New Castle Fic: and every day that you want to wake up, NC-17, Castle/Beckett
Title: and every day that you want to wake up
Author: shipperfey
Summary: "I still mean what I said before, and I can't promise... forever, not yet. But I want this, Castle; I want us, right now."
Spoilers: 4x10 Cuffed
Pairing/Characters: Castle/Beckett
Rating: NC-17/M
Author's Notes: tarlanciel asked me for Cuffed tag fic using the handcuffs. I couldn't deny her, but then this fic went off on its own path, far far away. Thank you relaxjolene for services rendered.
And every day that you want to waste, that you want to waste, you can
And every day that you want to wake up, that you want to wake, you can
And every day that you want to change, that you want to change, yeah
I'll help you see it through 'cause I just really want to be with you
They're completely naked, and he glances down between their bodies, where their cuffed hands are trapped. The angle is throwing them off, so their hands switch places until hers is wrapping around his erection, and the back of his knuckles are brushing against her sex.
Her hand moves up, then down, and the inertia across the cuffs causes his own hands to press into her folds until he's found her wet and wanting. He twists his wrist until he can rub her clit in circles, and she is soon grinding into his hand with the same authority she uses in the interrogation room.
With some shifting of their hips, they manage to move so that his hardness is pressed against her, and her hand stays in place until he's entering her, and he grunts at how tight she feels. His free hand is behind him on the dirty mattress, holding his body up, and he tries to move the cuffed hand to her breast, but he almost pinches a sensitive part of her anatomy in the process, and she nearly punches him in return.
"I have an idea," she announces, separating their hips and lying down on her right side. He has no choice but to follow, spooning against her back, and her perfect ass pressing into his groin is almost his undoing.
He manages to use his free hand between them until he's inside her again, the new angle allowing him to hit all the right spots inside her, and her moans communicate her approval of the new position. Their cuffed hands move to her breasts in unison, kneading the flesh and teasing her nipples into puckered and swollen tips until she's panting against him.
"I need to tell you something, Castle," she says breathlessly as she approaches her climax. "You should know I..."
A car horn outside wakes him up before he can dream the rest of her confession. The DVD menu for The Thing is playing in a loop on the living room television. He doesn't remember falling asleep on his couch as the snow started to flurry down, but now his back is nearly as stiff as another part of him.
'Not as much fun if I have your permission' turns out to be the most unintentional lie of all times.
For almost an entire week now his every thought has been filled with images of her respectable legs around his shoulders, her small hands tightening on his hair or wrapping around his length, and those boots... he's almost afraid that the vivid dreams might have left heel-shaped bruises on his hips.
This time they were fully naked, his brain apparently not caring about the logic of clothing removal while handcuffed together. Every time he closes his eyes, he can imagine the two of them in ways where she always comes and goes first, and he doesn't really mind it because he can hear her moaning and grunting in his mind. The sounds she made in captivity are fuel enough for a lifetime of fantasies.
Any other person would likely have been able to push the thoughts out of their mind, or just retrieve them when it's convenient, but he's a best-selling author. He has trained his brain to focus on the details, and retain them as long as possible, until he can put those scenes to paper. But the thoughts he's having now, he can't possibly write them, not if he values his life.
To make things worse, his mother and daughter have extended their college tour to Europe; Alexis cited a desire to visit Oxford, but he is sure he's been tricked into paying for a trip through Europe for his mother more than anything. He doesn't really mind it, he's thankful she's gone with Alexis. It should concern him that his daughter doesn't think he can spare time to travel with her, especially because he knows the exact reason why they don't think he can leave New York for two whole weeks, but he is actually more concerned about the lack of distraction in his loft at the moment.
And it certainly doesn't help that Beckett decided to take a week vacation after their brush with death. She mentioned that Espo will be taking time off for the holidays, and Ryan will be taking time off in January for his honeymoon, so she wants to get some rest before the next serial killer or dirty bomb threatens the city.
He is infinitely more worried about the threat of carpal tunnel syndrome at the moment. That could be a career-ender for him, and he signed documents stating he couldn't sue the city under any circumstances, even if their best homicide detective leaves him with a debilitating condition after sauntering off in her tight jeans and a goddamn helmet in her hands. He pictures the glare Gates would give him if he filed the paperwork listing the reasons why his wrist hurts, and it's enough to make his latest erection deflate considerably.
He sighs as he glances at his watch, trying to remind himself that a healthy sexual drive in his age is something a lot of men are shelling out top dollars for, and he shouldn't be so worried about almost ruining an expensive couch throw blanket like a fifteen-year-old with a wet dream He worries anyway, not for the throw itself, but for what's left of his rational brain.
The sound of the doorbell startles him, and he jumps up, grabbing his phone from the coffee table to make sure he hasn't missed any calls or texts, but the lack of notifications assures him he hasn't. "Beckett?" he asks in confusion as he opens the door.
She pushes past the opening of the door, under his arm, and he catches a glance of her lips pursed in amusement.
"Body drop?" he wonders as she sets her helmet on his kitchen counter. "Wait, you rode your motorcycle here? There's a snowstorm out there. Isn't that dangerous?"
She's untying her scarf as she meets his eyes, and her fingers are undoing the knot in a way that forms an entirely new knot in his throat. "No bodies. I'm on vacation for two more days, remember?" she points out before pulling off her leather gloves. "And on a scale of one to taking-a-bullet-to-the-heart, I'd say riding my bike here ranks at about an eight."
He waits for the avoidance and panic in her voice, but he hears none. Just as he starts feeling relieved, his head tilts in confusion, because he's not sure when their summer of sheer hell became okay to discuss so casually.
"Relax, Castle," she adds at his expression. "I was just riding by, and I realized I hadn't heard from you in a while, I figured I'd check in."
There's a shadow of something unfamiliar on her face, and he's not sure how to react. His mouth tries to form words before his brain does, and he cringes at the inevitable fish-lips thing he has going for a second, but she just laughs. It's not her Oh, Castle laughter either, it's a deeper, full-bodied laugh that makes him painfully aware of the unaddressed stiffness from earlier as it threatens to return. She unzips her jacket, revealing a tan cashmere sweater underneath it and he wonders how she's not blue from the cold wearing just jeans and a leather jacket.
"Usually by now I'd have about twenty missed calls from you, and you haven't called once," she finishes her sentence by breaking eye contact and licking her lips nervously. "I should've called though, before dropping by."
"No, it's just..." Castle starts say, stepping towards her in an attempt to reassure her. "I've been trying to give you space," he tries to explain, his body language contradicting his words, because he promised her he'd wait. But the things she's been saying to him, and the way she has been touching him make waiting seem like a pipe dream. No pun intended.
