Chapter 1
Detective Kate Beckett is, Castle has observed, a woman of irritatingly few words. In fact, a woman of almost no words at all except the bare minimum necessary to give orders and tell him to stay out of the way. Preferably permanently. He can't tell a thing from her almost-non-existent words, except that they imply that she really doesn't like him.
Which is very weird, because he already knows that she's read every book he's written, which means she's a hard-core fan, and he is also sure from some very subtle tells that she's interested. Women who are interested in him like him. Always. They really like him. And they show it.
They certainly don't treat him like he's an annoying toddler with attention deficit disorder who's more in need of the naughty step than anything else (although he does love being naughty, it has very little to do with steps, or toddlers). They flirt, and go out on dates, and wear sexy clothes, and give him the serious come-on. Which he is very happy to reciprocate.
Detective Beckett does absolutely none of that, which is really pretty insulting if you think about it. She should flirt. He does, and it's just plain rude not to flirt right back. All she does is chop him off at the knees, with a look that suggests that she'd enjoy it more if she was chopping off his testicles. She can't still be sulking that he'd shoved his way into the precinct, can she? It's three weeks after that first, fascinating, case, and surely that would take holding a grudge to a whole new level?
Not that Beckett seems to be short of grudge holding ability. She holds on to grudges like they're a winning lottery ticket. Mostly, she holds a grudge against criminals, lowlives, and anyone who gets in the way of her bulldozer forward momentum when she's solving crimes. So she shouldn't be holding a grudge against him, because he helps her to solve crimes.
It's just not fair. If she'd only talk, he's sure he'd win her round in no time. But she doesn't. She never says anything useful – that is, anything that isn't connected to the case, or that's not snarky as hell and designed to shut him down and make him feel two inches tall. He has no idea what she's like off the job. None. And yet there are those tells.
Castle leans back in his chair, contemplates his laptop and the words on the screen with considerable disfavour, and then turns his mind to contemplating Beckett, also disfavourably. She just doesn't talk.
Ah. Oh. Ooohhhh. He smiles dangerously.
Her mouth doesn't talk. Her walk says everything.
If she were the buttoned-up, buttoned-down, closed-off, shut-in woman she pretends to be – she wouldn't wear those shoes. Those are fuck-me shoes, foreplay in four inch heels, sex on stilts stilettos. And Detective Beckett knows exactly how to use them. He remembers the way she'd leaned forward, perfectly poised and balanced, and whispered you have no idea – and then the way she'd walked away with hips that lilted like Lilith and swayed like a succubus.
She let her walking do the talking and every single step away from him sang a song of sex.
Oh, Beckett. I've got you now. Your walk will tell me everything I want to know. I'll walk with you – right into bed. Or a wall, or the door, or a couch. Or all of them. Now he knows why he's chasing round after her in a constant state of semi-arousal and sheer want. It's because every snarky, angry, get-lost bite of words from her mouth is contradicted by every swaying, sensual step which he can see – which she shows him, though he doesn't know if she knows it – when she goes to the break room, or the restroom, or upstairs to the gym, or downstairs from the gym with oh-so-sexy damp tendrils from a shower. She wants him, too. She just won't use words to say so.
Castle's smile turns predatory and possessive. Okay, let's play this game. He puts a fine mind into sixth gear, and begins to plan his tactics and strategy. Beckett has two modes of operation: angry focus, and cool reserve. Except her walk, of course.
He's good at picking up non-verbal communication. He's good at unspoken motivations. And he's really good at finding out the story. If he just uses all those talents, he'll work out how to align Beckett into one coherent whole, and then he'll be in position (so to speak) to align her for a much better use of some other very specific talents.
He leans back again, puts his feet up on the desk, brings them down again so that he can move to pour himself a celebratory Scotch, and then re-establishes his lazy, relaxed position so that he can contemplate all the little fragments of Beckettness which will coalesce into one whole Beckett in his bed.
Specifically, he thinks about her walk, and calls up the picture in his head. Always in pants, never a skirt. And always in heels. He guesses that's a power thing. There aren't that many women evident in the bullpen. There is only one scorchingly hot woman, and it's her. Okay, so she must be tall anyway, but those heels put her not far short of his height, and he's not small. (Anywhere. As Beckett will soon discover and enjoy.)
He can always tell where she is. Her heels machine-gun rat-a-tat across the hard floor of the precinct, or on the sidewalks, or anywhere else, for that matter. Always definite, always utterly confident, always in charge and in control. He would dearly love to see her out of control. She doesn't even drink much, as far as he knows. Her only indulgence seems to be candy, and from her stunning figure she must make up for the candy with extensive exercise routines. As long as those aren't the sort of exercise routines made for two, of course – what?
