122. Food, glorious food

Castle follows Beckett out of the precinct.

“Want a ride home, Castle?”

“I thought I was coming for dinner,” he says very plaintively.

“You are. But not until seven-thirty.” She smiles sultrily. “I need some time first.”

Castle looks at her, looks at the smile, and acquires a predatory smile of his own. “I still like red.”

“Do you?” says Beckett provocatively. “That’s interesting.” She gets into the cruiser. Castle slides into the passenger seat and slides a hand on to her knee. His fingers are promptly – oh. Not rapped. His fingers are under her elegant hand, which is lying on his. He turns his hand upward and closes it on hers, stroking his thumb over the smooth skin. Not a word is said about his presumption.

She switches the engine on and pulls her hand on to the wheel, reluctantly. Castle leaves his hand on her leg and, as they move out into the traffic, sets up a rhythmic stroking just inward and above her knee. It’s sufficiently far from any sensitive areas that he’s unlikely to be chastised for doing so, and indeed he isn’t. Each time she shifts gear she meets his hand on the return to the wheel. He’s deeply regretful when they reach his block.

“Seven-thirty?” he asks, hoping for an earlier start.

“Yep. See you then.”

In default of the extra time he’d hoped to have at Beckett’s, he swipes a kiss over her full lips and bounces out the car before she can react.

“Later, Beckett.”

She makes her way back to her apartment, plotting busily. All that could be prepared in advance had been, after her thinking on Sunday – and during, every time she needed a moment away from it. There had been a number of such moments. Concentrating on chopping had calmed her. She starts to cook, happily, thinking of old days in Kiev: the colours and the autumn fresh edge in the air, the winter snow swirling, all caught up in the scents of the cuisine.

Table set, everything timed to perfection for dinner not long after seven-thirty, she retires to a shower and to dressing: her outfit planned as precisely as her menu. Red underwear: not the set Castle has seen, but a deeper shade: dark crimson silk and lace, sleek against her satin skin, accentuating the swell of her hips and the curves of her breasts. She smiles seductively at her own reflection, and approves herself. The top she’s chosen is also crimson: a draped silky blouse, soft and a little clingy. Not at all what she wears to work. Nor is the skirt, a full black wool affair that falls to mid-calf, the fullness disguising a slit up one side. He won’t notice that, at first. Later, she’s sure he’ll find out. She would be very disappointed if he didn’t.

Castle spends the time he wishes he didn’t have in showering, shaving carefully, and dressing in an ostensibly relaxed, casual fashion which in fact had taken him a little time to select: dark dress pants and a cream cotton shirt with an almost invisible blue stripe which (he flatters himself) matches his eyes. He covers it with a cashmere jumper, also a flattering shade of blue, and finishes with a dab of aftershave. He’ll buy chocolates, on the way: Beckett loves really excellent chocolate and he loves making her happy. And he loves excellent chocolate, too.

He also loves kissing his Beckett-turning-to-Kat in his arms. Which might be why he does so before the door is barely shut, his coat is not off, and the chocolates are still in his hand and therefore banging into her back.

“Ow,” she complains.

“Sorry,” Castle apologises automatically, and puts the chocolates down without letting go of Kat. Definitely Kat. Soft, flowing garments, the delicious aromas of interesting cooking, a set table – this is Kat, who just occasionally peeks out for an evening and is – not domesticated, Kats (unlike some cats) are not domesticated – feminine, which allows him to be correspondingly masculine, which, now that he’s put the chocolates down, involves drawing her against him and kissing her without any apologies at all. His gorgeously strokable Kat curves in, inviting him to keep her close, and emits a contented, happy purr. He holds her close, and emits a deeper, velvety rumble of his own.

Beckett, feeling very kittenishly feline, would be perfectly content to stay curled into Castle and be petted (et cetera) for quite some time, but having prepared dinner with care and attention she also thinks it would be a shame for it to be spoilt. She achieves a small degree of detachment from Castle, which is to say that she is no longer plastered against him, and swishes sensually to poke and prod at her cooking. From the intake of breath behind her, she thinks that the sway she’d put into her step has revealed the slit in her skirt. When she turns to find him almost on top of her, eyes darkened and intent blazing in them, she’s sure of it.

She hands him warmed plates before he can act on instinct: instinct being to keep kissing. Et cetera. Plates are followed by a bottle of the same wine as last time, and small platters of interesting food arrive thereafter. Some is the same as last time. Some looks distinctly different. This time, he doesn’t hesitate before diving in, though he notices with some amusement that Beckett-Kat has bought three of those glorious cheesy breads. He still can’t pronounce the word. This time, too, the table is set a little differently. Their respective chairs are one each side of a corner, and while that makes reaching some dishes a little awkward, it means that she can be in more or less constant contact. Who, precisely, initiates the contact might be a matter of some debate.

“This is great,” he says sincerely. “Just as good as last time.”

