Fic: Collect Your Winnings
Title: Collect Your Winnings
Pairing: Castle/Beckett
Rating: NC-17/M
Summary: Castle and Beckett up the ante.
A/N: Poker porn. Don't say I didn't warn you.
Disclaimer: Castle, Beckett, and any other characters referenced are absolutely not mine. The show, books, etc. all belong to someone much more awesome than myself.
It's almost 2am and the only things standing between Castle and sleep are a deck of cards, a tie-breaking round of poker, and a smug-looking Beckett. The boys bowed out twenty minutes ago, refusing to take part in the final battle of wills unfolding before them. Castle lets out a yawn and Beckett leans over her cards to tease him, giving him an unimpeded view down the front of her shirt.
“If you want to sleep, Castle, you can always fold,” she teases, her eyes sparkling with mischief. If she notices where his eyes are trained, she doesn't let on. Instead, she quirks her brow and gives him a sly smile that he can't help but think of as an invitation.
“Oh, no. I don't think so, Detective. I'm not so tired that I can't still beat your pants off," he taunts. His smile turns lecherous as the sudden realization flits across his face, "Especially if you wanted to put that up as a wager…"
“My pants, Castle? Really?” she asks dryly, though the smolder in her eyes betrays her interest.
“Worth a shot, anyway.”
She sets her cards down after glancing at them once more and laces her fingers together in thought. “Alright, Castle. I'm all in.”
She makes no move to push her stack of chips to the center pile and he has to clear his throat when he sees the expression on her face. It's dangerous. Lethal. Demanding. He hopes he's reading her right--that he understands her wager and isn't going to make a fool of himself.
They've been seeing each other for a few weeks--15 days, but who's counting?--and they still haven't managed to--no, there just hasn't been enough time. What with the veritable shitstorm of cases they've been assigned over the last week and his latest book going through the final few stages of editing and…oh god. he just really wants her to be suggesting what he thinks she's suggesting because tonight is the first night they've had together that hasn't ended in late hours at the precinct, fueling up on caffeine for the drive home or stumbling their way into separate cabs.
And, of course, this first free night had to fall on poker night with the boys. But the way she's looking at him now makes him hold on to the hope that the night might not be all lost.
He pretends to consider the suggestion for a moment, staring intently--too intently?--at the cards he's holding. His hand is too good pass on a deal like this, and, who is he even kidding: he couldn't stop now even if he wanted to.
Fuck it, he's wide awake now.
“Well, I--umm, what exactly did you have in mind?” He curses himself for stumbling over the words, trying so hard to be nonchalant and smooth, but it's impossible to manage with her looking at him like that from across the table. He wishes he wasn't so utterly disoriented at the thought of finally--finally--having sex with her.
“Exactly what it sounds like. Winner takes all--gets whatever they want from the loser.”
Her voice has that dark lilt to it that he hasn't heard since she impersonated that Russian hooker--sorry, “lucky charm”--nearly three years ago. Her lips are pursed ever so slightly in a way that leaves him aching to lunge across the table right now. He studies his hand again, barely holding back a shudder, unable to look at her without being ready to give her anything she wants, cards be damned.
But then his own fantasies of her run wild through his head--her tied to the headboards, her on her knees between his legs, her riding him hard and fast--and it steels his resolve. He won't give in so easily. Not when there are so many glorious scenarios just begging to be explored. Suddenly, he cannot wait until he wins this round.
“All in,” he agrees, finally, flipping his cards over. For a moment, disappointment flitters across her face and his chest is about to burst with excitement. Then the light sigh she lets escape past her lips transforms to a broad grin and he knows she's played him. She spreads her cards on the table with a flourish and moves to gather up the few chips in the center of the table to add to her pile.
She saunters out of her chair toward him after a brief moment, a dark, approving hum rumbling through her chest. She brushes her fingers through the tuft of hair at his temple before leaning over to whisper in his ear, “Pay up, Castle.”
She hops up onto the table in front of him, her eyes sparkling with delight as she toys with the button holding closed the fabric between her breasts. The button pops free under the slightest twitch of her finger, revealing just enough lace to leave him wanting more. Her hand grazes across the curves of her body before settling at the button on her jeans.
She leans over him, perched precariously close to the edge of the table, and brings his hand up to the button. He brushes the skin just above the band of denim as she hooks her leg over his shoulder and whispers in his ear, “I think you know exactly what I want.”