Her eyes meet his again and widen in surprise, before her mouth forms a soft oh.
"It's okay, though. I'm glad you came over, I've been rather.. bored," he admits.
She raises an eyebrow. "Nikki Heat hasn't been keeping you company?"
"Nikki Heat has been busy with other things," he lies, because he can't admit that he's been suffering from writer's block since the summer, and it has gotten increasingly worse since the city sniper spree. He isn't sure how to address Nikki's concern for Rook without betraying his own emotions on the page. Not that he's ever worried about the transparency of his feelings in his books, but this time it's different somehow.
"Like..." she pauses innocently, "... taking care of Rook, for example?"
Castle's mouth falls agape, as he points his index finger at her. "You're trying to get spoilers out of me," he accuses.
She shifts closer to him, keeping her mask of innocence in place, "... well?"
"I didn't know you were so emotionally invested in these characters, Detective," he says, his voice constricting slightly at the end of the last word because she is walking towards him with that look still on her face, and he doesn't know how he's supposed to get out of this, or if he even wants to.
"The things you don't know, Castle..." she mutters under her breath, "could fill an entire book their own. But I really, really," she adds as she reaches over to fix his collar which had probably turned upwards during his impromptu nap, "...don't want Rook to die."
His mouth feels like a dichotomy: dry from nervousness and yet watering at her touch and proximity. "So," he manages to get out, swallowing hard and feeling her fingers still poised on his collar, tracing his neck ever so slightly. "... would you say you envision a happy ending for them?"
She bites her lips as she seems to concentrate on his question. "Don't you?"
The realization of the role reversal stuns him for a second.
***
The skin of his neck is drawing her in like a moth to flame. It is thick, especially the tendons that ripple under the surface, but it's also soft against her fingertips. She knows she's lingering more than she's supposed to, but she can't bring herself to stop.
Not when she's standing in the kitchen area of his loft with absolutely no excuse to be there other than I missed you, and discussing characters of his - theirs? - like they're discussing something else entirely.
Just as he's about to answer her question, the lights flicker above them for two seconds before going off entirely. The streetlights are still on, so she'd put her money on just subpar wiring in his upscale building, but the tall glass window panels of his loft plus the gas fireplace cast enough light in the darkness to still allow them to see each other.
"Deja vu?" she asks.
"Minus the handcuffs," he points out.
She raises both eyebrows, "I was going to say minus the tequila shooters, but now that you point out, we have been in far too many poorly lit situations, both in reality and in fiction."
He raises his hands between them, "I swear I had nothing to do with it."
She should be amused at the unprompted proclamation of innocence, but her eyes fix on his hands, and she briefly considers inching closer to him until the long fingers are pressed against her chest.
"Take a deep breath, Castle," she says, hoping her voice doesn't betray the flurry of images in her mind. "I don't think you'd be able to pull off something like this, just to get me to... what would be your plan exactly?"
His adam's apple bobs visibly and she feels the movement against her fingertips. "I... wouldn't," he replies weakly.
She pulls her hand back in frustration, breaking all contact with his body. She turns and stares at the fireplace, watching the flames burning. She isn't sure when she became the hunter and he became the hunted in this game they play; and she's definitely not sure how the hell he stuck around for as long as he did before.
She's never had to work this hard to get anyone, ever. She is perfectly capable of voicing her wishes, especially when it comes to this. But the fact that this is likely the most important relationship in her life right now is complicating things, and she has too much complication in her life elsewhere.
There's something deep inside her that fears that, if they cross this line, she'd be using him, and it's the only thing holding her back. Rationally, she knows she's ready if he is, and she's been trying to test his readiness, but every time she thinks they're getting there, he decides to go the 19th century gentleman route, and it's pissing her off.
"Beckett?" he asks softly, standing behind her, and she can feel the ghost of his hand hovering above her shoulder, she can almost hear the thoughts in his head as he tries to find where she's drawn the line this time. She lets out a frustrated huff of air, because even she can't find that line tonight.
"Kate...?" he tries again.
"Damn it, Castle!" she grunts with exasperation, pivoting her body until her arm is around his neck, and she's raising her body towards his, lips crashing into his in a frenzy. She wishes she had chosen to wear a pair of her boots instead of the flat sneakers, because the height difference is throwing her off, but to his credit, he catches her despite the surprise that's evident in his body, his arm wrapping around her waist to hold her up.
Her other hand is grabbing at his torso, wondering how he can have this body without a workout regimen. He's put on weight since he's started shadowing her, she's heard him blame it on the donuts when the guys were ribbing him about it, but it's gone to all the right places because he feels extremely solid against her. Her mind flashes back to their captivity and their circus-like attempts to escape, and she feels a rush of heat to her center.
His lips come to life under hers, and it seems like he's finally catching up to her train of thought. As he bends his knees, the cop in her becomes fully alert at the slight shift, but he wraps his free arm around the back of her thighs, pulling her up until her feet are completely off the ground. Her legs waste no time circling his hips and locking behind him against the firmness of his exemplary ass, and she nearly bites down on his tongue at the realization.
He seems unfazed as his hand, free to explore now that she's locked onto him like a horny koala to a sexy eucalyptus tree, travels the expanse of her bottom. She gasps into his mouth, and she doesn't realize they're moving until her back hits the glass door of his wine cabinet. She wishes it'd been his fridge, or even the kitchen island; she feels almost at his mercy there, since she is afraid of breaking the glass.
But then he shifts, holding her up with his thigh, and his hands are finding their way under her sweater, and she's just glad she didn't put on a shirt under the cashmere. When he traces her lower back with his fingers this time, she doesn't hold in her moan, and his hips are pressed into hers so she is aware of his reaction. She senses her own lower body responding with a spasm, and he must feel it through their layers of clothing because he breaks the kiss and gasps against her neck.
"Fuck," he mutters into her hair which is wilder than usual from the motorcycle ride.
She laughs breathlessly. "That's the idea," she points out.
He pulls back and his eyes fix on hers with so much passion that she feels her heart skip a beat.
"Not just that," she explains. "I still mean what I said before, and I can't promise... forever, not yet. But I want this, Castle; I want us, right now." Her lower lip is already swollen from the kissing, so when she bites into it there are simultaneous twinges of pain and pleasure that shoot through her body. "And I can promise you I won't regret this."
Something flickers in his face that gets her cop senses tingling again, but then his hand is brushing her hair off her face and she's leaning into his touch. "You can't promise that," he points out. "No one can."
