183. Come to the fair

Gentlemanly conduct is preserved as the front door of Beckett’s apartment closes. Well. It’s a form of gentlemanly conduct. Castle unswathes her from the silk shawl, as a gentleman should do. It’s the seductively erotic stroking that might not quite be described as truly gentlemanly. Nor, perhaps, would the teasingly light application of a fingertip to her spine, from neck to the point of the V-back. The shawl is placed out of the way, by the simple method of throwing it over the back of the nearest chair, and Kat drawn assertively into his arms.

It seems that Kat is not offended by the cessation of gentlemanly conduct. Kat, in fact, is curving, cat-like, into the tiny pressure on her back, and melting into his broad form. He smooths one hand upwards and runs it into her hair, spreads the span across her skull and tips her face up to be open and perfectly positioned for his kiss. She melts into that, too.

When his mouth meets hers, it explodes. Soft and melting she may be, but it hasn’t stopped her wicked little nip on his lip; the invasion of his mouth by her tongue; one of her hands cupping his face and the other wrapped around his neck: his Kat playing with him.

Two can play at that game. He runs his free hand up and down her back with the same light, teasing touch as before, slipping below the fabric at the bottom of each stroke, undoing the knot and then loosening the top of the lacing at the apex. She thinks that, because he isn’t resisting her invasion of his mouth, (and why would he want to do that when it’s so deliciously pleasurable?) she’s going to have it all her own way, but she’s about to find out that it’s not quite that easy to overwhelm him.

The touches up and down her back become a little harder, push her a little closer, cant her into him where she fits so tightly against his thick full weight – and at the top of each seductive stroke pull the lacing out from another eyelet. About the point where she might start to notice, Castle distracts her by fighting back and taking full control of the kiss, the pace of events, the closeness of her hips to his and the angle of her head. In an instant, the balance of seduction is completely reversed, and she sighs into his mouth and gives in, curling against him, rolling her hips slightly.

Castle manoeuvres them both in the direction of the bedroom, not ceasing his deep, erotic kisses nor his unnoticed untangling of the lacing, which is now almost entirely undone. He sets Beckett slightly back from him, detaches her hands from him and divests her of the dress in one smooth movement. Then he stands and simply admires, azure heat burning over her, firing her blood and nerves. She’s wearing midnight blue: a backless bra, tiny lace briefs, hold-ups, and, still, those midnight blue heels. She’s gorgeous, irresistible – and all his.

“Beautiful,” he murmurs. “My gorgeous Kat,” and draws her back to him, his hand slipping down and over her ass in the teeny-tiny panties; the other moving back to the nape of her neck and angling her head. When he closes over her full lips, words are unnecessary. Touch is so much more fulfilling.

She’s pressed against his chest: his shirt open and the hard points of her nipples through the thin silk bra rubbing over bare flesh; the lace above a delicate friction between them; the kiss hard, demanding and searingly hot: scalding them. Her long, flexible fingers play over his cheek, and then down his back to land on his firm ass: in return he grinds against her and holds her more tightly; the calloused pads of his own fingers sneaking lower and inward. His sure, assertive touch encourages her to bring one leg up around him so that he has access, to allow her head to drop back and open her neck to his questing mouth, to rely on him to hold her and never, ever let her fall.

“Take your shoes off,” he whispers, his voice promising velvet-soft vices and silky sensuality. He lifts her, removing her lingerie as the heels drop, turning and lowering her gently to the bed, watching the short hair spreading on the pillow as she wriggles a little. He toes his own shoes off, then his socks, all the time simply gazing at her, all the desire and heat and lust and love melding together in that one bright blue stare. She meets the gaze with her own sparkling gold-green-hazel, and smiles sleepily, endlessly inviting him into her life, into her world. Here, as in the Hamptons, they’re in their own little bubble.

Castle prowls over the bed, casting aside shirt and pants as he does: finally bringing Kat into him and, for a moment, simply holding her: his strength surrounding her, her silence soothing him in return; together in peacefulness.