He frees the button on her jeans, slides the zipper down slowly--so slowly that she lets out a gasp at the unexpected pressure of his palm where he's drawing the zipper down, heavy against her and right where she wants it. She raises herself up enough to ease the denim past her hips. He slides her leg from his shoulder and pulls the offending fabric down her long legs until they're in a pool at his feet.
He brushes a finger up the inside of her leg and she lets out a quiet shiver as he reaches the inside of her thigh. He diverts his path at the last second to trace the edge of purple lace that's barely covering her and she's squirming under him to get his fingers closer to where she wants them to be so desperately. He follows the scalloped edge around the lovely slight of her hip until he's gripping at the supple curve of her ass. He palms it roughly, digging his fingers into the flesh until she's arching into him. He could spend forever touching her, if only she'd let him.
His other hand comes up to tangle in her hair, pulling her in for an urgent, searing kiss. His tongue delves into her mouth when she lets out a contented sigh and he reluctantly loosens his grip on her ass to glide his hand up her side. He lingers over her breast before fingering the remaining buttons of her shirt. He's so caught up in the way she responds to him--the way she feels and tastes and sounds when his lips are trailing over her newly exposed skin--that he fumbles to release the clasp of her bra. When the fabric releases, he presses a gentle, fleeting kiss to her scar. He doesn't dare linger--doesn't want this to be lost to the memory of the moment when he almost lost everything.
He's doing glorious, wicked things with his tongue and gentle scrapes of his teeth against her breast when she grasps the back of his head to hold him in place. It feels so good--so good--and she hates herself for not finding an excuse to do this earlier.
He pulls her fingers from his hair and pushes her down onto the green felt. He holds her wrists down with one hand and gives her a wolfish grin before kissing a trail down her abdomen. He swirls his tongue around her bellybutton before he reaches the unforgiving boundary of lace separating him from everything he wants. He places a series of open-mouthed kisses to the border until she's struggling halfheartedly against his strong hold on her hands as the tight coil of desire takes ahold.
When he finally lets her go, he uses both hands to drag the last of the thin material from her. He looks at her like he's just been given a gift and his whole body hums with excitement as he lowers himself to her sex, brushing his finger along her opening.
“God, Beckett, you're so wet,” he whispers in awe, licking his lips at the sight of her obvious arousal. Without a second thought, he's devouring her, running his tongue from her clit to her opening and back. He pauses to suck on the sensitive spot as she weakly slides her legs over his shoulders. Her heels dig into his back as he continues to concentrate a dizzying symphony of pressure that has her biting her lip to keep quiet.
He looks up at her briefly, eyes hungry and possessive, as his tongue dips between her glistening folds. He's suddenly overwhelmed with the desire to feel her letting go, to feel her falling to pieces for him and him alone.
“Scream for me,” he says urgently as he pulls back, an audible retreat from her wetness. He runs his fingers along the length of her, circling her clit with a light pressure that's just not enough. She whimpers under his touch and lowers her own hand to assist. He chuckles lightly, pinning it down at her side as he shakes his head.
“Castle, I swear,” she snaps, but they both know the threat in her tone is empty. somewhere in the last twenty minutes, she's lost all of her hard-earned control. she may have won the game, but right now he's calling all the shots and she doesn't hate it as much as she would've expected.
“Tell me what you want,” he says as he pumps one finger into her slowly. She feels every inch of it and it only deepens her need. The first few shallow thrusts are teasing, testing her resolve as she squirms to get closer to him.
Then, without warning, he adds a second finger and pushes them both into her deeply. She's clutching the sides of the table to try and keep herself under control, but she cannot contain the moan that escapes her and fills the silence. He pistons his fingers faster inside of her at the sound, curling around the sensitive patch that makes her lips curl into a perfect, round oh.
Her legs part further as she adjusts to the quickening pace and the only barely coherent thing she manages to think is: moremoremore, but it only translates to another handful of moans falling from her lips. He lowers his tongue to dance along her as his fingers continue to bring her closer to agonizing bliss. He pulls away only to murmur his teasing approval, “Use your words, Beckett.”
Her head snaps up from its resting place on the tabletop to shoot daggers at him, but he's not intimidated at all. All bark in that look, no bite. Beckett hates being told what to do, but she isn't about to pull away.
He smirks at her as the scowl is wiped from her face at the swift flick of his fingers inside of her. He applies pressure to where she's most sensitive, toying with her until her body is arching off the table and she's repeating herself over and over and over again--loudly, forcefully: don't stop, don't stop, don't stop.
