that makes her gasp which right now is a bad idea but will come in very handy later and he kisses her in half-apology and then begins to move her up and down and she's gripping him hard and ravaging his mouth – shouldn't he be doing that? – and ohhhhh he steals her breath as she pilfers his and it might be gentle movement but it's working for both of them and ohhhhhh as she slumps into his neck and ohhhhhh he's gone too.

A little time later Beckett unfolds her long legs to separate herself from him. This is not the idea. Castle pouts at her. "Come back, Beckett."

"I can't feel my toes." She's cautiously sliding her leg – ohhhh – over his lap to sit with her legs stretched straight out, wiggling her toes and grimacing. "Oooh. Pins and needles."

"I could massage your feet," Castle suggests happily.

"Nope."

"Why not?" Beckett's not answering. There's only one reason Beckett wouldn't be answering and he absolutely loves the thought of it. Just for once, there's going to be a way he can reduce Beckett to hopeless inability to reduce him to incoherence. "You're ticklish," he says triumphantly. "You're ticklish." Oh, this will be wonderful. He can feel himself beaming with pure, mischievous delight.

"So what?"

"So you'll never be able to resist me. All I'll have to do is tickle you and you'll do anything for me to stop. Oh, Beckett. The possibilities are endless – ooh! Ow! Stoppit, Beckett! Stoppit!" Dammit!

"Looks like you're ticklish too, Castle. What were you saying?" He grumps loudly.

"That's not fair. You've got the gun and the heels and the training and I don't have any advantage at all."

"You can have the broken ribs plus all of that, if you like."

"Okay, I'll pass."

"Besides which," her tone changes to sultry, "you do have one enormous advantage." She runs a very insinuating look down his body and stops at his thighs. The advantage to which he is sure she's referring springs into life. "A huge…" she pauses… "loft." All his advantages subside. She's snickering. It's not fair.

"See if I wash your back for you again if that's how you behave, Beckett," he sulks. "Wha – where are you going?" She's creakily turning to drop her magnificent legs over the side of the bed and standing up. No no no. That's not the plan. Get with the program, Beckett. The one that involves him cuddling her and keeping her in bed for most of the day, even if all they can achieve is heavy petting, making out and occasional and very careful forays round third base.

"Wash. Dress. Coffee." She smiles naughtily. "After that… who knows?"

"Bath wash or shower wash, Beckett?"

"Why?"

"I'm going to wash your back. You can't."

"Could so."

"Could so? Really? Without needing those pain pills straight afterwards?" Beckett flushes. "Thought not." He widens his eyes and adopts a pathetic tone. "Didn't I wash your back nicely earlier? Don't you want me to wash it again?" He slides off his bed and comes round to stand in front of Beckett far faster than she can manage to stand up, takes her by the waist and firmly helps her, brooking no argument. She growls, warningly. "No, Beckett. I told you, you don't get to hurt yourself." The growl turns to frustration. He cuddles her in, and strokes right down the line of vertebrae. "Now, we can have a shower together, and I'll wash your back, or you can have a bath, on your own, and I'll wash your back. I think we're out of lilac bath salts, though. You might have to use mine."

"Shower. And no more funny business."

"Why, Beckett, I am shocked. Shocked, I say. I am most profoundly and deeply" –

"Redundancy, Castle" –

"For effect, Beckett – shocked, that you would think that. Especially when all the funny business was started by you."

"Me?"

"You. You started it with your wandering hands before the alarm even went off."

"You started it on the couch. And after my bath. So you started most of the funny business."

"Your turn next time, then." Beckett splutters and chokes on that. "I wouldn't want to be doing all the work."

She goes purple, splutters more, and glares ferociously in default of words. He pats her happily on the head, to improve the moment further. This business of her not being able to twist his nose or ear is really very good. He'll suffer for it later, but that's later. Right now, he's painfully aware that he's naked, she's naked, and they are pressed rather too close together for comfort. He summons all his muscle control, and walks them in the direction of the shower. The shower is big enough to share.

