130. Get on my knees

Eventually looking round the room palls. Castle is playing chopsticks up and down Beckett’s arm, which is beginning to become mildly irritating.

“Finished your creepy staring?”

“I do not stare creepily,” Beckett asserts. “You stare creepily. All the time.”

“What shall we do?” Castle asks, without commenting on his penchant for staring at Beckett. Entirely non-creepily, naturally.

Beckett smirks naughtily. “I know,” she husks, and runs a finger over his cheek. “I have a really good idea. You’ll enjoy it.” She licks her lips. “After all, you already have. Several times.” Castle’s eyes go very dark and intent. “I’d better just go and get ready.” He smiles wolfishly. “Back in a moment.”

She slips off the couch and sashays into the study with a wicked sway of her hips, and Castle barely restrains himself from prowling after her. He waits, exerting massive self control, until she returns. He is extraordinarily disappointed that she is still dressed in her jeans and soft jumper. Her hands are behind her back. She comes back, and grins evilly at his expression.

“Here we are,” she says very smugly, and puts the Sorry box on the table. Castle’s jaw drops to the floor.

“You… but you…. But I thought…”

“I know you thought,” Beckett says smugly. “But you did it to me.”

“I what?”

“You did it to me,” Beckett repeats, smirking. “Don’t you remember? How very disappointing.”

Castle hauls his brain out of its current state of lust-fuzzed incapacity and chases down the memory. Since the speed of his neurons is currently more snail than Michael Johnson, it doesn’t exactly speed to the front of his mind. Oh. Yes. He had. Straight after they bought the game and went back to Beckett’s apartment and he’d done exactly this to her and they’d played the game and been relaxed and easy and made out and been happy.

“Why’d you bring it, Beckett?” he asks, genuinely interested in her reasons. Her fingers pause in their busy setting up of the board and men.

“No marshmallows,” she says flippantly.

“C’mon.”

There’s a pause.

“I like it,” she blushes. “It’s… it’s nice.”

Castle deduces that what she really means is that it’s soothing, relaxing, and affectionate – undemanding. It’s also the closest thing she’s got to something she shares with her father… Oh. Oh, now, there’s a possibility. He opens his mouth immediately.

“I’ve got an idea,” he blurts out, and wishes he hadn’t upon the instant.

Beckett’s expressive eyebrows wander up and down again in interested surprise. “Spit it out, then. You’re not normally shy of coming out with your” – the word crazy, or possibly insane, is audible – “ideas.” She waits expectantly.

“Er… um…”

“Get on with it.”

“Um… maybe you should play Sorry with your dad at the next session with Dr Burke?”

“What?”

“Um… well… your dad said the first time I met him when you were – er – throwing me out, that you’d played it a lot with him, and you only bought it for his present because you thought he’d like it and then you thought you’d like it too, so… um… don’t kill me okay – maybe if you both played it that would remind you both where you thought you were before this all blew up? Now please don’t shoot me.”

“Didn’t bring my gun out. I leave it locked in the precinct on Fridays in case I’m tempted to shoot Burke,” Beckett says sardonically and rather automatically.   Her mind is spinning faster than a jet engine. It’s an insane suggestion. It’s more insane than Castle’s usual theories involving CIA spies or zombie apocalypses. It’s utterly ridiculous. She finishes putting out the men and shuffles the cards blindly.

“I think they might be properly shuffled now, Beckett,” Castle points out, when she’s still shuffling three full minutes later. It’s nonsensical. It’s utterly crazy. It’s insane.

And she can’t get it out of her head. She tries to concentrate on the game, and barely succeeds – only because she certainly isn’t going to hand Castle something that would amount to a walkover victory. She’s not that flabbergasted. Well, she is, but she’s also not going to give him the satisfaction of showing it.

For the first half of the game it’s all okay. She’s not exactly winning, but she’s not so far behind that a little luck and a Sorry card won’t change the outcome. But in the back of her mind Castle’s words are eating away at her, and then she remembers how it had been at Christmas, when her dad had loved the game and they’d played it and it had been the best Christmas since… before and it had very, very nearly been just as it should be all day through. They’d even hugged each other and she had thought they’d really meant it.

