Indulgence

Co-authored by ColieMacKenzie and International08

For our dessert-loving friend Sexy-Sheep.

"Too much of a good thing can be wonderful!" – Mae West

"That explains it," he murmurs, watching as she slips the little tube of hand cream back into her purse.

That soft skin he remembers, like silk under his fingertips when he had taken her hand, had rubbed slow circles along the top of it. He's jealous of Esposito's hand which she so freely touched.

"Explains what?" she asks, glancing up at him. A muffled curse echoes from underneath a desk across the bullpen, and he cringes when he hears the thunk of Ryan's head meeting unforgiving wood.

She giggles, covers her mouth with her hand to hide it, but her eyes sparkle as she glances at him from the side, so freely sharing her amusement with him, and it takes his breath away, the stunning, aching beauty of her happiness.

"Castle?" she asks again. He jolts out of his trance, breathes again. She's got one eyebrow raised, a gentle question written in her gaze.

What was the question? He has trouble following the unraveling thread of the conversation, is utterly enthralled by her warm, adoring smile. And her hand, her soft silky hand that he can't stop staring at. He doesn't think when he just reaches out, snags the temptation that is her hand off the desk, and enfolds it within his larger one.

She doesn't gasp. Doesn't yank her hand away. But. But she does let out a little puff of air, a little sign of surprise that alerts his conscious mind to what his unconscious body has just done. He loosens his grip. Hers tightens. And then she meets his eyes.

For the second time within mere seconds, he cannot breathe. She's staring at him, her eyes almost amber today, and his knees weaken.

"Have dinner with me," she blurts out, looking surprised at her own words.

He opens his mouth to answer, sees the hope alight in her eyes. Her thumb twitches against the back of his palm.

"Oof," the sound startles him, startles her too if the way her nails dig into his hand is any measure. "Found it," Ryan calls out.

His face peeks up from under a desk in front of hers, proudly holding his wedding ring in the air like a trophy, a wide smile stretching his cheeks. Then he freezes, stares at their folded hands, their faces, then meaningfully down at their folded hands again.

"Am I... interrupting something?" He asks, raising an eyebrow at them.

"Yes!" Kate stares pointedly at him. Stares him down.

Castle locks eyes with the other man, sees his own shock reflected in the blue depths. Did she really just- And she's still holding his hand? He glances down to check, needs to be certain.

She is. Kate Beckett is holding his hand. In front of someone else who's not a member of his family. And neither of them seem to be in mortal peril at the moment.

When his eyes trail back to her face, she wears a brand of defiance that makes his heart clench. She's not letting go.

He can't help it, cannot stop the wide grin from spreading over his face, the excited flip of his stomach. He squeezes her hand, trails his thumb along the web of veins and slim bones underneath the tender skin, his fingertips tingling with every stroke. He doesn't care that Ryan is still observing them. Closely.

"Yes," he answers her question, soft but assuring. Yes, Kate Beckett, I'll have dinner with you. I'd go to the end of the world as long as it is with you. "It's a date."

She pulls her bottom lip between her teeth, sinking them into the soft flesh, and heat flares inside of him.

"Well," Ryan says, his eyes darting between the two of them. "I'll just...I'll just leave you to it then."

The writer nods, not bothering to hide his glee, glances over at his partner, whose face is the picture of serenity as she wishes her teammate a good night. Ryan stands there for a moment more, his eyebrows slightly furrowed. And then he turns on his heel, striding quickly toward the elevator. The doors open and he steps inside.

Castle looks down, finds Kate watching him. The corners of her mouth turn up, and when she speaks, he has to lean closer to hear the words. "And then there were two."

He smirks. "Wonder who thinks they won the pool just now."

She shrugs, as if to say it doesn't matter. She ponders him for a moment, then seems to make a decision.

Rising from her chair, all long graceful limbs and alluring sway, she pulls closer to his body by his hand that she is still holding on to. Her cheek almost leaning against his, she whispers close to his ear.

"Tonight, my place. You bring the wine."

