Chapter 1
She hated this party. All dressed up with a roomful of strangers, all in couples, and here she was all on her own because her lame-ass boyfriend – ex-boyfriend, as of an hour ago – had chosen tonight to inform – not ask, or discuss, or suggest, but inform – her that they were moving to Boston because he'd had a promotion.
"Fuck that," she'd said, followed by, "and fuck you too. No. I'm not going to Boston and I'm not sacrificing my career for yours. We're done."
An hour later, she was still blazing with rage, though hurt was beginning to taint its edges. She stalked to the bar – free, which was the only small consolation.
"Vodka, please. Double. On the rocks."
Single and drinking alone. Not a good start. After the first gulp, she realised it, and sipped, perched on a bar stool in a tight black dress which showed off her legs. Sonofabitch FedEx had loved her legs, and when he'd said that he'd got a surprise for her tonight she'd gotten herself all dressed up. She hadn't expected what he actually said. And then the unlamented – she censored the next word – had said well it won't matter when we're married. Who had he thought he was? Fuck that, she thought again. Fuck him sideways with a flagpole. Splinters would be only too appropriate.
She forced herself only to sip. The toxic vapour cloud of her fury surrounded her, drowning out quite a number of interested glances. The next day, she supposed, she'd be back at work – oh. Shit. She was taking – had been forced to take, more accurately – three days' leave. Aaargh. Well, she'd spend the first of them fumigating every last trace of that sexist, chauvinist, sonofabitch Sorenson from her apartment. At least she'd taken her key from him as she'd ditched him. Not fumigating. Sterilising. And if he'd left anything, it was going in the trash. In pieces.
"Another," she said to the barman, and as an afterthought, though her tone had made him jump to her order, "please."
She became aware of someone edging up beside her. Her shoulder blocked them. She was going to drink her vodka and then go home. The punch ball in her apartment was calling to her, and she was going to save one photo and pin it on the ball to give her a target.
"Scotch," he said to the barman. "Single malt." He stepped sideways, and knocked her arm. "Sorry," he said automatically, but nothing more. His whisky arrived, and he threw it back in one go. "Another, please." He hadn't given Beckett more than a single fleeting glance.
The second glass sat in front of him, and whoever it was leaned on the bar and sighed. He seemed to be almost as depressed as Beckett was furious. Like her, he sipped at the liquor; like her, he was controlling an obvious desire to down it in one and keep going. She concentrated on her own drink. It was sliding down very easily.
"Want another?"
Oh. It was depressed-party-man. Even his voice was flat and unhappy. Her instant instinct to turn him into ground beef receded slightly.
"I need another, and yours is done, so…" he offered.
Beckett took a look at him. He was faintly familiar. Neurons started to twang in the back of her brain. "Sure, thanks. Vodka on the rocks." Her voice was calm and very cool. Her brain had just exploded. This was Richard Castle. Richard-freaking-Castle, right there next to her. He was top of her Freebie Five list. And she liked the books. Loved the books.
And she was single.
He wasn't. He was, quite famously, married to his publisher/editor. Everyone knew that. Second marriage. But if he was married, where was his wife, and why wasn't he working the room and putting on a show and generally being the notorious Richard Castle: megastar playboy author? She made a snap decision not to be Interrogation Beckett, and not to let on that she knew exactly who he was. It wasn't like she was going to sleep with him. Her bright line was taken men. No way, never.
Now there was a thought. Had that-sonofabitch-FedEx been playing away? She wouldn't have thought so, but…he hadn't been half as upset as he should've been when she ditched him. Unconsciously, she snarled, and her fingers made a gesture of spine-snapping intensity.
"If you don't want one, that's okay," he said hurriedly. "I didn't mean to insult you. I'll just…" –
"It's not you," she apologised. "Just…not a good day."
"Boyfriend trouble?"
"You what now?"
"Well, you're on your own, and this party is all couples… and you sound really pissed and it can't only be me because we haven't even met yet…and normally when someone makes that sort of a gesture they wanna shoot someone. Or strangle them. Or tear out their spine, slowly and painfully. Or beat the hell out of their face."
"Have you quite finished?" But the first smile of the previous almost two hours was beginning to flirt at her lips.
"Well, er, um…no, because I've seen at least fifty more indications of dislike" –
"You've been here half an hour and you've been staring into your drink most of that. I don't believe you."
"Oh, not on you. On my ex."
"Ex?"