“Beckett? Kate? Kate, are you okay?” Castle’s warm embrace wraps her in. “You’re crying. Don’t cry, sweetheart.”

She sniffs. “Not crying.” Castle’s disbelief is palpable.

“My shirt is wet. Since my shoulders don’t exude liquid, it must be you.” The words are teasing. The arms around her are strong and supportive. Beckett sniffs again, and wrestles a Kleenex out of her jeans pocket to blow her nose, noisily. Having done so, she finds herself to have been tucked in again. Her hair is being stroked, her shoulders patted. “Didn’t mean to make you cry.” He’s kissing the top of her head.

“Not you,” snuffles into his shoulder. “Christmas.”

Which makes no sense to Castle at all.

“We played it and it was just like family.”

Ah. Now he gets it. “Yeah?” he murmurs encouragingly, “That was good, wasn’t it? Just like you want it to be.”

There’s another sniff, and no answer for a moment. “Mmmfff.”

“Hmm?”

“It was. It was really like it should be.”

Castle, exerting astonishing control, does not say that’s because it was real, Beckett. Admittedly, that’s because he’s nearly bitten his tongue off with the effort. He thinks she might suspect it, but he hasn’t said it, so she probably can’t kill him. Anyway, she’s stopped crying. The sniffs are less snuffly, too. Good. His best cotton shirts are not to be used as handkerchiefs. Not even by Beckett. He pets her hair some more, and keeps biting his errant tongue. Suddenly he sniggers.

“What?” drips Beckett.

“I just had a thought.”

“What thought?”

“I had this vision of Dr Burke’s face if you told him he had to play Sorry during a session.”

Beckett sniggers soggily in turn. “It’s almost worth it.” She sniggers again. “It totally might be.” Castle says nothing at all, and pets. “Do you really think it could work?” she says, shortly after.

“Haven’t a clue,” Castle says casually. “Do you? It’s up to you.”

“Yeah.” Beckett closes off that line of conversation. “I’ll think about it later.” She turns back to the game. “I’m going to win this,” she states, and draws the next card.

She doesn’t win. In fact, she’s some way behind. Castle dials back his normal triumphalism, but claims that he’s owed his traditional prize anyway.

“Prize? You don’t need a prize.”

“Yes, I do. I won, despite your best efforts, so I get a prize.”

Beckett rolls her eyes at his insistence. Castle pounces, and takes her mouth in one fast movement. There’s a falsely cross squeak under his lips, which merely allows him to invade and raid and possess. She softens and curves into him, wriggles into his lap and twines her arms around his neck, and falls into the kiss without a single further protest.

Protest there may not be, but wicked, wanton fingers there certainly are. Currently, they are trip-trapping down his shirt and unbuttoning in order to play – oooohhhh – with his flat nipples and make them erect and tight: nerves running straight down to his groin and tightening the flesh and dragging all his blood downward. That’s not fair. She’s not where she should be. She’s not kissing him any more. Come back, Beckett.

On second feelings – thought is not involved – don’t. She’s very delicately nipping on his pecs and then does something so totally evil to his nipples with her mouth and teeth that she surely learnt it in a hitherto unadvertised trip to the dark side of sexuality. He groans, and he’d swear he could feel her lips forming a smirk against his chest. And then he stops thinking altogether as she does it again and all there is now is the streaking fire from chest to groin and her mouth and her lips and her – oh god – teeth please Beckett do it some more and she does and it’s glorious but it’s rousing all his most predatory instincts and fuck his hands are knotting in her hair and he’s not quite pushing her head down but – oh Christ – he wants to because he’s straining to reach her and – oh fuck – she’s released him – oh thank Christ oh yes Beckett more please Beckett – and he’s within the hot wet cavern of her mouth and there’s nothing in the world but her lips around him and everything she can do with every part of her wicked, wicked mouth and all there is to do is groan out her name and lose himself in the glory of her.

She’s still perfectly wholly dressed and – apart from any lip gloss she might originally have had – made up. If it weren’t for the wholly mischievous and notably smug I’ve-ruined-you look in her eyes, she could be sitting primly at her desk: the very proper Detective Beckett.

