"Mr. Castle?" a bespectacled, tragically-hip intern pokes her head into the meeting and the merciless droning of the publishing executive stops for a blessed moment. "I'm sorry to interrupt, but a Detective Beckett is asking for you in the lobby. She's very upset."

He's on his feet before she can finish the statement, following the contrite girl out without a word for Black Pawn's new publishing executive, whose only goal appears to be discovering a cure for insomnia. She's found it, by the number of people she's put to sleep already. But she remains quiet through her glare as he nearly upends the table in his haste to leave the meeting.

It was terminally boring, anyway. All contracts and negotiations. He doesn't even know why he was required to be here. His contract is fully settled – signed, sealed, and forever looming over his head in the form of an ex-wife nagging him for all eternity from beyond the divorce settlement for chapters. He'd spent most of the meeting outlining possible plots for the next Nikki Heat, but couldn't seem to find the inspiration. So he'd turned to texting Beckett instead. She went quiet twenty minutes ago. What could have happened in that time?

He walks a tense pace behind the squeaky intern, his anxiety levels running high and his mind churning with all the scenarios he can think of, each worse than the last. Bile rises in his throat at the possibilities – ones he's become all too well-acquainted with in the past four years.

Is she hurt? Ill? Was she attacked? Why wouldn't she call? Is it her father? Alexis? Martha? A case? She'd call. She always calls. Why hasn't she called?

"In here," the jittery intern guides him through the building – as if he doesn't know his way around Black Pawn – and into the large lobby, white and sterile in its modernity. A soggy-eyed Beckett lurches from her seat and wraps her arms around his neck, burying her mascara-streaked face in his collar with a quiet sob.

"What happened?" Castle urges, pulling her tight against his chest and feeling her go ragdoll-limp the moment she's encased in his arms, "what's wrong, sweetheart?"

Beckett sniffs. "Can… can we go somewhere private?" Her eyes are huge and unreadable. Tears brim in their corners but under that, there's a strange look he can't quite reconcile in the context of this apparent emergency. If he didn't know better…

"Of course," the author agrees, petting her hair soothingly in the way he often does. She likes that, it calms her down. It always does. She leans into it even now, though it has no discernible effect on her mood this time. He pets her a moment longer before addressing the concerned office manager. "Sir? Is there somewhere…?"

"Right this way, Mr. Castle."

They follow the twiggy manager back through the warren of cubicle farms, tech centers, and private offices. He carefully looks his partner over. She's walking alright and doesn't appear harmed. That's good. She'd be all business if it were a work emergency, which she's not. She wasn't on call today anyway. She'd be a fast-talking, nervous mess if it were Martha, Jim, or Alexis. She's not in that mode either. Neither case would warrant an unannounced visit and a private room.

The manager leads them to a small office in the rear of the building, far off the main halls, and draws the internal blinds before leaving them in a hurry. Castle locks the door behind them, not wanting to be interrupted with his girlfriend in such a state. Before he can ask Beckett for an explanation again, she pushes him away, backing up to lean against the cleared desk.

It's only then that Castle notices the trench coat.

Kate's tears dry instantly and the sniveling ceases. Her eyes widen not with sadness or fear, but with a come-hither expression of purely feminine mischief. It takes a long moment for Castle to come down from his heightened, anxious state, but when he does, a smile cracks along his face as he lets out a breathless bark of laughter.

"You—you—you're a little faker!" Castle crows. He's equal parts impressed by her performance, indignant at the scene she's made, and… aroused. Definitely aroused. Definitely not equal parts. Very unequal parts. Actually, screw impressed or indignant. There's just no room for those at this point. There's not enough bloodflow still being directed towards his brain to process multiple emotions.

The sinful stilts of her legs are bare from the tops of her knee-high leather boots to the hem of the tan trench, belted and buttoned tightly closed across her body. This is unusual. Not at all how she normally wears a trench.

"Pick your jaw up off the floor, Castle," she purrs temptingly, reclining against the solid oak of the desk, "I'm going to need it in working order. Unless you want to go back to contract negotiations, of course?"

Somewhere, his brain finds a spare dendrite to allocate to the order, his mouth closing with an audible click of his teeth. It's good to know the part of his brain responsible for physical control is responding, because the rest of it surely is not. He stares dimly as she reclines slightly back into the desk and pops the first oversized black button on the coat from its binding.