"As of this morning, ex. She's a great woman. I'm not – I obviously wasn't –a great husband. So now I'm not. A husband, that is. And believe me, I've seen every gesture of annoyance, frustration, irritation, dislike, and general pissedness in the book."
Beckett had stopped paying attention at I'm not a husband. He was single. She was single. He was sexy. Hotter than hell and right here. Her mood was broken when he put his glass down with a thud. "So, d'you want a drink?"
"Yeah. Thank you." She paused, but not for long. "I ditched my boyfriend on the way in here." Richard Castle (squee!) looked sympathetically at her. "He'd decided that we'd move. Shame he forgot to discuss it with me first."
"I guess that didn't go down well?"
"Nope." She bit off the p. "Damn straight. So I ditched the bastard right then."
"Good."
His eyes roamed over her, and for the first time he looked, rather than glanced. When his gaze returned to her face, having lingered on every inch on the way down and back up, his expression had changed. It wasn't sympathetic. It was heated.
Why not? He's single. I'm single. No commitment. She didn't do one night stands. So what? He's sexy. She'd never see him again, except maybe if she got his books signed. Sufficient unto the day, she thought.
She might not do one-night stands, but she was absolutely prepared to do Richard Castle.
She matched his hot blue gaze with sparking hazel, and bit her lower lip, soothed it with a pink flick of tongue-tip. He moved closer, thigh touching her knee. She wound her calf around his leg, pulling him a fraction nearer: just enough to make it clear he was very welcome. He smiled wolfishly, and laid a hand over hers.
It burned. She turned her hand palm up under his – big, broad hands; callouses on the fingers – as their hands closed around each other, lying on the bar.
"I'm Rick."
"I'm Kate."
"Do you want that drink?"
"Hell, no. Let's get out of here."
She stood up, eyes sparking.
"You're tall," he said, surprised.
"Yeah. Are we leaving, or what?"
"Yes."
Less than two minutes later Beckett found herself out on the street, whistling down a taxi, and Richard Castle – Rick – still hanging on to her hand.
"Impressive," he said. She simply smirked. "Varick Club," he said to the driver, opened the taxi door for her and followed her in. "Are you sure about this?" he asked.
"Yep." She confirmed it by running her hand up his arm and around his jaw, then pulling his head down to kiss him aggressively. His response was instant: powerful and passionate.
He lifted off for a moment. "I do like a woman who knows what she wants," he murmured. "It makes it so much easier to give it to her."
"I like a man who knows what he's doing," she husked, hauled his head back down and nipped his lip. "Explanations are so tedious."
"I don't need explanations." His hand landed on her knee, fingers upwards, and she squirmed and breathed faster. His fingers slid higher. "Or directions." Hers took a detour from his neck downwards, and found hard muscle under the fine dress pants. His breathing speeded up to match hers.
"Just as well youse are gettin' a room," the driver said sardonically. "Cause I ain't havin' none of that in my cab. We're here."
Rick paid. Beckett growled. It had no effect. Checking in took mere moments: the first sight of Rick's card had an amazing effect on the reception desk. There were no awkward questions, no sly looks (a look of admiration, sure), and no indiscreet gazes towards ring fingers. She could get used to that – no. No getting used to anything. One night stand. That was all. Rebound sex – perfect way to get rid of that asshole ex. Rick had kissed well…um…scorchingly well. She'd have a great night, and that would be that. Names and numbers not relevant.
The elevator was unoccupied, fortunately, since as soon as the doors shut Rick took instant possession of her mouth, wrapped one hand round her skull and used the other to clamp around her ass and press her as close as clothes allowed. Mmmmmm. Nice package there. She rolled her hips and heard the grating, predatory growl with total satisfaction. She was already damp. He was quite definitely hard. Her hands wriggled under his shirt and found more hard muscle all the way up his back.
They walked out of the elevator in good order, if you ignored the untucked shirt, swollen lips and crackling sexual attraction. Fortunately the room wasn't far from the elevator. Rick didn't let go of her for a moment: a firm arm around her waist, fingers not quite indiscreetly low, but giving the clear impression that they could be at an instant's notice. It was hotly arousing.
The door opened, they fell into the room, the door closed – with Beckett's back against it and Rick's mouth taking hers without a pause. She had no objection at all, and gave it back with interest: hands locked around his neck and tongues battling. She nipped on his lip and it fired him up: he brought one of her legs up round his waist and stroked from knee upwards, stopping at the hem of her dress, which was equally arousing and annoying. He should go further, right now. She wrapped her leg firmly around his ass and pulled him forwards into her, grinding against the bulge in his pants. He pushed in, and their kiss became hotter, harder, and demanding. Words were not required.