And then he pulls her right over him, and she descends, and he takes her mouth with all that he has, and she has, and they will have; and when she’s spread over him and soaked and squirming he rolls her and presses her down into the sheets and then licks his leisurely, lazy way down her body, leaving little lines of lust behind him, not bothering to tease or detour on his direct path to her drenched core. His hands settle on her hips, not yet gripping, his shoulders nudge her legs wider apart, and he breathes softly over her and makes her twist and buck and mewl. He growls deep in his throat: mine, and then draws one firm stroke straight through her. His grip pins her to the exquisite torture of his talented tongue as he tastes and teases, thrusts and then retreats: only his mouth so that he can hold her still and exert his will to leave her hopelessly, desperately undone and she tries to buck and writhe and fails as he grasps yet harder and then he swirls his tongue again and again and she screams his name and explodes.

He slinks up the bed towards her and takes her mouth as ruthlessly as he’s just played her body; ensuring she tastes herself on his mouth, assuring her that he’s there, he’s leading, and she can stand down; just as she has outside Manhattan, now she can here within it. Tonight, here, now, finally she can start to believe that, deep into her bones.

Beckett tries to pull him down and over her, wanting the weight and warmth of his wide bulk covering her, pressing her down and keeping her safe even while his invading strength penetrates her, but Castle isn’t inclined to allow her to take charge even in such a mutually satisfying way. He’s playing gently at her hip, though his kiss remains hard and deep and all-encompassing. She accedes to his assertion of leadership, and surrenders, turning into him as far as she may and curling a leg over his. He might lead, but she’ll leave him as pleasured as she. She slips her hand between them and finds hard flesh and heavy weight, perfectly fitted to her touch: grips and slides, strokes and squeezes; working him up. Growl turns to groan until he pulls her hand away and rolls over her, her hands held by her ears with just that tiny hint that she’s trapped that leaves her breathless and intensely excited; he rubs through her and growls again in pleasure at her readiness and then takes her in one smooth hard thrust to be deep inside, filling her full and oh-so-good, just the right side of too much. Her hips tilt up to bring him closer, deeper; he lets go of her hands and she bites them into his shoulders so that he’s touching her all the way down: her breasts rubbing on his chest, the extra friction almost overwhelming; and finally he brings a hand between them and circles and moves in rhythm and surges into her and there’s nothing at all in the world but him.

“I don’t have to go,” Castle murmurs into her hair, cuddling her in afterwards. “I can stay.”

“Good,” she murmurs back, and nestles closer. “Want you here.” She turns over into him and lays her arm and head over his chest. “Getting there. Wanna get to yours.” It arrives on a gaping yawn. Squinting down, it seems her eyes are already shut. His follow.

Castle wakes briefly in the middle of the night, tucks into Beckett and falls back asleep surrounded by her faint scent of cherries and her warm, surprisingly snuggly sleeping form. On the occasions they have been able to spend the whole night together, she has been very tactile, whether that’s full contact or simply holding his hand. He likes that. He really likes that. Soon, he hopes in his contented dreams, they’ll be able to do it all the time.

He wakes in the morning to a still-snuggled Beckett and a delightfully cosy feeling. It can’t be the comforter, because Beckett has stolen that and then dumped most of it on the floor, clearly too hot. It must be that Beckett is tucked up over him and cuddling him as if he’s her favourite comfort object, which, of course, he probably is. All sorts of comfort, only some of which would be suitable for a non-adult. (but those are the fun sorts) He tip-taps fingers over her hip and waist, and thinks about tip-tapping them downward, but Beckett is still deeply asleep and he doesn’t want to wake her. He compromises on a considerable amount of staring, without the ever-present risk (when she’s conscious) of being growled at, which allows him to study her relaxed state and half-smile.

It’s very cute. Beckett, in fact, is very cute when asleep. The removal of the bright sardonic spark in her eyes leaves her younger, somehow, and without her personality filling her face it’s smooth and unworried. Now, just so long as there’s no body drop, they can stay happily cuddled up in bed for some time. He manages to retrieve a corner of the comforter and cover them both up again, Beckett turns over and he drapes his arm possessively over her middle, bending his elbow so that his hand encloses one soft breast. His nose nuzzles into her neck, and his eyes drift shut again.