Moving forward to help her, Castle finds a boot-clad foot against his thigh, halting his further encroachment into her stage. This doesn't usually happen. She loves for him to help her out of her clothes, to undress her at his own pace. It's a ritual they've arrived at without discussion or explicit acknowledgment in the languid weeks of her suspension that they've spent exploring one another at the loft, at her apartment, even at her father's cabin upstate one weekend. So this departure must mean she's got her own story in mind, keen to play it all out for him. Has had in mind for some time, if he's to go by the amount of planning this took.

He'll be a good audience, then. Pay close attention to the plot. She's already drawn him in with an outstanding hook. As he understands it, next to come is the exposition. He likes exposition very much.

Kate rotates on one foot, turning her back to him once certain she has his full attention. Inch by inch she bends down, and the hem of her trench coat hikes up to reveal the pale backs of her knees, the creamy expanse of her thighs, the sensuous curve of her ass - Castle notices three things all at once and his eyes don't know where to focus first as they each shriek and rattle at the corners of his consciousness for attention. Exposition, indeed. No stockings. No skirt. No panties. A fuse shorts out. Apparently, it's the one connecting his brain to his mouth.

"You came here naked!?"

"I'm not naked, Castle. I have a coat on. Try to keep up with the plot."

"But-"

Her fingers stop on the back zipper of her boot and she rights herself, taking away his view. Castle wants to protest. This is the opposite of what he wants to be happening. This is not how this is supposed to be going.

"No!" he ejects, "I mean- continue. I won't interrupt again."

Kate eyes him, equally amused and annoyed. But his promise at least furthers the plot again. She's back to undressing, at any rate, and he's not going to complain. The first button reveals little, a silvery flash of her neck. It makes him throb. It's all he can do to not go over there and rip the coat off her. Boots be damned. It's not like he hasn't had about a hundred fantasies of fucking her with those boots - and only those boots – on before.

"Castle…" she trails off, waiting for a sign that he's paying attention to what she's saying rather than that button that's three-quarters of the way out of its confines. This takes longer than he'd like to admit. He gulps, raising his eyes to hers and cocking his head. She smirks. This is either very good, or very bad. "What was the last text you sent me?"

Huh? How is he supposed to remember that at a time like this?

"Is this some sort of memory test?"

Kate rolls her eyes. It's adorable. He'd never tell her that, of course; she'd throttle him. But it is. "Just check your phone."

He does. Their banter had quickly turned suggestive. Full-on sexting was a bad idea – even for him – in the meeting, but he'd happily exchanged in a little volleying of innuendo, ending when she asked if he at least got a lunch break where she could meet him somewhere for a bite between his meetings.

"It says, 'I'd rather eat you.'"

"Mhm," humming her agreement, Kate reclines against the desk, her coat falling another button undone. "And that's exactly what you're going to do."

"Stay where you are," she orders. He halts and waits. It's a plot twist he didn't see coming. This doesn't usually happen, either. In the time they've had together, she's nearly always let him take the lead, and when she's done so for herself, it's been tentative and slightly awkward. Part of it, he's figured out, is a natural predilection. She has to be top cop in her working life and she likes letting go of that, letting someone else run the show, in the context of their burgeoning trust and comfort in each other. And part of it's that without her role as top cop, if only temporarily, she's lost a bit of her mojo. Though he suspects today's already made good strides in getting it back.

Jumping up to seat herself on the unfamiliar desk, Kate pops another button, the coat falling open across her chest to reveal her breast to him.

He swears he didn't notice his feet carrying him closer. They've got a mind of their own. He certainly isn't in control of anything any more, beyond basic functions like pumping blood through his body and breathing. And even the latter's hit or miss. Mostly miss. He might be a rather unattractive shade of blue. But the blood pumping function is certainly in good repair.

"I didn't tell you that you could move," the heated glare of her eyes stops him, coupled with something just north of smug in her countenance. "I'll tell you when I want you."

Castle stares dumbly as she spreads her legs to reveal her pink center, glistening with her arousal. The frame of her coat, her thighs, her fuck-me boots, it's all so perfectly designed to fix his gaze right where she intends it. Her hands smooth down her chest, fingertips dancing around her fading scar, over her breasts and tightened, erect nipples, down the flat plane of her abdomen. Finally, they reach their destination at the apex of her thighs. Castle's cock gives an involuntary jerk in the confines of his boxers.

Parting her folds coyly, Kate gives a sultry chuckle. "You breathing okay over there?"

He certainly isn't now. He'd (maybe) answer more coherently if he weren't fixated on the fingertip gently circling her clit, the telltale twitch of her thighs that says she's further gone than he thought.

"On your knees," she gasps out. "Then come over here."

