Author's Note: More smut ahead for anyone who might want a warning.

The Best-Laid Plans

Chapter 30

Castle twitched a little, drifting back towards consciousness, and drowsily reached out with an arm to draw Beckett closer. Only for his arm to encounter nothing but his sheets.

He blinked his eyes open, tugged fully awake by vague surprise that sharpened as his full consciousness snapped into place as he registered that Beckett was actually gone, nowhere in sight. The light wasn't on in the en suite so she wasn't in the bathroom and–he felt on the sheets to confirm his initial impression–she'd been gone for long enough that the sheets no longer retained any impression of her body's warmth.

He lifted his head a little, pausing to listen more intently, but heard nothing beyond the usual, familiar murmur of the water outside, the soft sounds of the house settling. He told himself she had probably just gone to get herself a glass of water or something and would return momentarily. But for all that, curiosity–which was his besetting sin, after all–had him pushing himself upright, shrugging on his robe to cover his nakedness in automatic instinct due to Alexis's near-constant presence in his life.

His gaze fell to the floor, the pale color of the scraps of silk and lace masquerading as underwear that Beckett had worn under her dress last night visible even in the darkness. A faint smile curved his lips, the very well-remembered image of Beckett wearing said scraps of silk and lace returning vividly to his mind. Once she'd slipped out of her dress and he'd seen, he could have sworn at least half his IQ had just drained right out of his head. And with what little brain he had left, he had, at least, finally understood exactly why she'd been so insistent she should change for dinner in the guest room, resisting his pouting and his teasing that he already knew what she looked like. As usual, Beckett had been right to keep her underwear hidden because if he'd had the slightest idea that she was wearing… that underneath her dress, there was no way they would ever have made it to dinner at all.

Warmth in his chest at the memories, he padded his way downstairs, not bothering to turn on any lights since he knew the house well enough and there was enough illumination from the moonlight outside that he didn't need it. Somewhat to his surprise, he didn't see any lights on downstairs but he supposed it would not be that surprising that Beckett, since this was now her second visit here, might also not feel she needed any light although, if she had come down just for a glass of water, surely she would have turned on a light in the kitchen at least. So, not in the kitchen then, he surmised, and turned away to check out the other rooms. And then stopped as he finally saw her, curled up on the couch in the family room, wearing one of his t-shirts but her legs were bare.

She didn't move, didn't appear to have sensed his approach, which sent the first flicker of concern going through him since he knew by now that Beckett, cop senses being what they were, almost always seemed to sense when he was around. As he went a few steps nearer, his bare feet making no sound, he froze as he got near enough to get a better view of her, his heart abruptly clenching and then seeming to plummet into the pit of his stomach.

Something in her posture, the way she had wrapped her arms around her knees, as she sat curled up on the couch screamed of defensiveness, self-protection, more, of loneliness. To his eyes, she looked… forlorn was the word that came to his writer's mind.

Oh god, something was wrong. Burgeoning panic clutched at him as he mentally floundered. But what could have happened? They had had such a good day–hell, he would classify the morning starting with the way she had woken him up might have been one of the best of his life. Their date night had been just about perfect from beginning to end, even with the conversation about Gina and Demming, which he hadn't exactly planned on having at this stage and certainly not tonight, but even that had gone well, he thought. Certainly, he was happy to hear first-hand that Beckett hadn't really liked Demming much at all, that nothing had happened between them. Then, after they'd returned home and Beckett had revealed her little surprise of what she was wearing, the first part of the night had begun about as amazingly well as was humanly possible.

It had been a mere handful of hours since then so what could have happened, gone wrong? He tried to tell himself he was jumping to conclusions but couldn't believe that. It was just a little after 2 a.m. and his girlfriend had left their bed in the middle of the night to sit and, well, brood alone on the couch. There really was no way to interpret that in a positive light.

He took another couple steps forward. "Beckett?" he asked, quietly, cautiously.

She turned her head and he was marginally relieved to see that at least it didn't look as if she'd been crying but the grief in her expression caught at his heart but then, he felt worse because her expression smoothed out almost immediately. By now, after spending so much time with her, he could recognize when she had tucked her emotions away as she just had. Hiding behind her Beckett shield. "I didn't mean to disturb you," was all she said.

No, he didn't like this.