He's right, she realizes. There's so much that they haven't worked out yet, and her fears are still real even if she's put herself and this ahead of the doubts. "I can promise I won't blame you for this if it doesn't work out," she offers instead.
His glance shifts, his eyes tracing her entire face as if he's memorizing every line. "But you're rooting for a happy ending?"
She nods, and smiles at the reference to their earlier conversation.
"Then as much as I am enjoying this position, my back was already protesting earlier, and I have a perfectly serviceable bed across the way," he points towards the nook by the front door. The playfulness is back in his voice, and she realizes how much she's missed it.
She unlocks her feet from behind him and starts heading in the direction of the bedroom, but he stalls her from behind by placing a hand on her stomach. He moves her hair out of her way and breathes against her ear, pulling her earlobe into his lips and she gasps, unintentionally pressing her back more fully against his body. His hands move upwards to cradle her breasts through her sweater and bra, and she presses forward now, her body unsure which direction to go because he's everywhere around her. Her own hands reach above her shoulder to his hair and wrap around his neck again. It's arousing but incredibly frustrating because there are too many layers between them and she wants him and as soon as humanly possible.
"Castle!" she barks out in frustration. "My jacket," she points to the unzipped edges close to his hands. "Help me out of it."
"Bam said the lady," he bites back at her, before pulling away from her long enough to take the jacket off and discard it on one of the bar stools by the kitchen island.
She doesn't wait for him to return to her before shucking her sweater and then her shoes as she strides purposefully towards the bedroom doors. She doesn't glance back to see if he's following, because she knows he is, and the sound of his clothes hitting the floor is proof enough for her.
She manages to unbutton her jeans as she makes it to the closed door, and she pauses, unsure of how to proceed. He doesn't seems to notice she's paused though, because he runs straight into her, his bare chest pressing into her back, and she gasps. "Sorry," he apologizes half-heartedly, and his hands grasp her hips and next thing she knows, she's undulating her hips against his, reveling in the feeling of his hardness pressing into her.
His hands move before they can dry-hump each other to conclusion against his bedroom door, and she fights the urge to whine in protest. His fingers find the zipper of her fly and slowly lift the tab, and she's sure he's deliberately pressing it in towards her as he pulls the tab down until his pinky finger brushes against her clit through the denim, just the ghost of a touch, but enough to make her bite her lip and push back against his groin again.
He pulls away from her once more, and then he's pushing her jeans off, and it's not until she feels his touch on her socked foot that she realizes he's kneeling behind her. He lifts her feet with care, removing the pants and the socks, and she's standing there in her bra and panties, facing his bedroom door.
Lips press against her lower back, from hip to hip and it's like ground-to-cloud lightning from her center to her heart.
He stands up and unclasps her bra, then reaches past her and opens the door. He doesn't push past her though, or push her in any way. She is holding up her undone bra with her arm, glancing at the darkened bedroom, and realizing it presents her with an opportunity. She doesn't have to expose herself or her scars to him this way, if she doesn't want to.
"Castle?" she asks softly.
"Yes?" he asks as he presses a chaste kiss against her shoulder.
"Do you have any candles?"
"On it," he states, jumping to action. He runs back to his discarded pants, locating his cellphone, and uses it as a flashlight as he locates the lighter in the kitchen. He returns as she's chancing a few steps into his bedroom, her eyes adjusting to the darkness as she tries to stay out of his way. He goes into what she assumes to be the bathroom and returns with an armful of candles, depositing a couple on the bureau and a few more on the nightstands. "I will never again complain about my mother's habit of buying candles as stocking stuffers for Christmas."
She laughs softly as she takes in the now well-lit bedroom. It's tasteful, and - if she allows herself the thought - it's rather cozy, even if the bed is unmade.
"Sorry, I wasn't expecting company," he explains as he stands by the nightstand, in what looks like an expensive pair of boxers and nothing else. "I haven't entertained in a very, very long time," he quickly adds. "Well, not, you know, unreasonably long. Just long enough."
She raises an eyebrow in amusement, trying to decide between letting him dig himself into a hole or stopping him so he can put his lips to better use. She releases the bra that she's been holding up with her arm, and it does the trick to shut him up.
He's on her so fast that she wonders if he stays in shape by running sprints. She can't decide where to put her hands, she wants to touch him everywhere, and his chest just feels massive against her, like she could spend hours touching every square inch of it. She's fairly sure after this, she'll lose the ability to focus on anything but the way he fills out his pricy shirts and the size of his hands.
His own hands seem to have the same problem, and he's touching her everywhere, cradling her head one moment, and brushing his thumb against her erect nipple the next. His erection escapes the confines of the softer-than-possible boxers, and it's pressed between them, the silky feel of the head is pulsating against her stomach and she gasps. Her hand doesn't resist the temptation and makes its way between their bodies, wrapping against the part of him that's exposed and he's the one sucking in air like it's disappearing.
She strokes him once, running her thumb over the head in circles, and then again just to feel the way his knees buckle against hers.
"This is going to be over embarrassingly fast if you do that again," he warns her, pressing his forehead against her shoulder.
She accepts the challenge and strokes him once again, and a drop of moisture coats her thumb this time. "Sorry," she adds with feigned innocence before releasing him.
He takes a few short breaths against her, trying to regain his composure, and she can't help the smirk on her face. She's not sure how he'd react if she laughed right now, but she wants to - not at the fact she almost made him come from just three strokes, but because there's something undeniably happy within her that is making her downright giddy, and she wonders if sex with Castle will always be like this. If so, she wishes she could bottle the feeling up.
Or just do whatever it takes to make sure they continue doing this for a very long time.
She uses her body to push him backwards until he hits the edge of his mattress, but the bed is high off the floor and they fall sideways trying to climb on it together, the moment briefly reminding her of their dance with the handcuffs. Except this time her hand is free, and she's using it to grasp his upper arm. Her small hands are barely able to wrap around half the diameter, but she grips it tightly and pushes him until he's on his back and she's on top of him.
"Excessive force much?" he asks as his hands make their way to her breasts.
"Are you complaining?" she retorts, pulling one of his hands up to her lips until she can kiss the fingertips.
"Nocomplaints," he adds in a rush of air. "No complaints at all."
"Is this angle not working for you?" she teases, referencing the less-dirty-but-not-by-much conversation a few days prior.
"I'm a guy," he points out. "I will try any angles that you want to try."
She raises an eyebrow at his remark, wondering if he realizes just how much she can do to bring him to his knees, but instead of saying anything she just sucks the tip of his middle finger between her lips.
