A/N-I'm sorry I've been gone. Here's a smutty (and very mildly kinky) chapter of this in-canon collection. This is pretty much just smut with little substance. Hope it can still be enjoyed even if I'm a cruddy updater.
Working on the update to my non-canon "Hypotheticals" now.
Chapter 4: Touch
Castle enters Beckett's apartment that evening as scheduled, finding the lights out and candles lit around the space. When she told him earlier that she made plans for them later in the evening, he figured they were going out. Of course he likes whatever this is so much more.
Somehow, and he truly has no idea how, she appears behind him. Guiding his wrists behind his back, she whispers in his ear, "Do as I say, and everyone will come through this just fine."
He actually chuckles at her word choice, knowing her well enough to know that she probably thought about her opening line for a while. He wonders if she knows his laughter is more driven by excitement than amusement. She still makes him a bit nervous, even though he refuses to let on.
"Is this a joke to you?" she asks, coldly.
For a moment he sobers, uncertain how to interpret her tone. "No," he replies. Her handcuffs create that dull clanking sound behind him, and he tries desperately to hide his glee over the prospects presented. The first clasp surrounds one of his wrists, and he can feel the parts of the metal that are warmer because they'd been clasped in her fingers and the parts that were untouched and therefore cooler.
Her hand presses firmly between his shoulder blades, shoving him into the room like she would a criminal who'd pushed her too far.
"What did I do, Detective?" he inquires impishly.
"You never listen, Castle, and I'm tired of it. I'm tired of you doing whatever you want, whenever you want. That ends now." Beckett kicks out a chair at her dining table, hooking one of the metal legs with her foot to turn it. "Sit down," she orders, as she circles behind the chair and pushes his shoulders down until he's seated.
After a moment of maneuvering, she's secured his other wrist as well. He moves his hands to test the restrictions, figuring out quickly that the chain of the cuffs was threaded through the back of the chair. Not only are his wrists bound to each other, but he is attached to the chair beneath him. He maintains his composure, not wanting to appear too affected, but this is definitely one of the hottest things that's ever happened to him, and he suspects she hasn't even gotten started yet.
She comes back around to the front of him, taking a separate chair and positioning it directly before him a few feet away. She doesn't sit just yet. She's wearing work clothes, sort of. She has a dress coat on, opened at the front to reveal a white button down blouse. It would seem rather ordinary, but the shirt has one less button done up than she'd normally have for work. The woman understands the time and place for nuance and subtlety. And the time to tie a man down and drive him wild.
Beneath the white shirt, he can pick out black lace. He loves the way the undergarment lifts her breasts like an offering, although he knows all too well her body doesn't require any enhancement. He's trying to figure out exactly what she's wearing under there, but in the dim light he can't tell if the black lace continues down her abdomen or not. Just as well, he thinks…more mysteries to unravel later.
Beckett gets impatient. After only a few weeks of firsthand research into the more, ahem, intimate side of Kate, he knows this far too well. He loves it. He has teased her that he thinks all of those years of waiting and restraint have made her eager, worn her patience to a bare thread. So really, he's convinced she'll tease him for a second or two before she can't take it any longer and she'll be straddling the chair and riding him. He can see the storyboard in his mind already, is convinced that he knows all of the plot points and the ending. Even still, he can't fucking wait. He's determined to enjoy the foreplay while it lasts, hoping that executing this scene is as fun for her as it is for him.
They are, in so many things, yin and yang. She seemed more restrained before they were together, while he struggled. Now that they're together, he's often the more patient one, the one who's able to make the lead-up last. He's also accustomed to indulging in the finer things in life, as his lifestyle has been far from austere for quite some time. He thinks of how many times he's said, It's not a race… to her in just the past few weeks. He hasn't yet told her, but her urgency for him is one of his favorite things about this new part of their relationship.