Beckett almost blushes. Castle raises his glass. “To good food and good times,” he toasts. Beckett tips hers in return, and both of them sip. There isn’t much conversation, but there is a lot of happy munching and noises of appreciation. Finally they’ve eaten their way to a standstill. There is even an – admittedly miniscule – sliver of khachapuri left. They both look at it. Neither of them move.

“That was delicious, Beckett. Just one request?”

“Mmmm?”

“Don’t ask me to run or even walk fast for the rest of the evening? My stomach and I need to spend some quality time digesting.” Beckett snickers. “Beckett, are you seriously telling me that you’d be able to move faster than a three-toed sloth right now?” She smirks. “This is a major impediment to our relationship, you realise?”

“How is your sluggish digestion an impediment to our relationship? You can commune with your digestion if you wish, but what’s that got to do with me?”

“You’ll take shameless advantage of me when I can’t run away,” Castle says, with an annoyingly angelic expression.

“I’ll take advantage of you?” Beckett emits incredulously. “Says the man who was pinning me down in bed and telling me that he was much bigger than me so I wouldn’t be going anywhere?”

“You tried to wrestle me. You just didn’t like it when I wouldn’t be wrestled and wrestled you instead. And you still got to be on top, so why are you complaining?”

Beckett growls. Castle stretches a long arm towards her from his lounging posture on her couch, catches her wrist and tugs her towards him. “No growling,” he says lazily. “That’s not nice. Come and be petted.” She doesn’t seem to need to go anywhere, seeing as she’s mysteriously already there. Now both large hands are circling her waist and bringing her smoothly into his lap, where, equally mysteriously, she seems to be snuggled in. Naturally, Castle’s hand has sneaked through the split in her skirt and is resting warmly on her thigh. His fingertips are moving back and forth, very slightly.

Since it’s there, Beckett nibbles delicately on Castle’s neck, and travels up his jaw to land up on firm lips. His arm tightens around her, the hand on her thigh grips more firmly, and while she begins an assault on his mouth, it’s definitely he who finishes it. She retaliates with a raid on the location of his sweater, which, while beautifully soft and strokable, is quite certainly in the way. If she manages to throw it in the right direction, he might even forget to take it home. Taking the sweater off, sadly, means that his hands are momentarily displaced, but they swiftly return to their previous positions. That’s just perfect. Beckett, while deeply appreciating Castle’s ability to provide a firmly assertive form of extremely satisfying sexuality, is feeling mischievously feline and is, like even the largest of big cats when comfortable, inclined to play.

She takes instant and rapid advantage of Castle’s otherwise occupied hands to open all the buttons of his very nice shirt. This provides both lovely warm skin to curl and curve against and freedom to kiss or lick or nibble as she chooses. Right now, she chooses to nibble. One of her hands chooses to explore his belt buckle. Magically, it falls open. It must be magic. Or telekinesis. Whichever, it results in her head being brought up, and Castle’s kiss becoming hard, and sure, and wholly possessive. He takes her mouth without quarter, but not without her putting up a fight. He wins, naturally. He was supposed to win.

He continues to kiss her, occasionally nipping gently at her lip or moving to strum on the nerve below her ear; kissing until she is lax in his clasp; kissing until she’s boneless and curved into him. Only then does he slide a hand beneath the silky shirt, untucking and gliding over her spine, vertebrae still a little more prominent than he’d really like; only then does the hand on her thigh stretch a little more widely to wander ever closer to her soft centre.

“Mine,” he murmurs into her ear, “all soft and relaxed and mine.” She emits a contented noise, and says nothing. She – how odd – likes being told that she’s Castle’s, in that smoothly possessive fashion. It makes her feel safe, and cherished, and loved: someone who wants her, wants to keep her close, doesn’t want her to leave. Doesn’t tell her to go. Oh. Oh. That’s why she likes it so much.

“Yours,” she breathes, and cuddles as close as she can, stretching up to place her lips firmly on his and ignite the fire. His mouth responds, his arms close over her, and she simply loses herself in his strength and touch. He’s so right for her, forceful and assertive, never quite dominating but always there to take the lead and let her – not. Unless she wants to, of course, when she knows that he’ll give place, for a while. But now, she doesn’t want to lead. She wants to be led, and loved.

Castle catches Beckett-now-definitely-Kat’s mood in an instant, and quite deliberately exerts himself to be very assertively male in kiss, and touch, and demeanour. He cups the back of her head to slant it as he wishes, rearranges her against him so that the other remains under her skirt and free to roam as he pleases, and proceeds to do precisely as he pleases with her, which very shortly, it is clear, is pleasing her. His fingers move over the delicate skin of her inner thigh in time with the hand now curling round her skull to stroke her jaw and with the thrusts of his tongue to raid and plunder and conquer.

She sighs and opens to him, as responsive as she always is, perfectly fitted to him, perfectly matching. He teases her, not touching as intimately as it’s clear she’d like, tantalising with an occasional stroke over the fragile fabric covering her, and then stopping entirely to remove his hand from her leg and turn to the swell of her breast, slipping up under the loosened shirt and finding that same fragility of fabric.