"Apples!" he shouts, but doesn't move his fingers. "I swear that this is not usually a problem for me, but if you'll allow me a gun metaphor or two, I'm rather trigger-happy at the moment and if you don't want to time how long it takes for a reload..."
She ponders for a second. She has no doubt she could assist him with the... reload, but as much fun as she's having teasing him, there's an insistent throbbing between her legs and she should probably address that as well. "We'll test that particular skill set another time, then," she offers and releases his hands so she can splay her fingers across his broad chest.
His hands are on a similar route, each of his thumbs graze across each of her nipples, and she presses her breasts into his hands. He weighs the fleshy mounds, palms providing support while his fingers tease and pinch the sensitive spots until her moans are echoing throughout his room. He's pressing up into her through her scrap of underwear and his soft boxers, and she counters his movements with skill.
When his thumb brushes against her scar, she's too far gone to care or worry, her hips thrusting with purpose against his. He has to still her again before they lose control, and he lifts her until he can slide backwards toward the headboard, and she tugs carefully on his boxers, freeing him and then throwing them over her shoulder.
She loves candles, but she's never been one for intimate moments by candlelight. However, the way the light plays across his skin is taking her breath away, and seeing his full length is enough to make her mouth water. She wants to use her mouth on him, so much so that she focuses a bit too long on it, and he must realize what she's thinking, because he swallows loudly from where he's half-lying and half-sitting against a pile of pillows.
"Next time," she says and it's as much a promise to herself as it is to him.
She removes her own underwear before inching toward him, and then she's swinging her leg over his hip. Before she can fully position herself, his fingers are exploring her folds and her hips buck against his hand. Turnabout is fair play, she reminds herself as he finds her soaking wet, and slides first one finger inside her, then two. His thumb finds her clit with ease, and she realizes she's underestimated his expertise from the moment they met, because she knew he'd be good, but not this good. She's already fluttering around his fingers, and she's the one to shout "Apples!" this time.
He pouts, and she tries to catch her breath. "It's only fair," she explains as he pulls his fingers out, and she's not sure whether to be embarrassed or proud that she can see how much his fingers are glistening, even in the candlelight.
He brings his fingers to his mouth and sucks them clean. She just stares at him, mouth agape because she's not sure why she's not allowed to suck on his fingers, but he thinks he can do this without eliciting a response from her, and he shrugs innocently. She shakes her head as she remembers there are more pressing matters, namely pressing into her inner thigh. She shifts her hips until he's pressing against her entrance instead, and she lets her hips drop carelessly, his entire length filling her in one stroke. He twitches deep inside her as he goes as far as he can, and both of them moan and curse under their breath.
It takes a second to adjust to the sensations, even as ready as she was, and she can tell he's grateful for the slight reprieve as well. Her hair falls forward, grazing his chest, and he grasps it with one hand, trying to move it out of the way so he can see her face above him.
She leans over until she can kiss him, and then her hips are moving upward and then downward again with a sideways twist here and there. His hand continues weaving through her hair until his fingers are caressing her scalp, and his thumb is tracing her outer ear. She bites his lip in response, because it's their first time together and he's already discovered how sensitive the shell of her ear is.
His hips buck upwards on her next downstroke, thrusting even deeper than she thought possible. He meets her thrust for thrust after that, and it's not long before they're not even kissing, they're just panting against each other's lips, hot little puffs of shared air.
"I'm close," she warns.
"I can tell," is his only reply, and it almost annoys her that he can read her this well. His free hand moves between their bodies and he just holds his thumb in the right spot so that every time her hips meet his, her already extra-sensitive clit gets grazed. Three strokes later, she's coming around him, and he's right there with her, meeting her spasm for spasm within her walls.
"Shit," she says as she pants against him. She's fairly sure sex shouldn't be this good between them this quickly; it's unnatural that she can have one of the strongest orgasms of her life after-- she doesn't even want to glance at her watch to find out how long it didn't take. Because that would mean they are that good together, and she's not sure how she's supposed to function knowing he can make her come undone so easily and so quickly.
She doubts he's having similar thoughts, because when she meets his eyes, he's just grinning widely, and she finds all of her worries melting away at the sight. She slides her legs downward and shifts until she's on her left side, pressed against him. Her head falls naturally against his chest, and she smiles against his skin until she's biting her lower lip.
He shifts until he can pull the blankets over their heads, the lack of central heating having gone unnoticed for most of the evening but it's quickly becoming an issue as their heated skin meets cool air. They adjust a bit further, moving the pillows until they're settled in, and she is almost angry at how comfortable his damn mattress is, because it's making her bed at home seem rather uninviting.
"Better than a dirty mattress on the floor?" he asks, as if reading her thoughts, and that annoys her too and makes the fluttery feeling in her stomach happen again.
"I'll let you know in the morning," she replies, her eyes falling shut against him. "No handcuffs this time."
"Next time?" he repeats the words he said a few days earlier.
"Someday soon," she promises.
*****
She smells the leather before she opens her eyes. She can tell it's morning, and she's fairly sure she drooled on the unfamiliar pillow, evidence A that she is not in her own bed.
"Morning," his voice - evidence B - wakes her up faster than his coffee usually does, and she flips over to face him.
He is writing on a leather-bound notebook, but he pauses for a second to beam at her, and she rubs at her eyes until she can see him in focus. "Did you... did you even sleep?" she asks in confusion.
"I will have you know I lived up to the stereotype and fell soundly asleep in post-coital bliss right after you did," he reassures her, "but I woke up when the power came back, around 4am, and inspiration struck... didn't want to wake you up with the laptop, so I went old-school instead."
She smiles, noticing the covers have been pushed down to her waist and the sheet is barely covering her breasts, but she lets it go, not minding the way his eyes keep shifting quickly between the notebook and her.
"Hold that thought," he begs, as he scribbles furiously for another thirty seconds, and then he's throwing the notebook and the pen across the room, "... and done for now."
She raises an eyebrow at him.
"Well, with the writing," he clarifies, before sliding down to face her on his side. "And I think you'll be happy to know Rook makes a full recovery."
She tries not to let her eyes betray her emotions, so she just smiles at him. "Should I assume you were writing a scene where Nikki tests just how recovered Rook is?"
"I can't spill all my secrets... not even to my muse," he says as he bends down to wrap his lips around her nipple.
"Not even if I tell you how talented you are?" she offers as her fingers trace his biceps again. "As a writer, of course."
"Detective, you've only saw a manuscript last night. You have no idea what a final draft looks like," he replies with a smirk, his teeth grazing her nipple at the end of his sentence.
Beckett is not sure how to stop her body from shaking, and then she's laughing so hard that his entire bed is moving. And she realizes that yes, sex with Castle will always be like this.