Standing in front of him, her back to him, he notices her stilettos, lofty even for her, for the first time. At least he thinks. Or maybe it's an optical illusion created by the skirt she's wearing that ends well above the knee. Her legs simply do not end. She would never wear that to work unless she was undercover. Shrugging out of her jacket, she drapes it over the back of her chair. She bends to adjust things as if the position of the chair is critical, giving him a perfect view of her ass. The skirt is slung tight, filled by her firm cheeks, and the sight takes him back to so many times he stared longingly, before he knew what it was like to be with her.
He's getting hard without scarcely a touch from her, it's all anticipation, desire that has yet to temper from experience. She'll have the satisfaction of knowing exactly how much he's enjoying this.
She takes a seat in her own chair, and pauses. Her new position bares most of her thigh. Without invitation, memories of pulling those legs around his body surge through him. She casually bounces her leg, kicking her foot subtly, and he's transfixed.
His mouth is agape, a fact he knows because he needs a drink. Realizing that he's been gawking at her like his stare could actually touch her, he regains himself. He shrugs, dragging his eyes to hers. "An interrogation, perhaps?" he asks.
She doesn't reply at first, not a word, only a smile threatening on her lips. Finally when she speaks, she says, "Not exactly. It's time to remind you of your place, Mr. Castle."
"I'd love to be put in…" he stops, his stare tracing her thighs as high as he can, and continues with suggestion dripping from his tone, "my place."
Her face is stoic, too stoic, so he knows it's purposeful. He feels smug with the knowledge that he's able to get to her even while strapped down feet away.
"You'll learn to listen, Castle," she demands. "Unless you want to sit there all night…hard and aching for me…while I get myself off?"
Rick studies her, searching for signs of just how serious she is about this plan. She wouldn't do that, right? She wouldn't get off and leave him there to watch idly. Then he wonders, immediately, if that wouldn't be fun. He likes it, in principle. He likes the idea of watching her. But not forever. He'd like to help out, touch her, kiss her, be there when she decides she's had enough and she needs him to make her come hard on him.
Based on her unfaltering stare, he considers the possibility that maybe she really does want to follow it through. He has tricks though, ways to get to her, and he intends to use them. He wagers with the universe that there's no way she can resist having him, fully mobile and unrestrained, once things heat up. He doesn't tell her about that bet for fear that she'll decide to prove him wrong.
Beckett uncrosses her legs and sets both feet on the floor. Although her feet are a few inches apart, her legs are angled so her knees are close together, and he can't see much. Her stare on him, she patiently, one-by-one, opens the buttons on her shirt, standing again to undo the last two bottom buttons. The bra is part of a lingerie set, he realizes, and he's positive he hasn't seen this in her closet before. And he's definitely searched.
"Just got this," she rasps. "What do you think?"
"Uhhh," he realizes he's groaning on too long, and continues, "Nice…what I can see, that is. Difficult to tell from here by candlelight."
She nods, slowly, "You want to see better?"
"Yes." With uncharacteristic obedience, he adds a polite, "Please."
She takes slow strides, one foot slightly crossing in front of the other with each step.
"Maybe just a bit closer?" he requests, although she's only an inch or two away from his knees at this point.
Coming forward, her one leg wedging between his knees, she asks, "Better?"
"Much," he whispers, unwittingly pressing one leg against hers to feel the warmth.
He leans forward, pushing her pure white shirt apart with his face to see her breasts encased in that sinfully hot outfit. A few times, out of instinct and habit, he's tried to touch her with his hands and remembered the situation. She is good, so good, at numbing the thinking side of his brain. So he moves his mouth against the outer side of her breast to pull back her clothing even more. When his nose nudges over her nipple, he feels the rigidness, and again acting on the things he's learned, his mouth immediately surrounds the peak. It's a few seconds, at most, and he wastes no time. The lace is a little rough in his mouth, the deliciously soft but teeny circles of peeking skin finding his tongue. He notes a very slight buckling in her knees before she pulls away, punishing him with her absence. "I didn't say you could touch."
