Co-written by Cartographical, shimmeryshine and Cora Clavia.
1x07, Home Is Where The Heart Stops.
Kiss Me, Castle: The Red Dress Remix
It's black tie. That's not a problem, is it?
Castle follows Beckett out the doors of his building. Partially to be a gentleman. But mostly because this dress is fitted. Seriously. The view he's getting right now is worth risking the certain death she will certainly deliver him if she catches him, because he is openly leering at her ass right now. He can't help himself. He picked the perfect dress, he really did, because it's tight and clinging to all the right places and the rear view is unbelievable, the laces crossing the bare skin of her back like a tease, like a riddle, like a present he so desperately wants to unwrap, and if he looks lower -
It's so impossible to drag his eyes off of her that he nearly smashes himself into the lamppost next to the limo, but in a shocking display of dexterity he manages to fling himself around it, catch himself before he staggers sideways into a crumpled heap, and keep his eyes fixed all the while on her tantalizing curves.
She turns as he manages to collect himself. "You okay there, Castle?" She looks genuinely a little worried, possibly a little confused at his sudden and total inability to walk at all, but seeing as she's not reaching for a sidearm, she doesn't seem to realize that his eyes have been fixed on every single inch of her body since the second he opened his front door.
"Great," he says to her chest, eyes only flicking up to her face when he realizes she's stilled outside the limo door, waiting for him to open it for her, he assumes. Where the hell is the driver he pays so much to do things like this? The quirk of her eyebrow reads just slightly more amused than murderous, so he just goes with it, shrugging as if there is a single place on her body he could conceivably look without leering.
The door pulls open smoothly as she moves to step off of the street and into the lush interior, bending over just enough to afford him a view that is entirely unnecessary, and entirely unintentional, he's ninety nine percent sure. She has no idea what she's doing to him.
"You coming, Castle?" she calls impatiently, and oh, it's so tempting to take that the way she absolutely does not mean, but he's not going to, he's not, he's -
"After you, Detective."
- okay, maybe he is.
And she gets it, he can tell. She shoots him a mild glare as he slides into the limo, naturally sitting just a few inches (feet) closer to her than is strictly necessary. But her cheeks are pink, and thanks to the stunningly low neckline on this dress, he can see the flush peppered across her collarbone, and she's always hot (especially when she's angry at him, which is, well, most of the time) but right now, like this, all gleaming and elegant and bare shoulders - she's stunning.
"You look really, really beautiful."
The compliment seems to catch her off-guard, and he can see the sudden catch in her breath, the bob of her throat as she swallows, the quick nervous energy in her hands as she plucks at the necklace around her throat. "Um. Thank you."
He means to reply, but there's something about the line of her arm, the delicate motion of her fingers, and then the rise and fall of her chest, and he's caught. They're crowded together in the seat, but for some reason she hasn't moved away from him, and the scent of her perfume and the nervous flick of her eyes and all the creamy smooth skin just begging him to touch it is just too much to deal with, and oh, Beckett. She's trying so hard to ignore him. But he doesn't like being ignored. He'd much rather play with her.
So he slides his hand over the seat between them, lets his fingers creep against the hand that's resting on her leg, brushing his fingers over the ridge of her knuckles.
She sucks in a sharp breath. "What?" she snaps, but even though she's glaring daggers at him she doesn't scoot away, doesn't shove him or slap him or even attempt to injure him, which is possibly as encouraging as she's ever been.
He chances his luck, leaves his hand over hers, edges a little closer to her so that his knee is pressing into hers and his thigh is glancing against the tight red material wrapped around her lower half.
"I'm really glad the dress fits," he breathes against the shell of her ear, can feel the way she shivers a little bit against his leg. His fingers start to move against her knuckles then, just a little bit, the suggestion of barely there circles enough to make her fist tighten against her thigh.
"You must have a lot of practice picking out dresses for women." He can tell she's going for her signature deadpan zing, but she doesn't quite make it, voice just a little bit too full of air to be entirely convincing. She doesn't hate this as much as she's pretending to.