"The bed was cold." He inwardly kicked himself. Could he sound any more inane? But he was mentally scrambling, worry and a kernel of hurt congealing inside his chest. He hesitated but he couldn't not ask. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," she answered immediately and he bit back a snort and a flinch. No, she wasn't okay but he knew this tone of hers, the slightly clipped response. It was the tone she used when what she meant was that she was not okay but she wasn't about to admit it, didn't want to talk about it. He had heard the tone, the false reassurances from her, before but they struck him like a blow because they weren't in the precinct or anywhere with other people around and they were so much closer now than they had been. Or at least, he'd thought they were.

Of course Beckett had never been someone who shared easily but he'd thought they were moving past that. She spoke to him about work and not just the usual case talk but more about how she reacted to their cases. She had talked more about her dad since their dinner a couple weeks ago, although he realized now, rather belatedly, that the things she'd mentioned about her dad had been mostly surface things, easier things, nothing to do with, for example, her dad's past struggles. Which, okay, he had to admit would not really have fit in with the general tone of their conversations lately but still…

She trusted him, he knew she did. She cared about him, a lot, was maybe even, he was starting to hope, starting to love him. It was in the way she touched him, the way she smiled at him, the way she comforted him and supported him when it came to Alexis, his writing, everything really.

But now, when something was bothering her enough that it had driven her out of their bed and downstairs in the middle of the night, she had closed up again. As if she thought, expected, that their relationship could only extend so far as the good but did not need to include any of the bad. She had another think coming if that were the case.

He joined her on the couch, placing a rather tentative hand on her back, just a touch but not putting his arm around her because he wasn't, for the first time in a while, sure she wanted him to. "So you woke up in the middle of the night and came downstairs to sit in the dark but everything's fine?" he asked, keeping his skepticism as gentle as he could. "I don't believe that."

She didn't respond for a long couple seconds and then with an abruptness that startled him, swung around and before he had a chance to so much as guess what she intended, straddled him on the couch.

He stiffened, his little gasp of surprise strangling in his throat.

"I don't feel like talking. I'd rather do something else," she told him and then she kissed him, her mouth hot and eager and–

For the first time ever, he resisted, turned his head away and pulling back, trying hard to fight the rush of blood leaving his brain and heading down in a rush that left him almost dizzy. "Wait, wait, Beckett," he gritted out.

"Hmm?" she mumbled against his skin as she kissed her way down his chin and then his neck.

His head fell back automatically to give her greater ease of access even as he fought to keep control, fought to resist. "We shouldn't–we need to talk–"

"Can we talk later?"

Her hands had pushed open the sides of his robe that parted as if in surrender, leaving his chest mostly bare. Oh god. He was sure there were about a hundred good reasons why they should talk about things first, rather than getting distracted, but at the moment, with her lips and hands on his chest, he couldn't remember a single one.

She let her teeth graze lightly against his Adam's apple and then her fingers found his nipples, making him jerk a little, and then she was kissing him again and any small chance he'd ever had of resisting her–oh who was he kidding, he never had been able to resist her–melted and streamed away like butter under a blowtorch.

Talk later, he told himself, but first…

There was a frantic edge of something more than mere lust in her kiss, the way her tongue eagerly surged into his mouth, laying claim to it, but he couldn't think clearly enough to identify it, didn't try. All he could do was kiss her back, hard and deep and desperate, his tongue tangling with hers.

She rolled her hips against his growing erection still, thankfully or not, covered by his robe, and he groaned, his hips arching, lifting, to press himself more firmly against her.

She panted and then she was pulling her–his–shirt over her head and he immediately registered with his breath strangling in his chest that she was now wearing only underwear but was otherwise naked.

He pressed his mouth to her chest, kissing, licking, and then moved to take one nipple into his mouth, flicking the taut bud with his tongue before sucking, and she groaned, her hips rolling against him more firmly. He moved on to pay the same attention to her other breast, his one hand coming up to replace his mouth, kneading her breast.

She gasped and panted, a little shudder rippling through her, and he realized with a rush of sheer male exultation that she had just had a little climax just from his mouth and his hands on her breast.

He'd known it already but he decided again that the way she looked when she came, her neck and chest flushed, her head thrown back, was the hottest thing he'd ever seen. He loved it, could never get enough of her, of how responsive she was, how she gave herself up to passion with the sort of single-minded focus that characterized everything she did.