So, of course, he does. Just as she reaches the edge, just as she's lifting her hips into his hands, just as she's putty beneath him--he pulls back, fingertips barely dipping inside of her wet heat as he strings her along. She whimpers, claws her nails into the felt below her because she's aching for more and she's just so beyond pissed that he didn't let her finish.
In her lust, she scratches a long line down the table top, tearing the felt away to expose the dark wood underneath. He sees it almost immediately, smirking to himself because she's so wrapped up in her frustration--so wrapped up in trying to recapture the high she was this close to--that she hasn't even noticed.
He removes his fingers from her to balance himself over her body, but her legs wrap around his immediately, drawing his weight toward her aching center to make up for the loss. He chuckles darkly in her ear as he surveys the damage to the table.
“Now look what you've done,” he says wickedly. He reaches between them to draw down the zipper of his pants, letting her feel the brush of his knuckles against her slit as he does so. She bucks into him in anticipation when she hears the clatter of his belt hitting the floor. She feels his warmth pressing against her, but he doesn't attempt to enter, just teases her with his length rubbing up and down against her until she's whimpering for more.
“No. I won't give you what you want,” he says, emphasizing his words by dipping his head into her wetness, “until you look at what you just did to this table.”
Her eyes are closed in pleasure and she refuses to open them, even as he tilts her head with his fingertips. He laughs, but it comes out too breathless, too awed. She's gorgeous, simpering under him, lost in her own ecstasy. He caused that look on her face and at this very moment, he's not sure that fact will ever feel like reality.
“Don't care,” she lets out breathlessly, using her legs to draw him closer to her until he's just inside of her again. She feels triumphant for a moment until he no longer yields to her continued pressure at his back and she realizes that he's only conceding what he already wants to give.
“Please.” It's a statement, not a question. She's not used to begging; not used to being this powerless. But she's not going anywhere and the feeling is both terrible and wonderful all at once. She hates him for not giving in, but loves him for pushing her--that's the way it's always been with him. And, frankly, she never really expected sex to be all that different.
“Alright,” he concedes after a moment, the look of unadulterated longing on her face more than even he can stand up against. She did win the last round and he does owe her whatever she wants. “I guess your punishment can wait.”
She growls what he can just tell is approval and his mind races with scenarios for next time. But before he loses himself to the thought of leaving red marks all over her perfect ass, he's pulling himself back to the task at hand--to the gorgeous woman spread open before him, all but pleading for him to enter her.
He pushes in slowly, filling her, stretching her to the point that he has to stop and take a steadying breath. He has to savor this, can't bury himself completely on one stroke, even though it's what he wants so desperately, because, so far, it's almost too much for him and he's not entirely sure he would survive it. In the very least, it would make for an abrupt ending to a pleasure he's just not willing to part with yet. So he goes slowly, feels every muscle inside of her stretch to accommodate him. And god, it feels so good.
He picks up the pace after a few blissful minutes, floating seamlessly from overwhelmed and flustered to frenzied and hungry. He rubs her clit--just enough pressure to have her clamping down onto him as their twin 'fuck's echo through the room. When she raises to meet his thrusts roughly, he knows she's close. His lips search out her own, biting and bruising and it's too much, too much, but not enough.
“People are going to ask about this scratch, Beckett,” he whispers harshly in her ear. He tries unsuccessfully to calm the excitement surging through him at every arch of her breasts and push of her heels at his lower back. She's ruining him, just like she ruined his table, and he never wants her to stop.
“Everyone is going to see it--see how possessive you are, how much you want this--me, us, everything. This mark means I'm yours. And this--' he says roughly, stopping abruptly as his lips latch onto her neck, descending down her throat as he searches for the perfect spot to leave his own mark. He stops right where her pulse beats out an erratic rhythm under his lips. He nips, sucks, bites, soothes it with his talented mouth.
“Harder,” she breathes as she clutches at the back of his head, a solid weight to keep him at her throat as she grinds her hips more forcefully into his.
The command turns the tables in her favor, gives her back her power even as his lips continue to work at the skin on her neck. She knows what he's doing--branding her, just as she did to him. Only the bruise that he's inflicting on her skin will fade, but the scratch down the table never will. So she breathes the word into his ear, hoping the bruise will run that much deeper, will last that much longer. She's his, just as much as he is hers and she doesn't ever want him to doubt that they're in this together, equal in their want and their lust and their love.