"That you seem to have extensive knowledge of women's clothing?" Instead of flinching away from him, making him chase her like he half expected her to do, she rounds on him, turning her entire body in his direction to catch his eyes with her full gaze, pinning him to his seat. His blood rushes hot all over his body at the sudden flip in her demeanor, every single reason he can't seem to stay away from her manifesting itself in this one exchange. This one exchange in the back of a limo, pressed thigh to thigh with her wearing that dress, and at least twenty minutes until they have to be around other people. "Tell me Castle, are you sure you're the manly man the tabloids make you out to be?"
And oh there we go, the perfect opening. "Detective Beckett," he rasps, all smooth and dark. "If you want to know how manly I am, all you have to do is ask."
She rolls her eyes so hard he thinks she might strain them, but the catch in her breath doesn't lie, he can see his words sinking along her skin, she wants to know.
He shifts just a hair closer, watching with satisfaction as her gaze trips lower, takes in his tuxedo, like she's not really aware she's doing it. Oh, really? "Like what you see?"
Her jaw tenses as she glares at him, but she looks a little embarrassed, because he totally just caught her checking him out and she can't deny it. "Don't get cocky," she huffs.
There is something so unbearably sexy about the fact that she just quoted Star Wars at him while he can see this much of her bare skin. "There's no need to get embarrassed," he assures her, letting his hand slide over the outside of her leg, coming to rest on her thigh. He can see her throat bob as she breathes in sharply, and oh, he knows she's into this. Her fists are clenched. "You seem tense. I want this to be fun, Beckett."
She's breathing a little faster, and he doesn't even know what to look at most because she's all gorgeous and tantalizing and warm and she's still not killing him and to hell with it. Time to up the ante.
He swallows, lets his hand drift up to her shoulder, and, ignoring the startled glance she shoots him, he slowly tugs her wrap down, leaving her arm totally bare.
"Castle - "
Her voice is breathy, uneven, and her eyes are so very dark and she gets it and come on, Beckett, where did you think this was going? -
His fingers are sure but soft on her shoulder as he touches this skin he's never seen before, drags his hand down until he can lean over and ghost a kiss against her there. She's warm, flushed, as hot for this as he is, and as he rips his eyes away from all the smooth fair skin right in front of him, he can't help but notice the desperate way she's already biting her own bottom lip. He wants to put his mouth on it.
"You taste good," he breathes against her lips, leaning so closely now that he can see the gold flecks in her eyes. The gold flecks being quickly overtaken by deep green lust. He wants to kiss her, but he wants her to want it too, need it. Need him. This.
She's not moving though, this was always his game, and so he finally leans in, watches as her lips part almost imperceptibly at the hand he brushes further up her thigh, thumb coming up the middle of her dress as his mouth crashes over hers, swallowing the deep, deep groan that tears up her throat at the contact. Yes. Finally.
"Castle," she gasps against him as he drags his tongue over her lips and into her mouth. Her chest heaves up against his thumb in a way that's entirely too appealing as she raises her hand to his elbow, fists her fingers against the fabric of his tux jacket like she can't decide whether to shove him away or drag him on top of her. "We shouldn't -" she starts as she pulls back for a breath.
He lunges into her again, not wanting to give her a chance to finish, smothering her words with the force of his lips. Her hand that's not clutching his jacket comes around to tangle in the hair at the back of his head, tugging sharply in a way that's almost certainly involuntary, and the thought of her already being beyond the edge of her omnipresent control has him groaning into her mouth.
He skids his hand down, along the sleek fabric covering her stomach, over to the sharp lines of her pelvis, down the smooth muscle of her quad. Her hips jerk up towards him, and when he pulls away to look at her (because even more than he can't bear to stop kissing her he can't bear to not see her anymore) her lips are swollen and her cheeks are flushed and her pupils are huge and he does not have a single prayer of surviving the rest of this limo ride. "Shouldn't what?" he asks. He was going for breezily nonchalant, but his voice comes out as a broken growl. He's not sure what he was thinking, pretending that he could play disaffected, pretending that he would be anything other than an absolute wreck over her.