Suddenly he has to see it, to reveal her, to have her and hold her and love her. He slides her aside for an instant, stands and yet once more sweeps her up against him to take her, carry her, to bed. He doesn’t know or care what deep-seated primitive instinct makes him do so, all he knows or cares about is that he can, and it matters that he can: that he can be tall and strong and assertively masculine for her.

Her eyes, as he looks at her in his arms, hers around his neck, are sleepy and hazy, only aware of him, and deep within them is not just the love she’s declared, but trust. He stands her by the bed, simply holding her close, her head against his shoulder, his cheek on her hair, their arms locked around each other: and for a moment there is only stillness, and silence, and closeness, and love; two people as near as they can be.

And then his Kat raises her face, and he kisses her, and the stillness and silence are gone.

His open shirt slides from his shoulders, assisted by elegant, evil hands, to leave his torso bared; he’s swift to capture her hands and then to turn to the draped silk that shrouds her. He slows down: this will be seduction; slow and sensual. The fiery ignition of the astonishing physical connection that first joined them is… not what’s wanted or needed, now.

“Slowly,” he whispers, a deep rasp that brings a shiver. “Slowly, Kat. I’ll lead, now, just like you want me to. Just let me. I’ll take us where we want to go. Just the way you want it.” She murmurs consent, assent, and curves against him, her wrists utterly relaxed and at ease in his clasp. He lets go of them, leaves that hand around her waist to support her, kisses her with power and possession and passion, still, somehow, deep and slow and sure that searching, he’ll find her: his Beckett-Kate-Kat, his love.

A hand glides over the dip above her collarbones, coming to rest with fingers a fraction above the first fastened button, questing until it releases it from the small loop that holds it. Not buttonholes, tonight, but small silk cord loops and silk covered buttons, so small and almost invisible that at first he’d thought it a t-shirt. The first button falls open, a little cream skin bright against the blood-crimson fabric, and the tips of his fingers follow the opening as lightly as the silk had dusted over her. He kisses her willing mouth again, hard punctuation of soft discovery, and slips down to a second silken loop: repeats. No haste, here. No hurrying.

When he reaches the fourth loop her breathing deepens, and he lifts from her lips to watch his fingers against her skin, achingly gentle, wholly controlled: those same fingers release the fifth and final loop and spread the silk aside, showing him at last the fragile, flaming crimson of her bra: stark contrast to the cream of her skin and yet so perfectly complementary; cut to dress the swell of her breast in the haute couture of seduction. He realises that she’d chosen red because he’d said he liked it, and his own heart swells in his chest. His Beckett doesn’t talk much, but her actions make her meaning plain: she’s given him, this evening, so many actions to show she’s listening to him, that she, as much as he for her, wants to make him happy.

“Beautiful,” he purrs, bending to the colour so that his breath vibrates the lace and peaks her nipples ready for his avid mouth. He kisses above the fabric, a delicate butterfly touch that draws a gasp from her, a shiver of desire, and the arm around her waist is there to hold her. Strength in his arm, strength in the leashed power behind his kiss, strength as he draws her nipple into his mouth and rolls and plays with his tongue, and she’s dipped back over his arm to arch up to him; offering herself to whatever he chooses to do.

He chooses to stay where he is, switching from side to side, mobile lips and tongue gently working at her, causing deeper gasps, turning to sighs. She curves and arches and her hands are in his hair to hold his head to her; both his hands behind her now to support her. He pulls a little at the soft collar of the blouse, and her hands drop to allow him to remove it and cast it away, then return to his head. His same searching hand releases the fastening of her skirt, which falls to the floor, leaving her in crimson silk and nothing more: brief panties that draw the eye and accentuate the slim curve of her hips, the high cut lengthening her legs still further, the triangular cut and lace panel pointing the way. For a moment, he sets her back from him and simply admires: his eyes wholly darkened, his mind filled up with her and only her. He pushes her to sitting on the bed and goes to one knee before her, takes her in his mouth again and brings her back to mewing and arching to him until he leaves those beautiful, delectable mounds and peaks and kisses straight down the line of her sternum, to navel; pushes her again to lay her back on her bed, kneels between her legs and grasps her hips, nudges delicately with his elbows to spread her wider and settles to her.

There’s a short pause while he breathes her in: the scent of her arousal and the tangible heat emanating from her: he loves the sheer femaleness of it – of her. He’s known a lot of women, but he will only ever know this one in future, has known that since he’d first met her. She’s the only, the last, his alpha to omega.

He bends forward that final fraction and licks one hard stroke straight along her. She bucks and then writhes as he does it again, holding her still: plays with the slithery fabric until she can’t help but moan, smiles wickedly against her and shows her what the Big Bad Wolf can really do with Red Riding Hood. When he draws her panties off, and begins again, her cries do not relate to pain or fear in any way. He needs both hands to hold her, but his talented tongue alternately dances and thrusts, over and in and out, and then she stills for that instant before she shatters and he drinks her climax down.