She knows he understands when she feels him sink his teeth into her skin more roughly than before, a delicious kind of pain that has her soaring and raising up to meet him. He quickens his pace and his depth inside her and she can't get close enough--can't ever be close enough. She wants to feel the reminder of this in the morning--wants to feel it in the way her legs protest with every step, wants to feel the burn on her back where the fabric of the table is practically rubbing her raw. She's going to ache for him long after they're finished and the physical reminder seems only fitting--incontrovertible proof of this moment designed to keep her weighted down, unable to flee.
His lips withdraw from her neck finally, a faint purple forming already under his ministrations--one he knows will only get larger and more pronounced as the hours pass. She's his and it stirs within him that she's let him claim her like this--encouraged it, even.
“Payback, Beckett,” he says as he traces his finger along its ragged edges and smiles at her deviously. She reaches out for his finger and brings it to her lips, sucking it into her mouth. She swirls her tongue around it until he's groaning and it's wet to her satisfaction, then lowers it to her clit. A strangled noise escapes his throat as he works her clit with his dampened finger and she's left keening underneath him.
“Oh god. Oh fuck,' she groans. Her hips buck wildly as he increases the speed of his fingers and his cock. He brings her to the edge, fully and completely, not stopping until she shatters around him. She comes hard around him, uncontrollable as she screams with her release, “fuckfuckfuck.”
He leans down to swallow the words tumbling from her lips--crass and beautiful all at once. She's lost too lost in the sensation to respond to the pressure of his lips immediately, but when she finally does, it's the entirety of her response that undoes him. She clamps down on him as she impales herself hard onto his length. Her tongue works its way into his mouth aggressively. Her hands claw desperately at his back. He strokes into her haphazardly a few more times--too overwhelmed to be smooth--before her fluttering walls are just too much to resist and he comes tumbling down on top of her from the force of his own orgasm.
His grip on her hips tightens and releases as his heartbeat thunders loudly in his ears. He rests his head on her chest, pressing light kisses to her sweat-dampened skin. He basks in the feeling--of her, of this, of them--for a few blissful moments as her fingers scrape their way through his hair.
It isn't until he's pushing himself off of her that he sees the familiar white and red tips of his cards peeking out beneath the arm of her jacket, lying in a heap on the floor.
“Beckett!” he gasps, all shock and amusement--so awake and so active that it has her growling in response, eyes closing against the excitement. She's too shaken, too relaxed, too sated to react with anything other than a distracted “mmm?”
He's off her in a flash, plucking up the two cards and glancing at their values before turning them so that she can see. “You cheated!”
Her eyes flick wide open as she looks up at the cards in his hand. Her face is blank as she protests flatly, “Did not.”
“Beckett, these were inside your jacket sleeve on the floor. You so cheated.”
“They probably just fell from the table,” she argues, looking around for further evidence of a mess, but finding the surrounding area spotless. She flicks her wrist so that the chips at her hip crash to the ground. She points innocently to the pile she's just created and says, “Just like those chips.”
She knows she's been caught, but she keeps up appearances for as long as he'll let her. He makes a noise that's somewhere between a laugh and a growl and stalks toward her. She looks up at him as he nears, a crafty smile playing at the edges of her lips.
“Oh, you're so going to get it,” he says, laughing as she hops off the table, about to take off in a sprint toward his office door. Or anywhere, really, that she can go to regroup and gain the upper hand. But he's either too quick or--she lets him catch her, delight overriding self-preservation because she knows, knows, what's next can only be oh so good. He grabs her around the waist from behind and the sound of her laughter is infectious as he hauls her back into his chest, her head falling to rest against his shoulder.
He reaches out to pinch a nipple and she gasps in surprise. His fingers ghost along her body, reveling in the contentment that pours from her lips. He lays her back on the table behind him and he leans over her as he pins her hands above her head, deja vu flashing so deliciously through his mind. She shudders beneath him, but makes no effort to escape.
He lets her lie there for a few moments, amusement and happiness rolling off her in waves, before he whispers in her ear, “Ah ah, Beckett, you're not going anywhere. I've yet to collect my winnings.”
A/N: First time writing anything of the sort, so feedback is appreciated. This one turned out a lot more sentimental than expected, so I hope it worked and wasn't eye-roll worthy. I have a few ideas for a second part floating around and written in pieces, if there's any interest? Either way, feedback is lovely and appreciated!
