Both of them slightly buzzed from the wine and entirely ironed out from the case; something about this is important (different), and Castle can't put his finger on it. Maybe it's the way that they've become a refuge for one another in the last couple of months: from her mother's case, to the night swim, to old movie stars and expensive French wine. Neither of them have copped to admitting it -- that humbling, humiliating "n" word: "need" -- but they're saying it through touch, he thinks, and that's almost as terrifying.

Her squeeze pulls some of the breath out of him. He draws his thumbs beneath her hipbones, chin pulled across her resting breast. He considers her skin like he'd consider a wine: slow, savouring, appreciating the taste and the weight on his tongue. Low, warm breath over her araeola, watching the bud tighten and peak. He draws it between his lips, flicking his thumbs over her hips.