"I think this is a bad id-"
He muffles her faint protest, kissing her hard, swallowing the words before they emerge, and oh, if this is the way to shut up bossy, angry Kate Beckett he's going to do it every time she glares at him. Her body cants into his, sliding against him just the right way, and he trails his hand over her side until his fingers brush over the bare skin of her back, crossed with the thin laces of her dress, teasing and taunting and perfect. He pulls her closer and she arches, her mouth pulling away from his as she gasps at the light trail of his fingertips up her spine. With her head tipped back, her neck tilted just that way, he can't pull himself away from the appealing expanse of bare skin, so he leans in, kisses the column of her throat, swirls his tongue over a spot behind her ear that makes her shudder and grasp him all the harder. He's never going to be able to look at her again without thinking about all the places he could touch her to make her make that noise again.
She's restless against his side as he assaults her neck, dragging his teeth along her jaw as she reaches across him for his shoulder, trying to get a little leverage, body seeking friction that she's just not getting sitting in her own seat. Her hips strain against him, betraying how much she wants to be touched, and so he tears his fingers from the warm, bare skin of her back to hook around the back of her thigh, tugging. Her dress is too tight though, entirely impractical for doing anything more than making out in the back of a limo, and the growl of frustration released between them at the restriction comes from both of them equally.
"This is not-" she starts to say, gasps loudly as his hand abandons her leg and settles over her stomach, canting downward but meeting nothing but pulled taut material that's just not close enough to where he needs to be.
His mouth finally catches hers again, and he can taste the desperation, feel the impatient need buzzing through her as he devours her mouth, punishing with his tongue. He buries his fingers in her hair, turning her head to give himself better access, and she's whimpering faintly, her hands sliding over his chest, sliding down, and oh just a little further oh yes just like that just-
And then she's jerking back and shoving him away from her. "What," he starts to ask, but his voice is hoarse and he needs to swallow, moisten his suddenly dry lips with his tongue, try to get control of the electric need burning through his veins.
He risks a glance over at her. Chest heaving, cheeks flushed, eyes shimmering with arousal and frustration, hands smoothing down the front of her dress, adjusting the cups like they have to -
Oh. The limo's not moving anymore.
"Shit," she spits out as she runs her fingers through her mussed waves. Her voice is rough with some combination of anger and sex.
He closes his eyes briefly, runs his hands through his own hair. "Can you please not do that right now?"
When he opens his eyes she's staring at him as she adjusts her necklace. "What, swear or talk?"
"Either," he groans.
Her hands are back in her hair, trying to smooth a rogue curl. "My hair," she breathes. "Does it-" she trails off, growling in frustration.
"Look like we just got to second base in the back of the limo?" Against his better judgement, he shifts toward her, tucks the runaway strand behind her ear.
She glares ferociously at him. "Can you please just not act like a child about this?"
"Beckett, after that you should be convinced that I am all man." That one curl of hair won't stay down. He tugs on it to tuck it further behind her ear. She flinches. "Sorry. How much hair spray did you use, anyway?"
"Just shut up so we can get this over with." The bite leaves her words as he trails his index finger along the line of her jaw. Her pupils dilate and darken, before she's glaring again. "That is not helping."
"Sorry," he murmurs again, and he really almost is, because if she's feeling anything like he is right now it is utterly unfair to tease her when all he really wants to do is tell the driver to circle Manhattan for the next three hours and ignore the noises from the back of the car.
The door opens before he can do more then wonder if that plan might really work, and it's familiar, the noise, the calls of Castle! Rick Castle!, the blinding camera flashes. He steps out, reaches in for Kate (oh God she is his date), and to her credit, she actually takes his hand. The touch is light, nothing like the frantic needy groping they were just doing, but still the warm pressure of her fingers on his sends a wave of heat through his body and oh, this evening is going to be torture.