"I'm only human," he confesses, "and I couldn't resist."
Her expression attempts disapproval. She nods, looking away, then goes to the place where her eyes had been. When she returns with a glass, he raises an eyebrow. "You look thirsty," she notes, "and I can't have you getting dehydrated before I'm done with you."
He suppresses the urge to tell her she's so fucking sexy, wonders if she gets tired of hearing it. Finding creative ways to say things should be one the advantages of being with him, but some things have to be said directly, using the fewest and most direct words possible. Although he has found other ways of professing the ways she awes him, it all too often comes back to 'You're so fucking sexy.'
She brings the drink to his lips, the sound of ice ting-ting-ing against the glass. When it touches his lips, he realizes the glass, too, must have been frozen. It's so very cold, between the vessel and the ice and chilled whiskey. After a few sips, she removes the glass and steps over his legs, settling in his lap.
She doesn't lower fully, although her tummy is against his chest, his eyes scouring everything before him and still yearning for more. She offers him her breast again, bringing her body close to his lips. She's covered still, but he'll take what he can get. He realizes as his cooled lips hit her warm skin that she hadn't provided the drink for his thirst, but rather for her pleasure. As her arms rest on his shoulders and circle his head, he knows she's still holding the glass as he hears the ice clinking behind him. Her pleasure rises and her grip on him tightens, the cold glass meeting the nape of his neck and forcing a gasping noise from his throat.
The warmth of her body is too far from his groin. As he plucks at her nipple with his lips, he tries to rise higher in the chair to feel her against him. She pushes his shoulders until he's completely seated and she orders, "Sit down," roughly.
He can see the redness in her lips and focused nature of her eyes. She's seriously hot for him, he knows it. And he's sure she doesn't doubt for a heartbeat that he's desperate for her.
"You just can't listen, can you?" she disciplines. "I give you a little, and you take more."
Her ire reminds him of their early cases, the irritation and frustration he provoked in her nearly every time they met; she'd order and she'd complain, but he typically did as he pleased. Even in those days, he was certain they'd be together one day. Of course he was also certain it would never happen. The contradictions of feeling she caused in such a normally confident man were epic.
She steps away, taking a swig from the hyper-chilled glass, and immediately he thinks he knows what is to come. He can already feel those full lips on his cock, and he's licking his own lips in anticipation as he remembers the feeling of her talented mouth and deft tongue. Maybe he's finally going to enjoy the icy trick she's hinted about. He wants that, becomes fixed on that, and slumps down in the chair so she can unzip his pants.
If she asks him to plead for this, he's already decided he will gladly grant her wishes.
"Seriously?" Her tone is authoritative and firm, nearly aghast at his presumptuousness. "You think I'm going to suck you off? You actually think I'll drop to my knees, slide my tongue over your cock, lick it and kiss it before I wrap my lips around you and suck...suck so long, and tight, and so slowly you think you'll pass out if I don't give you more?"
"Uhhh…" he begins, but his brain is gone, his whole self too focused on the fantasy that had seemed so near only a second ago.
"Why should I reward you for disobeying?" she questions like an angry teacher.
Why does she have to be so hot? It's sometimes unfair.
"Wait," he tries to laugh when he realizes a response is needed, "What? I—I didn't say that. I didn't say anything."
"There's this thing you do, a tell," she dismissively answers, "whenever you think I'm going to…"
"What tell?"
"This…no, wait a second, I'm not answering your questions. You don't get to ask the questions right now, Mr. Castle."
She returns to her chair, leaving him there full of need. Her shirt, that pure white shirt, is fully apart, barely on her shoulders anymore. When she sits, she shimmies the skirt just a little higher before she places the glass on the floor below her hanging arm. Her fingers walk up her thigh, climbing higher. Her hand moves under her skirt, what little there is of it.
He knows the moment she makes contact with her sex. Her eyes close and her lips part as she softly pants. Her teeth surround her bottom lip as she softly moans and murmurs, so quietly it's hard to hear, "Ohhh."