He slid his other hand down from where he gripped her waist to slip his hand in between them, his fingers nudging past her underwear, so he could find the wet center of her, making her gasp. Her position on his lap severely restricted his access and she realized it too because she pushed his hand aside so she could slide off his lap to stand in front of him and hurriedly discard her underwear.

Her movement dislodged the rest of his robe parting the two halves and he belatedly realized one fortuitous consequence of his earlier laziness in not bothering to tug on boxers before coming downstairs was that he was now entirely bared to her gaze.

Her tongue emerged to moisten her lips and although he wouldn't have believed it was possible, he swore that the action made him harden even more until he was throbbing, desperate–well, more desperate.

Before he could do more than blink, he sucked in a breath as she dropped to her knees in front of the couch, her hand wrapping around him and stroking, pulling a groan from his chest as his hips thrust involuntarily. "God, Beckett," he panted.

She slanted a quick glance up at him and then she lowered her head. His breath strangled in his chest as his lungs seized, her tongue lightly teasing his tip for a moment, and he struggled to keep his hips still, keep from thrusting outright into her mouth.

The strain of controlling himself just about killed him but then, finally (after what was in reality only a few seconds), she took him deeper into her mouth, a small humming sound coming from the back of her throat that might have been the sexiest sound he'd ever heard. His head fell back on a groan as he panted. Her mouth was so hot and wet and he could already feel the coiling tension tightening, knew he wasn't going to last long, couldn't last, not with the suction of her mouth, the touch of her hand on him. And sure enough, all it took was one more lick, another suck, and he came in a mindless rush of sensation.

He slumped back on the couch, panting, and had to wait and blink a few times to return to reality and clear his vision. Any chance he had of clearing his mind enough to function vanished as she sat on his lap, sliding one arm around his neck and ruffled her fingers through his hair.

"Okay there, Castle?" she asked, her voice faintly teasing as well as smug.

"You are incredible, you know that," he husked in answer, pulling her closer to kiss her. He tasted himself on her tongue and somehow, that sent a fresh spike of arousal through him and he was not even surprised to find his body stirring again. Not fully ready yet but well on its way. He was reasonably sure that he'd have to be dead before he stopped responding to her.

She moaned a little deep in her throat as she kissed him back and he slid one hand down her waist to her thighs that immediately fell apart for him so he could stroke her wet folds, his fingers circling around, tantalizingly shallow explorations, until her hips jerked and her fingers tightened in in his hair.

"Castle," she gritted out.

He gave into the urging, as if he needed it, and slid first one, then two, fingers inside her, pumping his fingers inside her tight, wet heat with slow deliberation, mimicking the movement of his tongue. He knew her reactions by now–and god, how he loved the knowledge–could tell how close she was to coming from the sounds she made, the movements of her hips, and kept on building her up only to slow down and draw back before repeating it until finally, with a last thrust and twist of his fingers inside her, he sent her flying over the edge, her body spasming around his fingers.

She collapsed against his chest and he gently withdrew his fingers, wiping them on his almost-forgotten robe, before settling both his arms around her. And decided yet again that he would do anything to keep her in his arms like this.

It was a minute or two before she stirred, pressing her lips to his chin. "Take me back to bed, Castle."

And he would never ever get tired of hearing her tell him to take her to bed. "Your wish is my command."

Even in her current state of languid satisfaction, her lips quirked faintly on a soft huff of amusement at the line. A cliche but considering a naked Kate Beckett was in his lap, he thought he was doing well to be managing to speak at all, let alone in a coherent sentence.

She pushed herself off his lap and onto her feet and he told himself it was absurd to feel a little sense of loss even as he hurried to stand himself, pausing to shrug his one arm back into his robe if only to keep it from trailing behind him and possibly tripping him, although he didn't bother to tie it closed.

His mouth almost watered as Beckett, in contrast, only stopped to retrieve her underwear and t-shirt from where they'd been discarded before slanting a glance at him in which he could hear her voice asking, "You coming, Castle?", before she left the room and led the way back upstairs. He could have–would have–caught up but was frankly rather mesmerized by the sway of her bare hips as she ascended the stairs ahead of him. She was naked and just the sight of her was enough to bring his body all the way back to full, throbbing life.