Author: shipperfey
Summary: "I still mean what I said before, and I can't promise... forever, not yet. But I want this, Castle; I want us, right now."
Spoilers: 4x10 Cuffed
Pairing/Characters: Castle/Beckett
Rating: NC-17/M
Author's Notes: tarlanciel asked me for Cuffed tag fic using the handcuffs. I couldn't deny her, but then this fic went off on its own path, far far away. Thank you relaxjolene for services rendered.
And every day that you want to waste, that you want to waste, you can
And every day that you want to wake up, that you want to wake, you can
And every day that you want to change, that you want to change, yeah
I'll help you see it through 'cause I just really want to be with you
They're completely naked, and he glances down between their bodies, where their cuffed hands are trapped. The angle is throwing them off, so their hands switch places until hers is wrapping around his erection, and the back of his knuckles are brushing against her sex.
Her hand moves up, then down, and the inertia across the cuffs causes his own hands to press into her folds until he's found her wet and wanting. He twists his wrist until he can rub her clit in circles, and she is soon grinding into his hand with the same authority she uses in the interrogation room.
With some shifting of their hips, they manage to move so that his hardness is pressed against her, and her hand stays in place until he's entering her, and he grunts at how tight she feels. His free hand is behind him on the dirty mattress, holding his body up, and he tries to move the cuffed hand to her breast, but he almost pinches a sensitive part of her anatomy in the process, and she nearly punches him in return.
"I have an idea," she announces, separating their hips and lying down on her right side. He has no choice but to follow, spooning against her back, and her perfect ass pressing into his groin is almost his undoing.
He manages to use his free hand between them until he's inside her again, the new angle allowing him to hit all the right spots inside her, and her moans communicate her approval of the new position. Their cuffed hands move to her breasts in unison, kneading the flesh and teasing her nipples into puckered and swollen tips until she's panting against him.
"I need to tell you something, Castle," she says breathlessly as she approaches her climax. "You should know I..."
A car horn outside wakes him up before he can dream the rest of her confession. The DVD menu for The Thing is playing in a loop on the living room television. He doesn't remember falling asleep on his couch as the snow started to flurry down, but now his back is nearly as stiff as another part of him.
'Not as much fun if I have your permission' turns out to be the most unintentional lie of all times.
For almost an entire week now his every thought has been filled with images of her respectable legs around his shoulders, her small hands tightening on his hair or wrapping around his length, and those boots... he's almost afraid that the vivid dreams might have left heel-shaped bruises on his hips.
This time they were fully naked, his brain apparently not caring about the logic of clothing removal while handcuffed together. Every time he closes his eyes, he can imagine the two of them in ways where she always comes and goes first, and he doesn't really mind it because he can hear her moaning and grunting in his mind. The sounds she made in captivity are fuel enough for a lifetime of fantasies.
Any other person would likely have been able to push the thoughts out of their mind, or just retrieve them when it's convenient, but he's a best-selling author. He has trained his brain to focus on the details, and retain them as long as possible, until he can put those scenes to paper. But the thoughts he's having now, he can't possibly write them, not if he values his life.
To make things worse, his mother and daughter have extended their college tour to Europe; Alexis cited a desire to visit Oxford, but he is sure he's been tricked into paying for a trip through Europe for his mother more than anything. He doesn't really mind it, he's thankful she's gone with Alexis. It should concern him that his daughter doesn't think he can spare time to travel with her, especially because he knows the exact reason why they don't think he can leave New York for two whole weeks, but he is actually more concerned about the lack of distraction in his loft at the moment.
And it certainly doesn't help that Beckett decided to take a week vacation after their brush with death. She mentioned that Espo will be taking time off for the holidays, and Ryan will be taking time off in January for his honeymoon, so she wants to get some rest before the next serial killer or dirty bomb threatens the city.
He is infinitely more worried about the threat of carpal tunnel syndrome at the moment. That could be a career-ender for him, and he signed documents stating he couldn't sue the city under any circumstances, even if their best homicide detective leaves him with a debilitating condition after sauntering off in her tight jeans and a goddamn helmet in her hands. He pictures the glare Gates would give him if he filed the paperwork listing the reasons why his wrist hurts, and it's enough to make his latest erection deflate considerably.
He sighs as he glances at his watch, trying to remind himself that a healthy sexual drive in his age is something a lot of men are shelling out top dollars for, and he shouldn't be so worried about almost ruining an expensive couch throw blanket like a fifteen-year-old with a wet dream He worries anyway, not for the throw itself, but for what's left of his rational brain.
The sound of the doorbell startles him, and he jumps up, grabbing his phone from the coffee table to make sure he hasn't missed any calls or texts, but the lack of notifications assures him he hasn't. "Beckett?" he asks in confusion as he opens the door.
She pushes past the opening of the door, under his arm, and he catches a glance of her lips pursed in amusement.
"Body drop?" he wonders as she sets her helmet on his kitchen counter. "Wait, you rode your motorcycle here? There's a snowstorm out there. Isn't that dangerous?"
She's untying her scarf as she meets his eyes, and her fingers are undoing the knot in a way that forms an entirely new knot in his throat. "No bodies. I'm on vacation for two more days, remember?" she points out before pulling off her leather gloves. "And on a scale of one to taking-a-bullet-to-the-heart, I'd say riding my bike here ranks at about an eight."
He waits for the avoidance and panic in her voice, but he hears none. Just as he starts feeling relieved, his head tilts in confusion, because he's not sure when their summer of sheer hell became okay to discuss so casually.
"Relax, Castle," she adds at his expression. "I was just riding by, and I realized I hadn't heard from you in a while, I figured I'd check in."
There's a shadow of something unfamiliar on her face, and he's not sure how to react. His mouth tries to form words before his brain does, and he cringes at the inevitable fish-lips thing he has going for a second, but she just laughs. It's not her Oh, Castle laughter either, it's a deeper, full-bodied laugh that makes him painfully aware of the unaddressed stiffness from earlier as it threatens to return. She unzips her jacket, revealing a tan cashmere sweater underneath it and he wonders how she's not blue from the cold wearing just jeans and a leather jacket.
"Usually by now I'd have about twenty missed calls from you, and you haven't called once," she finishes her sentence by breaking eye contact and licking her lips nervously. "I should've called though, before dropping by."
"No, it's just..." Castle starts say, stepping towards her in an attempt to reassure her. "I've been trying to give you space," he tries to explain, his body language contradicting his words, because he promised her he'd wait. But the things she's been saying to him, and the way she has been touching him make waiting seem like a pipe dream. No pun intended.