It should be hot, should completely get him off. It's beautiful, and brazen, unabashedly erotic and raw, and it does get him off, in a way...but he's jealous as hell, so envious that it hurts.
Contradictions. Again.
He doesn't want to feel this way, green with envy; he wants to enjoy the show. Beckett is adventurous, an unashamedly a sexual being, and he loves that about her. But the shadow from the skirt in the dim room and the way her hand is positioned prevents him from seeing anything. He wants to be the one touching her pussy, feeling that first slick and slippery contact that only grows slicker, and hotter, and just plain better as she lets him in. Not only is he deprived of the feeling of her, but he can't really see either. It's unfair, and he's terribly envious. If he can't touch her, he should at least be able to see the way her fingers look as they move over her.
He tries to stand again, forgetting the restraints, and he sees the way his need pleases her. "What's wrong, Castle?" she asks, so assured and confident.
"Nothing," he lies.
"You wish you were touching me?"
"Absolutely," he confesses instantly.
"Wish you were inside me?"
"Desperately."
Beckett stands, reaching behind her for the zipper on her skirt and undoing it before it flutters to the ground. She steps out of it, then shrugs her shirt the rest of the way off as well. She's only wearing the lingerie, and it leaves so little to the imagination. He squints his eyes, searching for a patch of wetness over her nipples left by his mouth. The panties are pulled to the side from when she touched herself, a glimpse of pink flesh finally offered to him.
By now, he's already too far gone to really enjoy seeing her this way, although he's already made note to ask her to put this outfit on again in the near future. He's going to reverse the roles and return this delectable torment back at her. He's going to enjoy every square inch of her body wrapped in lace. Revenge will be sweet, when it comes.
"You're gorgeous," he breathes as he looks her over. And she is beautiful, stunningly so, from her hair down to her stilettos. It's a risk to say anything that hasn't been requested by her, but it must be said.
Noting a strange feeling, he wonders if it's a sense of unworthiness, or the fact that his pants feel so constraining that it's becoming increasingly difficult to wait. She's still for only a few seconds, but he senses her evaluation. With a few steps she's in front of him and she whispers more tenderly, "Pants look tight."
"A little," he winces.
She flashes the briefest smile, something that assures him that she really does care about his comfort even during this scene. The smile disappears before she drops down in front of him, her hands massaging up the tops of his thighs until she reaches his belt. Sliding it open with precision, she gazes up at his face. It's the love behind the lust that sends a hot shiver up his spine. Mercifully she opens his button and parts his zipper more quickly than he'd expected her to. Her mouth is so near him, and he tries not to appear half as eager as he is. He wonders if he's literally lifting toward her, or just really, really wants to. He likes doing many intimate things with her, but the talents of Beckett's mouth are unrivaled, and he knows how damn much he wants to feel her on him. Of course he wants so many things in this moment that in some way he's relieved he does not need to choose.
He's wearing some of the smooth, luxurious silk boxers he enjoys so much, and she softly strokes him, pets him really, over the fabric. The touch is soft, not nearly adequate, but feels so wonderful he can barely contain his appreciation.
Her body is between his knees, and he has them set wide apart, far wider than necessary to allow her access, but he doesn't want anything to get in the way. Kate's mouth comes into contact with him low, near the base, but the silk is still between them and her touch lacks the pressure he truly needs. Although damn it feels nice. Her lips work over him a bit, her breath making contact even where her mouth isn't.
He can feel her tongue at times through the separation, each hot exhalation warming him invitingly. The lack of touch for so long has made him more acutely aware of any contact now.
Her hands are braced on his thighs, her grip strong, and he wishes she would use the same force on the rest of his body.
He knows if she keeps going like this, at some point his cock will work its way out of the opening in his shorts, and he can't wait to feel her against him without the barrier. Then he notes the way she's careful not to allow him to poke through, how she makes certain he stays covered, and it seems additionally cruel. And still he loves it.
