Author's Note: I interrupt your regularly scheduled programming to bring you a little Valentine's Day gift of smut. A two-shot AU insert for 2x5 "When the Bough Breaks." Enjoy!

What You Want

Chapter 1

In more than three decades of life, Richard Castle had said a lot of stupid things but this was the absolutely positively stupidest thing he had ever said.

It was just… Beckett. She got under his skin, she made him crazy, made him stupid. Made him want… things. Oh fine, made him want her.

And he was just so irritated with her for standing right in front of him—so damn close and yet so far—looking hotter and sexier than any woman he'd ever seen in her electric blue dress, her legs going on for miles and baring so much of her cleavage that he considered it a minor miracle that he was even able to keep his eyes focused anywhere else.

And would it kill her to act even a little bit flattered that she'd inspired him to write Nikki Heat and called her extraordinary for the entire world to see but no, Kate Beckett didn't feel flattered. "Do you have any idea how much grief I've had to put up with over this Nikki Heat thing?"

"Gee, I'm sorry," he clipped out sarcastically because really, he had women—hell, some men too—coming up to him and begging to be put into one of his books as a character. And now when he'd made Beckett the main character, the star, of one of his books, she just—

"I'm not asking you to be sorry," she retorted. "I'm just… Just do whatever you wanna do. You always do anyway."

And that was when his brain—what little he had left of it after seeing Beckett tonight—lost control of his mouth, the fizzing irritation and the always simmering lust getting the better of him. "What if I told you that what I want to do is you?"

Wait, what, had he just said that out loud? To Kate Beckett's face?

Oh god, oh god, I'm gonna die.

She blinked and stared, her jaw going a little slack as she jerked back in shock. "What the–are you—you can't just—" she spluttered. He had never seen the cool, poised Detective Beckett so flustered or at such a loss for words and she was kind of (definitely) adorable and hot (she was always hot) when she was flustered. "What did you say?" she finally managed a full sentence.

He should have backtracked, apologized, claimed she'd misheard him (ha, fat chance), should have said just about anything other than what he actually found spilling out of his mouth. "You heard me."

Yup, dead, I am so dead.

"Are you out of your mind?" she hissed.

So now he was crazy to want her, crazy to think that someone like her might want him too? Who the hell did she think she was? And he knew—knew—that she was attracted to him and why the hell she couldn't admit it was beyond him. But no, Kate Beckett never admitted anything, just turned him down flat more than once and teased him before walking away and—

If he was going to die anyway, then he was damn well going to die for a good reason. And not in public at his own launch party.

He latched a hand onto her wrist making her rear back in surprise but before she could so much as slap him or maim him, he hauled her with him, using the bodily strength he had never ever exhibited before her before and likely never would again. Because he'd be dead because she was going to murder him with her bare hands.

He did retain enough sanity to flash fake reassuring smiles at the people whose gazes he caught watching him, tried to make it look as if he wasn't pulling the real Nikki Heat against her will since she was following, probably because she was still deciding how to murder him. He thought—hoped—the smiles worked because he didn't need headlines tomorrow on how he'd assaulted the NYPD detective who happened to be the inspiration for his new book.

He caught sight of a door and pulled her through it to find themselves in a hallway, attracting some more attention, before he caught sight of another door, nicely tucked away into a corner and veered for it, hauling her with him into what looked to be some sort of coat closet—that worked—before he slammed the door and faced her.

Oh, yeah, she was angry. He didn't think he'd ever seen her so angry, her eyes spitting sparks.

"What the hell, Castle! You can't just haul me into a closet and insult me and—"

"Insult you!" And she called him crazy? "How the hell have I insulted you?! I called you extraordinary!"

"Oh please, you just dragged me into a closet like one of your bimbos! And you act like I should fall on my knees in gratitude because you decided to turn me into some two-dimensional stripper cop straight out of your puerile fantasies!"

"Nikki Heat is not two-dimensional! She might be the best character I've ever written!" Nikki was the best character he'd ever written, he was abruptly sure of that. Her fierce determination, her strength of character, mingled in with that edge of vulnerability, her sense of compassion—she was complex, fascinating.

"If she's so amazing, why don't you want to write about her anymore?"

"I never said I didn't! You're the one who acted as if having me base a character on you was such a terrible chore and you can't wait to be rid of me!"

They were toe to toe, facing off, and he could feel the anger and the heat of her body. She looked dangerous, her eyes dark and flashing, her breathing shallow, her cheeks flushed.

