57. Safe and warm

Lunch is a thick soup, grilled cheese, and – of course – ice cream. Castle banks the fire very carefully, before Beckett is persuaded into another walk along the beach, and, during their perambulation, is also persuaded to accept the small, perfect piece of dark red quartz, eroded smooth by the sea, that Castle spots and picks up before Beckett’s even noticed it’s there.

“You could get it set into a bracelet, or a ring, or something,” he says happily. He doesn’t suggest a necklace.  She wears one already, and unlike his mother, Beckett doesn’t appear to believe in the more is more principle of jewellery.

“I could.” She’s turning it in her fingers, stroking over it, looking at it as if no-one has ever given her a present before.  He thinks that if he’d given her rubies, she’d have given them back, but a beach stone that cost nothing but a keen eye and a swoop to pick it up: not even a malicious Atlantic wave to defeat in order to collect it (Just as well.  His toes would be frostbitten before he ever got home to take off his soaking socks.) has delighted her.

“Shall we go back?”

“You promised me hot chocolate.” She smiles happily.  “And marshmallows.”  The smile acquires a tinge of mischief.  “And wicked ways.”  She laughs.  “But you’ll have to catch me first.”

And she takes off running, back towards the house. Castle hesitates for only a millisecond before going after her, but doesn’t catch her until she’s only feet away from the door, laughing at him.  He grabs her, swings her up in his arms and round and round till he’s laughing too, and then he can’t help but kiss her, and then he puts her back on her feet and the kiss becomes hard, and deep, and passionate: pinning her between his hard body and the door, pressing into her and taking her with him, her hands in their gloves on the back of his neck, gripping tightly.  He’s chased her and caught her and somewhere deep inside that’s fired a deep need to possess her; from her reaction a need in her to be possessed.

He struggles to insert the key into the door, has to take his own gloves off to do it, and they fall inside, still locked together as she tears hers off to run hands into his hair, as he rips the buttons of her coat open and reaches inside and under the angora jumper and t-shirt below to the heated silk of her bare skin and she squeaks as his cold fingers touch her but he swallows the squeak and contains her wriggle and runs hands firmly up and down her back till one stops at the base of her skull and one over her ass and she’s trapped between him and the door again, on the inside.

His wide hand span lets him pull the coat down by its collar and, when she drops her hands, the coat falls from her to the floor. She undoes Castle’s coat, skimming elegant hands over his pecs; down and then up to push it, too, away.  Her hands move back down to his firm ass, bringing him in to give her strength and force and pressure where she wants it.  Somehow here, with nothing to remind her of anything, she’s free of her own memories: free to act as she pleases, free to be confident and happy and able to give back, not just take from his strength. 

She slides one hand round to his front and undoes his belt, the button of his jeans, slips that same hand up under his t-shirt and detaches it so that her fingers are free to roam his skin and that lights him up: her own jeans suddenly around her ankles, his hand cupping her and she can’t think, she can’t speak: she can only feel and react and he’s sliding thick fingers into her and a thumb over her and she knows she’s soaked, knows she’s so close and he’s stopping just before she can explode: heat building in her core and she yanks his mouth down over hers and lets him drive her up and up even while she has just enough mind left to bring her own hand back round and down and inside to find him hard and she touches him and grips and slides and rubs her thumb over the damp tip and that’s it: he loses all control and her panties are gone and he’s so big inside her and Castle don’t stop Castle! and he takes her scream as she takes all of him and he flicks his thumb across her and she clenches and throbs around his thrusts and they’re gone, lost together.

He holds her close and keeps her warm, opens his eyes and suddenly laughs.

“Uh?” she says.

“You’ve still got your beret on,” he grins. “Sexy.”

She reaches up. She does.  “Ooops,” she – giggles?  She doesn’t giggle.  She really doesn’t – but that was absolutely a giggle. Castle’s smiling down, still merged with her, and his eyes are warm and affectionate and she simply snuggles against him for a moment.

She’s not expecting simply to be hoisted up and conveyed to the – the? There will be more than one.  A – bathroom, swiftly stripped, and then pushed into a double size shower where Castle displays unusual focus on the correct way to wash.  To wash her, that would be.  He smooths shower gel – so that’s where his slightly spicy scent comes from – over her shoulders, tutting slightly at the still-lurid bruising, down her arms and up again, and massages it into her firm breasts with considerably more attention to detail and the correct angle of fingers and thumbs than she might use, leaving her panting and arching into his naughty, addictive hands. 

He moves those hands away to rub shower gel into her legs from the feet up, kneeling at her feet and reaching higher and higher. Then he smiles like a cherub and moves his hands like an incubus – she hadn’t even noticed him rinse the remains of the gel off them – and she opens for his fingers slipping through slickness that doesn’t come from soap and then he leans forward and licks and has to hold her hips and then push her back against the shower wall and carry on and on and on. She’s writhing under the water as his tongue moves over and over and in and out and his fingers join in: she’s screaming for more and just before it’s all too much he stands up and lifts her slightly and takes her with one hard, fast movement.  She lifts her legs so he’s supporting her and then he moves within her and that’s all it takes.