Normally she'd change clothes before a date. Not this time. His eyes had followed her every move, and while that was nothing particularly new, the way his gaze caressed her pink clad curves was. She liked it. Very much. Wouldn't mind finding out if his hands would be as thorough as his eyes in their perusal.

Baked potatoes wait in the oven, keeping warm until he arrives. Salad chills in the refrigerator. Now all she needs is the wine to complete the meal. And the man.

Oh, she definitely needs the man.

There's a knock at the door. Speaking of. Her heart leaps in her chest, hammers against her rib cage, her nerve endings jittery and tingling in anticipation. She put them on this path, and now there's no turning back. Taking a fortifying breath, she swings open the door.

The smile that spreads on her face is automatic; wide and happy. Flowers. He brought her flowers. A beautiful bouquet of lilies and roses, asters and snapdragons, a bright splash of spring colors that he is cradling in one arm. A bottle of red wine in the other. And a smile on his face that makes her knees weak, her heart race. Adoring and joyful, excited and loving, sensual.

She reaches for the bouquet when he holds it out to her, buries her nose in the blossoms, floods her senses with their scent. Then she flicks her eyes back up to him, and smiles invitingly.

"Come on in."

He steps through, brushes past her on his way, the fragrance of the flowers suddenly overwhelmed by spice and and green and old books.

"Smells good," he comments, turning around as she flips the deadbolt with her free hand, her eyes still on him.

She nods her agreement. "Mmm."

He stands there awkwardly, shifting from foot to foot, holding the wine bottle by the neck now as he watches her. She pauses, unsure. What do they do now?

It's not as if this is the first time he's been to her apartment. It's not even the first time he's shown up with wine or flowers. But it is the first time he's looked so hopeful.

She glances toward the kitchen, down at the flowers in her hand, and back at the man before her. "I- um. Let's eat?"

"Should I open this?" He asks at the same time, holding out the bottle of wine.

They laugh; the awkward pause flitters away on the wings of familiarity and then it's them again, in a place both comfortable and excitingly new.

She smiles, reaches out a hand and loosely entwines her fingers with his. "Come on," she tugs him with her toward the kitchen.

She busies herself with the flowers, arranging them in a large vase, taking serenity from the mundane task, calming the flutters in her stomach, while he opens the wine, pours a glass for each of them.

He comes up behind her, rests a hand at her waist while he hands her a glass, and she has to hold on to the kitchen counter to stop herself from sagging against it, her knuckles turning white while she clamps down on the rush of heat that floods through her veins when his body is almost flush with hers.

"I wasn't sure what you were making," he says softly, his voice curling through her ears, dark and rich and altogether too intimate. "Or ordering, as the case may be. I hope I brought the right kind of wine."

She takes a shallow breath, forces herself to relax. "I'm sure it will be delicious."

He chuckles, and the sound rattles through her, shakes her bones, sends tremors all the way to her toes.

"I imagine it won't be the only thing," he murmurs. "That's delicious, I mean."

She turns her head, needs to see those blue eyes. But he's close, too close, and she halts the motion halfway. Any further and-

"So," he whispers, breath fanning across her cheek, deepening the already hot flush of her skin. "What's on the menu tonight?"

She ducks her head, keeps herself from kissing him. Turning within the bracket of his arms, she intends- well, not to push him away. But to get a little space, maybe. Yes. Just a little breathing room. When she raises her head, however, she realizes - not her best plan.

His mouth is close, so temptingly close that she can almost feel his lips against hers, the ghosts of memory flittering along her skin; a slight tilt forward is all it would take to bring her back to him and she aches, a curling pull deep inside of her, a dark need to taste him against her lips once more. She grips the button tab of his shirt and lifts her gaze, looking up at him from under her lashes, and the glint in his eyes is hungry, tantalizing, and dangerously suggestive.

"Baked potatoes," she breathes as his eyes slide halfway shut. "With lots of butter and cheese and-"

"And?" he echoes, his voice low, raspy, needy. His hands rise from the counter behind her to rest lightly at her lower back.

"And sour cream," she finishes.

He hums, the vibrations resonating into her body from his chest. "Sounds good. Dessert?"

