There's something feral about him, something wild and graceful in the way he moves, something dangerous in the darkness of his eyes. Her heart thuds hard in her chest, loud enough to her ears that she wonders if he's heard it.

But as he dips into the bowl, looks up at her with the thick cream mounded on his fingertip, she sees the spark of happiness, the hint of his generous heart peeking through the curtains of desire.

The thumping against her ribs settles. She's always safe with him.

And then he flicks his finger and the cream lands with a plop on her breast and she shrieks, heart pounding anew for entirely different reasons as he follows the slide of the icy sweet confection with heat of his wicked mouth.

He engulfs her, tongue slick and burning against her chilled skin.

She arches into his touch, and he brings his hand up to curl around her side, holding her in place as he works at her.

It's a study in contrasts - the cool smoothness of the cream, the rough warmth of his stubbled chin, the molten heat of his mouth as he hollows his cheeks.

She shuts her eyes at the sensation, almost too much already, but his fingers tighten at her side, his nails pressing against the soft skin at her ribs, recently mended but still tender, and she opens her eyes again, finds that she needs to watch him. He's been gentle with her as the bruises have faded, careful in his ministrations, his eyes ever on hers, seeking her approval, putting her comfort first.

It's no surprise, really. Not after the past four years.

But now it seems - though his touch is no less tender - he's abandoning the kid gloves. His teeth scrape across puckered skin, sucking her into his mouth, and she moans, bucks her hips against his stomach. He bites down, gently still, but it's enough to have her hand reaching up to grip the back of his head, fingers tangling in the soft brown strands of his hair.

With one final swipe of his tongue, he lifts his mouth, lifts his eyes to her face at the same time.

Oh, he's enjoying this.

"So," he says, voice deep, rough, sending shivers up her spine. "Whipped cream frosting. It's delicious."

She hums her agreement, fingers drifting down to run along the top of his ear, back and forth. "You like it? Not quite as sweet as buttercream."

He nods, his chin bumping lightly against the swell of her breast. "You should show me how to make it sometime."

Her laugh comes out breathless. Only Castle would want to discuss cooking techniques while he's got her bare and needy and arching beneath him.

"Maybe I will," she answers carding her fingers through his hair. "Or maybe you should try some more, see if you can't figure out the ingredients all on your own."

He nods solemnly, blue eyes twinkling brightly, the corners of his mouth trying not to rise in his delight. She knows that look - it's the one he reserves for her when he's most pleased, the man trying to be dignified in his pleasure even as the happy little boy struggles to get out. She loves that look on him.

"So?" she nudges him when he doesn't move for a moment, just continues to stare at her. "Are you up for the challenge or not?"

He smirks. "Oh, I'm definitely up for anything when it comes to you. You should know that by now, Kate."

Shifting beneath him, she draws a low groan from his throat. "Believe me, I do."

She takes advantage of his moment of distraction to slide her hands beneath the dangling lapels of his shirt, her palms coasting over his shoulders and down his thick biceps. Halfway down he takes the hint, pushes up on his elbows to help her, slipping the cuffs over his wrists and tossing the forest green garment unceremoniously to the floor.

Kneeling between her legs, his eyes drift over her body as she watches him.

It's still new, this thing between them, still a blaze of fire every time, and when she sets a hand at his bare waist, traces the lines of his muscles with a single finger, she hears his sharp intake of breath, sees the contraction of his abdomen under her touch.

His hand covers hers, squeezes briefly, and then lets go. She's not sure if it's encouragement or warning or both, but she lifts her other hand, allows them to meet at the buckle of his belt.

He watches her, and a thrill of pleasure races up her spine.

"Kate," he groans when her palm brushes against him as she lowers his zipper.

She can see the need in his eyes, a bright heat, and then he's leaning down, lifting her up to hold her flush against him, chest to chest.

One hand spans her lower back while the other clasps her neck, thumb against her jawbone as he tilts her to the right angle.

She's known since those first kisses more than a year ago how lethal his mouth can be, how he can leave her breathless with the press of his lips, nearly incoherent with a twist of his tongue.

An extra year of wanting, two weeks of practice, and his technique has only improved.

She pushes her body into his, feels her breasts flattening against his chest, their centers meeting, silk to silk and all delicious pressure.

Her fingers clench briefly against his shoulder blades and then she drops her hands to his waistband, forcing the dress pants over his hips to pool around his knees. Reluctant as she is to separate their bodies even the slightest, she pulls her hips away and his boxers follow.

He chuckles into her mouth, the sound singing through her bones, and she thrusts her hips into his, the thin barrier of her underwear the only remaining barrier between them.