Beckett stands, slowly rolling her panties down her legs. The urge to lick the sensitive spot where her legs meet her body, or the dip next to her hip that makes her hot, or that place low on her tummy that always makes her squirm is as palpable as his other needs. He is ready, willing, and able to do absolutely anything she wants, but the lack of access to her, his inability to lick, nip, and fuck, is approaching true vexation.
Tilting his head quite unnaturally just for a flashing glance of her awaiting sex, he doesn't see enough before she directs his knees a little closer together and straddles his legs low on his thighs. The bra and bodice of her sexy little outfit remain.
She plucks the buttons on his shirt open so patiently, watching his chest as it's revealed. Pausing, she places a kiss over his heart before her arms encircle him beneath his shirt. Her kiss reveals her own impatience from the second her lips meet his. It's instantly deep, tongues seeking and finding, pulses pounding. The kind of kiss that possess a man, body and soul.
She pulls open his jacket and shirt, but because his hands are tied, she can't remove the clothes. He looks down his body as she does, her eyes following the center of his chest down to where his erection juts out of his open pants and now his boxers, too.
"I want to touch you so much," he growls, caring less by the second if he seems to be bursting with desire. After all, he is. "That's all I want to do, all I can even think of doing."
"I know," she answers alluringly. "And I want you to touch me. Believe me, I truly do."
"Maybe we could compromise…you could give me one hand," he bargains.
She shakes her head no slowly and stubbornly. "I can't do that."
"Think of how good it would feel...my hand on you while you continue to do whatever you want to me. I can't promise I'll be gentle...but I can promise that I will do whatever it takes...to make you feel good."
She nods and answers, "I know, Castle. I know you would...you will." He begins to feel the glee of victory, until she adds, "But the answer is still no. We're doing this my way. You don't get to choose."
"Payback's a bitch," he suggests. "Before you make your decision, remember...I'm taking inventory. Memorizing every tease, every moment that you hold out on me. And I'm going to get my revenge."
She hums as her breasts presses against his chest. "Maybe I'm counting on it."
"You are?" he feels surprised and it shows. For some reason, he thought tying her up would take some convincing.
"I've already imagined it, and I can't wait, Castle. I want to see what you'll do to me. Feel the anticipation, wondering what you're going to do next…what things you'd do if I couldn't take charge."
He nods. Even talking about reversing the roles, she's got him by the balls.
"But for now," she sweetly but firmly states, "you're still mine. This is my turn, my night, and there's absolutely nothing you can do about it."
Her hand worms down into his shorts, and he's lifting off the chair to get into her hand. She cups his balls, and, like so much of what she does, she's both firm and delicate. She massages, making him all too aware of the pressure built there, waiting for release. It feels nice, just being touched by her, but his need for more is overrunning anything else.
When she finally reaches her second hand between her legs to touch him, she grabs onto his cock and strokes without hesitation or tease. And hell yea, he's rising off of the chair, lifting her body as he lifts his own, fighting to get closer, somehow, some way. As she tugs with just the right amount of grip, his head lulls back as his body responds. He's not only a prisoner of the handcuffs, and her...he's trapped by his body, by the acquiescence biology demands.
He doesn't feel the sore spots emerging on his wrists or the aches of his muscles. Pleasure, adoration, and arousal supersede all else for the time. Her lips move to his ear and she purrs, "I love your cock. I love holding it in my hand, stroking it. I love sucking on it. I love it inside me, the way I feel when you're in me, buried deep inside. The way it hits all the right spots, fills me. It's so long and thick, and damn, Castle, you know how to use it."
"Then let me use it," his words are demanding but his tone is pleading. He doesn't even care if he's begging. She's taken him back, somehow, to so many nights when he wanted her, like years of longing could be compressed into a single moment of glorious frustration. Some nights he'd wanted love and some nights he wanted to fuck her so good she'd never forget it.
