A/N: This chapter is M-rated. I think this is the first time I've written Martha (if I have previously, it was so horrible of an experience that I blocked it from my mind). I'd love some feedback on that. Writing different characters takes me out of my comfort zone. I like my comfort zone.
Disclaimer: Not mine. Pout.
"So, you and my dad seemed pretty chummy." Castle's got this luminous, dazed smile covering his face when he closes the door.
Her dad has never warmed up to any man she's ever dated. He's not malicious or rude—just distant, silently disapproving. She thought that it had something to do with the fact that she was his baby, his only daughter. But, she considers now that he's just super insightful, knows her better than she knows herself (she's never telling him this). The thing with Castle—this is it—and she suspects her dad recognizes that too.
"Uh huh." He walks back to the sofa, bounces down on it casually and picks up his mug to take a long gulp of coffee.
"Wanna tell me now what you two were talking about?" She tries on a sugary voice, with enough erotic undertones to force his eyes to hers lazily.
"Castle," she whines. She's trying for adorably persuasive, but he seems unfazed. Huh. "Wait. Was it about our sex life?"
He blurts out a chuckle. "God, no. That's seriously where you go first?" He's looking at her like she's crazy, but she thought it was a good guess. "Give me a little credit, Beckett. I'm not talking to your dad about—just, no."
"Well, you said I'd kill you. That might do it." She grins as she sidles over to him, nudges his legs open and rests a knee on the cushion between his, balancing above him with a hand near his shoulder.
"Can we use the term "sex life" when we've only done it once?" He looks so serious, like he's actually contemplating the semantics of this.
"Really? What would you call it?" She traces a finger through the crinkles near his eye, skims down his cheek, to his lips, where her fingers linger. "Enlighten me, my illustrious wordsmith."
"Ooh, say that again." His lips purse into a kiss at her fingers, and his pupils dilate as he stares up at her, amusement not able to conceal the arousal there.
Oh, that does it for him, huh?
"You like that?"
"Yeah," he breathes. She's still hovering over him and slowly lowers to straddle one of his thighs, closes her eyes at the lovely pressure of his muscles flexing between her legs. "I like you," he amends, tugging on her hips.
"You up for proving that?" The stubble crossing his jaw is calling to her; she licks at it, sucks a new spot after each scrape of her tongue.
"I'm definitely getting there."
Yeah, yeah. He is.
He grunts when her knee slides higher into the v of his legs. He stretches the limbs out low enough to jerk hers over so she bestrides his hips fully. "Wanna go-?" She tilts her head towards his bedroom, letting the gesture finish her question. She's starting to pant a little and they're not even naked yet. She's hopeless.
"How about we stay right here?"
She's not sure why the thought of riding him right here on his living room couch seems so dirty, sexy, and oh-so-appealing, but it's making her tingly and needy. She can hear the pounding, staccato pulse in her ears, feel it in her fingers and toes—and overwhelmingly between her legs.
Their kiss is wet and sloppy and deeply intense. She can't get close enough, fast enough. If making love once has her craving him this keenly, how is she going to cope daily? Ridiculous thoughts of booty calls, indecent exposure charges, and public embarrassment flash though her mind. On her bubble of laughter, his tongue grazes the roof of her mouth, flicks against her teeth. She captures the roving muscle with her lips and angles her head and flattens her own tongue against his, fights for control of the kiss.
He pulls back for a deep breath, then crashes his mouth to her neck, nudging aside the collar of his dress shirt. She wants it off. She unbuttons her buttons with frustratingly shaky hands, enjoying his lips' decent as each one unfastens.
"Commencement," he mumbles against the swell of her breast.
"What?" She tugs lightly on a fist-full of his hair.
"Commencement sex. That's what we call it." Off of her look, "No? Inaugural sex? No, no—that sounds too presidential—you'll have all of these 'most powerful man in the free world' expectations that I'd have to try to live up to. Hmm." His tongue laves against her nipple, and how the hell is he having a casual conversation right now?