Pairing: Castle/Beckett
Rating: NC-17/M
Summary: Castle and Beckett up the ante.
A/N: Poker porn. Don't say I didn't warn you.
Disclaimer: Castle, Beckett, and any other characters referenced are absolutely not mine. The show, books, etc. all belong to someone much more awesome than myself.
It's almost 2am and the only things standing between Castle and sleep are a deck of cards, a tie-breaking round of poker, and a smug-looking Beckett. The boys bowed out twenty minutes ago, refusing to take part in the final battle of wills unfolding before them. Castle lets out a yawn and Beckett leans over her cards to tease him, giving him an unimpeded view down the front of her shirt.
“If you want to sleep, Castle, you can always fold,” she teases, her eyes sparkling with mischief. If she notices where his eyes are trained, she doesn't let on. Instead, she quirks her brow and gives him a sly smile that he can't help but think of as an invitation.
“Oh, no. I don't think so, Detective. I'm not so tired that I can't still beat your pants off," he taunts. His smile turns lecherous as the sudden realization flits across his face, "Especially if you wanted to put that up as a wager…"
“My pants, Castle? Really?” she asks dryly, though the smolder in her eyes betrays her interest.
“Worth a shot, anyway.”
She sets her cards down after glancing at them once more and laces her fingers together in thought. “Alright, Castle. I'm all in.”
She makes no move to push her stack of chips to the center pile and he has to clear his throat when he sees the expression on her face. It's dangerous. Lethal. Demanding. He hopes he's reading her right--that he understands her wager and isn't going to make a fool of himself.
They've been seeing each other for a few weeks--15 days, but who's counting?--and they still haven't managed to--no, there just hasn't been enough time. What with the veritable shitstorm of cases they've been assigned over the last week and his latest book going through the final few stages of editing and…oh god. he just really wants her to be suggesting what he thinks she's suggesting because tonight is the first night they've had together that hasn't ended in late hours at the precinct, fueling up on caffeine for the drive home or stumbling their way into separate cabs.
And, of course, this first free night had to fall on poker night with the boys. But the way she's looking at him now makes him hold on to the hope that the night might not be all lost.
He pretends to consider the suggestion for a moment, staring intently--too intently?--at the cards he's holding. His hand is too good pass on a deal like this, and, who is he even kidding: he couldn't stop now even if he wanted to.
Fuck it, he's wide awake now.
“Well, I--umm, what exactly did you have in mind?” He curses himself for stumbling over the words, trying so hard to be nonchalant and smooth, but it's impossible to manage with her looking at him like that from across the table. He wishes he wasn't so utterly disoriented at the thought of finally--finally--having sex with her.
“Exactly what it sounds like. Winner takes all--gets whatever they want from the loser.”
Her voice has that dark lilt to it that he hasn't heard since she impersonated that Russian hooker--sorry, “lucky charm”--nearly three years ago. Her lips are pursed ever so slightly in a way that leaves him aching to lunge across the table right now. He studies his hand again, barely holding back a shudder, unable to look at her without being ready to give her anything she wants, cards be damned.
But then his own fantasies of her run wild through his head--her tied to the headboards, her on her knees between his legs, her riding him hard and fast--and it steels his resolve. He won't give in so easily. Not when there are so many glorious scenarios just begging to be explored. Suddenly, he cannot wait until he wins this round.
“All in,” he agrees, finally, flipping his cards over. For a moment, disappointment flitters across her face and his chest is about to burst with excitement. Then the light sigh she lets escape past her lips transforms to a broad grin and he knows she's played him. She spreads her cards on the table with a flourish and moves to gather up the few chips in the center of the table to add to her pile.
She saunters out of her chair toward him after a brief moment, a dark, approving hum rumbling through her chest. She brushes her fingers through the tuft of hair at his temple before leaning over to whisper in his ear, “Pay up, Castle.”
She hops up onto the table in front of him, her eyes sparkling with delight as she toys with the button holding closed the fabric between her breasts. The button pops free under the slightest twitch of her finger, revealing just enough lace to leave him wanting more. Her hand grazes across the curves of her body before settling at the button on her jeans.
She leans over him, perched precariously close to the edge of the table, and brings his hand up to the button. He brushes the skin just above the band of denim as she hooks her leg over his shoulder and whispers in his ear, “I think you know exactly what I want.”