For all her complaining, she takes his arm like she's done it a dozen times, flashing her dazzling smile at the photographers. He can't help the smug grin he knows must be crossing his face right now. He is strutting up the red carpet with this gorgeous sparkling firebrand of a woman who cannot stand him most of the time but managed to get him seriously worked up in such a short amount of time that he's still considering seeing if he can drag her into a coatroom somewhere to finish what he so thoroughly enjoyed starting, because getting under her skin is the most fun he's had in recent memory. Or maybe ever.
He's channeling his inner Bond, walking like a damn movie star, when he notices the guys. Ryan and Esposito are in the crowd, grinning toothily. And looking at her in a way that, well, Castle is not quite sure he wants other men looking at her. He is the only one whose eyes get to skim her bare shoulders, the smooth skin of her arms. And he is absolutely the only one who will be touching her.
"Nice dress," Ryan drawls with a grin.
"Yeah, what there is of it," Esposito mutters, and that is not okay, Castle is the only one -
"I'd let you borrow it, Esposito, but you stretched out the last one."
Now that is the Beckett he knows. Castle can't help laughing. Until he hears Ryan mutter to his partner, "Dude. Does she have a hickey?"
Castle turns, cranes his neck to get a glimpse of her throat (and now he knows exactly how it tastes), and oh shit there is definitely a mark there, tiny broken blood vessels, proof of how he just had his mouth all over her and she is going to kill him if she sees pictures of herself in the paper tomorrow, neck splashed with evidence of how much she let him get on her in the car.
He pulls her closer out of reflex, trying to hide the mark with his body while giving Ryan and Esposito the best shut it down look he can muster. She tugs sharply on his hand as he presses his head to hers, smiling for the cameras who think they're getting cozy just for them, but whatever maiming she'll serve up for his proximity will be nothing compared to the alternative.
"You don't have your gun right?" he whispers into her ear, fake grin plastered to his face as they reach the end of the red carpet, practically embracing.
"I don't need it," she sing songs through clenched teeth, and then he's letting out a tiny yelp as her nails dig into his pinky finger and twist in an exquisitely painful way. "A hickey?" she hisses.
"How do you hear these things? You have ears like a bat." He'd really just wanted to survive the red carpet, but now that they've reached the end of it he'd like nothing more than to go back there, to the place where he could cuddle Beckett up against him without repercussions and where she wouldn't dare inflict too much bodily harm for fear of it being captured for the ages by the paparazzi.
"I hear everything," she growls, turning the statement into a threat. There's no one he'd rather be threatened by.
She suddenly seems to realize his arm is still around her body and his hand is still resting at her hip. She jolts away from him, pinning him with a look that is at three parts warning and one part offense. "Are you sure you want to move away? You might have trouble maiming me so effectively," Castle murmurs to her as they start walking onto the floor.
"Pretty sure I won't have trouble."
She shoots him a glare that's a little too affronted, and, okay, now he's starting to feel a little offended. "You sure didn't seem to be having any trouble in the limo," he mutters, resting his hand at her elbow to guide her through the crowd.
"Are you seriously bringing that up right now?" she hisses, and he can tell from the pink in her cheeks and the sudden tension in her body that she's mortified.
"I am absolutely bringing it up." She tries to tug her arm away but he doesn't let go. "No. Don't pretend you weren't there too."
"What?" His hand on her arm loosens, his fingers tracing over her soft skin, and oh God his mouth is dry and he wants to do really, really terribly hot things to her -
He watches her chest heave, like she can't deal with it, and she bites her lip and it takes all his remaining shreds of self-control to keep from kissing her senseless, rescuing that abused lip, sucking it into his mouth and running his tongue over it until she makes that little noise again, the one he heard in the limo that he wants to hear all the time.