By the time she lay back on their bed, looking at him with dark eyes, he already knew that as much as he wanted to taste her, set his mouth to her core, he couldn't wait that long to be inside her.

And somehow, she knew it, probably read his thought in his face, and she was already reaching into the drawer of his nightstand for protection as he hurriedly threw off his robe and joined her on the bed. She stroked him just once, briefly, before moving to sheathe him, but he pushed her hand away and took care of it himself because if she did it, it was entirely possible he wouldn't make it.

He lined himself up, nudging against her, and she was the one who arched, lifted her hips up, so he sank into her with a groan.

"Castle," she panted.

"Yeah," he grunted.

By now, he knew her body almost as well as he knew his own, knew how to move and circle his hips to make her gasp, the angle that would make her clench around him. And as always, she was perfect. A tight, hot vise around him as they moved together in sync and every time, he became more and more convinced that they'd been made to do this, made for each other.

He really wasn't going to last, could feel the impending climax, so he dropped his hand down to touch her where they were joined, finding the bud at the center. He felt her start to spasm around him and only then did he allow himself to just let go, his thrusts increasingly sloppy until he exploded inside her with a strangled shout.

He collapsed on top of her, spent, boneless, and just managed to turn his head to nuzzle a kiss to her ear, breathing in the familiar scent of sex, sweat, the whiff of cherries and vanilla and just her.

He felt her move one hand to lightly ruffle her fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck, an idle little caress that still sent a little ripple of sensation through him, warmth blossoming in his chest. Because it was a surprisingly tender gesture for her, one of the little ways she touched him without any conscious thought, that showed what she felt, how much she cared.

It took a few minutes before he was finally able to heave himself off her, his body already mourning the lack of contact as he slipped out of her, and then had to force himself to get up and retreat into the bathroom.

By the time he returned a mere minute or so later, it was to find that her eyes were closed and she already appeared to be almost half-asleep. He slipped back into bed and was amazingly comforted at the way she shifted closer, curling into the curve of his body. He pressed a kiss to her hair and settled an arm around her as he let himself sink into the mattress.

They still needed to talk, he remembered, but as he felt her slide into sleep, the warmth of her nestled securely against him, he found he couldn't summon up even an iota of concern. She was here, with him, and he knew, knew to his bones, that she cared about him, trusted him. Everything else was just details.

The next time Castle awoke, it was full morning and Beckett was still sleeping soundly next to him. Beckett was habitually an early riser so it wasn't often that he awoke before her but he decided, for about the thousandth time, that having Beckett be the first thing he saw was what he wanted for the rest of his life. He guessed that the emotion, whatever had upset Beckett enough that she had left their room and retreated downstairs overnight, had wrung her out and possibly was why she was still sleeping now.

He tucked the concern away for later and slowly, carefully, slid out of bed to retreat into the en suite to take care of his morning ablutions. For all his care, he wasn't surprised when Beckett joined him in the bathroom bare minutes afterwards and they each completed their morning rituals in easy silence, the little dance of sharing a bathroom now almost habitual.

He got dressed in a Captain America t-shirt (as befitting the holiday) and shorts and padded downstairs to get started on coffee and brunch.

He had just started making waffles when she joined him in the kitchen and, seeing that the coffee had finished percolating, fixed up two cups of coffee and also started rinsing the strawberries and blueberries he'd set out on the counter. All without either of them saying a word and he liked it, he thought, how comfortable the two of them were. Learning to share a bathroom and a kitchen–even if both those places were roomy examples of their kind–wasn't always an easy thing, could be bumpy, but with Beckett, the process had happened organically. As if they'd almost been made to share a space like this, made to live together. He could picture the two of them like this years from now, working side by side in the kitchen, with the happy chatter of little kids in the background–whoa, hold your horses, Rick. Castle realized where his train of thought had wandered and hauled on the brakes. Not that he was surprised to be thinking about kids with Beckett but even he knew they weren't ready for that. Beckett would probably turn tail and run so fast she'd be a speck on the horizon before he could say the words.

Anyway, he reminded himself sharply, they still needed to talk about last night, the conversation that had not happened last night. But not now, not until they'd both had their coffees (he knew Beckett too well to even attempt a serious conversation before she'd had at least two cups) and brunch too.