"How about we maybe do it again so we don't have to worry about what to call it?"
"Yes. Or, we could do that. Exceptional idea." He chokes on the last word when her fingers skate to the opening in his lounge pants, manipulate the slit in the fabric until he's exposed, hard and hot in her palm. Roving hands tug at the boxers she's wearing until she can shimmy on his lap enough to remove them. He looks impressed, and she's not sure if it's her mad undressing skills or the way she's stroking the full length of him.
She releases him—leaving a whimper in her wake—to jerk his tee shirt off. The more she looks at him, his delectably tousled hair, unyielding gaze, obvious need, the more she wants to tell him how much she regrets not being ready for this sooner.
Her hips roll forward, brush against him—the only act of contrition she can manage right now, when words fail her. "Off," she manages to croak out, and he doesn't need further explanation, as he tucks himself back into his pants and raises his hips to slide them down.
"Your legs are so long." His hands slide from her hips to her bent knees—where they bite into his thighs. The fingers trek back down to her calves, then ankles, the last thing he can reach. A tug on the boney flesh there propels her legs higher up his waist and opens her further to him and, oh, the thick press of him right there is staggering, her body still not accustomed to the blissful intrusion.
A tinny pattering on the window signifies the beginnings of rain again. She bows into him; that long arch of pleasure the initial movement that sparks their lovemaking. The fresh storm sets their tempo; quick streams ping and echo in the open room, a pace that is mimicked by the fevered beginnings of their coupling. She coils tightly against him, subdues their movements, urging him to let her govern the process this time.
"I'm never going to witness a storm again without wanting you." God, his voice is rough and raspy, as sex and want roll off his tongue. "You know that?"
"Did I tell you how sexy it is that you're wearing my shirt?" She looks down at the only item of clothing amongst them. She wouldn't use the term wearing, exactly—the garment is hanging completely open, allowing only her shoulders, arms, and back any morsel of modesty. Her breasts are openly swaying between them, peaked nipples speaking to her state of arousal.
She sighs, exasperated, amused, and completely turned-on. "You weren't so chatty the first time we did this."
He hums an affirmative. "I was studying," he mutters as explanation. He's staring at her, his gaze penetrating, and it would be unnerving if it were anyone but him. He slides both hands up to finger her hair behind her ears, such an innocent gesture—a stark contradiction to the not-so-innocent rocking of their pelvises.
"You," he says, seriously. "What you enjoy. How you like to be touched. I wanted it to be special. Pleasurable."
"It was. Is." She shifts her knees up, pushes their connection even closer, can feel him slide deeper. His head falls to the back of the sofa, eyes screw shut as he bites back a groan. "So, you're done studying?" She teases.
"Never." His lids flutter open. "But, you're kind of in control here."
"So, should I be studying you, then?" She presses a quick kiss to his lips, leans back before he can deepen it. "What you like," she repeats his words. She grinds into him a little harder and his teeth grip his lower lip, pleasurable agony crossing over his face. "How you like to be touched?" She runs her fingers across his hard-thumping heart, over his ribs, down his belly, until they skitter to where they're joined. His hips jerk violently and she loses control of her own tormenting, keens sharply at the sensations they're creating. She glides both hands back to his shoulders, clawing at his flesh—her anchor, leverage—as she bounces over him again.
"I'm so close, Castle." The grip he has on her hips tightens, but he uses it to slow her down, even out the motions into a gentle, steady rhythm. "No," she whines, but goes with it because, yes yes, that feels so good, too. She's not too proud to share the reins with him.
When he trusts her not to resort back to the frenetic pace, he loosens his hold on her and runs his hands everywhere. She can't concentrate, just wants to melt into him. It's too tender and she's not going to cry, but yeah, she might. Never has it been like this, with the emotional spurring on the physical, all these layers of beautiful feelings. She can't collate them into words.