She takes a last long breath, looks down. Tucks her arm into his again. "Can you please - just let me do my job, and then - "
She gets cut off by the deep rumbling voice of the mayor of New York City, calling out Ricky! Ricky! and it's all he can do to stop from dragging her to the other side of the room to find out exactly what she thinks is going to happen after they finish doing her job. (Probably nothing, she was about to insist, but he's got her number tonight, and if the way she's still pressed against his side is any indication, she's only a strategic brush of his fingers away from completely giving in to her baser needs.)
But she's right. She has a job to do. And Castle beams, introduces her to the mayor, falls back into the charming persona he generally finds himself in at parties like this. Of course, he's never had her on his arm before...so there's really never been a party like this.
His dates usually don't threaten to kill him.
He manages to peel himself away from her long enough to get alcohol - oh, good idea - and dodges an overly-friendly woman (how the hell does she know so much about him and Alexis? - that is so creepy) and to hell with it, he's spent entirely too much time not pressed against Kate Beckett and he needs to touch her again.
So using his best moves, Castle reaches out for the arm of said detective, who is entirely too distracted with her job to see him coming, and yanks her right out into the middle of the dance floor and against his chest.
"Castle," she swears at him, but comes nonetheless, molding herself perfectly to his front, touching him everywhere. He wants to return the favor. Badly.
His mouth brushes over her ear as he leans into her. "I didn't want us to be overheard," he murmurs. "They know things."
She dips back, blinks at him. "There's something wrong with you today," she says, but he's only half listening. His hand is spanning her lower back and her muscles are flexing under his fingers and he's suddenly hyperaware of the warmth of her skin, so close to where he really really desperately wants to slide his hand and squeeze (but she will kill him). He slips his thumb under one of the laces, runs it over the dimples in her spine, and is rewarded with a soft gasp and the swell of her chest against him as her back arches. Oh, yes. She's still on edge.
"Doing okay there?"
"Shut up," she hisses.
He's feeling particularly brave, possibly because the reward (touching her) is worth all the risk (shooting, maiming, death), so he slips his little finger just barely under the back of her dress, sliding down under the taut fabric. He's rewarded with a gasp. She falters, her cheek pressed against his, and he can feel the slight shift as she swallows, and he lets his fingertips stroke her bare back lightly, just edging over the curve of -
"Castle. Please - please stop teasing."
Her voice catches his attention. It's shaky. Her fingers are curled tight around his other hand, and her palm is hot and oh, her eyes are huge, her pupils dilated, and she is so hot for it and shit he is too and maybe this needs to calm down before the paparazzi get some photos that would end her career.
Something catches his eye. Someone across the room. Wait. Powell?
What the hell-
And then his mother walks out onstage and starts auctioning him off like cattle and Castle is absolutely, positively certain he is in hell.
Beckett's got her hands on her hips (not on him and that's not okay) and she's laughing at him and no, no no, this is bad. She's supposed to drape herself over him and claim him as her property and -
- and then again, he could do it himself.
He snakes his arm around her waist and leans in to whisper in her ear. "I have money. Anything you pay - I can pay you back."
He's sliding his hand over her hip but she stops him, grips his wrist (and he thinks he hears one of the women nearby murmuring Maybe he's not single anymore), and he's mesmerized by the hard pressure of her fingers as she murmurs "Oh, not a chance in hell, Castle."
It's definitely time to up the ante, so he slides his hand down over the perfect curve of her ass, squeezing just enough to make her arch a little bit up onto her toes. "Money is not the only way I can reimburse you," he drawls, using his best bedroom voice as he lets his breath blow hotly across her ear, fingers circling suggestively against her backside and then sliding up to the criss cross of bare skin along the middle of her back.
She's perfectly still as his fingers explore her, and he's hot with the knowledge that she's not stopping him, only working her jaw, chewing on a sarcastic retort, but she's too distracted to beat him to the punch.
He leans in just a little bit closer. "I am very, very good with my hands Detective." He watches her eyes slide closed briefly as his words settle against her skin, shivering down her spine as he spreads his palm up her entire back, touching as much of her as he can possibly reach. Light, warm, suggestive touches that have her on her toes again.