"Eager much?" he murmurs as he pulls his mouth from hers, twinkling down at her when she opens her eyes.

She doesn't answer, just presses an open mouth kiss to his throat, listens to the hiss of his pleasure, distracts him while she reaches to the side, hand fumbling for a moment until she finds the bowl.

Two fingers delve into the cream as she kisses him, as she drives him crazy if the sounds he's making are any indication.

She pulls back at last, and his eyes drift open, dark, hazy with lust.

"Kate?" he roughs, his voice thick.

Lifting her hand, she presses her fingers to his chest.

He squirms at the cold. "Sh-"

The word drowns in his throat as he gasps, her mouth dropping to cover his nipple, tongue flicking at the hard peak. Her fingers tighten at his waist, keep him where she wants him while she cleans away the whipped cream, savoring the taste of the coffee and him. But then he's pushing on her shoulder, laying her down beneath him.

And oh shit, that's cold.

Her back arches at his touch, his whipped cream covered fingers pressing her back against the mattress.

She looks up, finds him smirking above her.

"You know," he murmurs, his smile in his voice. "You make me very happy."

He means the words, there's no question of that. But there's something more, something teasing and mischievous and so very Castle about the way he says them.

Dropping her eyes from his, she lets her gaze fall to where his fingers rest against her side. Two dollops of whipped cream rest just under her breasts and an arc of the sweet substance curves beneath her belly button.

He's drawn a smiley face on her. A smiley face.

She laughs. "Richard Castle, did you-"

And then his mouth is on her and she forgets altogether what she was going to say, lost to the wet heat of his tongue, the sharpness of his teeth against her skin, the way the hand that isn't holding her in place is dragging her panties rapidly over her hips.

Her hand flies to his head, fingers fisting in his hair, and he looks up for a moment, all crinkled eyes and dark knowing.

She can't say a word, can't find the words, and though he's the famous author, she's always prided herself on her eloquence, on knowing the right thing to say in any situation.

Except this one, it seems.

He takes her silence for encouragement - as if she'd really discourage him at this point - and settles his mouth between her thighs, whipped cream forgotten for now.

She's grateful for that, isn't sure she could have handled the cold on top of everything else. His tongue is devastation enough, swirling and sliding and-

She shudders against him, so close, so very close, and then he hums or chuckles or something - she's not even sure at this point, can't really bring herself to care - and her eyes slam shut, her hips canting upwards into him as her whole body trembles.

He doesn't stop, his hands slipping beneath her, holding her up as he feasts on her. It's too good - lips and teeth and tongue and suction and pressure and she can't. She closes her fingers around his ear, tender but firm, and he slows. Leaves his mouth on her, but gentles it, soothes her, brings her down gradually.

Her fingers loosen their grip on his hair, drifting to stroke against his temple. He lifts his eyes to hers, and her heart constricts.

"Come here," she murmurs hoarsely, her throat tight.

Raising himself on his forearms, he slides up her body, the skin to skin contact making her shiver, her nerves still too sensitive.

His blue eyes shine down at her, and she cranes her neck, presses her lips to his, opening beneath him, tasting whipped cream and chocolate and coffee and herself, but underneath it all - him.

The man she loves.

"You know," she says softly, her fingers feathering against his cheekbone. "You make me very happy too."

He laughs, drops a kiss on her nose. "I think I just did."

Curling her arms around his neck, she tugs him down, forces him to settle his weight on top of her, a warmth she's discovered she loves. He tethers her to reality somehow, this man whose imagination carries both of them away so often.

He nuzzles against her ear, breath warm on her neck. "Kate?"


"Not that it wasn't delicious," he whispers, lifting up slightly to meet her eyes, "but that whipped cream was cold."

She feels the corners of her mouth rising, and his brows furrow before he speaks again. "What?"

Shaking her head, she slides her hands down to push against his chest. "Let me up."

He rolls to her side immediately, but when she gets up from the bed, looks back at him, his face is a mask of confusion.

"Wait, where are you-," he starts, catching her wrist gently with his fingers. "Kate-"

Laughing, she leans down to cut him off with a swift kiss. "Relax, Castle. I'll be right back."

She's halfway to the bedroom door when she turns to wink at him over her shoulder, taking in the awed, bewildered, completely in love expression on his face. "We made sundaes the other night, remember?"

He nods. "I remember."

"Wasn't there some hot fudge left over?"

the end

Back                         Home                              Castle Main Page

Your Name or Alias:      Your E-mail (optional):

Please type your review below. Only positive reviews and constructive criticism will be posted!