"I love you, Kate."
Yes, that's them. The words.
This is the first time he's said it outside of the threat of death. He spoke them over her dying body, anguish in his eyes, and then again while begging her not to cause him anymore of that same grief.
He's watching her with concern, and she rubs at the furrowed skin between his eyebrows. "If saying that makes you uncomfortable, I can stop," he whispers.
"Richard!" There's a loud thump on the door and the distinctive sound of his mother's voice filters through the thick wood. Seconds later, she hears his phone ringing in another room, a vaguely familiar show tune. "Richard, I don't have my key."
"You have got to be kidding me," he protests.
She makes a move to disengage their bodies and he holds her tightly against him, pushes back into her, a long slide from the distance she created. "No," he says on a gasp.
"Your mom is right out there, Castle. We can't do this." Her body is defying her, desperately trying to catch hold of the imminent wave of pleasure that's taunting her, holding her hostage.
"We're already doing this." Oh, God. Yes, and they're doing it so well, too. But, no no. He wraps his arms around her back and pulls her closer. "Just close your eyes and think about what, exactly, we're doing." His mother's voice floats around them again and she flinches. "And ignore that," he laughs and she groans, but obeys him—closes her eyes and listens to him talk, feels the sweet slide of him between her legs. "Think about how long I've wanted you, wanted to be inside you," he whispers into her ear and she feels the flames licking at her nerve endings. "And now I am." He slips his lips around her earlobe, and that's enough.
"I'm—" She bites firmly into his shoulder to stifle the obscene noises she wants to be making. An apology is on the tip of her tongue, but she can't even breathe now, concentrate on anything but the hard, seizing clench of her muscles.
"Yes, Kate." He holds her still, and it's almost too too too much when he drives up where she's most sensitive in a series of short, fierce thrusts that have him spilling into her. He liquefies back into the sofa, all soft, too relaxed limbs, and he lures her down with him.
The show tune starts again, followed up with a less aggressive knock.
She lifts off of him and he lets her go this time, but keeps their fingers linked until she has to break the contact to reach for his clothes to slip back into. "You can't keep ignoring her," she points out, voice soft.
"I've been doing it for years," he quips. She flings his lounge pants at him, while he slides on his tee shirt. She watches him stand and tug his pants up while she buttons the shirt she's wearing. "Coming," he shouts over his shoulder.
She's halfway to his office door when she stops on her name. "Yeah?"
"You're leaving me?"
"I'm migrating," she corrects. When he frowns, she clarifies "I'm not staying out here. I cannot look your mom in the eye after we just had sex on furniture that she probably sits on."
"It's my furniture. She lives here free room and board. We can christen whatever we want in here—it's mine." That idea—while a little petulant on his part—doesn't sound wholly unappealing. He must see that in her eyes because some smugness sparks in his. "How long are you hiding?"
"I'm not hiding." Yeah, she is. "Until she leaves," she admits.
"What if she-?"
"Just…go!" He's going to talk her into facing his mother all flushed and disheveled and embarrassed out of her mind. And, no she's not. She gestures towards the door and disappears from the room.
"I thought you were going to the Hamptons?" He opens the door (yeah, he's tired of that already today), and Martha enters the loft, a whirlwind of flourish and fanfare, as always.
"I was." She picks up her forgotten keys off a table in the foyer and jingles them excitedly in front of his face before tossing them into her purse.
"But Alexis thinks you're depressed and need a family day." She waves a hand in the air flamboyantly, moves into the kitchen and pours herself a glass of orange juice. He shakes his head 'no' when she shakes the carafe in an offer to get him a glass too. "But, I didn't tell you that. Our little secret."
He smiles affectionately. Alexis could tell something outside of her graduating was eating away at him. He didn't want to worry her, but it looks like it may be a little late for that. "So, you came all the way back to town?" That's kinda sweet.
"I hadn't left the city. But, never you mind that, dear," she instructs, conspiratorially.