God, she was so freaking hot.

And then, as if she'd read his mind or something, she was kissing him. Or maybe he had kissed her, he honestly wasn't sure, and it was possible that he'd been the one to make the first move since he'd only thought about kissing her about a million times a day since the day he'd met her.

And then he stopped thinking, his brain exploding, because whoever had started it, she was into it. Her hands were in his hair, holding him in place as if he had any intention of going anywhere (ever again) as she all but attacked his mouth, her tongue surging into his mouth. She was so hot and so fierce, nipping at his lip, and oh god, he liked it, he really really liked it.

He wrapped his arms around her, his hands finally finally getting to touch her amazing body and he heard a strangled moan trapped deep in her throat that he swore went straight to his groin. One of his hands slipped down the curve of her waist and down to her ass—he blamed the slippery-sleek fabric of the dress, really—and then his fingers found the hot smooth skin of her taut thigh, the short, tight skirt having crept up because—oh yeah, he might have slipped his thigh between her legs. When had that happened?

She was rocking against him, pressing her body against his, as she tugged him infinitesimally closer, and then curled her tongue around his in a way that had a super-charged jolt of lust sizzling down his spine and tore a groan from his throat as he returned the favor, taking control of the kiss—or trying to—because Kate Beckett wasn't ceding control without a fight. (Did she ever?) And holy hell, he'd always thought they would be compatible physically but not even his hottest fantasies had come close to doing justice to the reality of Kate Beckett in his arms, the intimate press of her body against his. She rolled her hips against him and sucked on his tongue and it was official that she was the sexiest woman ever—although at the moment, he couldn't quite remember that any other woman existed in the world.

No, there was only her and she wanted him and he was so far beyond turned on it was almost painful as she ground herself against him and—

There was a knock on the door and then the sound of a strident and way too familiar voice demanding, "Rick Castle, get your ass out of there."

Paula. Oh shit.

Beckett tore herself away from him and he tried and failed not to stare at her like some lovesick (okay, lovesick and horny) teenager because she looked amazing, gorgeously flushed, her lips swollen, her pupils blown, dark with desire.

And yeah, that was because of him. He felt a surge of primitive triumph mingling in with the lust and encroaching self-consciousness because he'd known she wanted him too and for the moment, that made up for the fact that his agent was standing right outside the door, no doubt suspecting exactly what he and Beckett had been up to.

Shit, he'd almost had sex in a coat closet at his own launch party. What the hell had he been thinking? Easy answer, he hadn't been thinking.

Castle managed to cudgel enough brain cells into working to raise his voice a little to be heard on the other side of the door. "I'll be right out." He turned his attention back to Beckett, who was now blushing furiously as she looked anywhere but at him.

She was adorable.

"Kate," he began, not that he really had any idea what he was going to say.

His use of her first name at least made her look at him, her eyes flying up to meet his, as she tugged her lower lip between her teeth in what he'd noticed was one of her characteristic gestures when she was feeling uncertain (or wanted to tease him) and that was not helping because all that made him want to do was kiss her again. And again and again for, oh, the next year or ten or forever.

His thoughts had been derailed and she got tired of waiting for him because she began, "Castle, I—"

He quirked his eyebrows at her, a renegade spurt of amusement breaking through his fog of rampant lust and incipient awkwardness. "I think you can call me Rick since you were just executing an enthusiastic search warrant on my mouth."

She choked on a laugh even as the color flared brighter in her cheeks and he allowed himself a smirk. He didn't feel like analyzing just why he always felt so ridiculously thrilled when he managed to make Kate Beckett laugh. What he could say, less crassly this time, was, "I meant what I said. I want you. And whatever you might think, I don't just want you for a one-night stand. I—" He hesitated, inwardly writhing, but he was going for broke now—go big or go home, right?—and he couldn't help but feel encouraged because, well, she wasn't shutting him up or maiming him and she had just been kissing him, very enthusiastically, and if he knew anything at all about Kate Beckett, it was that she didn't just go around kissing random men and she didn't do one-night stands. After all, wasn't that why she'd turned him down more than once? "I like you." A lot, but he left that unsaid. That way lay too much vulnerability. "I think you're extraordinary," he repeated.

That word got to her, her expression softening, becoming almost… shy, if that word wasn't so utterly inappropriate for Detective Kate Beckett. Maybe, 'receptive' was better, and pleased. The way she'd looked earlier when she read the dedication.