So he waited. While they ate and talked lightly over breakfast, he made a point of studying her but she looked serene enough, her eyes and smile clear. He hated the thought of disturbing her apparent tranquility but he didn't want to just let last night go over without talking about it. They were too good at getting distracted but it was important that they learned to talk about things without avoidance or distraction, no matter how pleasurable the distraction. And he wanted to know what had been bothering her.

"—assuming we can just watch the fireworks here? Castle?"

He blinked. "Hmm, what?" He mentally replayed her last words. "Oh, right, yeah," he hurriedly agreed.

She gave him a rather amused look. "Thinking about your edits or what?"

He hesitated but hardly had a choice. "No, actually. I was thinking–wondering–if you were going to tell me what upset you last night."

It shouldn't have been such a surprise but somehow, it was, to see the way her expression changed, blanked. "I'd rather not talk about it."

Maybe it was an improvement that at least now, she wasn't pretending that she hadn't been upset at all, he thought sourly. But no, it didn't help. "Beckett. Kate," he began again with a sigh. "I just want to help, be there for you. And I can't do that if I don't know what's bothering you."

"Maybe it's not something you can help with."

He tried not to wince. "At least talk to me, tell me what it is." He paused and then added, more gently, "You know you can talk to me about anything. You can trust me."

At least–poor comfort that it was–her expression softened just a little. "I know."

There was a pause in which he waited, although without much actual hope that she would, for her to say something more, but she didn't. Because of course she wouldn't. Why bother talking to him? He was only her partner, her boyfriend–or lover, if that sounded better–and the man she'd said she wanted to be with. He felt a spurt of temper licking at him, irritation at Beckett's familiar stubbornness and her reticence. Heated words, a reproach, welled up inside him but he swallowed them back forcefully. For one thing, he knew Beckett too well to think that pushing her would do any good, it would only put her back up, make her clam up even more out of defiance, if nothing else. And aside from that, he didn't want to fight with her now. Not today, not over the holiday and not on their last full day in the Hamptons. They were on vacation, their first vacation together as a couple. And not when he would be leaving for his book tour in a matter of days. Surely, he could be forgiven for wanting to keep the peace.

"All right, fine," he gave in. "I can't make you talk to me. If you don't mind, I think I'm going to go work on my edits for a while."

He pushed himself back from his seat, taking his dishes over to the sink, before stalking into his office. Although he knew himself too well to think that he'd be able to get much work done on his edits in his current mood, but he opened up the document anyway, glowering at his laptop screen.

She didn't trust him, not enough at least. She trusted him to have her back at work, trusted him enough to sleep beside him at night. But she didn't trust him enough to really talk to him, open up to him about the things that upset her the most.

Which, he supposed, shouldn't have surprised and, yes, hurt him as much as it had because Beckett never had been one to share easily. She had even admitted as much, when she'd said she didn't let on what was on her mind, that she hid behind a defensive wall.

He had just hoped, thought, that after all these weeks together, she would find it easier to open up, would have started to chisel through the wall.

Apparently not.

His thoughts–okay, his brooding–was interrupted as his phone rang and he felt a spurt of joy momentarily swamping his gloomy thoughts. It was Alexis. "Hi, pumpkin," he greeted her, and because it was her, he didn't even need to try that hard to make his voice sound reasonably cheerful. His daughter had always been magic like that.

"Hi, Dad. Am I interrupting anything?"

"I'm just trying to avoid working on my Nikki Heat edits so your timing is, as always, impeccable," he flipped back.

"Dad," she chided him mildly. "Are you procrastinating again?"

"It's a skill."

"Uh huh, well, if Gina starts texting or calling me to have me bug you, I'm not going to be happy."

"I won't let it get that far, I promise."

"Uh huh, sure," she drawled skeptically.

"I'm sure you didn't call only to make sure I'm sticking to my deadlines. So tell me, how is my favorite Princetonite–no, Princetonian?"

"I'm good. I have a little time before I need to leave to meet up with some friends for lunch and a movie so I thought I'd call and check in, make sure you're surviving without me."

"It's a struggle but somehow I'm managing," he answered, not entirely jokingly since it was hard to miss Alexis so much.

"Well, I'm sure Kate is providing ample distraction. Have fun in the Hamptons."

"I want to hear more about you," he deflected since at the current moment, talking about Beckett was not high on his list. "How'd you do on that essay you just had in European history?"