She continues, "You know just how to touch me. How to make me come, make those orgasm fire hard through me, or make them last. You know just how rough to be, how to make me feel thoroughly fucked, taken care of, every desire met."
How often would he have done anything to hear words like those? But the words just fuel him with more wanting, more needing. "Damn, Kate. Get up here. Now. Let me inside you. I'll fuck you however you want. Hard and fast. Long and slow. Tender and deep. Just tell me what you want and I'll do it. I'll do whatever you want, however you want it."
She lifts up and the moment her tightened nipple is in his face, he leans forward and takes the opportunity. He is not gentle, and she doesn't mind. He's as rough as he can be while still pleasing her, suckling like she may be his last meal. She arches her back to push her body toward his mouth, and he feels like maybe he's finally won this argument. He moves as much as he can, ravaging her neck, her collarbone, the flat of her chest, tugging her earlobe between his teeth. His insistence and fervor only seem to compel her.
He whines almost pathetically when she pulls away, bracing one hand behind his neck as she leans back. With her free hand, she begins at her jaw and follows the curves of her body. He thinks she's touching her skin like he does, savoring each sensation, trying to build her anticipation.
When her fingers move down to the bottom of her belly, her legs part further and his eyes are yanked downward to watch. Her touch spreads her labia, her middle finger very luxuriously circling her clit like she could do this forever. He starts to wonder if she will, if the wait will never end. Her stare is heavy on him, and when her finger lowers a bit more and disappears into her body, they each cry out. Hers is a needful, lusty gasp, something that signifies the beginnings of a need being satisfied. But his, his is a groan of frustration and covetousness. He wants that privilege to be his. He realizes he's saying, "No, no, no…" like he has control somehow.
Her eyes meet his, her face contorting with the pleasure she's creating, and she's not going to stop.
"Come on, Kate," he pleads. He doesn't sound composed. "That's not fair."
"I didn't forget about you," she soothes.
"I need to touch you. I vow to you, I'll do whatever you want, follow instructions perfectly."
She giggles softly, far more affectionate than gloating. "We both know you won't."
"But I'll try really, really hard," he answers. Normally he'd say such things in his playfully teasing way, but every last syllable is honest and earnest.
Her laugh intensifies a little, and he finds himself smiling. The thing is, through all of this dirty little playtime, he loves her, and he could possibly love her forever. And he thinks maybe she feels the same about him. It's rare to find feelings like these paired with mind-blowing foreplay.
She reaches for his erection (he's so fucking turned on it almost isn't fun anymore), and touches him with the fingers that were on (and in) her only seconds before. Her touch is decadent, her smooth, wet fluids coating him.
"You're killing me," he murmurs, groaning in pleasure as she fists his cock and tugs just right. Damn she can handle him so perfectly, like they've been fucking for years instead of weeks. He wonders if she thinks the same of him, and he decides that when his 'revenge' for this scenario comes, he'll find out.
"Maybe I'm getting you back for all of those years of teasing…" she suggests, playfully biting his lower lip.
"Maybe. Wait. What? Me?" he scarcely manages to argue, eyes rolling up slightly because she's making him feel so fantastic using only her hands.
"Mmm hmm," she replies, scooting forward so he's at the very top of her thighs, his dick pressing against her center and begging for entry. "The suggestions, totally fucking inappropriate suggestions, I might add. The flirting. Those touches, tiny, seemingly insignificant touches, and those looks…sometimes teasing, sometimes sensual, sometimes so full of openness and admiration. And never anything to back it up."
She's not angry or accusing, she's playing this lovers' game. He likes it in some ways, and hates it in others. It's insane, to argue at this, but he manages to. Sort of. "I was never teasing," he promises, his voice showing how close he is to reaching resolution. "Not for a second."
"You're going to deny the absolute litany of come-ons you've tried over the years? All of the various ways you tried to—"
"Not denying that," he interrupts. All of the muscles in his lower body tense as he pushes toward her, his physical self somehow believing that the chair and handcuffs are no match for his desire. "But it wasn't teasing. Not for a second. All you had to do was say 'yes' at any given time."
