20. Chapter 20

Castle's arm is falling asleep.

Pretty painfully numb now too. He flexes his hand slowly, and Kate stirs, opens her eyes.

"Didn't mean to wake you," he whispers.

"Didn't. Awake," she murmurs, but her eyelids are drifting again.

"Liar." He chuckles and watches her struggle to stay awake. "Hate to do this, but my arm is falling asleep."

She winces. "Mine already is." She's cradling Ella and laying on his shoulder, but she shifts a little and winces again.

The heavy weight of his family is soothing, but the irritation of the angry insects nibbling on his arm - the numbness - is going to drive him crazy. "I gotta get up, put them in bed."

Kate sighs and opens her eyes. "Take Dash first."

Which means she's not coming with Ella while he takes Dash; she's going to stay in bed with the baby as long as she can. Cheater. "Yes, ma'am," he grins and sees her narrow her eyes at him, so very half-heartedly. "I need you to lift up first, babe."

"Not your babe." She curls in around Ella, bringing them both up a little, and he slides his dead-weight, meat-stick of a hand out from under her, gasps as the blood rushes back.

"Hush," she murmurs.

"It hurts!"

"You're gonna wake him up."

"I'm gonna die first-"

"Rick. Quiet."

He shakes his arm out, trying not to move too much since Dashiell is asleep on his chest but not likely to stay that way for long if he creates a disturbance. He feels Kate squeeze his bicep and he lets out a long, hissing breath before wrapping both arms around Dash and slowly sitting up.

He eases his way forward on the bed, feet to the floor, his arm still painful, then gets to his feet and shuffles for the door. Dashiell is damp and sweaty from bath and sleep; his mouth moves against his father's chest. In the dark and cool hallway, Castle tucks the boy in closer and pads towards the kid's room. Once inside, Dashiell murmurs and sighs loudly, but doesn't seem to be waking up.

Castle reaches out and tugs the covers down, then gently lays his son in the bed, watching his dark hair against the pillow, his long dark lashes on his pale cheeks. He pulls the sheets and comforter back up around his shoulders, smooths it away from his face, and leans in to kiss his forehead. He finds the kid's teddy bear jammed between the wall and the bed, tucks it in with his son. The remote to the tv is in the floor, so Castle picks it up and puts it on the bedside table, then angles the clock where Dash can see it better.

Has to take a moment to stand there, breathing slow and steady, watching his son.

Then he makes sure the nightlight is on in the bathroom, and the connecting doors are open, and heads back for Ellery.

Kate sighs when he curls his arms around the baby and lifts her out of Kate's arms. She raises her head to kiss her daughter's cheek, her eyes drifting up to meet his. Something full and lovely and deep is in her gaze, something that curls like a fist around his heart.

As he takes Ella back to her room, he remembers where he's seen that look before. Or rather when. He has the picture framed, and it hangs above Ellery's bed at home, in the girls' room. It's from the time they all flew Alexis to Chicago for grad school, making one last family trip of it last year. He was mostly snapping pictures on his iPhone of his daughter's apartment when he turned and caught one of his girls all on the couch. Kate had one hand raised to Alexis, pressing their cheeks close, both of them smiling, and the other hand was curled against Ella's face, the girl standing up on the couch and draped over her mother's other side, her cheek pressed to Kate's shoulder.

Kate's eyes were the same then: full and lovely and deep.

After he took that picture, she'd shaken the kids off and stood up to look at it on his phone. All a ruse so that she could lean in and whisper to him:

"I am so in love with you."

When he gets back from putting the kids to bed, Kate has slipped off her pajama pants and stretched out in middle of the bed, propped up on her side, her head in her hand. She watches him close the bedroom door and smiles.

"You still up for the record?"

He grins back and stalks towards her, watching her eyes dilate the closer he gets. "You won't know what hit you."

"Such confidence."

"Experience," he corrects, and slides into bed behind her, curling around her long form. He slips his knee between her legs and kisses the side of her neck, brushing her hair out of the way. "Lots and lots of experience."

"Boasting about your many women isn't-"

"No, no. Just you," he murmurs, licking the ridge of her spine and letting his teeth graze it. She arches away from him, bringing her body against his hand. He strokes his thumb along her belly and slides the tshirt up. "You are my experience. The only experience that matters."

"You have all the right words," she says, breathless and burning against him.

It reminds him of their argument, and he slips his hand from under her shirt to stroke her arm, lace his fingers through hers. He slides his other arm under her neck, takes that hand too, and draws her up against his chest, both arms wrapped around her, their fingers interlaced and squeezing tight.

She hums and pulls him tighter. His body is wrapped around her like a blanket, taking the seduction down a notch just to affirm their connection, the rightness of her in his arms. "God is seven," he says.

"Hm, what?" She gives a little laugh, shrugging her shoulders against him as if getting comfortable. Or antsy.

"In the song. Man is five, devil is six-"

"Six, I definitely felt. . .possessed," she says coyly, chuckling against his mouth.

"Glad to possess you," he whispers back and feels the slight catch in her breath at the way he offers that.

"Oh what a stud," she says back, turning to press her mouth to the side of his nose. "So, so confident tonight."

"We good?" he murmurs, his cheek pressed against hers. He knows she knows what he means.

She smiles; he can feel it against the side of his face. "We're good. And you're *very* good."

But he won't be deterred. He raises his knees towards his chest, bringing her legs with him so that they are both curled up tight, together, breathing into onto another, bodies tangled. Preserving the moment, just a bit longer.

"I love you," he sighs.

She laughs and brings his hands to her lips to kiss the backs of them, one at a time. "I love you too."

He breathes her in again, reveling in the way their bodies press together, every inch of warm contact, and then Kate slides her legs against his, bearing down on his knee. He gasps and clutches at her, his concentration scattered by the heat of her body.

"Get going, Rick. Don't fall asleep on me now."

He laughs and tries to recover his breath, his plan - he had a plan for this, slow and steady to drive her crazy, to make her beg - releases her hands so he can brush his fingers along the long, milky length of her leg.

"There is no way I'm falling asleep with all this-" he slides his knee higher, closer "-right here waiting."

"All this?" Kate reaches back and squeezes the back of his thigh, then tugs on his pajama pants, as if he needs the hint.

He doesn't even have a pithy reply to that, just the overwhelming feel of her against his hands, his chest, the way her body urges his on.

"Pants off, Castle."

"Yeah, yeah," he murmurs and brushes his lips against her shoulder, the sensitive place at her side where her ribs curve towards her back, then he moves forward and blows a cool breath against her breast. Ignoring her command.

She does that little gasping ah on a sucked in breath and turns suddenly in his arms, her legs scissoring to untangle with his, rolling him onto his back with a push.

"Enough-" she grits out, spread on top of him, her hair falling over her shoulder and trailing against his skin.

"Not nearly," he counters, and shifts to one side, puts her under him. She arches immediately into his body, grabbing his hips, trying to get close, but he curves like a bow towards her lips and takes her mouth instead. Slow, hot, the drag of his tongue across hers, refusing to let her set the pace.

She lets out a frustrated moan into his mouth and bites his lip, her hands kneading the muscles at his back, arched almost continuously into him.

"Hurry up, hurry up," she breathes. He lifts his head and brushes his mouth down the column of her throat, languid, exploring, teasing, leaving a necklace of heat along her collarbone. He rocks his hips slowly, purposefully against hers, and then she breaks, breaks against him, her arms tight around his shoulders, her body clinging to his, and that one word tumbling from her lips:

"Please."

He takes her then. His wife.

Seven, the number of perfection.