She scoots closer, just enough to create full body contact between them, then slowly pivots within the circle of his arms. His hands on her follow the movement; she feels the slip of his palm around her waist, then across until it rests against the thin pink fabric of her shirt, warming the skin of her belly.

He groans, and she picks up the vase of flowers in one hand, lets the fingers of the other drift across his forearm before she steps out of his grasp. "You'll just have to wait and see."

He swirls the wine in his glass, admires its bouquet for a moment before he takes another sip, letting the flavors burst along his taste buds, vanilla and cherry tones. Like her. He wishes it was her flavor against his tongue.

She is such a tease. Has perfected teasing to an art form. He loves that about her, the way she plays with him like a cat toying with her prey, how she gives back as good as she gets. She is strong and fearless, but warm and soft and loving underneath, a walking, kick-ass, adorable contradiction. He observes her out of the corner of his eyes, watching the play of her jaw muscles as she eats, the enticing way her lips close around her fork, the way her eyes flutter when a flavor is particularly tasty. He aches to make her eyes flutter like that, her cheeks aflame, her lips parted and glistening.

They sit next to each other at her quirky kitchen counter, and every time she lifts her fork, her arm grazes his. Her leg is aligned with his, ankle to thigh, has been pressed to him like this all night, and every once in awhile she turns toward him, lifts an eyebrow when she catches him staring. Yet she doesn't call him out on it like she used to. In fact, she seems to enjoy, revel, in his attention. His body is aflame, heat and tingling want and the flutter of expectation.

"More wine?" he inquires, purposefully leaning into her space, across her body to reach the bottle. She laughs, and when he straightens once more and meets her eyes, they hold no small measure of amusement, a kind of tender reproach.

"No more for me," she answers, and he feels his face fall in disappointment. Not that he wanted to get her drunk. No. While a tipsy Kate Beckett might be entertaining, he'd prefer her to be at least mostly clear-headed.

But if she's already turning down another glass, perhaps their evening is winding down as well. And he- he just wants more time. With her. Always with her.

He tips the bottle, intent on pouring himself another glass anyway, prolonging his stay as long as he can, but she stills his hand with her fingers on his wrist.

"Actually, I thought I'd make some coffee."

Oh. Coffee. Then she's not kicking him out after all. Just...moving to the next phase. He nods, feels the smile bloom across his cheeks. "Coffee would be great. Thank you."

She slides her stool back, bumping her shoulder to his in the process. "You done?"

Not waiting for an answer, she plucks his plate off the counter, stacks it on top of hers and stands, sauntering over to the sink where she deposits the dishes.

"Can I help?" he asks.

She glances back over her shoulder at him, lips curling upward. "No. Stay there. As I recall, I owe you a few coffees."

He doesn't mind. Doesn't mind at all when that gives him yet one more opportunity to watch her moving around in that shirt. She turns toward the cabinets, reaches up for the coffee filters, and her shirt rises, revealing a small, utterly enticing strip of skin around her midsection. Next she turns to the refrigerator, bends to take out the container with the coffee grounds, and he is granted a glance at her jean clad bottom. He loves watching her. Everything she does is beautiful.

"You know you don't actually owe me anything, right?" He speaks, forming air quotes around the word 'owe' with his fingertips. "I was speaking metaphorically."

She stills for a moment, but then she resolutely scoops coffee grounds into her coffee maker. "I know." She flips the switch, then turns back around, facing him from across the counter.

"But I do," she announces, while sliding a finger across the counter, toward his hand. Then she lifts her eyes to his. "I owe you for lots of things."

Oh Kate. His tummy flutters, and he curls his index finger around hers, holding on tightly.

"So do I." He gives it back. Because he does. Owe her. She made him want to be a better man. Everything he is now, he is because of her, and he hopes that she knows that. She stares at him, serious and intense, and his heart is somersaulting in his chest. He looks at her, melts into her eyes, while the world around narrows down to only the two of them, right here, right now.

The coffee maker shuts off, and even the low click of the machine startles them both. He tries to breathe, tugs on her finger to keep her attention. He smiles at her, quirks his eyebrow, going for levity. "Call it even?"

She nods, warmth infusing her eyes, even as a hint of doubt lingers in their autumn depths. "Even."