"Do I really need to bid on you to find that out?"
He's staring slack jawed at her directness, at her smirking face as another woman bids on him, and then a man, and he's almost ready to push her up against a wall and show her exactly what he can do for her if she'll just do this for him, but then a flash of a camera catches his eye and against all odds, he turns his attention from her and back to their case.
The ride back to the precinct is a nightmare.
Paul, their bad guy, is in a different car with a few uniforms. Which leaves Castle. And Beckett. In another backseat next to each other.
But Esposito's driving, and Ryan keeps talking to them about all the rich hotties he saw and all the food he snagged from servers' trays and Castle does not care about any of it because she is right next to him again but he cannot touch her. He knows. He tried. While she was buckling her seat belt, he let his fingers graze over hers (silent groping could work) but she knocked his hand away with a pointed glare that said something to the effect of I will murder you and make it look like an accident (although he likes to think there was a tag of - if you keep touching me when we can't actually do anything), so he decided to keep his hands to himself. It's not easy to do. Especially not when she keeps shooting him dark, sexy looks like that, looks he wants to kiss off her face and then thoroughly erase with his tongue.
So he spends fifteen minutes of exquisite hell beside her, trying to telepathically tell her all the things he wants to do to her body, because she is stunning and he's been so turned on for hours now that he doesn't care if it's in the backseat of this ugly old police sedan, his fingers are itching to touch and stroke and caress and he needs to make her frantic again because he's basically already there.
They finally pull into the precinct garage and she's out of the car in a millisecond, grabbing her wrap and storming off towards the door before Castle can do more than blink.
Until he feels a too-strong hand clap on his shoulder. Hard.
"So Castle," Esposito drawls in a voice that really, really isn't friendly. "You wanna tell us how she got that hickey?"
Castle absolutely does not want to tell anyone how she got that hickey. He wants to give her another one, or invite her to return the favor, anything that means his hands are on her and hers are on him again, and so he shoots Esposito a clueless look, shrugging off his hand, and starts backing his way toward the elevators, following the lingering smell of her spicy perfume.
He just misses riding the elevator up with her, which actually only serves to get him even more worked up because all he can think about is her stalking hotly through the precinct, blood thumping because of the way they've been circling each other all night. Because of him. He practically stumbles out onto the fourth floor when the double doors separate, eyes already scanning the room for her. She's on the move though, the shimmering red train of her dress just disappearing around the corner leading to the women's restroom as he crosses the bullpen in a handful of long, purposeful strides.
She's just outside the restroom when he catches up, one hand holding a bag with her change of clothes, other hand on the door, and oh, no, Kate, you're not getting away that easily -
She looks back and his whole body is on fire because she's breathing hard and the look on her face is a tantalizing mixture of desperation and frustrated energy and pure arousal and that is exactly how he feels right now and he just needs her and there's no one else here at this time of night and -
- it happens so fast. The door opens. A hand on his arm. A sharp tug. Her extra clothes hit the floor beside them. Her fingers flip the lock. Then she's climbing him, or it feels like she's climbing him as she finally, finally lets her mouth press hard against his, his back slamming none too gently against the bathroom door, his tux coat yanked off his shoulders and dropping to the floor as she grabs his face with both hands and just goes.
This is the Kate Beckett he sees in those little sideways glances she throws his way, in the curl of her lips when she's teasing him, playing with him, throwing around phrases like "wild child phase" and oh god her tongue is doing things to his mouth he never thought possible and where did she even learn how to do that -
"Stop thinking and get this dress off me," she commands into his mouth as she fuses their lips together one last time and then steps back, frantically yanking at the laces at her back. His hands shoot out uselessly for a moment as she gives him a look that screams really?, but then he's tugging her by the shoulders and stepping to the side.