He frees the button on her jeans, slides the zipper down slowly--so slowly that she lets out a gasp at the unexpected pressure of his palm where he's drawing the zipper down, heavy against her and right where she wants it. She raises herself up enough to ease the denim past her hips. He slides her leg from his shoulder and pulls the offending fabric down her long legs until they're in a pool at his feet.
He brushes a finger up the inside of her leg and she lets out a quiet shiver as he reaches the inside of her thigh. He diverts his path at the last second to trace the edge of purple lace that's barely covering her and she's squirming under him to get his fingers closer to where she wants them to be so desperately. He follows the scalloped edge around the lovely slight of her hip until he's gripping at the supple curve of her ass. He palms it roughly, digging his fingers into the flesh until she's arching into him. He could spend forever touching her, if only she'd let him.
His other hand comes up to tangle in her hair, pulling her in for an urgent, searing kiss. His tongue delves into her mouth when she lets out a contented sigh and he reluctantly loosens his grip on her ass to glide his hand up her side. He lingers over her breast before fingering the remaining buttons of her shirt. He's so caught up in the way she responds to him--the way she feels and tastes and sounds when his lips are trailing over her newly exposed skin--that he fumbles to release the clasp of her bra. When the fabric releases, he presses a gentle, fleeting kiss to her scar. He doesn't dare linger--doesn't want this to be lost to the memory of the moment when he almost lost everything.
He's doing glorious, wicked things with his tongue and gentle scrapes of his teeth against her breast when she grasps the back of his head to hold him in place. It feels so good--so good--and she hates herself for not finding an excuse to do this earlier.
He pulls her fingers from his hair and pushes her down onto the green felt. He holds her wrists down with one hand and gives her a wolfish grin before kissing a trail down her abdomen. He swirls his tongue around her bellybutton before he reaches the unforgiving boundary of lace separating him from everything he wants. He places a series of open-mouthed kisses to the border until she's struggling halfheartedly against his strong hold on her hands as the tight coil of desire takes ahold.
When he finally lets her go, he uses both hands to drag the last of the thin material from her. He looks at her like he's just been given a gift and his whole body hums with excitement as he lowers himself to her sex, brushing his finger along her opening.
“God, Beckett, you're so wet,” he whispers in awe, licking his lips at the sight of her obvious arousal. Without a second thought, he's devouring her, running his tongue from her clit to her opening and back. He pauses to suck on the sensitive spot as she weakly slides her legs over his shoulders. Her heels dig into his back as he continues to concentrate a dizzying symphony of pressure that has her biting her lip to keep quiet.
He looks up at her briefly, eyes hungry and possessive, as his tongue dips between her glistening folds. He's suddenly overwhelmed with the desire to feel her letting go, to feel her falling to pieces for him and him alone.
“Scream for me,” he says urgently as he pulls back, an audible retreat from her wetness. He runs his fingers along the length of her, circling her clit with a light pressure that's just not enough. She whimpers under his touch and lowers her own hand to assist. He chuckles lightly, pinning it down at her side as he shakes his head.
“Castle, I swear,” she snaps, but they both know the threat in her tone is empty. somewhere in the last twenty minutes, she's lost all of her hard-earned control. she may have won the game, but right now he's calling all the shots and she doesn't hate it as much as she would've expected.
“Tell me what you want,” he says as he pumps one finger into her slowly. She feels every inch of it and it only deepens her need. The first few shallow thrusts are teasing, testing her resolve as she squirms to get closer to him.
Then, without warning, he adds a second finger and pushes them both into her deeply. She's clutching the sides of the table to try and keep herself under control, but she cannot contain the moan that escapes her and fills the silence. He pistons his fingers faster inside of her at the sound, curling around the sensitive patch that makes her lips curl into a perfect, round oh.
Her legs part further as she adjusts to the quickening pace and the only barely coherent thing she manages to think is: moremoremore, but it only translates to another handful of moans falling from her lips. He lowers his tongue to dance along her as his fingers continue to bring her closer to agonizing bliss. He pulls away only to murmur his teasing approval, “Use your words, Beckett.”
Her head snaps up from its resting place on the tabletop to shoot daggers at him, but he's not intimidated at all. All bark in that look, no bite. Beckett hates being told what to do, but she isn't about to pull away.
He smirks at her as the scowl is wiped from her face at the swift flick of his fingers inside of her. He applies pressure to where she's most sensitive, toying with her until her body is arching off the table and she's repeating herself over and over and over again--loudly, forcefully: don't stop, don't stop, don't stop.
