Chapter 5

Oh fuck he's perfect. Just on the right side of almost too big, too much: and she'd meant to tease and play and wind him up to almost-explosion because that's what he's done all night so far and it was her turn to leave him gasping and brain-fried and devoid of thought but she'd only just gotten started when he pushed her down and then, well, he was just so perfectly positioned and she couldn't wait any more and then they were naked and now oh God he's over her and inside her and it is perfect. She succumbs to the glorious sensation and keeps on kissing him and he reaches down between them and touches intimately on just the right, perfect, exquisitely sensitive spot and she explodes.

Once her eyelids have enough energy to open, even if the rest of her has no energy at all, she realises that Castle is still on top of her. Even though he's large and heavy (in the best possible muscular way) and squashing her, it feels good. And he's warm. It's December, and her apartment is not that warm, and she is naked and not under her coverlet. She wiggles just a little to be wholly comfortable and totally enclosed, and closes her eyes again. Who needs festive dances? Private dances are just fine.

After a few more seconds of delightful warmth and aroma of large, sexy male, which is filling her nose, which is buried in his neck, Beckett realises that said neck is in a very convenient place to essay a small nibble. So she does.

Reaction is very pleasingly instant. His eyes fly open and his embrace tightens: he rolls over so she's on top (she likes being on top, too) and then lifts her so she's sitting astride him and oh that's sneaky he's still inside her and the light in his eyes says she's a living, breathing goddess. It worships.

Worship should be encouraged.

She wiggles sensuously, which is at least as much to encourage herself as him, and the light in his eyes blazes. His wide hands come up to palm both breasts at once, and ohhhh that feels so very, very good. He couldn't do this under some pathetic droop of mistletoe. Kisses are just not enough, now she knows just how excellently erotic he can be. Kisses will never be enough again.

Though she can stand plenty of that sort of kisses. And that placement. And that oh-so-very-good use of mouth and teeth and suckling. Oh yes. More, please. Lots more. These sparkles, presently tingling down her nerves and collecting at her core, are so very much better than sparkly tinsel or glitter on trees.

Castle is finding that Beckett – hot, sexy, totally aroused Beckett – has an amazing effect on him, and he is having an equally amazing effect on her. She's the shining star leading him on. Well, not so much leading on as turning on, to be honest, but he's cool with that too. He stops playing with his wonderful present, pulls her down so she's draped over him, and pets and strokes gently, cosseting and cradling. He's going to take really good care of this gift, which means not just absolutely fabulous sex but considerably more.

On the other hand… absolutely fabulous sex is a pretty good place to start.

He sits Beckett back up again so that he has space to explore and discover, and finds that she is equally keen on having space to explore and discover. Fairly shortly mutual exploration and discovery turns to delightful consummation.

"We should go dancing more often," Castle drawls in an insinuating baritone, lying with Beckett snuggled in his arms and spread cosily over his ample chest. He could hardly be happier if St Nicholas appeared right in front of him and let him take selfies. Though he'd need to get dressed and he really doesn't want to get dressed if Beckett's right here snuggled against his naked body and naked herself.

"Mm?" she purrs, which reverberates right through his sternum and wraps around his heart.

"Maybe not at Doctors' Dances, though."

"No," she hums. Her hair tickles softly at his neck: as lightly as falling snow. He plays with a tendril, winding it round his finger and unwinding it, nuzzling into the delicate scent. Her fingers are gently motionless on his shoulder. Beckett is a very un-fidgety person. Strangely, she isn't objecting to him fidgeting.

"You're good at it." She makes a mildly disgusted noise. "What?"

"Lanie gave me dancing lessons as a present," she blurts out indignantly. "What was she on?"

"Dancing lessons?" Castle says disingenously. "Didn't you learn to dance at school, or university?"

"No," she grumps. "Because I don't like dancing."

"You liked it fine with me," he murmurs provocatively, and kisses just below her ear. "So what made you change your mind?"

Beckett squirms, and doesn't answer. Castle tips her chin up, so he can see her face. It's pink.