Her finger curls around his, tight for just a moment before she lets go, backs away. He feels the loss acutely, misses the contact, even if she stands only a foot or two further as she pours their coffee into the pair of matching mugs that she pulled from a shelf next to the sink.

He watches, awed but not surprised, as she prepares his coffee exactly as he likes it, adding just the right amount of sugar, pouring in a healthy - well, probably more than healthy - portion of coffee creamer.

She swirls a long handled spoon in his cup and then performs the same task on hers. When she turns to face him fully, he's certain she'll be able to read everything in his eyes.

And there's nothing he can do about it.

"I've got-" she begins, but when she meets his gaze, she pauses. Her cheeks pinken, lips parting slightly. But then she recovers, clearing her throat. "I've got cheesecake, if you're interested."

He rests his elbows on the counter, leaning toward her, even with the obstruction of the table between them. "What kind of cheesecake are we talking here?"

Setting the mugs on the counter, she slides his slowly across the surface, their fingers brushing lightly as he tugs it toward him.

"It's my favorite," she drawls, her voice smoky, and with every word, he feels himself fall a little deeper under her spell. "It has this crumbly, chocolate mocha crust, a smooth vanilla filling with dark chocolate swirls, and the whole thing is crowned with a sweet, sticky, utterly delicious cherry topping. And chocolate syrup over the cherries to finish it off."

His mouth waters. And not for the cheesecake. He leans in, his face close enough to hers now that he can pick up her alluring scent, feel her warm breath tickle his skin.

"Bring it on," he challenges with a quirk of his eyebrow.

She lingers, too long to still be considered casual, and he listens to the too-rapid sounds of her breathing. He tingles with warmth, the contained flutters of arousal low in his belly. He can feel it, everywhere, the way they are teetering on the edge now, drawing out, reveling in the inevitable, yet knowing that they will jump. Tonight. It's exciting and magical and just a smidgeon scary.

She pushes off the counter, turns toward the fridge, and he is convinced she is moving extra slowly when she bends once more to pull the cheesecake from the refrigerator.

Sliding the cake onto the counter, exactly between them, she leans closer once more. Smiles teasingly at him while she dips a finger into the chocolate syrup and the cherries underneath, coming back with her fingertip coated with the sweet concoction and raising it seductively to her mouth.

He grabs her wrist, pulls her hand closer to his face. Her eyes widen, anxious and excited both. Oh yes, Kate Beckett, it is on. He is done letting her get away. Time to up the ante.

Holding her eyes with his, he tucks her finger further toward him, then wraps his lips around the tip. Slowly sucks the sweet chocolate and tart cherry off her skin.

He lets his tongue coil around the slim digit, barely skimming the web between her fingers and then withdraws, leaning away.

Hooded eyes watch him, a little stunned, a lot turned on. His heart pounds hard in his chest, harder still when she steps around the corner of the counter, hesitates for a moment at his side and then lifts her hand to his cheek, tilting his face toward her.

"You've got a little chocolate," she says, her voice an octave lower than usual. "Just here."

"Where?" he rumbles, raising his fingers toward his mouth and swiping the pads over his lips.

Her free hand lands on his shoulder, bracing her as she leans toward him. "You missed it."

"Oh?"

"Yes," she whispers, her breath feathering across his lips. "Wouldn't want it to go to waste."

He nods, only slightly, unwilling to break the spell. "You did say it was your favorite."

"Mm, yes," she affirms. "It is."

She tilts closer still, and he thinks she will kiss him, can almost feel the gossamer touch of her lips against his, but instead she slides her index finger over the corner of his mouth and along the upper rim of his lip, a slow, sensual touch that sends bright warm sparks tumbling through his veins. Then she tucks the tip of her finger between her lips, and sucks off the traces of chocolate she has gathered from his skin.

He slides an arm around her waist, pulling her against him in one quick movement. Her eyes fly open at the contact, body to body, front to front; the heat that has been simmering between them all night ignites to a blazing fire. She stares at his lips, her fingernails digging into his shoulders and with every fast breath that she takes, he can feel her chest lift, rubbing enticingly against his. He aches to kiss her.