The next time he wakes, his movement also wakes Beckett. This produces a sleepy, disgruntled mutter followed by a wriggle into him and a tugging on his arm to make sure she is being appropriately cuddled. There is then a short pause. Castle waits with interest to see what happens next.

“Like this,” is what emerges next. It doesn’t sound like Beckett is actually awake. That’s just fine. Mostly-asleep-but-talking Beckett says the most interesting things. “Should always be like this.” Yes, it should. Preferably in the loft, where there would be no need to make complicated arrangements to achieve it. “Nearly there.” That’s true, too. She is so very nearly there, and in two weeks’ time or so one more obstacle will have been removed, when his mother moves out. She sighs, and her eyes inch open, close again, open a little further, notice Castle, and spring fully open atop a beautiful, entirely unguarded smile.

“Hey,” she breathes, and simply kisses him. There’s only ever one answer to that, and he makes it; there’s only ever one follow-up question to that, and she makes it, and by such non-verbal questions and answers they are both beautifully sated and satisfied.

“I tried out some of the recipes,” Castle says happily some time later, “and they were delicious. Nearly as good as yours.”

“You liked it?”

“Oh, yes. I love cooking. It’s very therapeutic when the writing isn’t going well. It’s so completely different – and you end up with dinner, which makes it practical.” Beckett snickers. “What? Practicality and time-efficient. What’s not to like?”

She snickers more loudly. “Time-efficient? That’s not a word I’d have expected to use to describe you. You’ve got lots of time.”

“Mm, but I need some of it for Alexis, and some for shadowing you, and some for spending with you, and some for writing, and some for everything else. Shopping. Procrastinating. Lots of things to fill my time.”

“My job fills up my time,” Beckett says, a little sadly.

“I could fill up your time,” Castle says, smiling wickedly, “and I could fill up” –

“Stop right there” –

“Your coffee cup, I was going to say. Whatever did you think I meant?”

Beckett huffs. Castle smirks.

“Anyway, it’s time to go home. I want to try out some more of those recipes.” His smirk changes to soft happiness. “I love the book. It’s perfect.” He doesn’t say like you, but it’s shining in his eyes. “By Friday when you come for dinner I’ll be ready.”

The rest of the weekend passes peacefully for Beckett, up till Sunday late afternoon, when she leaves for dinner with her father. It would be unfair to say she is worried: she’s merely a mite fretful. Her fingernails are unbitten, but that’s because her lip is shredded and only some heavy duty lip gloss is mending (and hiding) the damage. She can do this, she thinks to herself, and knocks on his door.

“Hey, Dad.”

“Hello, Katie.” Her father ushers her in, and grins happily. “I managed to cook for us.”

“And?” she says mischievously, and suddenly it’s Katie and her dad, perfectly happy to see each other. “Is it a cake?”

“No,” he says, parentally and insincerely offended, “not cake. Chicken, pasta, salad. Nothing that requires cake mix.”

“No dessert?” she says plaintively.

“Yes dessert,” Jim says very patiently. “Cheesecake. I bought it.”

Beckett grins happily. “I bought – and brought – chocolates. I thought we might share them. Or we could keep them for Tuesday.”

“Ah,” Jim sighs. “Tuesday. What exactly is going on Tuesday?”

“What do you mean?” Beckett says blandly. “We’re going to the theatre, to see A Midsummer’s Night’s Dream.”

“Yes,” Jim says sarcastically. “You’re not a notable theatre-goer, Katie. Why this one?” he watches with some interest as she almost imperceptibly squirms. “What aren’t you telling me?”

“You’re not a lawyer now,” Beckett points out.

“No, I’m your dad, and you’re trying to change the subject. What’s so special about this play?”

“Nothing.”

