A/N: Set in late S2, and ridiculously AU. Even remembering that Tom Demming had Beckett's attention makes me mad.
The ache in Kate Beckett's legs mocked her as she trudged up the precinct stairs. It was the dull throb of weariness, of exhausted muscles that have slogged through a long day, as opposed to the kind of ache she had been hoping she would feel tonight.
The lights buzzed in the silence of a nearly empty building, joining in with the lonely staccato of her heels on the floor. Staying late at work was what Kate was basically programmed to do when she had hit a wall – it was usually just case-related instead of personal.
She had known, in that gut-feeling way that all girls know, that tonight would be the night with Tom. He had asked her to dinner at an upscale restaurant she had mentioned early on in their acquaintance, proving that he listened and deferred to her taste and opinions. She had changed in the precinct bathroom, slithering into a little black dress that hinted at her plans for "dessert", and shared a cab downtown with her fellow detective, whose eyes practically burned holes through her throughout the dimly lit ride. Dinner had been delicious, but the portions were chic – read: small – which would have bothered her had she not been purposefully seeking the release of alcohol to kickstart the fun part of the evening. Having achieved the optimal level of tipsiness for public flirting and confident seducing, she found herself pressed against a brick wall outside the restaurant, her tongue dueling with Tom's and her hands exploring every available inch of his buff upper body.
In truth, which she could admit defeatedly now, alone in an empty stairwell, she had sensed during that make-out session that the evening's follow-up activities might be a little subpar. What she told herself in the heat of the moment was passionate and crazed was more fumbling and uncoordinated. She had tried to establish a pattern to her kissing, gentling so that Tom could pick up on her rhythm and anticipate and match her moves, but his fervor was unsettlingly reminiscent of an adolescent boy getting farther than expected with his crush. Reflecting on all this, Kate swiped her hand over her face, almost embarrassed by the disappointment she had tamped down in order to keep on track and finally get laid. She had believed herself past the point of refraining from telling a man she wasn't satisfied with his performance.
Even still, the interrupting, shrill ring of Tom's cell had been like a splash of ice water over her body. He had pulled away from her reluctantly to answer, but when her hips followed him, seemingly of their own volition, his hand didn't continue roving over her like she instantly fantasized he would. He took the call, physically still in her space, but as the seconds ticked by, his attention to her waned, and she was left panting, nearly pained in her abandonment.
A voice had blown like a lover's caressing breath between her ears: Who would dare take his hands off you, Kate Beckett?
She had shut her eyes instantly, as if that could make her pretend she didn't know exactly whose voice she was hearing at that torturous and completely inconvenient moment.
Tom was needed at a crime scene. Of course, I get it, go, go, we'll take a rain check, soon. She would have done the same and she knew it. He left her with a chaste smear of a kiss like a last-minute blot of a napkin.
She could have gone home and taken care of herself, but she knew she'd be disappointed by the circumstances. It wasn't what she wanted. All day she had conjured the phantom touch of male fingers gripping her hips, spreading her legs, seeking that weeping heat with finesse. She had imagined – longed for – the weight of a man on top of her, pressing her down into a soft surface and thrusting so deeply every frustrated tangle of tension inside her would come undone.
And yet here she was, alone, at work, more knotted up with unreleased tension than she had been in weeks.
"Beckett?"
She startled, realizing too late that she had closed her eyes and stopped her aimless trudge to lean against the bannister, far too distracted to have heard him coming. Pressing her hand against her rabbiting heartbeat, she stared disbelievingly down at the hall at Richard Castle. Who was gaping just as disbelievingly at her.
"Castle," she breathed, straightening slowly, "what… what are you doing here?"
"I forgot my notebook," he offered with all the innocence of one falsely accused, lifting said notebook from its place at his side. "I had been writing at home and realized I didn't have any of my notes from earlier…" His voice trailed off as he came closer to her, cocking his head. "Wait, what are you doing here, Beckett? We closed our case today."
She gulped, pretending his increasing nearness had no effect on her whatsoever. "Paperwork," she lied, trying to inject annoyance into her tone. "But that's really none of your business. You're the one who shouldn't be here, Castle."
That stupid smirk of his was digging into his cheek, distracting her enough that she didn't realize they were toe-to-toe until it was far too late. "Desk sergeant likes me," he murmured as his gaze tripped down her face, resting too comfortably on her mouth.
Fuck, fuck – she was biting her bottom lip. She released it not-so-subtly; the motion seemed to drill his lopsided grin even deeper into the stubbled terrain of his cheek.
Back up, sneered the lucid, rational – and bitterly, unfairly un-fucked – part of her brain, but she didn't move. He smelled so good, like expensive cologne and the faintest hint of sweat that came not from the exertion of physical labor, but of staying still too long, of building up a bit of a musk. Against all her better instincts, the untouched place between her thighs began to throb – it was a sweat of a writer long at work, pounding it out against the keyboard, pouring out his energy and creativity until he was spent. Until he was finished getting her out of his system.
"Didn't you have a date tonight, Beckett?"
She felt her hackles rise at his sardonic tone. "How did you…" She paused, allowing herself to look deep into those unrelenting eyes. "Esposito."
Castle didn't confirm or deny his source, only took the opportunity to look down the entire length of her body, straining against the confines of her wilted, worn work clothes. "Shouldn't you be out sharing the tiramisu by candlelight in a tight black dress?"