He is not looking prim or proper. He is, he perceives, extremely not prim or proper. His clothes are undone and in the case of his shirt, half off. His pants are open. He is – er – untucked. He re-dresses himself, at least as far as pants are concerned. Beckett is nestled into his side, which makes closing his shirt impossible, and also undesirable. Beckett is not, however, undesirable. Beckett, especially when pretending to be prim and proper – after that display? – is very desirable indeed. His desire may require a little time to become obvious, but it is not in any way diminished by her actions. Rather the reverse.

He slides his hands around her and hoists her back into his lap, where he can explore without let, hindrance, or needing to stretch or bend awkwardly. Anyway, she’s nice and warm and her jumper is fluffy – not the green angora affair, but a red one which is clearly a cousin.   Therefore she should cuddle in and keep his naked chest warm until they come up with a better idea. He has lots of better ideas. It’s the coming up that requires a short interval. That doesn’t need to stop him kissing her, though. A lot of making out can be fitted into the available space, and if his hands should happen to wander enthusiastically, well, he’s sure she won’t complain.

She certainly doesn’t complain. It doesn’t take a lot of heavy petting for her to be boneless and feline against him, purring happily at each stroke of his hands and generally encouraging him to more. The Sorry game sits forgotten on the table, looking rather lonesome. If it had been a pet, it would have wandered off sulking, since clearly its humans are far more interested in each other than in it.

Castle is recalled to a sense of place (any time is the right time to make out with Beckett) when a marginally over-exuberant movement results in her foot banging into the table.

“Ow!” she says crossly, straightening up.

“I could kiss it better,” Castle says.

“It’s my foot, Castle. Are you saying that you’ll kiss my feet?” She suddenly grins. “I suppose that’s the right way round. You kneeling at my feet… mmmm. I like that idea. Possibly a bit over the top for the bullpen, but definitely the right relative statuses.”

Castle growls dangerously. “You think? If I were to kneel at your feet the only reason would be to listen to you begging me for more.”

“You reckon? No way.”

“Is that a challenge?”

“Yep.” One she’s absolutely confident that she’ll lose. Competitiveness can be so useful, properly directed. So even if it looks as if she’s lost, she’ll actually win. Hands down. Well. Something like that.

“Okay then. You, my dear detective, are going down.”

No, that’s what you’re doing, Beckett thinks, and smiles a satisfied, cat-with-the-cream smile. Two milliseconds later she is standing up and being propelled backwards into the bedroom at some speed.

“Huh?”

“I’m not embarking on a challenge like that in the middle of the living room. Fate would intervene at the most embarrassing possible moment, probably in the form of my mother.”

“Way to ruin the moment, Castle.”

“That would. However, if I carry you off to my lair” –

“This is not carrying. Frogmarching, perhaps.” –

“and shut the doors behind us, then there will be no interruptions and the neighbours won’t complain about the noise.”

Beckett splutters gracelessly and indignantly. “One, you have no neighbours. Two, I don’t make that much noise.”

Castle quirks a very wolfish eyebrow. “Wanna bet? What’ll you bet, Beckett?” His eyes flare hotly. “How about another delicious Georgian meal, cooked by your own fair hand?”

“If you lose, I want…” she stops. She can’t think of anything that might actually be achievable. Coming here is not, because everyone will be back. Playing Sorry with her father is not, because she can’t face that either. Asking Castle to arrange for the kidnap, assault or murder of Dr Burke is unfair, and besides which, why should he have the pleasure? She’d like it, in her more irritated moments. Castle can get in line.

“You can think about it later,” Castle says arrogantly. “I have a bet to win. So you don’t need to bother thinking what’ll happen if I lose, because I’m not going to lose.”