Paula rapped sharply on the door again and he huffed a sigh. His agent was pushy. It made her good at her job but damn if it wasn't also annoying as hell sometimes.

"I need to get back out there but, um, don't leave? And when I'm done making nice, maybe we can get a drink or something? If you want to, that is." Not the smoothest invitation he'd ever issued but this was Kate Beckett and if this evening proved anything, it was that she had a way of stripping him of any game he'd ever had. She made him stupid. (She also made him, well, better, but he didn't dwell on that.)

For a moment, she just stared at him, unsmiling, and he was abruptly terrified that she was going to say no, that no matter that she might be fine kissing him in the heat of the moment, she still didn't want anything to do with him personally once that moment was done.

And then—

"Okay," she agreed, a small smile playing on her lips.

Just one word but that was enough, more than enough. He forcibly controlled the size of his grin and, in the interest of not being maimed, he suppressed the urge to pump his fist in triumph. Kate Beckett had agreed to a drink and, if the past few minutes and her current expression were any indication, more than that with him!

He stepped in closer, hearing her breathing hitch, before he brushed his lips quickly over hers, not daring to linger or touch her anywhere else, and even just the quick touch of her lips was enough to get his blood humming again.

He forced himself to step back. "Until later, Beckett."

It took serious will power for him to turn away from her and leave but leave he did, having the presence of mind to swipe his hand over his mouth in case of any transferred lip gloss before slipping out of the closet with more discretion than he'd used to go into it. Only to almost walk right into Paula, who was all but tapping her foot on the ground in impatience.

"Finally," she latched onto his arm. "If you're done sucking face with the real Nikki Heat, you need to get back to doing the pretty. Some members of your fan club are waiting. And a reporter from The Ledger was looking for you for a quote."

He didn't bother protesting her assumption of what he and Beckett had been doing because she wasn't wrong, even as he inwardly cringed at having it put so bluntly. Get her out of your system, Paula had said earlier—but he was abruptly very certain that no matter what, he was never getting Beckett out of his system. She'd been in his system since well before tonight and now that he'd kissed her, felt just how hot they could be together, he was hopelessly addicted. Addicted to her taste and to her passion, addicted to her razor-sharp cleverness and quick wit, just addicted to her. He was never getting her out of his system. He didn't even want to get her out of his system.

He'd said he liked her. Which he did but that was the least of it. After the scorching passion of their kiss, he had no doubt that they would be great together physically but lust had always factored into his feelings for Beckett. It was everything else he felt, the way he'd felt like his heart might crack when he saw the tears glistening in her eyes as she told him about her mom's murder, her father's alcoholism. The way he'd felt something like jealousy curdling his insides when he saw her with Sorenson. The way he'd felt the sick twist in his chest at her stricken, devastated expression when he said, It's about your mother. The startling and somehow not at all startling realization of how much her smiles, her occasional laughs, meant to him. How much he would do for her. He hadn't been deaf to the seriousness of Cannell's warning about the Russian mob—his tendencies to recklessness had been tempered by Alexis because he would never, ever willingly leave his daughter—but he'd realized that somehow, already, Beckett had joined the ranks of Alexis and his mother in the group of people for whom he would do just about anything.

But he couldn't think about that now.

"Yes, I know what my job is, Paula," was all he said. "Lead me to the reporter."

Paula led him back into the party while he consciously put on his Richard Castle, Celebrity persona. And tried to ignore the fact that it felt as if every cell in his body wanted to go back to Beckett. Even walking away from Beckett felt… wrong, as if he never wanted to be away from her. As if he belonged with her.

And that was the problem. He'd said he liked her. But it occurred to him that what he really meant was that he could love her. (Might already love her.)

Oh shit.

~To be continued…~

A/N 2: This is a story I absolutely did not plan to write since I am in the middle of another story and I try not to get distracted mid-story but I saw the prompt by Lou from a while ago (the scene at the book party ends with Beckett saying "do whatever you want, you always do anyway," and he says, "fine," and does just that), and this fic barged into my brain and demanded to be written out. You can all blame (or thank, as the case might be) Castle and Beckett for being so forceful because, well, when they invade my brain, mine is not to question why, mine is but to write or die. (I think having Castle in my head makes me melodramatic.)

The smut is coming and will be posted on Valentine's Day.