Her eyes meet his again and widen in surprise, before her mouth forms a soft oh.
"It's okay, though. I'm glad you came over, I've been rather.. bored," he admits.
She raises an eyebrow. "Nikki Heat hasn't been keeping you company?"
"Nikki Heat has been busy with other things," he lies, because he can't admit that he's been suffering from writer's block since the summer, and it has gotten increasingly worse since the city sniper spree. He isn't sure how to address Nikki's concern for Rook without betraying his own emotions on the page. Not that he's ever worried about the transparency of his feelings in his books, but this time it's different somehow.
"Like..." she pauses innocently, "... taking care of Rook, for example?"
Castle's mouth falls agape, as he points his index finger at her. "You're trying to get spoilers out of me," he accuses.
She shifts closer to him, keeping her mask of innocence in place, "... well?"
"I didn't know you were so emotionally invested in these characters, Detective," he says, his voice constricting slightly at the end of the last word because she is walking towards him with that look still on her face, and he doesn't know how he's supposed to get out of this, or if he even wants to.
"The things you don't know, Castle..." she mutters under her breath, "could fill an entire book their own. But I really, really," she adds as she reaches over to fix his collar which had probably turned upwards during his impromptu nap, "...don't want Rook to die."
His mouth feels like a dichotomy: dry from nervousness and yet watering at her touch and proximity. "So," he manages to get out, swallowing hard and feeling her fingers still poised on his collar, tracing his neck ever so slightly. "... would you say you envision a happy ending for them?"
She bites her lips as she seems to concentrate on his question. "Don't you?"
The realization of the role reversal stuns him for a second.
***
The skin of his neck is drawing her in like a moth to flame. It is thick, especially the tendons that ripple under the surface, but it's also soft against her fingertips. She knows she's lingering more than she's supposed to, but she can't bring herself to stop.
Not when she's standing in the kitchen area of his loft with absolutely no excuse to be there other than I missed you, and discussing characters of his - theirs? - like they're discussing something else entirely.
Just as he's about to answer her question, the lights flicker above them for two seconds before going off entirely. The streetlights are still on, so she'd put her money on just subpar wiring in his upscale building, but the tall glass window panels of his loft plus the gas fireplace cast enough light in the darkness to still allow them to see each other.
"Deja vu?" she asks.
"Minus the handcuffs," he points out.
She raises both eyebrows, "I was going to say minus the tequila shooters, but now that you point out, we have been in far too many poorly lit situations, both in reality and in fiction."
He raises his hands between them, "I swear I had nothing to do with it."
She should be amused at the unprompted proclamation of innocence, but her eyes fix on his hands, and she briefly considers inching closer to him until the long fingers are pressed against her chest.
"Take a deep breath, Castle," she says, hoping her voice doesn't betray the flurry of images in her mind. "I don't think you'd be able to pull off something like this, just to get me to... what would be your plan exactly?"
His adam's apple bobs visibly and she feels the movement against her fingertips. "I... wouldn't," he replies weakly.
She pulls her hand back in frustration, breaking all contact with his body. She turns and stares at the fireplace, watching the flames burning. She isn't sure when she became the hunter and he became the hunted in this game they play; and she's definitely not sure how the hell he stuck around for as long as he did before.
She's never had to work this hard to get anyone, ever. She is perfectly capable of voicing her wishes, especially when it comes to this. But the fact that this is likely the most important relationship in her life right now is complicating things, and she has too much complication in her life elsewhere.
There's something deep inside her that fears that, if they cross this line, she'd be using him, and it's the only thing holding her back. Rationally, she knows she's ready if he is, and she's been trying to test his readiness, but every time she thinks they're getting there, he decides to go the 19th century gentleman route, and it's pissing her off.
"Beckett?" he asks softly, standing behind her, and she can feel the ghost of his hand hovering above her shoulder, she can almost hear the thoughts in his head as he tries to find where she's drawn the line this time. She lets out a frustrated huff of air, because even she can't find that line tonight.
"Kate...?" he tries again.
"Damn it, Castle!" she grunts with exasperation, pivoting her body until her arm is around his neck, and she's raising her body towards his, lips crashing into his in a frenzy. She wishes she had chosen to wear a pair of her boots instead of the flat sneakers, because the height difference is throwing her off, but to his credit, he catches her despite the surprise that's evident in his body, his arm wrapping around her waist to hold her up.
Her other hand is grabbing at his torso, wondering how he can have this body without a workout regimen. He's put on weight since he's started shadowing her, she's heard him blame it on the donuts when the guys were ribbing him about it, but it's gone to all the right places because he feels extremely solid against her. Her mind flashes back to their captivity and their circus-like attempts to escape, and she feels a rush of heat to her center.
His lips come to life under hers, and it seems like he's finally catching up to her train of thought. As he bends his knees, the cop in her becomes fully alert at the slight shift, but he wraps his free arm around the back of her thighs, pulling her up until her feet are completely off the ground. Her legs waste no time circling his hips and locking behind him against the firmness of his exemplary ass, and she nearly bites down on his tongue at the realization.
He seems unfazed as his hand, free to explore now that she's locked onto him like a horny koala to a sexy eucalyptus tree, travels the expanse of her bottom. She gasps into his mouth, and she doesn't realize they're moving until her back hits the glass door of his wine cabinet. She wishes it'd been his fridge, or even the kitchen island; she feels almost at his mercy there, since she is afraid of breaking the glass.
But then he shifts, holding her up with his thigh, and his hands are finding their way under her sweater, and she's just glad she didn't put on a shirt under the cashmere. When he traces her lower back with his fingers this time, she doesn't hold in her moan, and his hips are pressed into hers so she is aware of his reaction. She senses her own lower body responding with a spasm, and he must feel it through their layers of clothing because he breaks the kiss and gasps against her neck.
"Fuck," he mutters into her hair which is wilder than usual from the motorcycle ride.
She laughs breathlessly. "That's the idea," she points out.
He pulls back and his eyes fix on hers with so much passion that she feels her heart skip a beat.
"Not just that," she explains. "I still mean what I said before, and I can't promise... forever, not yet. But I want this, Castle; I want us, right now." Her lower lip is already swollen from the kissing, so when she bites into it there are simultaneous twinges of pain and pleasure that shoot through her body. "And I can promise you I won't regret this."
Something flickers in his face that gets her cop senses tingling again, but then his hand is brushing her hair off her face and she's leaning into his touch. "You can't promise that," he points out. "No one can."