Beckett opens her mouth on an infuriated rebuttal, which merely allows Castle to start as he means to go on, invading it with a firm thrust of tongue followed by a teasing, gentle stroke; walking her backwards with every repetition; closing doors behind them as promised, one hand locking her head in position for his avid mouth. He can feel her arousal against his chest where he’s pressed her into him, tattooed her over him. He walks her backwards almost to the bed, and slides his hand down over her ass to hold her where he can roll hips against her and grind a little into her and make her gasp out a tiny mew before he’s even gotten started. He acquires the predatory smile of a well-fed lion which is nevertheless perfectly happy to play with its next meal for a while before eating, and takes a second or two to plan his attack.

He starts by sliding his hands up under Beckett’s latest variety of tactile sweater, which lifts it to reveal a toned stomach. He kisses that, and kisses upward as the sweater moves. He removes it over her head, and appreciates, with a heated gaze and projection of very male knowledge, the black scraps of lace and fabric below. He doesn’t remove them. He twitches the fabric to produce a little friction, a delicate rubbing, and she emits another mew-gasp.

“You liked that,” he growls darkly into her ear, and does it again. Then he damps the fabric with his mouth and tongue and does it again. This time the mew-gasp is more of a mew-moan. He grins. “You’re already making little sexy noises, Beckett. I think you should make more of them.” He bends a little, and draws a taut breast and erect nipple into his mouth: playing and rolling while he holds her to stop her escaping; nipping just a little to change the tempo; sucking much harder and then dropping away; playing her like an instrument and sending strumming vibration all through each nerve. Her mews are now wholly moans and orders not to stop. He doesn’t pay any attention to the orders, and he does stop.

His strong fingers slide over her ribs, down into the concavity of her waist, the matching convexity of her hips curving out, and then sneaking like thieves into the waistband of her pants, robbing the button from its buttonhole, the zip from its teeth, and finally the pants from her body. The black scraps below are as stunningly sexy as the bra, and even more minimalist; almost revealing but wholly erotic in their almost-concealment. He runs a long finger down to trace the top edge, then each leg, lifting each and so leaving her spread wider. She sighs out a long breath of need.

Finally he sinks down on to his knees before her. The position conveys not one single hint of submission or subservience, and the dark intent of his blazing eyes indicates his desire that she’ll be soaked and screaming for him before he’s anywhere close to done. When that same questing finger draws a hard line straight through the centre of the black lace, he finds that the first of those will not be far away. Her hips lift to him, and he drops a hard, erotic kiss into her navel; a quick flicker of tongue promising more to come, and she squirms in his grip and moans his name.

Castle looks up the lean length of Beckett’s body with a feral grin and burning gaze: he might be kneeling, but he’s anything but a supplicant. An arm snakes around the flare of her hips; the hand at its end planted firmly on the jut of bone, trapping her. He’ll need to hold her up. He will certainly need to hold her up, shortly, but he can easily do that with a single arm. Happily, that leaves one hand free to work.

And work it does. He leans in, blowing softly over her stomach, a tiny scrape of five o’clock shadow over fragile skin: a little roughness without his touch being anything other than gentle. “You like that,” he murmurs, “but you’ll like this more.” He drags his mouth down to the edge of the panties, and stops, listening to the hitch in her breathing. “You’ll like this a lot more,” he breathes across her, and she writhes in his grasp. He sits back on his heels, his head at the perfect height, and runs his free fingers along the lace rim over her stomach, dipping briefly beneath and tickling the soft curls; returning to dance across and over the front, teasing her with the promise of a firmer, deeper, lower touch that doesn’t arise no matter how she twists and arches. He’ll get there. When she’s ready.

Castle leans forward once again and nuzzles the thin black fabric, right in the centre of the frontispiece, pulling the material so that friction heats her core. Beckett emits some very profane words indeed and makes a determined attempt, through her threats of mayhem and gasped-out moans, to force him to where she evidently thinks that he should be, and isn’t. Castle, not inclined to allow his plan – or his bet – to be derailed, uses his free hand to detach hers and locks his other hand around her slim wrists, resettling that arm around her waist. He smirks up at her dilated, hazy gaze and purrs into her skin, “Tut, tut, Detective. That was cheating. You shouldn’t cheat. It’ll only get you into trouble.” Trouble, in this instance, meaning being pinioned in his grip. “I’ve caught you. No more tugging on my ears.”