Short and sweet. A very high T/Low M? IDK I've put it as an M anyway, but there isn't anything explicit in here. IT'S EARLY PUGS. No kids, no kiddy pugs. Just Castle and Beckett and Latte.
Damn little black dresses. Damn little black dresses and sky high stilettos and skin that was just begging to be touched. It's not his fault he happened to be in the back of a town car when he trailed his fingertips down her neck (her fault for having her hair up), traced patterns and nonsense words over the skin of her upper back. Definitely not his fault when she stood that close in the lift, the smell of cherries invading his nostrils, and he just had to unzip the dress. Just a little bit. Okay more than a little bit. It was practically undone by the time they got to the door. Hm. Door. Should unlock that. Wrong side of the door to make out with Kate, even though she seems to have the complete opposite idea. Hands already attacking his belt. Mouth very close to his. Teeth nipping at his lip. He growls at her, struggles with the key until it finally twists in the lock and the door opens and she's dragging him in by his belt loops. The door is finally closed and he doesn't even get to make out with her against the door because Kate's too busy sauntering off to the bedroom, hips swaying and back bare and when did the dress end up in a liquid pool at her feet? Not gonna complain. Definitely not going to complain even as he trips after her, shedding his clothes in a long line.
She's waiting for him, on the bed, all long limbs and black lace and oh she kept the heels on, and he does like it when she keeps the heels on. And she's looking at him, dark eyed and torturous and he already knows that this is going to be crazy and fun and downright wild. He stands at the foot of the bed, watching her. The way her chest rises and falls, the dark shadows at the valley of her breasts. Tantalising. The taught, firm skin of her stomach, but it's deceptively soft. And then down, over the bumps and dips of her hips and then he's lost in sheer black lace and he wishes he had x-ray vision. Not that he needs it. Not really, because he's allowed to hook his fingers in the waistband (and he does) and he's allowed to drag them down those long, long legs until they get caught on her feet. She kicks them away, watching him with her lip firmly beneath her teeth. He likes these nights. He really has no idea who's calling the shots. He can smooth his hands up and down her thighs, up and down, closer and closer to where she wants it, where she craves it, where he needs to be, but he's not going to give into temptation. He is a strong willed man. Oh, but he could. He could just so easily get lost in her right now. She's looking at him like she couldn't even care what he did, just as long as he did something.
Of course, there's such a thing as waiting too long. He should have pounced the moment she stepped in the door because now there is the very loud noise of a dog wailing. And that's definitely a paw on his foot, and soft, warm fur against his bare leg. How is he supposed to perform when there's a dog in the room? A dog who isn't even the tender age of one? Not that it matters because Kate is already moving, and she's already leaning over the side of the bed (what a view) and picking the little tiny pug up in her hands. Two months ago he could swear she didn't even like the thing. And now she's giving up a night of hot and wild and probably definitely kinky and instead she's choosing to cuddle up with a dog. The dog who last week she threatened to lock in the bathroom for peeing on her shoes.
Typical. Absolutely typical. What's he supposed to do now? He can't wrestle the tiny thing out of her hands for fear of hurting the little thing, and he doesn't want to suffer the wrath of Kate Beckett scorned. But damnit, she's sitting on their bed in stilettos and a bra and this wasn't how he imagined the night to go. At all. Latte would stay in the study, asleep, and the two of them would definitely not sleep. At least, not for a while. He can't stand there with his hands on his hips because frankly he'd look like an idiot. And he can't fold his arms and look at her all scornful because then she would just laugh at him. And that would not do anything for his self-esteem. A wounded man is not a happy man. So, he does the only thing that is available to him. He finds his pyjamas. He puts them on (with difficulty). And then he goes into the bathroom and closes the door with a very purposeful click.
Kate's murmuring to Latte outside, he can hear her. Muffled, so he can't quite tell what they're saying. Probably calling him an idiot. Hmph. Man's best friend indeed. The door opens, and she's standing there (still in her heels and her bra and minus the dog), looking at him like she's just told him that they couldn't go to the zoo. He acts completely indifferent and brushes his teeth more vigorously than probably needed.
"I was just saying hello." Kate says, standing there like it's perfectly normal to be standing there in her attire. Completely normal. "She's back in the study." She smirks at him, and then plucks at his boxer shorts. Devilish grin. And then she's gone again. Completely normal.
He might as well finish what he started so he finishes brushing (or is he just taking his time because he wants to torture her?) and then dumps his pyjamas in the laundry basket. They needed a wash anyway. Turns off the light (stubs toe on side of door) and is then making his way back to the bed. Kate doesn't look quite so feisty now, her eyes are soft and her body lax, and she smoothes her hand down his neck and across his shoulders. Fast and hard and furious is nice. He likes fast and hard and furious. But, oh, slow and sensual is just so much better.