So, of course, he does. Just as she reaches the edge, just as she's lifting her hips into his hands, just as she's putty beneath him--he pulls back, fingertips barely dipping inside of her wet heat as he strings her along. She whimpers, claws her nails into the felt below her because she's aching for more and she's just so beyond pissed that he didn't let her finish.
In her lust, she scratches a long line down the table top, tearing the felt away to expose the dark wood underneath. He sees it almost immediately, smirking to himself because she's so wrapped up in her frustration--so wrapped up in trying to recapture the high she was this close to--that she hasn't even noticed.
He removes his fingers from her to balance himself over her body, but her legs wrap around his immediately, drawing his weight toward her aching center to make up for the loss. He chuckles darkly in her ear as he surveys the damage to the table.
“Now look what you've done,” he says wickedly. He reaches between them to draw down the zipper of his pants, letting her feel the brush of his knuckles against her slit as he does so. She bucks into him in anticipation when she hears the clatter of his belt hitting the floor. She feels his warmth pressing against her, but he doesn't attempt to enter, just teases her with his length rubbing up and down against her until she's whimpering for more.
“No. I won't give you what you want,” he says, emphasizing his words by dipping his head into her wetness, “until you look at what you just did to this table.”
Her eyes are closed in pleasure and she refuses to open them, even as he tilts her head with his fingertips. He laughs, but it comes out too breathless, too awed. She's gorgeous, simpering under him, lost in her own ecstasy. He caused that look on her face and at this very moment, he's not sure that fact will ever feel like reality.
“Don't care,” she lets out breathlessly, using her legs to draw him closer to her until he's just inside of her again. She feels triumphant for a moment until he no longer yields to her continued pressure at his back and she realizes that he's only conceding what he already wants to give.
“Please.” It's a statement, not a question. She's not used to begging; not used to being this powerless. But she's not going anywhere and the feeling is both terrible and wonderful all at once. She hates him for not giving in, but loves him for pushing her--that's the way it's always been with him. And, frankly, she never really expected sex to be all that different.
“Alright,” he concedes after a moment, the look of unadulterated longing on her face more than even he can stand up against. She did win the last round and he does owe her whatever she wants. “I guess your punishment can wait.”
She growls what he can just tell is approval and his mind races with scenarios for next time. But before he loses himself to the thought of leaving red marks all over her perfect ass, he's pulling himself back to the task at hand--to the gorgeous woman spread open before him, all but pleading for him to enter her.
He pushes in slowly, filling her, stretching her to the point that he has to stop and take a steadying breath. He has to savor this, can't bury himself completely on one stroke, even though it's what he wants so desperately, because, so far, it's almost too much for him and he's not entirely sure he would survive it. In the very least, it would make for an abrupt ending to a pleasure he's just not willing to part with yet. So he goes slowly, feels every muscle inside of her stretch to accommodate him. And god, it feels so good.
He picks up the pace after a few blissful minutes, floating seamlessly from overwhelmed and flustered to frenzied and hungry. He rubs her clit--just enough pressure to have her clamping down onto him as their twin 'fuck's echo through the room. When she raises to meet his thrusts roughly, he knows she's close. His lips search out her own, biting and bruising and it's too much, too much, but not enough.
“People are going to ask about this scratch, Beckett,” he whispers harshly in her ear. He tries unsuccessfully to calm the excitement surging through him at every arch of her breasts and push of her heels at his lower back. She's ruining him, just like she ruined his table, and he never wants her to stop.
“Everyone is going to see it--see how possessive you are, how much you want this--me, us, everything. This mark means I'm yours. And this--' he says roughly, stopping abruptly as his lips latch onto her neck, descending down her throat as he searches for the perfect spot to leave his own mark. He stops right where her pulse beats out an erratic rhythm under his lips. He nips, sucks, bites, soothes it with his talented mouth.
“Harder,” she breathes as she clutches at the back of his head, a solid weight to keep him at her throat as she grinds her hips more forcefully into his.
The command turns the tables in her favor, gives her back her power even as his lips continue to work at the skin on her neck. She knows what he's doing--branding her, just as she did to him. Only the bruise that he's inflicting on her skin will fade, but the scratch down the table never will. So she breathes the word into his ear, hoping the bruise will run that much deeper, will last that much longer. She's his, just as much as he is hers and she doesn't ever want him to doubt that they're in this together, equal in their want and their lust and their love.