He's right, she realizes. There's so much that they haven't worked out yet, and her fears are still real even if she's put herself and this ahead of the doubts. "I can promise I won't blame you for this if it doesn't work out," she offers instead.
His glance shifts, his eyes tracing her entire face as if he's memorizing every line. "But you're rooting for a happy ending?"
She nods, and smiles at the reference to their earlier conversation.
"Then as much as I am enjoying this position, my back was already protesting earlier, and I have a perfectly serviceable bed across the way," he points towards the nook by the front door. The playfulness is back in his voice, and she realizes how much she's missed it.
She unlocks her feet from behind him and starts heading in the direction of the bedroom, but he stalls her from behind by placing a hand on her stomach. He moves her hair out of her way and breathes against her ear, pulling her earlobe into his lips and she gasps, unintentionally pressing her back more fully against his body. His hands move upwards to cradle her breasts through her sweater and bra, and she presses forward now, her body unsure which direction to go because he's everywhere around her. Her own hands reach above her shoulder to his hair and wrap around his neck again. It's arousing but incredibly frustrating because there are too many layers between them and she wants him and as soon as humanly possible.
"Castle!" she barks out in frustration. "My jacket," she points to the unzipped edges close to his hands. "Help me out of it."
"Bam said the lady," he bites back at her, before pulling away from her long enough to take the jacket off and discard it on one of the bar stools by the kitchen island.
She doesn't wait for him to return to her before shucking her sweater and then her shoes as she strides purposefully towards the bedroom doors. She doesn't glance back to see if he's following, because she knows he is, and the sound of his clothes hitting the floor is proof enough for her.
She manages to unbutton her jeans as she makes it to the closed door, and she pauses, unsure of how to proceed. He doesn't seems to notice she's paused though, because he runs straight into her, his bare chest pressing into her back, and she gasps. "Sorry," he apologizes half-heartedly, and his hands grasp her hips and next thing she knows, she's undulating her hips against his, reveling in the feeling of his hardness pressing into her.
His hands move before they can dry-hump each other to conclusion against his bedroom door, and she fights the urge to whine in protest. His fingers find the zipper of her fly and slowly lift the tab, and she's sure he's deliberately pressing it in towards her as he pulls the tab down until his pinky finger brushes against her clit through the denim, just the ghost of a touch, but enough to make her bite her lip and push back against his groin again.
He pulls away from her once more, and then he's pushing her jeans off, and it's not until she feels his touch on her socked foot that she realizes he's kneeling behind her. He lifts her feet with care, removing the pants and the socks, and she's standing there in her bra and panties, facing his bedroom door.
Lips press against her lower back, from hip to hip and it's like ground-to-cloud lightning from her center to her heart.
He stands up and unclasps her bra, then reaches past her and opens the door. He doesn't push past her though, or push her in any way. She is holding up her undone bra with her arm, glancing at the darkened bedroom, and realizing it presents her with an opportunity. She doesn't have to expose herself or her scars to him this way, if she doesn't want to.
"Castle?" she asks softly.
"Yes?" he asks as he presses a chaste kiss against her shoulder.
"Do you have any candles?"
"On it," he states, jumping to action. He runs back to his discarded pants, locating his cellphone, and uses it as a flashlight as he locates the lighter in the kitchen. He returns as she's chancing a few steps into his bedroom, her eyes adjusting to the darkness as she tries to stay out of his way. He goes into what she assumes to be the bathroom and returns with an armful of candles, depositing a couple on the bureau and a few more on the nightstands. "I will never again complain about my mother's habit of buying candles as stocking stuffers for Christmas."
She laughs softly as she takes in the now well-lit bedroom. It's tasteful, and - if she allows herself the thought - it's rather cozy, even if the bed is unmade.
"Sorry, I wasn't expecting company," he explains as he stands by the nightstand, in what looks like an expensive pair of boxers and nothing else. "I haven't entertained in a very, very long time," he quickly adds. "Well, not, you know, unreasonably long. Just long enough."
She raises an eyebrow in amusement, trying to decide between letting him dig himself into a hole or stopping him so he can put his lips to better use. She releases the bra that she's been holding up with her arm, and it does the trick to shut him up.
He's on her so fast that she wonders if he stays in shape by running sprints. She can't decide where to put her hands, she wants to touch him everywhere, and his chest just feels massive against her, like she could spend hours touching every square inch of it. She's fairly sure after this, she'll lose the ability to focus on anything but the way he fills out his pricy shirts and the size of his hands.
His own hands seem to have the same problem, and he's touching her everywhere, cradling her head one moment, and brushing his thumb against her erect nipple the next. His erection escapes the confines of the softer-than-possible boxers, and it's pressed between them, the silky feel of the head is pulsating against her stomach and she gasps. Her hand doesn't resist the temptation and makes its way between their bodies, wrapping against the part of him that's exposed and he's the one sucking in air like it's disappearing.
She strokes him once, running her thumb over the head in circles, and then again just to feel the way his knees buckle against hers.
"This is going to be over embarrassingly fast if you do that again," he warns her, pressing his forehead against her shoulder.
She accepts the challenge and strokes him once again, and a drop of moisture coats her thumb this time. "Sorry," she adds with feigned innocence before releasing him.
He takes a few short breaths against her, trying to regain his composure, and she can't help the smirk on her face. She's not sure how he'd react if she laughed right now, but she wants to - not at the fact she almost made him come from just three strokes, but because there's something undeniably happy within her that is making her downright giddy, and she wonders if sex with Castle will always be like this. If so, she wishes she could bottle the feeling up.
Or just do whatever it takes to make sure they continue doing this for a very long time.
She uses her body to push him backwards until he hits the edge of his mattress, but the bed is high off the floor and they fall sideways trying to climb on it together, the moment briefly reminding her of their dance with the handcuffs. Except this time her hand is free, and she's using it to grasp his upper arm. Her small hands are barely able to wrap around half the diameter, but she grips it tightly and pushes him until he's on his back and she's on top of him.
"Excessive force much?" he asks as his hands make their way to her breasts.
"Are you complaining?" she retorts, pulling one of his hands up to her lips until she can kiss the fingertips.
"Nocomplaints," he adds in a rush of air. "No complaints at all."
"Is this angle not working for you?" she teases, referencing the less-dirty-but-not-by-much conversation a few days prior.
"I'm a guy," he points out. "I will try any angles that you want to try."
She raises an eyebrow at his remark, wondering if he realizes just how much she can do to bring him to his knees, but instead of saying anything she just sucks the tip of his middle finger between her lips.
"Apples!" he shouts, but doesn't move his fingers. "I swear that this is not usually a problem for me, but if you'll allow me a gun metaphor or two, I'm rather trigger-happy at the moment and if you don't want to time how long it takes for a reload..."