Castle props Beckett up against the wall until her eyes open again, sleepy, hazy and fogged with sex. She reaches up and pulls his head down to kiss him as possessively as ever he’s kissed her, wraps her long fingers around him and begins to play.  He’s instantly regenerated.  She slithers down his neck, throat, chest, folds elegantly to descend past his sternum, navel, and ends on her knees with her mouth around him and he could almost explode right there but controls himself until she does something that’s so filthily co-ordinated between her fingers and her mouth and tongue and Christ teeth Beckett fuck Beckett! that he’s utterly mind blown.  Or just blown.

He sinks down beside her and lets the hot water beat on his head till his brain works again, holding her hand like two school kids in the playground, with her head on his shoulder.

When they’re dry, and dressed again, Beckett peeps up at him through thick lashes. “I didn’t get my marshmallows,” she pouts, playfully sulky in a way he’s never seen.

“I got my wicked way,” Castle smirks, “so I suppose it’s only fair that you should get hot chocolate and toast your marshmallows in the fire.”

Beckett flicks a quick, insinuating glance over him, stopping midway. “I could toast your… marshmallows,” she murmurs.

“Maybe later,” Castle purrs lazily, as he presents Beckett with a toasting fork and the largest packet of marshmallows she’s ever seen.   “Now, do you want marshmallows in your hot chocolate?”

“Mmm, yes please. It wouldn’t be hot chocolate without marshmallows.”

Rich, luxurious hot chocolate duly appears, rife with marshmallows and – Beckett thinks – possibly flavoured with a tiny dash of orange syrup. It’s delicious.  Almost as delicious as being snuggled into Castle’s sweater and warm embrace in a place with no memories whatsoever: in which she has, unexpectedly, found a little piece of Kate-before-it-all-went-wrong.  Here, she thinks, she can be a combination of that much younger, happy Kate and her well-hidden Kat persona: softly sensual and strangely feminine, able to relax and rely on the man beside her and stand down.  While she’s here.  Time out from her normal burdens.  She finishes the truly excellent hot chocolate and nestles as closely as she can manage, which turns out to be very close indeed.  By the time she’s finished nestling she’s on his lap with her head on one shoulder (such a usefully wide shoulder) and her hand draped over the other.  Conveniently, that lets Castle wrap his arms around her and stroke very gently over her fluffy jumper.

Castle surveys his lapful of Beckett with considerable delight and not a little bemusement. He is delighted that Beckett arrived in his lap without his input – every other time, he’s either put or encouraged her there – but he is rather bemused by this happy, flirtatious, fluffy Beckett.  Half Kate, half Kat, and not Beckett at all.  Katwoman?  He rapidly decides that saying that would not be a good plan, and compromises with stroking that oh-so-pettable jumper.  It dawns on him that she chose it quite deliberately to appeal to his instincts, and allows said instincts freedom to stroke. 

With an unusual exertion of moderation, he decides that too much stroking at this juncture of the day would mean that they were late for the dinner reservation he has made at the Plaza Café, and he really, really thinks that Beckett will like it. The fur rug can wait till later.  Petting will have to do right now.  He might not pout at the constraints of time – but he thinks about pouting.

When Beckett sashays out of a – not his, which is unfair – bedroom dressed in a clinging crimson dress that shows off every curve and is cut beautifully to swirl around and emphasise her incredible legs, Castle nearly swallows his tongue.  He manages to conceal his visceral reaction, which involves two fast steps followed by crushing Beckett into his chest and then sweeping her into his bed and damn the dinner, and produces his best suave tones.

“You look lovely, Beckett.”

“Thank you. Where are we going?”

“It’s a surprise. You’ll see when we get there.  But I’m sure you’ll like it.”

“Mm,” she murmurs seductively. “How were you going to make sure it’s a surprise?  Blindfold me?”

She can’t say things like that and bite her lip like that and peep seductively through her lashes like that if she wants him to eat dinner with her.  It’s unfair and unkind.  On the other hand, later, he will be as assertively masculine as she wants him to be.  Two can play this game.  Two will play this game.  He holds her coat for her and as she slips into it smooths it down over her back, lingering on her rear; offers his arm for her to take and escorts her to the car service. 

Dinner is, as expected, fabulous. It’s the most normal meal they’ve ever had together – just like a real date should be.  Conversation is light, witty and charming; the food is incredible; the wine well-chosen and excellent.  Beckett is so amazingly relaxed that she even consents to a second glass.  They share tastes of each other’s dishes, though Beckett, regarding her dessert with predatory delight, ensures that Castle’s taste would barely suffice as a bite for an anorexic mouse.  By the time dessert is done and coffee on the table, Castle’s large hand is lying over Beckett’s, and much to his surprise (but maybe it’s not so surprising from this – well, romantic, relaxed Kat-Kate-definitely-not-Beckett) she turns her hand upward under his so that they’re palm to palm and fingers wrapped around the heel of each hand.