"Whipped cream!" she blurts out, her voice more squeaky than he has ever heard her. Before he can react she has whirled out of his grasp, heading toward the fridge once more, muttering something about needing whipped cream under her breath.

He stands stock still for a moment, stunned, until his brain catches up to the sudden change of their position. He doesn't need whipped cream, he doesn't need anything but her. And then he moves, heads right behind her, not willing to let her go for even one more moment.

She is already holding the container of whipped cream in her hand when he comes up behind her, and he wraps his hands around her elbows, whirls her around until she is facing him, moves until her legs bump against the nearest kitchen cabinet, and he presses her against it, one arm boxing her in on either side, his body crowding against her front. She gasps, surprised, grabs a hand onto his waist for balance; her eyes fly up to his, and he sees it all, shimmering within the darkened depths, passion, desire, arousal.

"Castle?"

Her voice sounds breathless to his ears in a way he hasn't heard since that night in the alley. He slides his hand down to cover her fingers where they wrap around the cool metal canister. "What were you planning to do with this?"

She sucks in a breath, chest expanding against his, such delicious torture. "For the cheesecake."

"Oh?"

She doesn't answer, just watches him with wide, dark eyes. He pries the can out of her grip, lifts it up. "I can think of better uses."

He shakes the canister, eyes glinting darkly, teasingly at her. She feels the vibrations of his movement shimmy through her, and a firestorm rages through her veins, heat plummeting low inside. Her eyes flutter but she forces them open; she wants to see, savor every moment of this, the teasing, the want, the deep dark desire swirling between them.

Tipping the container, he squirts a dollop onto his fingertip, then slowly raises it toward her face. She watches, can almost taste the sweet smooth cream against her lips, when he taps her nose instead, depositing a blob on its tip.

It's chilly against her skin, she can see the white dollop in her field of vision; she giggles, smiles at him and even she can hear how happy, how carefree she sounds. Her eyes flitter back up to his, to find him staring, his eyes a darkest blue, arousal and desire so intense that her breath catches in her throat, her fingers dig into his waist.

She can't think, can't blink, just stares at him, enthralled by his eyes. By him.

Then he tilts forward, his body pressing more snugly against hers. Wraps his lips around the tip of her nose and licks off the whipped cream.

"Mmmm..." he murmurs, his voice a low vibrating rumble against her skin, "my favorite."

She's fairly certain she's no longer breathing. Or maybe she's just dreaming. Because surely Richard Castle did not just suck whipped cream off her nose.

Surely he's not pressed against her in her kitchen, the heat of his body seeping through her clothes and into her skin. Surely he's not staring at her with the desire to devour every inch of her clearly written in his eyes.

And yet...

"Kate," he whispers. "If you don't-"

She doesn't let him finish the thought. Instead, she surges up, feels the scrape of a cabinet knob against her lower back. She ignores the quick flash of pain, knowing the endorphins will make it nonexistent anyway.

And she kisses him.

A little groan echoes into her mouth as a hand tightens at her waist, drawing her closer, closer, closer.

She has nowhere to go but deeper into him.

Her tongue maps the roof of his mouth, tastes the sweet remnants of whipped cream and chocolate, the tartness of the cherries.

If she liked that flavor before, she loves it now.

He lists forward, forcing her back against the cabinet, bending their bodies as one of his knees nudges between hers.

"Castle," she moans, breaking from his lips to work her way across his cheek to his ear. "Castle, please-"

His other hand wraps around her back, something cool through the fabric of her shirt startling her forward, nearer to him. He chuckles darkly, nips at the angle of her jaw.

She jerks at the rasp of his teeth, the heat of his mouth, and his hand slips against her shoulder blade. A spurt of cold sprays her neck and she jolts forward into him.

He tries. She knows he tries. But it happens so fast, and there's really nothing he can do.

They topple to the ground - her back covered in whipped cream.

She squeals at the cold against her skin; he groans as the back of his head slams hard against the unforgiving tiles of her kitchen floor. The sound is sobering, and she tilts forward, leans over him to check on his head. She softly runs her fingers along his scalp. "You okay?"