"You wanted to dance with me," he says happily. There is an indeterminate grumbling mutter. "You did." He smirks evilly. "Why, Detective Beckett, you've been hiding things. Keeping secrets." Her cheeks flare hot scarlet, and she tries to escape. "Don't run away. I don't like it when you run away from me," he pouts.

"Don't push, then." There's a tiny tinge of irritation to her voice, which tells Castle he's gone far enough. He wriggles a little, and pets soothingly.

"Okay. No pushing. But no running away, either. Just stay here and stop trying to escape." He strokes down her spine. "Stay with me," he entices.

She doesn't answer in words, but curls in again, and lays an arm over him. He'd sounded so hopeful that she doesn't point out that it's her apartment, which she stays in, and he visits. Not that there has been much visiting in the last few months. However, visiting of this sort should be encouraged, and should certainly not be confined to once per year. This visitor should come often. She might even agree to go dancing with him, because (not that she's going to say so out loud) dancing with Castle was really, really good, and she doesn't only mean the tango.

"And come dancing with me again. I like dancing with you." He pauses. "I especially like it when we end up here." His hand slips all the way down her back and palms her rear.

She flexes into his touch, and purrs softly again, "I like that too." Unlike Christmas, which is an artificial construct invented by storeowners to boost their profits. She does not like Christmas. And Castle being here, large and warm and thoroughly sexy beneath her, does not change that.

On the other hand, he's a great distraction from Christmas. She wiggles seductively over him, ensuring that she covers every last inch of his torso, and forgets about all matters Yuletide in the hot rush of matters distinctly unholy. He feels so good: hot in all the right ways; hard in all the right places; strong around her and full within her. She doesn't need Christmas presents. She just needs Castle present.

And then Castle is very definitely present and Beckett stops thinking about anything except how nice a present Castle is; and then she stops thinking at all because the sensations have drowned her brain.

"My Beckett," Castle mumbles into her ear, and holds her close. "My Beckett." She ignores the ridiculously happy warmth that arises from his possessive tone.

"Mine," she contradicts.

"Mm," he hums comfortably. "So I'm your present?"

"You don't look much like the Ghost of Christmas – Past, Present or Future – to me," she snips, which is absolutely not an answer.

"Surely you don't mean I'm Tiny Tim?" he asks, with a salacious wriggle of his eyebrows and a lecherous leer. She raises an eyebrow in return. "Beckett, Beckett. Santa won't bring you presents if you tell lies. You know I'm not tiny." She splutters at his conceit. "Even in those heels of yours you're only just as tall as me." He smiles seraphically at her splutterings. "Why, what did you think I meant?" he smirks. "Tut-tut," he adds, as her cheeks colour. "You were thinking dirty thoughts."

"Not at all," she fibs.

"You should be, then," he drawls. "Seeing as you're naked and draped over me. I could give you some ideas," and he starts to murmur totally filthy and totally erotic suggestions into her ear.

And then he starts to do them. When his mouth moves down her body she fails to articulate anything that isn't more yes more Castle! When his fingers slip and slide and play and enter and find that one perfect spot, she can't form words. And when his tongue starts to take her, licking wickedly, sucking and nipping; she dances to his sexual tune: everything the tango had hinted at explicit in her writhing body and his hard possession, till they shatter, falling and sated, into each other's embrace.

Much later, she wakes, chilled, and slithers back under the comforter. Castle – sneaky rat – has already managed that, and most unfairly didn't leave her as much as an inch. Thief. That's not very Christmassy. Even if she doesn't believe in Christmas, stealing her quilt is not in the spirit of the season. He'd better stop that pretty quickly or he'll be another one getting a lump of coal and a switch. Though being Castle, he'll probably manage to make a best-selling tale out of it, which would be entirely unreasonable.

In his sleep he stretches an arm around her, mutters something that might be come back, and tugs her in. He's cosy, and she's cold. She nestles in, and is shortly beautifully warm. Better than mulled wine for warming her, he is. And he tastes just as good. Her eyes squinch shut again.

Castle wakes up with as much delight as if it's Christmas morning and Santa Claus has left him a whole sleighful of presents. He wouldn't swap, though. Oh no. Beckett is tucked tidily into the cage of his body and that's right where she fits: like the angel fits on the top of the tree. He hopes she won't be feeling too angelic, though. That wouldn't be any fun.