"Oh, I got an A-," she told him cheerfully and launched into one of her characteristically animated recountings of her studies. Castle listened with a smile playing on his lips. He didn't understand it, accepted now that he never would, but Alexis always had appeared to generally enjoy learning and school. He didn't know where she got her studious streak from–certainly not from him or even less so, from Meredith, and it wasn't a trait his mother had either–but whatever the case, he was thankful for it. And as always, just hearing the brightness of her voice soothed him, lifted his spirits–and not even the occasional references to some boys in her class, an Oliver who had apparently impressed her in French this week and a Bryce who had caused a minor disruption in another class, could entirely dim his mood.

He spoke to Alexis for about 20 minutes, a talk that amused him and reassured him and made him proud and a little melancholy, too, to think of how grown up she was, how well she was coping with being away from home, while he was nowhere near ready to let her go.

And by the time he ended the call with Alexis, he was calm, not wallowing or brooding anymore, his thoughts clear as they returned, again, to Beckett.

Whatever had upset her was about her mom, that much he could guess with some certainty. The loss of her mom was the deepest wound Beckett had, the part of her that was most vulnerable and therefore that she protected the most fiercely. Of course, knowing that much didn't help him narrow it down any further.

But it did help, at least some, because he thought he could understand it, at least some of it. He already knew that Beckett didn't talk about her mom readily, didn't share any of what she felt over the loss of her mom easily. And he could understand that because, knowing what he did, he imagined that Beckett never had talked about her mom's loss with anyone. The only person she really could have talked about it with was Jim and Jim had had his own struggles, had been just as devastated by Johanna's loss. And Castle knew Beckett too well to think she wouldn't have tried, then and now, to protect Jim by not talking about her own sense of loss.

And who else was there she would have talked to? Captain Montgomery was a friend, yes, but he was still her boss and he couldn't imagine Beckett opening herself up to someone she knew in her professional capacity, someone she would not have wanted to show any weakness to. The same went for Lanie, no matter how close their friendship otherwise. Will Sorenson was a possibility, he admitted with a grimace, but one he rather doubted. That relationship had lasted six months and he didn't see it as having been that deep–although part of that might just be that he couldn't imagine any man walking away from Beckett, no matter the job opportunity, if the relationship had been that deep. And fine, he didn't want to think that Beckett would have ever confided in any man if she wouldn't confide in him. Call him petty and jealous but there it was.

Anyway, that aside, Beckett herself had said she had built up a defensive wall to keep people at a distance. And the wall was still in place.

And he supposed that no matter how much Beckett cared about him, even their relationship of, well, a bare month–because it really had only been a month, as strange as that seemed–wasn't enough to break through a wall she had been building for years.

He wasn't happy about it–no, it still hurt–to feel that he was left on the outside but he could, now that he was thinking more clearly, understand it.

A wall she'd kept in place for years could not be so easily demolished. It would take time and effort.

And in the meantime, he knew Beckett cared about him, cared about him deeply. He did know that, was sure of it. It was in the way she touched him, in and out of bed. He had had enough meaningless sex courtesy of his misbegotten past to recognize when emotion invested the act, made it more than just sex, and with Kate, it was always making love. More, it was in the way she listened to him, in the softness in her eyes when she smiled at him, and yes, it was in the way she also cared about Alexis. They'd had dinner with her dad and she'd already agreed that after he came back from his book tour, they should invite her dad over for dinner at the loft.

Perhaps more importantly, he had to believe–did believe–she trusted him completely. The mere fact that she had told him about her wall, about wanting to take down her wall, was a tacit admission that she was already vulnerable to him and knew it. Maybe not obviously but by now he had the equivalent of an advanced degree in interpreting Kate Beckett and he understood that.

So her continuing reticence wasn't about a lack of trust. It was more… habit, he thought. Habit and yes, her general character.

Maybe her wall wasn't gone yet. Maybe she didn't quite love him as much as he loved her. But he knew she cared about him, trusted him, wanted to be with him. And from Kate Beckett, that was a lot. He could wait, give her more time to chisel through the wall.

For now, being with Kate like this was enough. He could wait for the rest of her wall to come down.

~To be continued…~

A/N 2: Thank you, as always, to all readers and reviewers.