"The desk sergeant really likes to gossip, huh?" she replied, ignoring the husk of his voice, the deliberateness of his stare, the image of herself painted on the tip of his tongue.
His eyes found hers again. "I saw you," he confessed, "before you left."
The air took on a heaviness that threatened to make her combust. Neither of them moved, blinked. Finally, wetting her lips, she heard herself say, "You saw me and… went home to write…"
She could read it so blatantly in the darkening blue between his lashes. She would have been mortified at her inability to contain her shiver if she hadn't been using all her energy to keep her clenching hands from diving into the open vee of his unbuttoned collar.
"Did he cut your evening short?" His voice was nothing but a grumble, at a pitch she had never heard before, only imagined in the middle of an unillumined, unexamined night.
"He had a case," she scraped out on a swallow.
"He's an idiot." The accusation hit her square in the chest, activating all the parts of her that had been screaming with the lack of Tom's attention earlier.
She was stammering, desperate to escape or escalate, she wasn't sure, but she wasn't making a sound. Run run run, hissed the rationality that was quickly revealing itself to be nothing more than fear, shackled by the need to control. But the rest of her body was flooded by a want so all-consuming, bursting apart the dam that had been keeping it back since she had whispered in his ear.
You have no idea.
But she did. Goddammit, she knew on a screaming, cellular level that he would satisfy every single craving hidden in her body. Had known and blocked it out with the safe smile of a robbery detective who made her blush but didn't make her ache.
He stepped closer, his breath coming harshly through his nose like he was barely holding on. His gaze was laser-focused somewhere south of her navel, like he could sense the way she pulsated for him.
"He left you… like this," he grounded out incredulously.
Her chest had somehow turned into a thrashing ocean of need without her notice, brushing up against his in desperate, choppy waves. Fuck, if he didn't touch her –
She stilled, on fire, at the brush of fingertips at her stomach. They glided down until they stopped, gingerly, at the button of her pants. She wasn't breathing.
And then he slowly slid the button free, and her aroused exhale echoed around the empty stairwell. She couldn't look away from the sight of his unbroken concentration on his fingers' dexterous work.
How could anything be so slow and so whiplash fast at the same time? His thick fingers slipped beneath the red satin she had worn for another man and parted her with a commitment to exploration that thrilled her down to her toes. He was practically gasping at the feel of her, though he was silent, this illicit encounter sound tracked only by the wet squelch of his digit penetrating her, working her open with ease.
"Christ," he breathed as she tipped her head back on a stifled moan. She could barely feel the way his temple rested against her overworked throat. She couldn't feel anything but the slow swivel of his fingertip against the sticky swell inside her.
"You're so tight," he marveled through the constriction of his own throat. "Fuck, Beckett, fuck."
Her hips started up in tight little bucks, and he followed suit without falter, riding her rhythm while peppering her throat with breathless kisses. His motion was so steady and yet so ardent, she thought she could ride his precision straight to bliss. But then his whole body shifted closer, his thigh pinning hers back. His finger slid deeply, and then it curled.
Her body shook as she screamed, tearing apart the silence of the stairwell in a way that matched the sudden, magnificent burst of pleasure erupting outward from the intimate place he worshiped.
The aftershocks rippled out of her for so long she felt she was coming to when he finally stilled completely. Her vision cleared, leaving her with the instantly addictive sight of Richard Castle staring at her like he wanted to devour her.
She winced as he slowly pulled out of her, only to be immediately placated by his lips trailing from her brow to her jaw. She was whimpering, but she couldn't help it, didn't want to check herself ever again if this was her reward for letting go.
He stopped, his lips hovering a hairbreadth's from hers, ignoring the way she puckered in invitation, in desperate want. She pulled her focus to his face, breathing out a question she couldn't manage, when he suddenly brought his fingers to his lips.
At the sound of his completely unhinged groan, she darted forward, jealous of the way his tongue lavished the remnants of her taste. She attacked his mouth with a fervor that made her earlier dalliance seem like an uninspired slog.
He lifted her by her waist onto his bent knee, sliding her up his thigh and encouraging a rock so filthy it could only be punctuated by a litany of expletives that didn't belong anywhere outside of her bedroom.
"Tell me to take you home," he grunted into her mouth.
She couldn't reply, couldn't even compute, even as his tenor sent her practically thrashing against him. When she didn't do what he wanted, he slid his hands into the hair at her nape and gripped. The sound she released so was wanton she could feel the way she gushed against her opened zipper.
"Tell me you want this," he demanded, sinking her teeth into her bottom lip.
"Wha-of course I want this," she breathed, reaching for the mouth-watering hardness straining against her leg like a caged animal. "And you do, too."
With a growl, he seized her wrist and yanked her hand away, silencing her responding whine of displeasure with a brutal kiss. "Tell me you want me and not the nice, boring man you wore that dress for."
Kate could feel her heart rattling in her throat. Somehow, beneath the ferocious command, she could hear the jealously, the insecurity. And even through the red haze of lust swamping her senses, she knew she understood.
The gentle kiss she bestowed on him was somehow just as breathtaking as anything that had preceded it. He melted into her in with a relief she could feel at every soft and hard place they touched.
"Richard Castle," she whispered as she worked her hand over him slowly, teasingly, intoxicatingly, "come with me."