He slides out of bed without Beckett so much as flickering an eyelash, puts the kettle on, has a quick wash and brush up which notably does not involve getting dressed in any respect, and then slithers back into bed to his lovely new gift, which proves to be just as warm and snuggly as he'd ever wanted. It would be nicer if she weren't asleep, though. Much nicer. He's entirely ready to show her just how much nicer it could be.

Somewhat later, Beckett wiggles delightfully, stretches her whole gorgeous length against him, yawns hugely, and finally opens her eyes, very slowly. Sleep still drenches those hazel eyes.

"Hey," she mumbles.

"Hey. C'mere." The last is prompted by her attempt to roll away.

"Minute," she mutters, and exits, shortly to return. Castle, not inclined to appreciate her absence, grabs her as soon as she's back within range and hauls her into him. She raises an eyebrow. "Something wrong?"

"Nope. I just like you right here."

She'd noticed. Even if she weren't a detective, she could hardly miss how much he likes her right there. "Uh-huh," she drawls. "I like coffee, which is over there." She gestures in the direction of the kitchen, and swings her magnificent legs past Castle's sightline and out of bed. His eyes follow her knees. Or somewhere approximating to knees. Well, legs. Mostly. It has much the same effect as standing in front of a roaring log fire after a walk in the snow-covered woods, up at the cabin where Christmas can safely be ignored in favour of good food, hot chocolate, and peace on earth. She almost manages goodwill to all men, up at the cabin, mostly because there are no other human beings within ten miles.

"Stay here," Castle murmurs. "I've got something you'll like more than coffee."

There is nothing she likes better than coffee, first thing in the morning – oh. Oh, oh, ooohhhhh. Nearly as good – oh, ohhhhhhh – as good – don't stop or I will shoot – ohhhhhhh.

Okay. Better than coffee. Oh, his wicked, wicked mouth. Santa won't come near anyone that naughty. Clearly she should keep Castle close in order to keep Santa away. Mmmmm, yes, perfect idea. And if she were simply to be very naughty too, there will be no chance of having to put up with anything Santa-y at all.

So she is. Turnabout is fair play, and she is certainly inclined to play. Castle likes playing, too, though his language is entirely unsuitable for the playground. Tut-tut. She swirls her tongue again, sucks her cheeks in, and he's gone. She slithers contentedly up his body, and takes his embrace as only her due.

"I think Lanie should give you more Christmas presents," he says happily when he's recovered breath.

"What? No. No Christmas. No dancing lessons. No Lanie!"

"But look where it got you," he smirks smugly.

Beckett suddenly has a thought. "Castle," she says ominously, "how did you know to turn up at the Doctors' Dance?"

"Lanie invited me," he says smoothly. Beckett inspects his innocent face and limpid blue eyes.

"Did she now? But Lanie had a date."

"I was distraught. She stood me up for some over-muscled fireman. Disgraceful."

"You cooked this up together."

"Nope. No cooking. No together."

She glares.

"None! Anyway, would you rather it hadn't happened?"

"No."

"Well then. Stop complaining. Just enjoy it, however we got here." He kisses her hard.

Some time later, they get round to coffee.

On Christmas Eve, precisely at shift end, not without considerable protestations, Beckett is dragged out of the bullpen by Castle, and into a vastly over-decorated bar. It has lights, tinsel, baubles, and illuminated Santas. She hates it on sight.

"Why are we here?" she asks crossly. "What's wrong with an ordinary bar?"

"I thought I'd introduce you to Christmas," Castle smirks at her, "seeing as you don't know it. Beckett, meet Christmas time. Christmas time, meet Beckett."

Beckett growls.

"This is the Old Haunt. I used to write here. Look, there's my photo on the wall."

Beckett looks at it. "You were cute when you were young," she says mischievously.

Castle growls.

"Drink?" she adds.

"Already arranged – here it is."

A pitcher of something arrives in a large bowl of steamingly hot water. The something is a dark red fluid, but it doesn't smell like mulled wine. This is a disappointment. She regards it suspiciously.

"Punch," Castle explains.

"Is that a description or the outcome of drinking it?"