He doesn't even think to disobey. Dropping to his knees and momentarily adjusting his trousers to accommodate his end of the rising action in this plot, he shuffles himself across the floor, thankful for the carpet that makes it not entirely unpleasant. Better, at least, than the shower's tile floor, where he most often finds himself for this particular pleasure outside of their respective beds.

"What do you want?" requests Castle, desperate to hear her say it as much as he is to do it – anything she asks. Anything at all.

"I want you to-" she cuts off, her gaze torn somewhere over his shoulder. He takes longer than normal to process, but when he gets around to staring somewhere besides her pink and swollen entrance inches from his mouth, he sees it.

A janitor's cart is clearly outlined in the clinical frosted glass of the door. Castle yanks closed the coat around his girlfriend but remains knelt at eye-level with her center, and looking to her for direction. She looks like a deer in the headlights, and clearly expects him to be more capable of decisive action.

The universal key scrapes into the lock.

"Uh," Castle grunts, "we don't need cleaning!"

"Que?" the voice outside asks.

Beckett tries her hand, stumbling clumsily. "Erm… no, no bien?"

"No bien?" the janitor sounds confused, and worse, the key rattles more urgently in the door.

"Todo está bien!" Castle takes over, clarifying to reassure whomever's on the other side of the door. The rattling stops for a moment, "¿Puedes volver más tarde, por favor?"

There's a pause, and then, mercifully, the key is yanked back and their compromising position remains... uncompromised.

"Si, si, okay," the janitor calls through in broken English, "come back later."

Castle and Beckett simultaneously exhale in relief. They exchange a look, long and searching. He certainly wasn't paying attention to their surroundings, and by the look on her face, she'd thrown caution to the wind just as much. Reality sets in: it's the middle of the day in one of New York's busiest publishing houses. They're on borrowed time, at best.

"Someone else might come by…" he warns, feeling around her limits on potential exhibitionism. He's fairly certain that he won't get in trouble, if absolute worst comes to worst and they're somehow caught, but she's a private person and his work or hers, neither of them are quite keen on telling anybody about this thing between them just yet.

Beckett brushes his hair from his face, leans forward all the way so that her breasts brush against his collar and her lips press to his ear.

"Then I suggest you hurry."

At once, she sits up. Her hand cups the back of his head, fisting in the short locks there, and unceremoniously pushes his face between her legs. Castle needs no further instruction, but she's keen on giving it and he's definitely in no mood to argue. Not when she's clearly feeling dominant and he's very much enjoying the benefits. He swirls his tongue around her clit, light and teasing as he stares up at her, awaiting direction, admiring the way her hair falls in wild waves around her face, the half-crazy look in her eyes.

Castle blinks hard at her, urging her to do something, anything, give him an order.

"Fuck me," she pleads at last, yanking his hair sharply for good measure, "fuck me with your tongue."

That's all he needs. Plunging between her slick folds, he hums in ecstasy, savoring her tang as it floods across his tongue. He has a desperate urge to palm himself, to provide any kind of stimulation, but she's not asked him to do that. His hips jerk on their own accord and thrust against nothing when her legs clench, her thighs straining around his skull. Hooking around the back of his shoulders, her leather-covered calves trap him there. Kate lets out a moan, her palm flying to her mouth, her strong teeth sinking into the heel of her hand to stifle the noise of the first small orgasm juddering through her.

The velvet heat of her is intoxicating, and – feeling he's got a bit more license now – he stokes her inner thighs, thumbs rubbing soft circles on the skin there. His fingers creep around to the sensual curve of her ass, alternating his grip between a rough dig into her flesh and gentle massage. The stream of whines and wordless encouragements from her is constant, and he knows she's close, but he's got no intention of stopping even once she's come again.

A sharp pain of her boot's stiletto heel gouges into his back and Castle can feel her body trembling, spasming out of control. A distant thunk registers; his eyes open fractionally to see Kate laid flat on her back across a stranger's desk, her free hand rough at her breast and the other still a makeshift stopper for her cries of need and ecstasy. She squeezes her thighs around his head again, insisting he continue.

"Fingers," she gasps, muffled and barely decipherable around the oft-abused heel of her hand, "inside..."

Pulling away just enough to snake his digits to her entrance, Castle penetrates her without warning, scissoring his fingers in her heat. He can practically feel her blood racing through her and he beckons inside of her, pulling another climax out of the one she's never fully recovered from.

"Oh god, Castle, that feels so, so good," she encourages frantically, her voice raspy and breathless with sex, and he knows he's on the right track.