"Turn around," he husks, voice rough and out of control. She obeys without question, without even an eyebrow raise at his command and oh that is doing it for him, she's too far gone to even remember she's supposed to be fighting him on this. Her back is to him in a second, all red strappy laces and her flushed skin, so inviting, right there for the taking. He means to be slow, tease her a little bit, but it's all too much, they've been doing this for too many hours, and so he crowds up against her back, pushing her right up against the door as his fingers loop around the tucked in laces along the top of her dress.
Her cheeks are on fire, hot pink against the cool beige of the door her face is pressed against, and he can't help but roll his lower body up against hers and oh yes the pressure is right where he needs it and she lets out this low, helpless noise as she feels the weight of him pressing into her and he's yanking at the laces because this dress has been undoing him all night and her hands are clawing at the door and her shoulders are flexing and oh come on come on they don't have time.
He finally, finally loosens the back enough to pull it down and she starts shimmying out of it, rubbing right up against him enough to make him swear under his breath.
"Come on," she growls, finally kicking the dress loose and then she's standing there, naked back to him, in only a blue stripe of underwear that he would expect to find under her clothes on any ordinary day of the week.
He hums to himself thoughtfully as his fingers reach out for the place where her skin disappears under fabric, plays at the elastic there as she arches herself back against him, turning her head just enough that his nose brushes her cheek.
"You didn't send me any fancy underwear to go with my dress," she says, voice hitching as his hands slide around to her stomach, fingertips flirting with the soft skin under her bellybutton. He can't help but drop his gaze to her chest, heaving and perfect from his view above her, and all he wants to do is touch -
"I'll send you a dozen new pairs to replace these," he starts to say, letting one of his hands slide down the front of her to cup her completely, palm pressing perfectly as she inhales sharply on a gasp. "Because they're so - "
"Castle," she groans, hips arching against him and then her hand is on his and she's shoving him where she wants him and their fingers slip under the blue fabric and oh fuck and she's choking out "come on, Castle, please - " and oh fuck she's begging him for what she needs and she's so wet and he can't deny her when she sounds so completely desperate for it, desperate for him to get her off and fuck fuck fuck.
He wraps his lips around her earlobe and bites as he starts frantically moving his fingers against her, feeling her rock out a rhythm against his hand, sloppy and jerking, completely out of control as his hips start to mimic her from behind and they're both just this panting, vibrating mass of want and it literally takes every ounce of his self control to push her away for long enough to turn her around.
The whine that spills from her lips when he removes his fingers is equally the hottest and most dangerous thing he's ever heard, but he has to be on her, inside of her, before he makes her come and she realizes what she's letting him do and makes him stop doing it.
She practically rips her own underwear off as he unbuttons his pants with fingers still slippery with her, and he watches with rapt attention as her own hand starts traveling down her stomach, headed right for -
"Don't," he gasps, circling her wrist with his fingers, stilling her despite the slam of images that flood his brain, her touching herself in front of him, for him, because of him.
"Then hurry up."
His hands are shaking but then her hands are there, practically tearing the button off, pulling down his zipper, and then she reaches in and her hand is on him and his hips jerk uncontrollably and he groans deep in his chest, screwing his eyes shut, trying to control himself before this all ends too fast because there is no way he is going to let himself shoot too soon.
She doesn't even let him take his pants off, just hooks a leg around his hip and then kisses him, hard, arching against him in the most perfect, slippery slide of skin on skin he's ever felt and he feels like he's choking, yanks his own tie until it's loose enough to pull off and then she's pulling him in, standing on her toes as they both groan loudly, finally finally.
He has to stop for a second, rest his forehead against hers as his fingers grip her hip hard enough to leave bruises probably, but she won't be still, won't even give him this second to breathe, can't maybe and -
"Don't you dare stop," she hisses, her hips crashing into his and then he can't stop. He pulls her into him, all the air leaving his lungs as she winds her legs around his waist and her thighs squeeze against him and she sinks around him and oh fuck the tight heat around him is so overpowering he's seeing stars. Her arms are tight around his neck and her face is pressed into his throat and as her heels dig into his legs he groans, his hips bucking sharply. She lets out this helpless, throaty noise (shit they have to be quiet) and he can't get words out but she seems to understand, because suddenly he has to bite back a loud string of obscenities because she sinks her teeth into his shoulder through his shirt and he slams her shoulders back against the wall, and he's thrusting messily into her, her hips rolling rhythmically against him again and again and again as her hands clutch helplessly at his back and she muffles her moans in his shoulder.