Beckett squeaks when the shower gel hits her skin. Okay, maybe it was just a little bit mean not to warn her that it's cool. But a massage is just what she needs, at a perfect temperature. He rubs the gel into her neck and back, carefully over the bruises, more forcefully as he reaches unmarred skin, working out any remaining knots of tension and pain with firm fingertips and strong thumbs. She purrs contentedly and pushes back into his movements, soft and slippery and soaked. His hands slow as they move round, oh-so-gentle across the violent splashes of livid, lurid colour over her ribs, delicately sensuous over her small, firm breasts, which fit beautifully neatly into the cups of his palms. This shower is not-so-slowly becoming a seduction.

Errant hands slip and slide – it must be the soap – lower: waist to hip to thigh to knee to ankle and back up. She's not snarking now. Her breathing is a smidgeon deeper, but there's no hint of distress. His thumbs glide over the juncture of her thighs, a tiny touch of pressure, a small suggestion that she should widen her stance – and she does – her eyes now heavy, sleepy; her lips a little open, full and ripe to be kissed. He's entirely unable to reject that invitation, and he doesn't even try. One hand runs up her spine and into the soaked hair at her nape. He simply stands in the spray of the shower kissing her as the soap runs off her body, and she smells of his body wash, so just a little of him and it's unbearably sexy; and quite without him thinking about it or meaning to do it his other hand is cupping her and finding heat and liquid and need and she's backed up against the shower wall and beginning to mewl.

He wasn't going to do this, he thinks, as his fingers flicker over and through and across her slick body. They were going to have a pleasant but efficient shower – really they were – and then he'd thought that some comfortable, caffeinated cosseting would be the order of the next little while. He really, really wasn't going to do this – but it's the best shower ever and the only problem is that third base is out of reach. He decides that he hates Beckett's broken ribs even more than broccoli, and very reluctantly stops playing with her to wash himself. He should turn the water to cold, but he's not that mean, or masochistic. She squeaks crossly when he stops.

"Why've you stopped, Castle?"

"Because I can't put you up against the shower wall without puncturing your lung and – and if you don't stop doing that" – he says hurriedly in a fine falsetto squeal – " that's exactly where you'll end up."

"I hate broken ribs," Beckett growls, but takes her hand away. "Worse than Ryan for getting in the way."

"What?" He watches with considerable interest and amusement as Beckett turns a deep shade of lobster red from head to cleavage.

"Nothing."

"That wasn't nothing." He smirks. "Does that mean that secretly you've been as frustrated by their timing as I have?"

Beckett looks sheepish. Specifically, a whole flock's worth of sheepish-looking. She's also still blushing, which is drawing Castle's attention to the excellent form of her breasts. Following the spread of colour with his eyes, that's what it is. She peeps almost shyly at him through her lashes.

"You have!" Castle bounces happily. "I knew it!" He beams widely down at her. "It was the vampire case, wasn't it?"

Beckett peeps up again, and doesn't answer. The blush has reached her waist. She makes a break for freedom in the form of exiting the shower, rather spoilt, Castle notes, by a certain amount of remaining caution in her movements. Still, it's better than it was, which he attributes to his excellent massage skills and the hot water. There's only one tiny problem, which he's just noticed. So, it seems, has Beckett.

"Castle, where are the towels?" Beckett is standing dripping on the bathmat and while that's a very attractive sight (at least, it would be if it weren't for the splashed-on bruises all over her) she's already starting to shiver.

"Um…" Castle bounds out of the shower. Beckett casts an obvious glance at his jiggling assets and sniggers, not quietly. He ignores her with lordly indifference and hopes he isn't blushing. The tenor of her snigger suggests that he is. "They're on the bed."