That was an unexpectedly possessive thought, for someone he only met a fraction over three weeks ago. Okay, so she hasn't mentioned a boyfriend, and God knows none of the others talk about anything personal either: they all seem to spend every last hour at work, but still, she might have one. Except he's damn sure she doesn't. All those little tells, again. He's not close enough to have worked out the shift pattern yet, and he has no idea where Beckett lives anyway. It's not normal, this non-communication. It really isn't.
Still, he should really concentrate on this reading that Gina's threatened him into giving. He's a good bit happier about it now than he was a couple of days ago, because he's seen the reviews, and apart from that one his mother found, they're stunning. Too, he likes giving readings. There are crowds of adoring fans, he only has to read what's on the page rather than give extempore speeches about how he writes (it's instinctive. He has no idea, and telling people his word choices are made because they – well, feel right simply doesn't cut it), and his sales skyrocket every time.
It would be nice if Beckett turned up. Preferably in a skirt. Skirts are so much…friendlier…than pants. Provide so much more…opportunity. Especially with legs that long. Plus the heels, of course. Ohhhh yes. Shame it's not so much unlikely as impossible. Still, even if she doesn't, her walk is one long come-on: a conversation held only with him.
It's really just as well that he has an encyclopaedic recollection of every word he writes. Otherwise there would have been a very embarrassing pause, and drooling is not a good look after you've grown out of the baby teething stage. That walk is an invitation to the nearest wall; sex in every step; foreplay in the flirt of the dress's skirt: she's wearing a dress – and all he can think about are those legs wrapping round his waist. His hindbrain is speculating about underwear – or none. His forebrain is thanking God for the lectern, which is hiding his reaction. His mouth is still reading perfectly smoothly, which is quite extraordinary because all but a single neuron is listening to the utterly filthily provocative conversation of Kate Beckett's walk.
She prowls. She doesn't walk. She prowls, as smooth and sultry and dangerous as a leopard; and her prowl purrs look at my legs; watch my walk: pay attention because I'm talking to you. He wonders if she'd purr in bed: purr as his mouth worked its way to the top of those legs and then give the predator's hunting scream when his tongue took her; and after, no anger or sniping or snarking, but the kittenish softness of a well-satisfied woman; finally his. He hauls his mind back to the reading and finishes. His hindbrain hasn't stopped speculating for a single second, but it can't show, thank God, because the adoring public is definitely keen to share its collective adoration, and he really does love being adored.
Which is why it is so irritating that Kate Beckett has barely managed to applaud. His book's already at the top of the bestseller lists: even the critics (mostly) love it; everyone here adores it, and him – and she won't even applaud, and worse, looks wholly bored? Doesn't talk, doesn't flirt, doesn't clap – what does she do?
He knows what he'd like her to do.
As he circulates, carefully working closer to her without making it obvious that's what he's doing, his overheated brain keeps thinking about all the ways he could turn her into a melted, whimpering mess beneath his hands and mouth; all the ways he could cage her under his body; all the ways he could take her.
And then he turns up by her side, and there is even more length of leg on display than he'd thought from the safety of the stage, and the stilettos gracing the ends of them are an escarpment of eroticism. Her mouth is lush. Her eyes, by contrast, are sardonic.
She criticises his writing. She criticises his writing! No. Freaking. Way. He's the writer, and the best seller. What does she know about creating a mood; about the atmosphere emanating from the page; about making his readers see and feel what he sees and feels? Absolutely. Nothing. It's innate brilliance and she doesn't have it. Her talent is emphatically not words.
"Oh, you're telling me how to do my job?" he bites out.
"Irritating, isn't it?" she snipes back.
And as if the incipient fight isn't inflammable enough, his mother interrupts and spills the beans about Nikki, and then retreats, leaving confusion, chaos and disorder in her wake – and a lot more irritation on both sides.
"I told you she was kind of slutty," he growls.
"Change it, Castle." It's an outright demand. He doesn't like being ordered around. In fact, the more he thinks about it, the less he likes any of Beckett's behaviour. Especially, he dislikes her dishonesty about being attracted. He instantly conceives a plan.
"No," he states flatly. "I won't. It's perfect. I'm not having you try to tell me how to write when you know nothing about it."
"You tell me how to do my job and you know less than nothing about that."
"I do so. I know more a lot more about investigating than you do about literature."