“That was great,” Beckett says happily, licking coffee off her lips. Castle’s sure that gesture wasn’t meant to be as openly provocative as it actually was.  “Really delicious.”  Her eyes are dreamy.  “This was a really good idea.”  She smiles wholly openly, in a contentedly satisfied fashion. 

He’s never seen her like this – he didn’t realise she could be like this.  It dawns on him that this is how Kat-Kate might have been if she’d never been ripped apart by her father’s alcoholism, and for a moment he wishes that Jim could see the damage he’s done.  He pulls his anger back.  Jim has seen the damage he’s done, and it’s Castle who told him to let Beckett have a few days, to let Beckett come to Jim.  He refocuses on beautifully relaxed Beckett, and idly wonders whether the dress is as gorgeous to touch as to look at.  He intends to find out, once they’re home.

He doesn’t manage (again) to touch the enticingly crimson dress when he holds her coat for her, but sitting in the luxurious car from the service he does what he hadn’t done earlier (because if he had they’d never have made it out the house to dinner) and slides a broad hand on to her knee. The dress is delectably soft.  Almost as soft and strokable as Beckett when she’s Kat.  Tonight – today – she’s not quite been Kat, but she’s definitely not Beckett, and bringing her out here was equally definitely the best idea he’s had in months.  Removing her from her normal habitat has completely changed the game.  He could – he will – take her right out of the USA on to some deserted tropical island where they can spend a lot of time together.  Naked.  He doesn’t just mean in flesh, either.  Somewhere he can see her mind, without her barriers, just like today; somewhere they can talk about nothing, and everything; about now, and forever; about them, and love.

For now, he’ll take her home, and make love to her, and when she’s fixed herself, there will be time to talk of all the rest. Maybe not even when she’s fixed, maybe as soon as when she’s able to tell him she is fixing herself.

“You awake, Castle?”

“Sure,” he says lazily, coming out of his reverie and realising that his hand is still on her knee, and that her dress is definitely strokable, and that her hand has slipped over his. The short journey home seems very, very long.

“We’re home,” he says with some relief, and hands her out of the car.

“Home?”

“Home. Where I live, in the summer, and some weekends.”

Her hand stays twined in his, which makes opening the door a little troublesome but is far too pleasant to break off. He has to let go to take his, and her, coat off, but then he’s free to run curious hands up and down the dress, to wrap his arm around her waist and steer her gently to the same family room as earlier, to draw her smoothly into his embrace and kiss her delicately, insinuatingly: the kiss in counterpoint to the controlled force in his clasp.  He teases the seam of her lips, pressing a little, sensing that she’s slipped into the strange space of femininity where she’s happy for him to take the lead, to assert his potency and passion and for her to respond: to be soft to his hard.

He pulls them both gently down on to the rug, in front of the banked fire, the only light in the room; kneeling with his hands cupping her face, then further down, till they’re lying together, still clothed, in the flickering light and the dancing shadows. For a while, they simply kiss, learning once more each other’s mouths and faces, then Castle becomes more forceful, little nips on her lip, a more possessive thrust of tongue, bringing her tighter against him and one hand over her ass, rucking up the skirt of her dress so that soon he’s spanning bare skin and silky panties; his other hand cradling her skull so that she’s wholly open to his inexorably questing mouth.  She feels so right in his grasp, so perfectly fitted to him.  He doesn’t believe that he could ever have enough of her against him.

He moves his fingers from her deliciously curved backside up over the rucked up skirt to the fastening at the top of the dress, undoes it and slowly unzips, the susurration of the metal interspersed with the quiet hiss of the fire and occasional sparks, and with their slightly deeper breathing. Desire hangs heavily in the air, sensuality surrounds them, the promise of passion potent and portending pleasure.  The tips of his fingers dance down the point of each vertebra, leave the catch of her bra untouched as the dress falls to each side of his touch.  She rubs herself against him, a little restless, a little demanding, and he takes her mouth again and slides the dress away from her lithe form.

She retaliates by undoing his button-down, leaving them skin-to-skin, heat building where they touch; but Castle rolls her off and pushes himself up on an elbow and then to sitting, gazing at his Kat stretched out on the fur rug in the firelight, intriguing shadows in the contours of her body and the glow of the fire reflected in her eyes and streaking her hair. She’s wearing deep coloured silk, almost-revealing and sexier for it, designed to please the eye and, he has no doubt, chosen with extreme care.  He traces around its edges and she purrs contentedly as she arches a fraction into his firm touch, searching for his petting and finding it.

Petting soon changes up to be stroking, then palming and rolling, then his mouth gets to play and she’s mewling now, wanting more, her leg curled around his middle and keeping him pressed to her body – he has no intention of leaving – her nails in his neck and the more he nips and suckles and soothes the more she wants and the harder she holds him to her. He could, he knows, take her right up and over the edge like this, right here and now – and why should he not?  They’ve all night, here, and in his enormous bed, and he loves being able to do this, knowing he can undo her so easily, as she can and no doubt will with him.  So he continues to play with her breasts and the mewls turn to moans turn to more turn to a long soft sigh of release and she’s lax in his arms, cuddling him.