"Have you any others?" Castle is recalled to his senses from the sea of embarrassment in which he's drowning. "Oh – yes. Here." He delves into a cabinet under the vanity and gives Beckett the towel he finds. Then he realises that there are no more towels. Fortunately, there is a robe. He wraps the robe round his body and then wraps himself round Beckett, who is obviously chilled despite the towel. Pleasingly, she cuddles in. He has a – another – brilliant idea, pulls the robe open and from between them, and swirls it round them both. Okay, there is still a towel between them, but that's possibly a sensible security measure right now. It's all getting a little too explosive for comfort – not that Castle is comfortable – and he really cannot bear it if Beckett were to be damaged any more. He reflects rather ruefully that it's not like him to be the voice of reason in their partnership, but he supposes that there is a first time for everything.

Eventually, he stops holding her and gently rubs her dry. The towel stays on throughout. No sense tempting fate.

"Run and get dressed, Beckett."

"Run?" She quirks an eyebrow. "Lurch, more like."

"I think you're more like Morticia. Sexy in a very dangerous way." That's stopped the incipient argument.

"I don't quite see you as Gomez. Maybe Thing." Castle splutters. "Always touching things you're not supposed to."

Castle grins wickedly. "Does that include you, Beckett? Because I seem to be touching you quite a lot recently." Ooohh, he loves it when she blushes and gets all flustered and wiggles. Especially since she's wiggling in his arms. His adoration spills over into a kiss on the tip of her nose which has magically become a kiss on her infinitely kissable lips which is already turning into plundering possession of her entire mouth and it's incendiary: she's a firestarter and he's the tinder and together they blaze.

He simply invades. She's there and she's his and there's nothing in their way (except one broken and two cracked ribs) and if she'll stay his then he'll be hers, forever and ever.

He only, reluctantly, stops raiding and ravaging when it becomes only too clear that if he doesn't then the next stop will be the bed. Beckett is doing nothing whatsoever to calm matters down and really, anyone would think that she doesn't care about her ribs because the way she's behaving it seems she wants to incite him to complete insanity. When did he become the sensible one? Yet again, he detaches her incredibly naughty hands from his body, puts up with the terrifying growl and scowl that this causes, and – because he really cannot resist even though he knows he's going to die for doing it – turns her round by the shoulders, gives her a tiny little shove in the direction of the bedroom, and follows it up with a very gentle swat at her swaying backside. She squawks. He sniggers.

And then she turns back to him and her eyes are hot and dark and huge and is it possible that kickass Beckett likes him patting that entirely glorious ass? Because it certainly looks like it. She's undulating back towards him and yes it's still a little constrained and tight but ohhhh he could watch her prowl for hours, or days, or weeks, or centuries.

"What was that, Castle?" she purrs darkly. "More of your inappropriate touching?"

He didn't tell his arms to stretch out and catch her. He didn't tell them to draw her in against him, either. And he certainly didn't instruct his hands to rest on her rear and hold her tightly so she's pressed into his strained, rock-hard body and there's no way she's moving from there till he's ready to let go. Which at this point might be in fifty years' time, and then only if one of them is actually dead. He didn't tell his fingers to slip down and through and stroke, but they are, and he didn't tell his other hand to support the leg that's wrapped itself round his waist so that she's open to him – opened herself for him and she's into this, she's into him, and fuck he'd begun to believe it would never happen, up till a serial killer tried to take his Detective Beckett away from him. Because he is life-changingly into her.

He can't stop touching her, now he's started again. Can't stop stroking over wet heat and soft folds and slick flesh. Can't stop holding her in only just shy of too tight (and when she's not hurt they'll find out where too tight really lies) so that he's heavy and full against her stomach and pressing in. Can't stop kissing her, flicking over a spot that makes her mewl and nipping on it till she's breathing hard and making little sexy half moans and pushing her hips into him. Can't stop teasing her, his fingers slipping inside, outside, taking her and taking her up. Can't stop himself lifting her to sit on the edge of the vanity, and then balancing her there and replacing fingers with his own hard length and she sighs out a dirty, erotic moan that'll echo in his ears and mind for hours – until he makes it happen again – and lets him balance her there and move her slowly as she gives in to the necessity of letting him do everything and gives herself up to him.

"Now that's how you achieve inappropriate touching, Beckett."

Thank you to all readers and reviewers.