"You think? My minor was in Russian literature. You know, actual good, classic writers? I know far more about literature than you do about anything except being the town playboy."
"Yeah? Well, for someone who pretends to be Ms Ice Cold Cop you're doing a pretty poor job of hiding how much you're attracted to the town playboy."
Over the course of the increasingly angry exchange they've moved from the centre of the room towards a back exit. Castle knows exactly how that happened. Beckett hasn't noticed, being wholly caught up in her increasing anger.
"Attracted? How the hell – even someone as conceited and arrogant as you can't believe that."
"Sure you are. You know exactly how you walk. You're giving me the come-on with every step. And turning up in that excuse for a dress? You'd barely get a handkerchief out of it."
"I wear what I like."
"Yeah, sure you do. And you like wearing a dress that would turn on a year old corpse, never mind any living heterosexual male. You wore that dress 'cause you know exactly what it does. Same with those heels."
She's been walked out the door without noticing, just as she hasn't noticed Castle shoving it shut. They're alone in a dimly lit back lot; edged with brick walls.
"So I like wearing heels. So what? It's not my problem if you can't control yourself."
"Isn't it?" Castle purrs, and takes a final step that means her back is almost against a wall. "Same as it's not your problem that every step you take in your fuck-me stilettos is screaming that you want me?"
He can talk anybody round. And now she's talking, and she's so riled up that if he simply starts to steer the conversation he'll have the truth.
"If I wanted you I'd have you," she bites out. "I wouldn't have to try."
"Oh? I'm not that easy. You've walked like you want me for nearly four weeks and you haven't got any further than the first time," he whips back. "All that you have no idea and that swing of your hips and you're pissed 'cause I won't play."
"You what now?"
"You thought I'd come chasing after you and I wouldn't. You tried playing hard to get and it hasn't worked. So now you've upped the ante with that tiny little dress and I still won't play."
"You haven't taken your eyes off my ass for a single second since you shoved your way into my precinct 'cause I wouldn't go to dinner with you and I'm the one who's chasing you?"
"Yep. You're the one who came to my reading, all sexed up. It's very pretty," he adds patronisingly, and moves again so that they're barely an inch apart: her back hitting the wall and in those mile-high stilettos their faces almost level. "I didn't invite you, though. So who's chasing who now?" he taunts.
And that ignites Beckett's incendiary temper.
"You've been following me with your tongue hanging out and constantly trying to make me notice your assets – which aren't that impressive" –
"Oh, so you've been looking?" –
"and if I'd wanted to have you all I'd have had to do was click my fingers and you'd have been right there."
"Click your fingers? You'd have needed to do more than that."
"Yeah? Half an ounce of encouragement and you'd have had your tongue down my throat."
"Bullshit." It's not a lie. Half an ounce of encouragement and he'd not just have had his tongue down her throat, he'd have had her pushed up against the wall, too. Just a little more, Beckett. Just a little bit more and you'll prove you want me. She's absolutely incandescent with sheer rage. He opens his mouth again.
She completely loses it, hauls his head to hers and kisses him hard. That's not half an ounce of encouragement. That's about fifty tons. And encouragement is all he needs.
He flattens her against the wall and presses right between her legs – unimpressive assets? No way – and takes her mouth just as hard and roughly as she'd just taken his. She explodes under it: her hands clamping around his head and knotting in his hair until he pulls them away and imprisons them either side of her head: capturing her with the bulk of his body and caging her against the wall so that he can grind in to make her squirm and open so he's hard against her hot centre and she's still moving. He rolls his hips again and she gasps desperately into his mouth and tries frantically to free her hands so that she can win control of the sex-war of their kiss, but he won't let her because if he lets her have control now he'll never, ever be in control, not ever, and he is not going to be the bottom to her top. No. Way.
He pulls her arms up and catches her wrists into one hand, pulls that down behind her neck and just about manages to angle her mouth for his rough possession; brings the other hand down to haul one long leg around his waist and then slide along her thigh, no gentleness, no soft stroking, simply a claim of total ownership. She whimpers and rubs against him: his hand moves round to the curve of her ass and holds her tight and still so she has to stop moving till he allows it.
Thank you to all readers and reviewers.
Two shot, final part on Tuesday. I'm sorry I didn't get it finished in time for the Pornado, but if the organisers will allow me I'll tag it to that.
Prompt courtesy of vjlee: She let her walking do the talking...and she's a brilliant conversationalist, from the song by T Graham Brown. The song was released in October 2009, but I hope you'll forgive me bringing it forward a few months.