147A/N: Back to re-uploading regularly
He's a man of many things, he's easy going and rather understanding when he needs to be. He's a self made man. He's created success and a nice cushion for himself and his family. He can be childish and takes pride in it. He's a romantic. He's excitable. He can pull all nighters with the help of coffee. He's a writer. He's used to lack of sleep. But...Castle is not a morning person.
Okay, that's not entirely true. Twenty minutes ago he was perfectly content to be awake. He was also still burrowed in blankets with his wife. And her lips silkily sliding over his but now he's abandoned that heavenly place for the cold of the floor seeping through the socks he's just slid on. Half dressed and already contemplating sliding back between the sheets. It's early. Too early. And it's not even a case pulling them from the bed. Not yet.
Kate isn't being pulled away at all. She's still buried and warm beneath the comforter. And he wants to crawl back in with her, spend more time with the heat of her next to him. The smoothness of her skin calling to him, her neck entirely too un-nuzzled this morning. He's making up words now. That's what she does to him.
Even in the earliest of mornings when she gets to stay by his side, she always dozes in and out before any alarm blares or her phone rings. He loves that. Watching her as she teeters between waking and slumber. He likes holding her close, pressing into her. He loves their conversations that come once she blinks herself awake. She's soft and sleepy. So warm.
And right now she's smiling at him from the pillows and he just wants to dive back in. They'll both be late if he does.
Who decided it was a good idea to have a meeting this early anyway?
He's not a fan. Not when Kate will be getting up soon and heading in to the precinct. He'll be missing those last few precious moments in bed with her. Before the world pulls them away from their bubble, it's always just them. Nothing but them in the quiet of the morning and he loves that. He loves when they aren't woken in the middle of the night for murder and mayhem. He loves the sun in her hair and the shadows in early morning light. He loves how she curls at his side and holds just a little too tight if they're coming down from a hard case. He loves every single extra second they can get. No interruptions and no one pulling them away from soft spoken words and how it feels to have her smile pressed to his.
He stops next to the bed, striped shirt in hand. He stops because she's looking up at him, biting her lip. Eyes turning from sleepy to smoldering and how can he leave? When his wife is all but asking him with words to stay, how can he just finish dressing and go?
He's a goner the moment she sits up, mirth in her gaze and painted across her lips. She's gorgeous like this. She's beautiful always but he has a weakness for when her hair is a mess and her face is free of makeup. He's too busy staring at her, smiling because hers is contagious. He doesn't even notice her next move until she husks out a laugh and pulls his shirt from his hand.
He blinks. And he watches her wrap it around herself, slide her arms into place. The fact that she's wearing a tank top seems irrelevant to her but not him. He needs his shirt. He wants that one.
"Beckett." It's whinier than he intended. Not as demanding as he had hoped.
She raises an eyebrow and lifts up on her knees, stretching to peck his mouth with her own. He barely feels it, doesn't even have time to react before she's gone. Away. Somehow standing and clear on the other side of the bed. He catches the wink she tosses him and it all clicks into place.
Oh. Oh.
Never one to disappoint, he smirks and the game is on. She backs up when he advances. Dodges when he reaches. He knows her well enough to know her moves, to anticipate them and he still lets her sneak by, circle back and find sanctuary again with the bed between them.
Opposite of their starting position, he ponders if she even wants the shirt at all. Her head tilts as she watches him, tongue playing between her lips and this, this is what he loves so much.
"I need my shirt."
"You have plenty." She doesn't miss a beat. He takes a step to round the bed and she's already backing up toward the bathroom.
"I wanted that one."
"Huh, so did I." It's the playful smokey tone of her voice that makes him lunge for her.
His fingers glance off her hip and she's laughing, darting away but they both know how this ends.
He catches her. Right before she makes it through the bathroom door, he has his arms around her, pulling her in as she yelps in surprise. Her legs tangling in his as she turns and they almost fall. He trips over her, unprepared and they smack into the wall. Her back and his hand taking the worst of it.
He doesn't know what he's expecting but her tipping her head back to laugh isn't it. But she is. She's laughing and her arms are tight around him and he knows in that moment that he's going to be so very late for his meeting.
It's not his fault. It's entirely hers and the slim column of her neck calling to him as her laughter fills their bedroom. He joins in, can't help it. But it's not as amusing to him, other things on his mind as he presses his mouth to the underside of her chin. A long warm press that he knows will tell her exactly where he's taking this.
She stops laughing. Her hips lifting against his, rolling and he pins them with his palms as his mouth descends. Tongue tracing over her pulse, feeling it thrum.
"You'll be late." She says it as if this wasn't her plan all along but he knows better. The thigh sliding over his hip and the fingers in his hair tell him the truth.
"I'm just getting my shirt back." He's lying and they both know it.
But she hums when one hand slides beneath her tank top and he's sure there are no complaints on her end. When her mouth whispers a slew of dirty things they can do quickly, he's already lifting her, carrying her back to bed.
He misses the meeting. And his shirt has several wrinkles by the time he wrestles it off of her.