"That's not true," she scoffs.
"It is. I would have gladly followed through the second you consented. So it was never, ever, a tease. They were offers. Maybe even promises. But never teases."
When her fingers let go, he first thinks she's punishing him. She stands before him and yanks his boxers down to mid-thigh and immediately returns to his lap. Her arms wind around him, her forearms cradling his head as she kisses him, disintegrating any argument he might have made. Her thighs tighten as she lifts onto her tiptoes, and he misses the feeling of her well-muscled legs or ass in his hands.
She slides her cleft over his cockhead, her body fluttering when his presses against her clit, and he feels hope dawn as she aligns their bodies. No argument escapes her lips, not that he gives a damn about any argument anymore. Everything he is made of is focused on her.
It's hot, so hot, the way she doesn't use her hands to guide their bodies to union. Her legs are butterflied open, her most intimate, personal place offered to him. And, hell, he's so hard, poking forward like his cock could somehow demand her to comply. She's so incredibly fit that he's sometimes a little intimidated by it, but the way she angles her hips and hovers over him makes him forget that. They're aligned, perfectly, and he knows he's right at the precipice, predicting the soft squeezing of her depths.
As she lowers the tiniest bit, he's pressing against her, only inside until the point of slight resistance. He wants to pop through that, to push past the tightness and stretch her around him. She's kissing him, devouring any doubt or sadness that could exist, but not his longing. "Please, honey. God, Kate. Please, pl—"
She interrupts, silences his words, as she shifts down and lets him over the threshold. They share breath and pants of lustful desire. She calls out "Ooo," high-pitched and vulnerable, her brows gathered and eyes wide as she clamps down on the first few inches of his manhood.
He's wondered before if she works out her tight quim like she works out the rest of her, because the way that she pulses and clamps feels like something she's strived for, too good to be the natural state. Her body is quivering just a bit from the tension of bracing herself over him. Then, with the same careful control she employs in all matters, she patiently allows him to sink the rest of the way into her. Like the slow swell of a tide, she engulfs him, her breath stuttered with moans of satisfaction and longing.
It isn't like he lacks confidence, but she has a way of making him feel longer, thicker, harder than he probably is. With her, he always feels like he's the best that ever was, that ever could be. It's strange because her words have so often been used to attempt to dismantle his admittedly inflated ego. But like this, in moments of passion, she makes him feel that there is no one better. He isn't certain if she does it intentionally (it's more about her actions and sounds than her words) or if it is unintended, but it's yet another facet of this thing they share that makes being with her so highly addictive.
"Fuck, you feel good," he's praising involuntarily. "You're the best feeling."
When he's completely enveloped within her, she pauses, her forehead against his. This pause isn't the torturous kind. No, he's grateful for a moment to gather himself, although he's so utterly horny that he can't even come up with something to think of to calm himself down.
As much as he's pleaded for this to happen, now that she's giving him what he wants so badly, he doesn't want it to end too quickly.
Things begin again more slowly while she rides him, the two melding into one in ways beyond their sexes. Each time she takes him in, she's thorough, swallowing him up entirely and abandoning him just to the point right before they'd lose contact. When he's completely inside her, she circles her hips, his glans bumping her cervix, that's how close, how tight, how complete they are when she allows them to merge. Still he wants more, wishes that he could get so much farther, deeper into her. Their kisses are as deep and yearning, seeking more closeness, more union, and even though their fucking and kissing and breathing have become one, it's nowhere near enough. He still wants more.
She kisses his neck and shoulder as she picks up the tempo. She balances her feet on the leg braces beneath the chair to get leverage. The pleasure intensifies because even though so much of him is restricted, she's communicating with his body on a very primal, biological level, and at this point his libido doesn't give a damn what his hands may want.
