Chapter 1: Mano
"Now we're even. So, what do you say to a...little showdown? Head to head, toe to toe, winner take all, mano a mujer?"
Beckett's still looking down at the cash he's just disgorged, but as soon as she looks up the air changes around her, edgy, dark and hot. The bullpen's quiet, almost deserted, and the challenge in Castle's voice is palpable. They've been dancing around each other for a couple of months, and she's getting bored of the minuet. Time for the tango.
"Hand to woman?" That's dumb. Well, not dumb precisely. Not good Spanish, certainly. He probably means mano a mano. Though she likes the thought of mano a mujer more and more with every passing second. A delicate thrill of anticipation sends little needle-chills down her nerves. Her competitive instincts, normally leashed and restrained, spring up. She likes competition: the thrill of the chase, whether she's predator or prey; the adrenaline rush of winning. Competition drives her higher, makes her more focused. And deep inside, where she doesn't admit it, certain forms of competition also make her hot. Such as this one. Now that they've finished that idiotic exchange of hand-throwing and settled those not-debts, it's time for some real poker.
She knows there's more to this than just the cards on the table. She's wholly aware – how could she not be? He spends all his time making it transparently clear – that he wants her. She's also wholly aware that she's been squeezing down her own desires and wants and that they are, tonight, very close to the surface. It's been a rough week, and it's not just the case. Throwing poker hands got rather too near to a real fight.
"Whatever it takes," smirks Castle. There's a noticeably predatory undertone to that. Seems like this is about to become another round of innuendo and subtext and making it clear that he's hot for her without ever saying the words. Well, maybe he just might get a shock. Let's see if he's not just all mouth. Though it's a very… mobile… mouth. And she doesn't only mean the amount of talking he does. His mouth has figured in a number of her dreams.
"You're on," Beckett says, her tone throwing down a gauntlet of her own, not just accepting his challenge. She's got her own agenda, and right now it involves beating the pants off Castle, who's not as good a poker player as he thinks. He's very, very good – but she's certain that she's just a little bit better, and now she's going to prove it.
"No mercy." He's still smirking, obviously convinced he's going to win.
"I'm gonna make you hurt." Her smile is knife-sharp.
He'd said, once, he'd be happy if she spanked him. She still doesn't think that's entirely – or indeed at all – true. He doesn't strike her as any sort of a sub. If he were that way inclined, he might actually do what she told him occasionally. There'd be clues and tells and indications: his responses to her air of authority and the sharp snap of command in her voice, the impossibility of disobedience, would be entirely different. She hasn't seen a single one of those. He doesn't disobey her in an effort to invite pleasurable punishment. He does it to annoy her. That's just mouthing off, trying to get a rise out of her. Or possibly, in the circumstances, a fall. Flat on to her back, with her legs wide open. Still, she's pretty sure he was – er – risen himself at that point. Anyway, she doesn't want a sub. Equality. That's what she usually likes: someone who'll match her. Which doesn't exclude some interesting games, by way of variation. Tiny rills of expectation flutter down her spine, and turn into small waves of heat at its base.
"Oh, you're gonna get hurt."
Is he really trying to challenge her? Oh, he is so going to lose this. Her getting hurt? Not likely. Quite apart from anything else – like that she isn't going to lose, and has no intention of losing, tonight – she's not into spanking, either delivering or receiving, or anything of a painful nature. Wounds and bruises in the line of duty are quite sufficient, in her book, and she's had enough of them to know. Time to start the dance, though. He'll never resist making some smartass comment in reply to this question, and then she'll see if he's as good as he thinks he is – at poker, and, if he's good enough – or she is – at poker, at other matters. If she's better, she'll enjoy the results too. Heads she wins, tails he loses. She likes those odds.
"What are we playing for?"
"Pride. Or clothing." Gotcha, Castle. He clearly expects that to be shut down with a smart negating comment in reply, because that's what she always does when he's suggestive.
"Clothing." Oh, yes. He looks like she hit him round the face with a wet codfish. Oh, that is an amazing expression. He's completely devoid of words and thought. She grins evilly.
"What's the matter, Castle? Not up for it?" she taunts. Gotcha. Play or pay, Castle. If he's this bad at hiding his reactions when his bluff's called then she'll have reduced him to nakedness before she's even had to take her coat off. She thinks happily that while he may be good at poker when he's not clearly imagining her with all her clothes off he looks as if he'll be very bad at it when he is. Oh, this is going to be so much fun.
She really can't, in fact, lose, tonight. Either he's left completely defeated, or they find their way to some very mutually enjoyable pursuits. And if he isn't up for mutually enjoyable pursuits because she's beaten him hands down, then she won't be up for it either, because he certainly won't be the sort of man she likes, or that she thinks he is. Sore losers are a waste of space, and they're usually pretty poor in bed too.
The real question is, will he recover the power of speech and/or thought before midnight? Right now he's encouragingly incapable of either. Her grin takes on a sharp, feral edge.