“Liar,” Jim says mildly. “Let’s see now. You, me, Rick and Alexis. Hmmmm. Now I’m not a hotshot detective like you, Katie, but that says to me that this is something like a family occasion. I get that no-one’s on great terms with Martha right now, but I don’t see Rick being unkind enough to leave her out when you told me that ‘we’ve’ got some tickets. And besides which, I looked this production up, just yesterday, because I was sure there was something you weren’t telling me. Imagine my amazement,” Jim says with sardonic emphasis, “when I discovered that Martha has replaced the original producer.” He looks at his daughter, who is squirming uncomfortably in a very satisfying way.

“Okay,” she says, crossly. “It was like this.” She outlines the case, leaving out a few details which she doesn’t consider pertinent, such as the alcoholism of one and ex-alcoholism of another actor. Jim is exceedingly interested and finds it all highly entertaining. “So we had to involve Martha. It was” – she hitches slightly – “the only way.”

“Not easy,” Jim says sympathetically.

“No. I didn’t want to, but I knew it would solve the case faster. So I had to.”

It’s Jim’s turn to hitch slightly. “Just like your mother would have done. It didn’t matter how much she hated the person, if she needed them she just got on with it.” He isn’t looking at her, but back into the past. “I’m proud of you. She’d be proud of you.”   His voice fractures. Beckett’s eyes puddle. “I know how hard you would have found that. Well done, Bug.” He sniffs. Beckett hands him a Kleenex, to match his face covering to hers. For a moment, no-one speaks.

“So,” Jim says, with an effort. “You involved her.”

Beckett gets the story back on track, playing up the appallingness of Carl’s direction. “So she sat on her hands – literally, Dad! – getting more and more and more wound up and suddenly it just all snapped. She practically shoved Carl out the way and took over – and I couldn’t believe it, but it all started to come together. It was astonishing. Castle couldn’t believe it either. Anyway, when I arrested Carl – he was caught on camera, imagine that? It never goes down that easy – Castle made sure that the backers let her carry on, and it’s opening night on Tuesday so Castle and Alexis have to go and he really, really wanted me to go so I said yes but I want you to come too.” She stops.

“There’s something else, isn’t there?” Jim says, trying to control his floods of emotion that Katie wants him there, and the memory of Johanna resurrected in his daughter’s focus on justice.

“Er… well, yeah.”

“Mm?”

“Well, er… Ryan and Esposito are coming, except they don’t know it yet.”

Jim explodes in laughter. He’s not met the two detectives, but he’s heard a bit about them and what he’s heard really doesn’t incline him to think that they’re going to enjoy the evening.

“They worked the case too. They should get to see the outcome.”

Jim continues to gurgle happily for some time, exchanging identically evil looks with his daughter.

“And?” he says. “I’m sure there’s something else. Or should that be someone?”

Beckett grins very widely and nastily indeed. “Well,” she drawls, “we – Castle and I – thought that Dr Burke deserved a reward for all his efforts.” Jim gives up all effort to control himself and guffaws until he’s crying with the effort to breathe through his laughter.   “So he’s coming too. He’ll get to meet Martha.”

“Katie, that is terrible,” Jim says, though any force that there might have been in the rebuke is utterly lost in the continuing gales of his mirth. “That’s terrible.” She quirks an eyebrow at him. “I like Carter, and the poor man’s been a witness in one of your murders and now you’re going to inflict an experimental version of Shakespeare and Martha Rodgers on him? Don’t you appreciate” – he snorts – “what he’s done for you?”

“I do,” Beckett says, dropping into seriousness for a moment. “I really do. But Dad, you have to admit that he is a pompous ass. It’s good for his ego to be punctured.”

“I think you and Rick probably did that already,” Jim says, and stores away the early part of her statement without comment. This is just too good for him to go with his previous plan of annoying Katie about Rick. He’ll save that for another day.

“Anyway, I did ask him if he wanted to bring his wife,” she says, as if this attention to good manners excuses the rest. “But she was busy. Or she looked it up,” she says sardonically.

“Ouch,” Jim grins.

“You will come, won’t you?”

“Wouldn’t miss this for the world,” Jim says, very, very sincerely. Never mind the play, he thinks, the floor show should be wonderful.