Beckett is asserting her will and taking him as she pleases, screwing him according to her desires, her tempo, the will of her body. It is absolutely perfect. And he knows this whole thing will pepper his fantasies forever.
He manages to plant his feet on the ground so he can meet her body as she rides him, he can push up against her a bit. At least that's something. His thighs and calves burn as the muscles are overtaxed and exhausted, although he doesn't much mind or even acknowledge that either.
She speaks as she continues to bounce on his lap, her words punctuated by the meeting of their thrusts. "See," she says, her voice emerging like musical sex, "you can't listen. You can't just sit there and be fucked."
It takes several seconds for his response to emerge. His neck strained, his words come out in as few phonemes as possible while still conveying his ideas. "That'a probl'm?"
"I know who I'm in bed with," she replies, the squeaking gasp at the end of each moan telling him she's ridiculously close.
She grows tighter inside, her walls more rigid and pulsing. Her own ecstasy increases his. He wishes he had the wherewithal to hold off, to let her orgasm on him and then free him to take her back. But he doesn't, and at this point, he's having too much fun to fight it, not to mention the fact that his body needs release more than a man can bear.
When she bites his ear, tugging roughly, a feeling that reminds him of the way she used to manhandle him before they were together, it's so hot. The pain marries the pleasure. All he knows is her, the feeling, the sensation, smell and sound of her everywhere. She becomes almost too tight, but she doesn't slow or cease, she refuses to be stalled.
As she reaches her climax, Kate screams something about him coming inside her. The sentiment is enough to slay his resistance.
He wants to come in her, so deeply and thoroughly that they can't be extricated. He wants to claim her and be claimed. Even as he comes, as the only thing that exists is him, her, and their intersection, all encompassing elation seizes him.
His release is powerful and full, and then so little strength is left within him. His heartbeat monopolizes his hearing, as he just tries to breathe again. Then he feels her forehead resting on his shoulder.
Post-coital Beckett is about as sweet as she gets. As much as he adores her personality in its fully glory, he also enjoys this tender, gentle, sleepy side he's only recently been introduced to.
He turns and appreciatively and affectionately kisses her temple. He tries to touch her, but all he can do is lean his head upon hers. He remembers other times they recovered in each others arms, rubbing his hands over her back, caressing and holding her while they while they rebounded, sometimes before another round of lovemaking, sometimes before falling asleep together.
She hops off of him too soon, like she still has energy even though he's depleted. It's so chilly without her against him. She circles behind him to undo the handcuffs. "So...you like that?" she asks.
"Hell yea," he answers, intentionally emphatic. Then, devoutly, he adds, "But I wasn't joking about getting revenge."
"Mmm," she agrees, "and I wasn't joking…I eagerly await your retribution."
He rubs his wrists for a few seconds while she comes back to the front of him and takes a seat on his lap. Knowing that she thinks he's down for the count, he chooses to surprise her.
He is sated, in a way, but part of him still feels the lingering neglect she forced on him. Standing abruptly, he grabs onto her just before she could fall. He takes her to the table, drops her on the surface, and his hands are all over her.
This time when he kisses her, he holds her face in his hands. His touch appreciates the delicate grace of her neck, the caps of her shoulders and chiseled muscles down her back. The lingerie once so admired is now loathed, and he needs to get rid of it. He deftly pops the long series of clasps up the back of her bodice, while wrapping her legs around him and tilting her head just perfectly to kiss her. The moment the pink of her nipple emerges from her lingerie, his hand is there, palming, pinching. He needs to touch her so his hands and heart can find some release.
Kate giggles, one of those sexy, surprised giggles, and she whispers, "That wasn't enough for you?"
As he looks into her eyes, he sees happiness, excitement, love, and even wonder. He wants her to feel craved, longed for, admired and adored. She is truly remarkable. Having her these past few weeks, unraveling some of her mysteries, doesn't make her any less so.
"Never enough," he vows as he yanks her hips forward on the table, still unable to tame his wandering touch.