"Oh well," she says, calmly, as if she couldn't care less. "If you're not interested, I'm out of here." She picks her coat off the back of the chair, and hunts out her purse. "See you."
That worked. He's actually physically preventing her from leaving. The grip on her wrist is surprisingly firm. She likes it. Strength without discomfort. Mmmmm. She stares down at his hand on her arm in a very meaningful manner.
"Oh no, Beckett. You don't get to throw that out and walk away."
"You didn't answer. I don't wait around. You snooze, you lose, Castle – of course, maybe you were scared of losing in the first place?" Her voice is delicately inquiring. "Not a problem. Time for me to go home."
"No." Well, that is encouragingly definite. "You wanna play poker, let's play." He obviously realises where they are. "Not here, though." Well, no. Exhibitionism is so tacky. And she'd like to keep her job.
"Mine." He raises an interrogative eyebrow. It's nearly as good a look as hers. "No interested audiences. No chance of interested audiences."
And she'll be on home ground. He's never been to her apartment – she's not even sure he knows where it is, though since he's as inquisitive as a gossip rag hack he may have found out – so he'll be at least as curious – putting his inquisitiveness to serve her ends – about how and where she lives as he is about the poker. That'll fracture his concentration even further. (The idea that he would be curious about her – ends, so to speak – wriggles down to the same end of her spine as the earlier flutters of expectation) She shifts a little, and is currently glad that her top is a relatively heavy fabric. Concealing, she might say. (The bra under it is not. Either a heavy fabric, or concealing. She'll use that to good effect, when necessary.)
She thinks a little further about strategies. She could simply play to win every hand, without revealing anything. She could lose a couple of early hands, and turn Castle to breathless mush, (except, she expects, in one single anatomical area) and then win big because on present evidence he wouldn't have a single functional brain cell left. He'd not even be able to read his cards, let alone plan his plays. In fact, if she does it right there's a very good chance he'll not care about the cards because he'll be drooling over the table. He might even leave the cards entirely. Hmmm. Does she want to be predator, or prey? Aggression, or accession? Offense or defense? Any way up, there will be no flag on this play. Both ideas are currently equally attractive. Bait and switch, depending on how the luck runs. That'll do nicely. The edges on her smile grow sharper.
The elevator ride is charged. Castle has returned to regarding Beckett with a hot, intent stare that makes it clear that he's imagining the results of him winning. It turns her muscles liquid and her walk to a sensual, provocative sway. Her own gaze wanders up and down his body and quite obviously lingers south of his belt. The effects are… interesting. And substantial. Another gallon or two of liquid heat invades her veins. This variety of hot liquid is almost better than coffee.
Castle flags down a cab without so much as a by-your-leave and then looks just a little silly when he realises he doesn't know where they're going. Good. The more off-balance he is, the better. For her, that is. She gives the driver the address, doesn't fail to notice Castle, completely indiscreetly, scribbling it down in his notebook, and slides in.
"Why are you writing down my address, Castle? Stalking is even creepier than staring."
"Well, Beckett, I thought that since this is going to become a regular event" – What? That wasn't precisely the plan. Or the invitation. Try before you buy. She's not committing to anything till she's tested his character.
"Says who?" Oh shit. That was not the best way to put that.
"You will. Once you've discovered just how well I can play with you you'll be happy to play again and again." That smirk should be illegal. It's a provocation defence waiting to be used all on its own. She raises a nasty eyebrow.
"Really? Isn't that just a little overconfident? My standards are very high. I'm not sure you can… measure up." She smirks in return.
"I'm sure you'll find that I …measure up to you. My… assets are quite large enough to meet the claims upon them."
This cab journey had better be quick. Much more of this sort of conversation and strip poker will simply become strip. She opens the cab window a fraction. There seems to be remarkably little air inside, and what there is clearly came from an oven.
"How fortunate," she says smoothly. "Since you'll have to satisfy the extensive claims I'll be making when you lose. Should I ask for a performance guarantee?" That's shut him up. Momentarily.
"Only if you provide one in return. I wasn't intending to lose, though." His gaze makes it perfectly clear what he's intending to do. It doesn't obviously involve a deck of cards. It certainly does involve hands. And no doubt mouths. And… other assets. Hopefully substantial assets. Though initial indications are very promising.
The cab reaches Beckett's building before the conversation can deteriorate further. Innuendo is one thing. Explicitly dirty talk should be kept private. Beckett manages to settle the fare before Castle can, mainly because she accidentally slid her hand over his knee while manoeuvring her purse. It ruined his fine motor skills.
"You can get out now, Castle," she snips. "We have reached our destination." He snaps back to life.
"Have we? I don't think I've reached my final destination."
"Well, on the grounds that I haven't shot you dead, possibly not. But we've reached my apartment, so are you getting out or not?" Castle moves. When Beckett extricates herself, she finds that he's left the minimum possible space for her to exit the cab, and finds further that Castle's view of good manners involves helping (ha!) her out. Which also seems to involve his flexible fingers drawing a little pattern on her arm. Said pattern migrates down her body and pauses when it can't decide which leg it likes better. She manages not to wriggle. Just.
