Her skin is soft and warm. Castle drags his thumb over the vellum-thin skin at the juncture of her leg and groin, threading the close curls between her legs. God, is he doing this to her? He can't help but think that some part of all this is strictly supernatural; that there's no way that Beckett -- the same Beckett who stood on principle of pride and refused to let him see her make a cup of espresso with the machine he'd bought -- could whisper like that.

He runs his fingers over her skin, touch turned gentle. Something about the moment and the way she said his name has taken the fight out of him and focused him on making her feel good. 'Forgetting for a while.

His hand slides to her hip, gently easing her legs apart. He meets her eyes. 'Holds focus. "Beckett, I --"