Mas, por favor! (#332/Kate drunk London/Keep Calm)
She attempted to shuck the plaid shirt on her way to the couch, but the material got tangled around her arms. She felt the muscles in her shoulders cramp and contort with the effort of shedding the layer. A sharp pop in her neck lanced pain up into her skull and she staggered-
“Whoa. Hang on.” Castle’s fingers caught her. She hissed and closed her eyes, tilted her head to work out the wicked tension. He guided her to the couch, brought her down. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing, just-” She reached back and dug her fingers into her shoulder, just under the shoulder blade, still tangled in the damn shirt. “Ah, sat for hours in the airport all cramped in that chair and now…”
“Here, let me.” His hand landed on her shoulder like a paw, heavy and hard, and she rocked towards him, off-balanced. His fingers clamped front and back of her shoulder in a vise and she withered, moaning with the pain.
“Sh-shit,” she gasped. “That’s - ah-”
“You’re knotted up,” he said into her grunting. “All through here.” His other hand came up and he ran a finger under the collar of her plaid shirt, somewhere around the middle of her back. “What were you trying to do here?”
“Just, get it off,” she sighed, wincing as he dug in. His thumb was impressively brutal, the pressure excruciating. And then the muscle spasmed and went limp, and she did as well, rocking towards him.
Castle’s fingers released, her shoulder numb and tingling. He skimmed his palm down her arm, under the sleeve of her shirt, and loosened it carefully from her wrist.
She was arrested by the feel of his palm against her bare skin. The coast of his individual fingers, wide and thick, where she could feel each ridge of bone and knuckle.
She had never felt so much before.
His breath against her neck was a sudden warm vulnerability, and she closed her eyes.
If he… she would. She would go with it even though she was a mess, she was jagged rubble without hope of reconstruction right now. She would. If he did.
“Lift up a little,” he said, words rich and low.
She shifted and he got the other arm free, drew the shirt down and away from her. She shivered in only her t-shirt, her shoulder still twinging, but instead of his hands coming back to her, she felt distance at her back.
She turned just in time to see him rise, folding the plaid shirt and placing it on the glass and mirrored coffee table.
She pulled her legs up onto the couch, toeing off her shoes as she huddled into the cushions. She closed her eyes so she wouldn’t see him leave the room, so she wouldn’t have to keep watching his careful distance.
She’d done that to him anyway. She had asked for it. If she didn’t, he wouldn’t. He wouldn’t. He was the man who came to London to scour the city for her, but more than release tension in her shoulders, he wouldn’t touch her.
She was glad of it. She was. There’d been a breathless, butterflies-tickling-her-skin moment as his hands had skimmed along her arms, but she’d let her head fill with clouds, she had been willing to break her silent promises to herself - to him - in the heat of the moment. And she knew better.
She knew better than to begin something she wasn’t equipped to sustain. And she wanted, so badly, to have it… forever.
“Kate?” A whisper across her lips.
He was squatting down before her, hands between his knees, concern across his face. “What are you doing, Kate?”
Trying not to cry. “Gonna sleep,” she whispered back. She ached to reach out, caress the jumping twitch of his eyebrow. Her exhaustion, the hangover, all conspiring to make her do something stupid. “I’m so tired.”
“Not on the couch,” he murmured. His arms flexed, he lifted a hand. His hands were so wide, his wrists thick, his arms powerful.
His palm and fingers against her cheek.
Her body released its breath.
“Not on the couch. Come on, Kate. Go to bed.”
His fingers threaded in her still-damp hair.
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