He snickers. "Possibly both. Don't punch me, though. I'm sure we can find you a speed bag if required." He pours it into two glasses and hands her one. "Cheers, Beckett. Here's to Christmas Present and Future."

"Happy New Year," Beckett says contrarily.

Castle frowns at her. "Not for a week or so. C'mon. You liked Lanie's present – in the end."

She doesn't have an answer to that. She liked the result of Lanie's present. She didn't like the lessons or the efforts to make her Christmassy.

"So I've got you a present too," he says happily. "Since you liked the dancing lessons so much…"

Her jaw drops. He sniggers evilly.

"…I got you…" she glares viciously and Castle sniggers even more… "…more…" she pales "…not dancing lessons." he finishes with a deeply evil grin.

She collapses with relief.

"Of course I wouldn't get you more dancing lessons," he chuckles. "More than my life's worth. I know you hate them. So I got you something else." He hands her a beautifully wrapped, ribboned and rosetted package. "Now," he smirks, "no peeking till tomorrow."

"Thank you," she blurts. There's a pause. She blushes. Doing this went against every anti-Christmas principle she possesses – that is to say, ninety-nine percent of her December existence. "I got you something too." She shoves a pretty package at him, totally embarrassed.

Castle boggles at her. "You bought me a present?" he squeaks. Beckett is both amused and appalled at his astoundment.

"Yep," she squirms. "No peeking." She regards him cynically. "Or shaking, poking, prodding or squishing."

"You're no fun," he sulks, but he takes the present carefully, his fingers tracing over it as lightly as if it were a butterfly.

Christmas Day

After Christmas dinner with his family, after all his and their immense piles of presents have been opened, after games have been played and joy given and received, Castle retires to his study, pours a soothing tot of Scotch, and breathes. Before him on the desk is the present which Beckett had given him. He wants to open that in private.

He unwraps it carefully: not for this gift the enthusiastic, messy unwrapping of all their family presents. The delicately patterned dark-blue-and-silver ribbon with matching bow is rolled and put to one side; the midnight-blue paper with silver stars is folded.

He stares at the contents, speechless. And then he picks up his phone.

A little way across town, done with the early Christmas day shift and back from dinner at her father's, Beckett carefully unwraps the package Castle had given her. For the first time in years, and to her considerable astonishment, she has a sense of Christmas-like anticipation. She rolls up the crimson ribbon and puts it tidily to one side with the bow. She won't tell Castle, but it'll go with one or two other little things that he's given her: silly little items of no value at all – but she keeps them.

She unwraps the paper and stares at the contents. And then she picks up her phone.

Before she can dial, it rings, and Castle's number (and face) come up.

"Beckett!" he blurts. "Beckett, it's perfect. But I never, ever, ever thought that you would and it's just so amazing and wow and when would you and can we start right now?" He stops, having run out of breath.

"Um… about your present?" she says shakily.

"Didn't you like it?" Castle says. "I was sure you'd like it because it was just so perfectly you but I can change it and don't worry and" –

"Stop! I love it. It's perfect."

"– and it's no trouble – what?"

"I love it. It's perfect."

"I'm coming over."

He cuts the call before she can answer it's Christmas Day. Shouldn't you be with your family?

Half an hour later her door sounds and Castle tumbles in, face alight with happiness which only increases when he sees her.

"You do like it."

"I said so. Yes, I do." She gestures to the pashmina wrap already around her, in a beautiful shade of midnight blue; finely embroidered in blue and silver. "I really, really do."

"I love my present too," he says. "But I thought you hated dancing? I never expected you'd give me a set of dance evenings."

"I hated the lessons. I don't hate dancing with you." She smiles. "Come dancing with me?"

"Any time. Any time at all."

He takes one step and clasps her in, kisses her deeply and doesn't let go. Shortly, the beautiful pashmina hits the couch, and dancing – of a particular sort – is the order of the day.

Later, Beckett snuggles in, perfectly happy.

She didn't need Christmas. She just needed Castle. Because he's all she needs to bring joy to her world.

Fin.

Thank you to all readers and reviewers: old, new, named and guest.

A Merry Christmas, and a happy and prosperous New Year, to all of you. Peace on Earth, goodwill to all.