Everything is in pieces then, the way she slides against his thumb as he presses it between them, the sharp shudder that runs through her body as she comes hard, her legs squeezing him like a vice, the way she starts slipping down the wall, her fingers tight in his hair as she keeps moving for him, and then complete, full body release, pulsing and hot and her and everything and the next thing he knows, she's trying valiantly to keep them both from slumping right down on the (probably filthy) bathroom floor.
He manages to stagger backwards, pull her with him, until he's propped against the sink, panting hard into her shoulder because hot dirty sex is one thing but Kate Beckett just dragged him into the bathroom and let him fuck her brains out and he cannot move or think or breathe.
"Whoa," he chokes out, his voice rough with the strain of being quiet through all of that. He thinks he can feel her nodding against him, (agreeing?) and then she's letting her grip shift from him to the counter, back on her own two feet again. Back on her own two feet and also completely naked.
"Uh -" He has no idea where to go with this. None.
"I need to get dressed."
Wha- oh. Right. The reason she came here in the first place.
"Oh. Well. I'll, uh -" his game is gone - "I'll, um, step out and let you - "
He (thankfully) remembers to cover himself, grabs his jacket and tie, and cautiously ducks out. The door shuts behind him and he swallows hard.
Ryan pokes his head around the corner. "Hey, Castle. Where's Beckett?"
"She's, uh. Changing." Castle jerks his thumb towards the door in what he hopes is a casual motion, not an admission of the hot dirty sex that he is never ever ever going to get over because it really happened.
"Cool. Tell her we're ready for interrogation."
Ryan disappears again, and it's not long before the bathroom door opens. Out steps Beckett, looking entirely too put together for the amount of debauchery she just helped perpetrate, running a hand through her now loose curls.
"Ryan -" he chokes out, closes his mouth, clears his throat as she looks at him like he's an idiot. Well thank God that hasn't changed. "Ryan says they're ready for you in interrogation."
"Okay, good." She has the dress draped over one arm, and he wonders how awkward it would be to ask someone to frame it and hang it in the Smithsonian for its role in both facilitating and hindering one of the greatest incidents in human history.
She peers at him curiously. "You okay?"
"I - what? Fine. I'm fine." He stumbles over the words and swears at himself mentally. Great. He's an idiot.
She seems amused, though. Bites her lip (and now he knows what it feels like to bite it). Flicks a glance up at him, her eyes dancing. She's - okay with this? "Look." Her voice is soft, and she leans in, even though there's no one nearby. "I know that was kind of - "
"-amazing," he supplies.
She rolls her eyes (he wants to kiss her) and tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. "It doesn't have to be weird, okay? I have an interrogation to do. We have a case to solve."
His chest feels like it crumples in on itself. "Oh." The air rushes out of his lungs. Nothing else, then. Just. Like the dress. Costume. Temporary.
Her lips twitch.
"And then after we finish that, I'm taking you home with me and we're not getting out of bed all day. Okay?"
He gapes. Blinks.
Oh, he should probably answer.
"Yeah. Let's do that."
She leans in a little bit, too close for him to misinterpret her intentions, picking at the shoulder of his shirt absently. "If you think you can handle it."
What he really hears is if you think you can handle me.
Oh, he wants to just drag her right back into the bathroom and -
He swallows. "I really look forward to letting you handle me some more."
That makes her smile. Her fingers trip over his chest and he has to suck in a long breath. When she answers him, her voice is soft, intimate, sends his mind reeling back to the gutter because she is so hot -
"Keep the tux on. I'll take it off you."