She knows he understands when she feels him sink his teeth into her skin more roughly than before, a delicious kind of pain that has her soaring and raising up to meet him. He quickens his pace and his depth inside her and she can't get close enough--can't ever be close enough. She wants to feel the reminder of this in the morning--wants to feel it in the way her legs protest with every step, wants to feel the burn on her back where the fabric of the table is practically rubbing her raw. She's going to ache for him long after they're finished and the physical reminder seems only fitting--incontrovertible proof of this moment designed to keep her weighted down, unable to flee.
His lips withdraw from her neck finally, a faint purple forming already under his ministrations--one he knows will only get larger and more pronounced as the hours pass. She's his and it stirs within him that she's let him claim her like this--encouraged it, even.
“Payback, Beckett,” he says as he traces his finger along its ragged edges and smiles at her deviously. She reaches out for his finger and brings it to her lips, sucking it into her mouth. She swirls her tongue around it until he's groaning and it's wet to her satisfaction, then lowers it to her clit. A strangled noise escapes his throat as he works her clit with his dampened finger and she's left keening underneath him.
“Oh god. Oh fuck,' she groans. Her hips buck wildly as he increases the speed of his fingers and his cock. He brings her to the edge, fully and completely, not stopping until she shatters around him. She comes hard around him, uncontrollable as she screams with her release, “fuckfuckfuck.”
He leans down to swallow the words tumbling from her lips--crass and beautiful all at once. She's lost too lost in the sensation to respond to the pressure of his lips immediately, but when she finally does, it's the entirety of her response that undoes him. She clamps down on him as she impales herself hard onto his length. Her tongue works its way into his mouth aggressively. Her hands claw desperately at his back. He strokes into her haphazardly a few more times--too overwhelmed to be smooth--before her fluttering walls are just too much to resist and he comes tumbling down on top of her from the force of his own orgasm.
His grip on her hips tightens and releases as his heartbeat thunders loudly in his ears. He rests his head on her chest, pressing light kisses to her sweat-dampened skin. He basks in the feeling--of her, of this, of them--for a few blissful moments as her fingers scrape their way through his hair.
It isn't until he's pushing himself off of her that he sees the familiar white and red tips of his cards peeking out beneath the arm of her jacket, lying in a heap on the floor.
“Beckett!” he gasps, all shock and amusement--so awake and so active that it has her growling in response, eyes closing against the excitement. She's too shaken, too relaxed, too sated to react with anything other than a distracted “mmm?”
He's off her in a flash, plucking up the two cards and glancing at their values before turning them so that she can see. “You cheated!”
Her eyes flick wide open as she looks up at the cards in his hand. Her face is blank as she protests flatly, “Did not.”
“Beckett, these were inside your jacket sleeve on the floor. You so cheated.”
“They probably just fell from the table,” she argues, looking around for further evidence of a mess, but finding the surrounding area spotless. She flicks her wrist so that the chips at her hip crash to the ground. She points innocently to the pile she's just created and says, “Just like those chips.”
She knows she's been caught, but she keeps up appearances for as long as he'll let her. He makes a noise that's somewhere between a laugh and a growl and stalks toward her. She looks up at him as he nears, a crafty smile playing at the edges of her lips.
“Oh, you're so going to get it,” he says, laughing as she hops off the table, about to take off in a sprint toward his office door. Or anywhere, really, that she can go to regroup and gain the upper hand. But he's either too quick or--she lets him catch her, delight overriding self-preservation because she knows, knows, what's next can only be oh so good. He grabs her around the waist from behind and the sound of her laughter is infectious as he hauls her back into his chest, her head falling to rest against his shoulder.
He reaches out to pinch a nipple and she gasps in surprise. His fingers ghost along her body, reveling in the contentment that pours from her lips. He lays her back on the table behind him and he leans over her as he pins her hands above her head, deja vu flashing so deliciously through his mind. She shudders beneath him, but makes no effort to escape.
He lets her lie there for a few moments, amusement and happiness rolling off her in waves, before he whispers in her ear, “Ah ah, Beckett, you're not going anywhere. I've yet to collect my winnings.”
A/N: First time writing anything of the sort, so feedback is appreciated. This one turned out a lot more sentimental than expected, so I hope it worked and wasn't eye-roll worthy. I have a few ideas for a second part floating around and written in pieces, if there's any interest? Either way, feedback is lovely and appreciated!