Her fingers squeeze ten little points of pressure on the backs of his knuckles and Castle turns his hands, as much as he can, to hold on to her palms. Their skin is slick and oily; he feels all of the bones in her palms hanging on, like she's afraid the laws of physics are going to give out and cause her to float up right onto the ceiling. He slips his fingers underneath her wrists, dancing them over her forearms before he braces a palm to either thigh, pushing gently apart, his lips close -- so close -- until he commits himself to a first long, slow taste of her.