She ponders for a second. She has no doubt she could assist him with the... reload, but as much fun as she's having teasing him, there's an insistent throbbing between her legs and she should probably address that as well. "We'll test that particular skill set another time, then," she offers and releases his hands so she can splay her fingers across his broad chest.
His hands are on a similar route, each of his thumbs graze across each of her nipples, and she presses her breasts into his hands. He weighs the fleshy mounds, palms providing support while his fingers tease and pinch the sensitive spots until her moans are echoing throughout his room. He's pressing up into her through her scrap of underwear and his soft boxers, and she counters his movements with skill.
When his thumb brushes against her scar, she's too far gone to care or worry, her hips thrusting with purpose against his. He has to still her again before they lose control, and he lifts her until he can slide backwards toward the headboard, and she tugs carefully on his boxers, freeing him and then throwing them over her shoulder.
She loves candles, but she's never been one for intimate moments by candlelight. However, the way the light plays across his skin is taking her breath away, and seeing his full length is enough to make her mouth water. She wants to use her mouth on him, so much so that she focuses a bit too long on it, and he must realize what she's thinking, because he swallows loudly from where he's half-lying and half-sitting against a pile of pillows.
"Next time," she says and it's as much a promise to herself as it is to him.
She removes her own underwear before inching toward him, and then she's swinging her leg over his hip. Before she can fully position herself, his fingers are exploring her folds and her hips buck against his hand. Turnabout is fair play, she reminds herself as he finds her soaking wet, and slides first one finger inside her, then two. His thumb finds her clit with ease, and she realizes she's underestimated his expertise from the moment they met, because she knew he'd be good, but not this good. She's already fluttering around his fingers, and she's the one to shout "Apples!" this time.
He pouts, and she tries to catch her breath. "It's only fair," she explains as he pulls his fingers out, and she's not sure whether to be embarrassed or proud that she can see how much his fingers are glistening, even in the candlelight.
He brings his fingers to his mouth and sucks them clean. She just stares at him, mouth agape because she's not sure why she's not allowed to suck on his fingers, but he thinks he can do this without eliciting a response from her, and he shrugs innocently. She shakes her head as she remembers there are more pressing matters, namely pressing into her inner thigh. She shifts her hips until he's pressing against her entrance instead, and she lets her hips drop carelessly, his entire length filling her in one stroke. He twitches deep inside her as he goes as far as he can, and both of them moan and curse under their breath.
It takes a second to adjust to the sensations, even as ready as she was, and she can tell he's grateful for the slight reprieve as well. Her hair falls forward, grazing his chest, and he grasps it with one hand, trying to move it out of the way so he can see her face above him.
She leans over until she can kiss him, and then her hips are moving upward and then downward again with a sideways twist here and there. His hand continues weaving through her hair until his fingers are caressing her scalp, and his thumb is tracing her outer ear. She bites his lip in response, because it's their first time together and he's already discovered how sensitive the shell of her ear is.
His hips buck upwards on her next downstroke, thrusting even deeper than she thought possible. He meets her thrust for thrust after that, and it's not long before they're not even kissing, they're just panting against each other's lips, hot little puffs of shared air.
"I'm close," she warns.
"I can tell," is his only reply, and it almost annoys her that he can read her this well. His free hand moves between their bodies and he just holds his thumb in the right spot so that every time her hips meet his, her already extra-sensitive clit gets grazed. Three strokes later, she's coming around him, and he's right there with her, meeting her spasm for spasm within her walls.
"Shit," she says as she pants against him. She's fairly sure sex shouldn't be this good between them this quickly; it's unnatural that she can have one of the strongest orgasms of her life after-- she doesn't even want to glance at her watch to find out how long it didn't take. Because that would mean they are that good together, and she's not sure how she's supposed to function knowing he can make her come undone so easily and so quickly.
She doubts he's having similar thoughts, because when she meets his eyes, he's just grinning widely, and she finds all of her worries melting away at the sight. She slides her legs downward and shifts until she's on her left side, pressed against him. Her head falls naturally against his chest, and she smiles against his skin until she's biting her lower lip.
He shifts until he can pull the blankets over their heads, the lack of central heating having gone unnoticed for most of the evening but it's quickly becoming an issue as their heated skin meets cool air. They adjust a bit further, moving the pillows until they're settled in, and she is almost angry at how comfortable his damn mattress is, because it's making her bed at home seem rather uninviting.
"Better than a dirty mattress on the floor?" he asks, as if reading her thoughts, and that annoys her too and makes the fluttery feeling in her stomach happen again.
"I'll let you know in the morning," she replies, her eyes falling shut against him. "No handcuffs this time."
"Next time?" he repeats the words he said a few days earlier.
"Someday soon," she promises.
*****
She smells the leather before she opens her eyes. She can tell it's morning, and she's fairly sure she drooled on the unfamiliar pillow, evidence A that she is not in her own bed.
"Morning," his voice - evidence B - wakes her up faster than his coffee usually does, and she flips over to face him.
He is writing on a leather-bound notebook, but he pauses for a second to beam at her, and she rubs at her eyes until she can see him in focus. "Did you... did you even sleep?" she asks in confusion.
"I will have you know I lived up to the stereotype and fell soundly asleep in post-coital bliss right after you did," he reassures her, "but I woke up when the power came back, around 4am, and inspiration struck... didn't want to wake you up with the laptop, so I went old-school instead."
She smiles, noticing the covers have been pushed down to her waist and the sheet is barely covering her breasts, but she lets it go, not minding the way his eyes keep shifting quickly between the notebook and her.
"Hold that thought," he begs, as he scribbles furiously for another thirty seconds, and then he's throwing the notebook and the pen across the room, "... and done for now."
She raises an eyebrow at him.
"Well, with the writing," he clarifies, before sliding down to face her on his side. "And I think you'll be happy to know Rook makes a full recovery."
She tries not to let her eyes betray her emotions, so she just smiles at him. "Should I assume you were writing a scene where Nikki tests just how recovered Rook is?"
"I can't spill all my secrets... not even to my muse," he says as he bends down to wrap his lips around her nipple.
"Not even if I tell you how talented you are?" she offers as her fingers trace his biceps again. "As a writer, of course."
"Detective, you've only saw a manuscript last night. You have no idea what a final draft looks like," he replies with a smirk, his teeth grazing her nipple at the end of his sentence.
Beckett is not sure how to stop her body from shaking, and then she's laughing so hard that his entire bed is moving. And she realizes that yes, sex with Castle will always be like this.