He moans, mumbles words; she can't understand what he's saying but she feels his breath tingling against her. "What?"

She lifts up slightly- and realizes his face is snuggled right between her breasts.

"I am if you stay like this," he repeats his words with a teasing lift of his eyebrow.

She snorts a laugh, lifts off and playfully slaps his chest. Sitting back, she relaxes with a relieved smile, her hands resting on his chest. But his eyes darken, glitter passionately; he wiggles ever so slightly and she feels his middle cradled against hers as she sits on his hips.

The passion roars back, ignites like a firestorm, an explosion and he surges up, wraps his arms around her waist, pulls her against him to cradle her closer on his lap. She groans, her hands in his hair and her lips once more against his. She kisses him, delves deep inside his mouth, explores and tastes, meets his every stroke and foray, and it's hot and exciting and utterly perfect.

His hands run up her back, to her neck, sliding along the slippery whipped cream.

"I ruined your shirt," he murmurs while he nibbles along her jawline, sucks her earlobe into his mouth.

Her insides flutter; she arches her back, the slide of her hips against his eliciting a dark groan that rumbles out of his throat.

"'S okay," she mumbles, her fingernails digging into his shoulders, "didn't like it that much anyway-"

Actually, she loves this shirt, but really, who cares when-

When- ah, jeez, when his tongue is tracing the pulse in her throat, his own heart keeping time against her chest. When one of his hands curls around the nape of her neck as the other drifts to her side, his palm warm and sure as he skates up and down, up and down.

She shivers.

"Cold?" he asks against her skin, his lips feathering along her neck. "Because we can do something about that."

Ohhh. Yes. She'd like to hear that particular plan. She sincerely hopes it has something to do with a hot shower and a hotter partner. "Hmm?"

"Hot chocolate," he murmurs. "Dark, rich, velvety. With plenty of whipped cream of course."

She laughs, turning her face to capture his lips, soft and gentle now. "I think I've had enough whipped cream for one night."

"So no hot chocolate?"

She can hear the pout in his voice, opens her eyes to meet his, blue and fathomless - joyful. "I didn't say that."

He arches an eyebrow. "So hot chocolate - yes, whipped cream - no?"

She smirks. "Correct. But I think I have some caramel if you feel the hot chocolate needs a little...more."

"Ooooh," he growls, leans forward to nip the skin along her clavicle, "Sticky."

She giggles at the bad quip, but leans her head back anyway, giving his talented mouth better access.

"We would," she forces the words up her throat, raspy and low, "need," arches her whole body toward him, "a shower-"

He holds her tightly as he suddenly tries to get up. With more strength than even she expected, he struggles to his feet, bringing her with him and she wobbles in his grasp, tightens her long legs around his waist, wraps her arms around his neck to hold on, to not crash on the floor again. No more crashes for them.

She hangs on, laughs happily when he starts walking, carrying her toward the bathroom.

"Na uh," he mumbles, his mouth still against hers skin; even while he walks he cannot get enough, and she is a gooey puddle of want and need and effervescent happiness in his arms.

"Dirty Beckett, can't have that," he rasps, nipping her earlobe.

She groans, laughs at the same time. Two can play that game. She leans her mouth close to his ear, whispers seductively. "You don't want me even a little bit... dirty?"

His fingers tighten reflexively against her sides.

"Scratch that," he groans, pushing the bathroom door open with his side, "Dirty Beckett, definitely like dirty Beckett."

He deposits her on the bathroom counter, and then they don't talk all that much anymore.

Later she revises her earlier statement.

When she is sprawled out on her bed, all wobbling limbs and naked skin, limp and heavy and satisfied, and he is draped over her, barely able to move.

Her stomach rumbles, and she giggles. "I'm hungry again."

"Apparently." he laughs, covering her belly with his large hand, leaning up to kiss her softly. "I'll get us some more cheesecake."

And then he's off the bed, padding through her apartment, stark naked and utterly uninhibited.

She smiles after him, goofy and relaxed, staring at his naked butt, and she's sure that she's never been this happy before.

"Hey Castle," she calls after him. "Bring the whipped cream!"

The End