There's no air in the elevator in her building, either, and the temperature is rising with each floor. Castle's eyes have darkened almost to black, and there seems to be remarkably little space between them given that Beckett's plastered to one side and Castle to the other. When the doors open Castle waves her to precede him and takes – she is entirely unsurprised by this – the opportunity to escort her with a hand over the small of her back. Even through her leather jacket she can feel the heat and leashed force in his gesture. Hmmm. This could be an interesting contest. Looks like both sides might be playing offense. It's not exactly how the gridiron goes. She remembers that Castle had blindsided her by proving to be a very good shot, a couple of weeks ago. Hmmm. Not just a metrosexual dilettante. Mmmm.
Inside, she locates a deck of cards and invites Castle to shuffle and deal first.
"What are the rules, Beckett?"
"If you're wearing it, it counts." She smirks. "And you've already taken your jacket off, so that puts you one down before you've even begun. Rookie mistake, Castle." She hasn't taken her jacket off, even though she's rather hotter than she'd like. Come to think of it, that might not be because of her jacket.
"But you've got jewellery on."
"So? You're wearing a watch too – and for all I know a medallion." Castle looks insulted.
"I don't wear a medallion," he says. "What do you think I am? Snoop Dogg?" Definitely insulted.
"One necklace is going to make that much difference? You're going down, and you've already mentally accepted you are." Ooops. Baaad choice of language.
"Oh, am I? You like that thought?" She certainly does. Apart from any other considerations, he would stop talking for a while. Probably. Though this is Castle, who never shuts up, so he's probably developed a way to talk while he's doing that too. "We'll see who goes down."
"I like the thought of you losing." She sits down on one side of a small table. Castle sits down on the other.
"What are we using for chips?"
"I think I got a bag of Gummibears." Beckett gets back up, rummages in a kitchen cabinet and eventually produces not Gummibears but a bag of Hershey's Kisses. Castle looks at her quizzically.
"Do you like Kisses, Beckett?" His gaze is firmly locked on her lips. So of course she licks them to remove their dryness. It looks like Castle liked that. There was a very definite whoosh of indrawn breath. At this rate she'll have wrecked him before the first hand.
"They have their moments," she says casually, and sits down again to dole out the candies. Castle looks insulted again. "Chocolate is always a good thing." When she's finished dividing them there's one left over. She keeps it, smirking, and awaits developments. She's not disappointed when he pouts. It gives her some interesting ideas about where she might want to plant her own mouth.
"That's not fair, Beckett. You're cheating – you've got more chips than me."
Beckett smiles wickedly. "Okay, I'll make it fair." She unwraps the candy, lifts it to her mouth, and swirls her tongue over it. Castle emits a strangled yelp. She does it again. His absolute focus on her mouth is amazingly flattering. She wasn't aware that he could apply that much focus. The thought of that focus applied somewhat closer is very arousing. The fact that he is practically clinging to his chair already is even better. He's clearly exercising an enormous amount of restraint not simply to haul her across the table and ignore the poker aspects of strip poker. She slurps her candy lasciviously and when he's suitably impressed (for which, she thinks, read stunned) pops it fully into her mouth, chews and swallows.
"I like kisses," she smirks. "When they're the right kind." She's almost sure that was a whimper. When she runs her tongue over her lips to clean off any last traces of chocolate there's no almost about it. She likes this game, and they haven't even begun yet. "Are you going to deal?"
Castle shuffles expertly, Beckett turning all her attention on his fingers. She wouldn't bet against one of his many dubious contacts having taught him to stack the deck. It's a little disconcerting that watching his sizeable fingers manipulating the cards is making her think about how those same fingers could be put to better use, but she's in control of her body and mind. She is, of course, doing her very best to ensure that Castle isn't, which is leaving her a little overheated and a lot damp, but she's got this. She's on top of it. She likes being on top. She likes being underneath, as well, in the right circumstances. Dampness becomes quite definite wetness.
Beckett wins the first hand. Castle takes a shoe off and places it neatly out the way, flexing his biceps quite unnecessarily as he does. It has no effect on Beckett's concentration whatsoever, though achieving this result takes a considerable amount of effort and some rather distressing memories of the body in its motor oil bath. (She refuses even to think the word lube in this company.) She proceeds to take the next three hands by employing entirely nefarious tactics to destroy Castle's concentration, including soft, sexy noises, licking her lips, biting her lip, (that always works though she still has no idea why) and twirling her tongue around her fingertip, by which time the possibilities of his shoes and socks have been exhausted and she is sure his pants are too tight. Well, he started it. (not that she would have scrupled to start on those tactics herself. Poker is merely a means to an end, now.)
Another piece of AU M-rated fluff., in two chapters, final chapter tomorrow.
If the title has been used before, I apologise. I haven't seen it used.
Reviews are very much appreciated and all logged in reviews will be answered. To unlogged in reviewers, thank you.