She wrenched his buttons apart, he ripped the zipper of her dress open from neck to ass: the shirt and dress were simultaneously shoved from their shoulders.
He stopped, and stepped a little back. Beckett's busy hands flicked his pants open and pushed them away too, so that he had to step out of them as she had to step out of her dress.
"Wow," he said, admiring her from top to toes, blue eyes blowtorch hot. She stood proud under his gaze: perfectly at home in her underwear and skin; lips wet, bee-stung and reddened; nipples erect and pushing the sheer fabric of her black lace bra, only just concealing; a little sheen of sweat in her cleavage; breasts pertly forward and inviting. His gaze dropped, and snagged on the tiny pair of briefs, also sheer with black lace, covering the bare essentials.
Beckett returned the favour, sending a scorching, assessing gaze over Rick just as slowly. Firm muscle, nice abs, strong arms…and a very pretty package indeed, enclosed in a pair of – ooohhh, silk – boxers. A large package. Definitely extra postage required. On the other hand, she was so wet and so ready and really, his size wasn't going to be a problem.
They exchanged identically predatory smiles.
"You're gorgeous," he grated.
"You're pretty good too," she husked. "Let's be good together."
"I think I'd rather be bad. I'm very good at being bad."
"So am I."
She hauled him back close and smiled sharply. "Showtime." Her lips moved sensually over his: slow and smooth and oh-so-sexy, drawing his lower lip into her mouth and releasing, a rhythmic movement that made her think of the harder, deeper thrust and release to come. His hips mimicked her mouth, and she rolled against him, hands biting into his shoulders and enjoying the flex and stretch of the muscle under her grip.
"Sure," he grinned, and his hands pulled her leg up once more, his mouth took hers again, and his evil, evil fingers began to glide and swoop and venture ever further over her inner thigh; then leave and ply over her taut, slim ass; then return. She gasped as the tips of his fingers brushed the lace of her panties, and again as his mouth left hers to wander across her jaw and round to her ear, where it expertly found a nerve which went directly to her core and sent hot sparks down it. She mewed, and her fingers bit on his flesh, her head thrown back. He gleefully accepted the open invitation and began to kiss down her throat to her clavicles. She liked that. She really liked that. The man could surely use his mouth.
She flooded as she thought of what else he might be able to do with his mouth.
"You're hot," he said, almost reverently. "Absolutely fucking hot." One broad finger delicately traced along the lacy line of her bra, dipping beneath it. "Smooth as silk," and he wasn't talking about the fabric.
"You're pretty hot too, Rick," Beckett purred. He sure was. They were going to blaze.
His lower hand slipped over her thigh and shifted her panties to rub across her, and he made a satisfied noise as he felt their dampness. "What does it for you?"
Truthfully, that would be him. He was definitely doing it for her.
"You're doing just fine so far." She slid her hand down to brush against his as she palmed him. "What does it for you?"
"You."
She blinked. That had been unwontedly definite. They'd only met an hour or two ago. "Do I?" she deflected. "Okay then." She kissed him, which shut him up, which was a good thing. This was a one-time thing, because famous, notorious, infamous Richard Castle, multimillionaire and megastar, was never going to keep company with a lowly Detective Second Grade (still so new it hadn't lost its shine) – and anyway she didn't want to keep company with him.
Who was she kidding? She so did – but it was never going to happen, so she didn't. This was a one-time thing, and she'd better remember it. Right. Now that that was settled, she was going to enjoy it. Him. Ohhhhhh yes. Ohhhhh yes.
His hand wrapped round her waist, leaving her breasts – but was replaced by his mouth, which was definitely the better part of the deal. She couldn't do anything but cling to his shoulders as he feasted: licking, sucking, nipping and nibbling until she couldn't think, only react: flexing and arching and writhing under his erotic actions.
"You like that," he breathed against her skin, unclasped her bra, and slipped the straps from her slim shoulders. "You'll like this too."
She did. Oh God oh God do that some more. Nobody had heated her up like that ever. Oh god oh god oh god Rick! She sagged against the door. Her knees had mysteriously disappeared. Certainly they weren't present to hold her up. Tiny aftershocks were still fizzing through her.
Thank you to all readers and reviewers.
Three chapters on the usual Tue-Thu-Sun schedule. Written to finish coincident with the Pornado weekend, 16-18 Nov.