Noticing that she's wearing the same clothes that he saw her in last night, he flashes her an 'ew' face. "Stop right there. I don't want any details."
"I wasn't going to share," she huffs. "You're just jealous because your old mother is having more fun than her young, handsome son."
Oh, he'd love to comment on that, but Kate would kill him. "Yes. That's it, exactly."
When he meets her eyes, he notices she's scrutinizing him. A bit of panic flurries through him and he mentally checks that he's fully dressed, there are no stray clothes scattered around the loft, and he hasn't said anything incriminating. Nope. All's good. He's not great at the whole keeping-a-secret thing. "You don't look depressed, Richard."
"Because I'm not," he grouses. "Call Alexis and tell her I'm fine. To have fun with her friends. Stay another night if she wants." He reaches for the cordless phone and extends it to his mother. "Then, you go to the Hamptons. Take a…friend. Stay out of the master bedroom, though." He thrusts the phone at her.
She takes it and immediately places it on the bar behind her. "Why aren't you pouting?"
"I don't pout."
"You most certainly do. You're all by yourself, which you hate. And your little girl just graduated." She props herself on the corner of a stool and crosses her arms. "'Stay another night'? Really? Darling, what are you hiding?"
"I'm not—hiding? What do you mean? I'm not. Nothing. Nothing." He shakes his head, a little extra emphasis. And…she's laughing at him. Oh, this isn't good.
"You are hiding something. Someone?" She drawls the word out, comically. She's fishing and he's totally taking the bait, he knows. He can't school his features, especially with his mother. She has this uncanny ability to know when he's bullshitting. "Oooh. It is a someone."
"Mother," he warns.
"I know, I know. Mind my business." "But-" She grabs his hand when he rolls his eyes. "I'm a little concerned. Bringing a woman here? To spend the night." She cringes. "You don't do that. You haven't done that since—well, you married the last one."
"I know." He'll marry this one too. Third time's a charm.
"Do you think that's a good idea?" That's rhetorical, he assumes, keeps his mouth shut. She squeezes his hand. "If you're fighting with Beckett, you may be emotionally compromised."
"I'm definitely emotionally compromised," he agrees.
"Does this woman know you're in love with someone?"
"She does." He smiles a little because he's not lying about anything and all of his answers are falling into place, carrying a deeper meaning and cloaking his little secret. This is fun.
"And she's okay with that?" She looks skeptical. Or disapproving.
"We were talking about that when you started beating the door down."
"Of course she's not okay with that, Richard. No self-respecting woman would be."
"It's…complicated." So, not so fun anymore. He wants to tell. Won't. But, if his mother is still around tonight when Kate's father comes for dinner, well, it's kind of a moot point, right? Okay, he still won't say anything.
"There's a reason you gave up the whole playboy persona thing, Kiddo. Well, besides your favored member of the NYPD. You suck at it." He's pretty sure he should take offense to this. But, he just rolls his eyes, doesn't care.
"You think too much with this-," she pokes him in the center of his chest, over his heart. "—to pretend like that—," she waves her hand at his groin and he takes a giant step back, "controls you."
"Thank you?" He does love that she doesn't pull punches. But, he wants to go hide with Kate now.
"It is a compliment, my boy. But, it's only proof that you're going to break this poor girl's heart."
"Or she might break mine," he muses.
"She won't break yours." Kate's resolute voice floats to his ears and before he can turn around, he sees his mother's wide eyes; she's shocked into silence. That never happens.
Kate moves to his side, wearing his robe now (check another fantasy off the list), but still looks a little shy, hesitant. He totally knows the feeling, sympathizes. But, this is awesome.
"You're the—you're the other woman?" Martha points towards the bedroom, then drops her hand and laughs heartily, as if she should have known all along.
"The only woman, mother. She's the only woman."
A/N: Feedback? I've got thick skin. Are we still going with this or is it getting redundant?