"Not done with you yet," he dares, and gets a jab from her heel for his cheek. Oh yes, he decides – Castle definitely likes Beckett even better now that she seems to have her mojo back. This Beckett could be loads of fun. Not all the time, mind; he still likes being in control. But there's an undeniable lure in doing whatever she tells him to, solely for her pleasure, and the satisfaction of doing it well.

With one final lap of her juices, he refocuses his tongue and lips to her clit. She hasn't come down yet, not even close, but he's on a mission now. Mouth pressed to her flesh, his jaw aches but he ignores it in favor of redoubling his efforts, crooking his fingers deep inside her against that magic little spot it took his practiced hands no time at all to find. Her abdomen's clenching and her legs twitching out of control, enough that he has to abandon holding her thighs and throw his arm across her hips just to keep her from bucking against his face too much.

"Hey," Kate protests weakly with the indignity of being held down without giving the order, but she's very quickly not objecting any more when he turns his attentions to full capacity, switching back and forth between sucking and swirling his tongue against her sensitive bundle of nerves all while playing her with his fingers. She's so wet and open, so wanton and her body so perfectly demanding that he impulsively adds a third finger.

"Castllllllllleeeeee," she screams into her palm. Her climax overtakes her, the quick shuddering of tension and release against his soaking face. Castle looks up when her fingers tug his hair again, her eyes peering at him across the pale plane of her body and telling him silently that she's too sensitive for another round. But he can't help but keep his mouth on her, gentle and almost contrite now. Her breathing gradually slows and he can see the falling action of her breasts as they cease to heave and level out into a more peaceful rhythm.

Cleaning her carefully, he kisses around her outer lips where it's not too much stimulation before moving to her thigh, worrying a patch of skin there just to regain some control of himself. He can feel a wet spot in the silk of his boxers, but he ignores his aching cock for once. This was about her. He has no doubt she'll return the favor later. As if reading his mind, Kate finds the strength to sit up, carding her fingers through his hair and tugging gently, asking him to stand without words. Righting himself, Castle complies, wiping his face on his sleeve and leaning in to kiss her. He takes his time sharing the remains of her pleasure with her, to lazily thank her with his tongue for the most delicious interruption to his otherwise dull day. It's a fitting resolution.

Cognizant once again of their limited time and the semi-public nature of their tryst, he helps her button her coat and – though it's completely unnecessary – picks her up off the desk, setting her gingerly on her feet after a quick cuddle.

"You know, if we're going to be together," she wheedles, "I think I'm going to need a contract negotiated."

"Oh?" Castle grins, absently finger-combing her hair back into some semblance of normal and using a handkerchief from his breastpocket to smudge the makeup around her eyes from her damsel-in-distress act into something that could pass for a fashion statement rather than tear tracks. "Tell me more about this contract."

"Well, I'm going to need it in writing that you'll do that for me at least twice a week."

He'd volunteer for twice a day, but his jaw might fall off.

"You drive a hard bargain. What are you prepared to offer me in return?"

Beckett feigns serious thought. "Hmmm. I suppose I'll have to make you an offer you can't refuse. Fair is fair after all. Oral for oral, one round for one round?" she offers, straightening his collar and stroking his cheek in a way that makes him shiver with pleasure before she pulls back and makes for the door.

"Deal. Where do I sign?"

Kate looks at him once more, her kaleidoscope hazel eyes still held at a twinkling smolder. "You can come by, have a glass of wine, and sign at my apartment," she leans in, pausing to nibble his ear before she whispers her final condition, "on my face."

And with that, she strides out on only-just steady legs with one last thoroughly evil wink over her shoulder at him and the predicament she's left him in, making for the back door and leaving Castle alone with a painful erection. And a hell of a lot longer afternoon ahead. He only wishes all talk of contracts was so interesting. Alas, it's not. He heaves a sigh.

After washing his face and taking a few minutes to think of incredibly unsexy things (picturing rival authors in Speedos does it at last) in order to stave off his need, Castle departs the mens room adjacent to the now vacant office. It's his intent to return to his meetings. Really, it is. But he's weak when it comes to Beckett. He makes it only as far as the elevator before his resolve to be a good boy for Black Pawn crumbles in the face of temptation.

He leaves through the front, bluntly informing the scrambling, note-taking intern that he'll be out the rest of the day.

"Is everything okay, Mr. Castle?" the tittering girl asks, peering over her square glasses.

"Yes, very sorry to have to cut out on such short notice," he answers, barely containing a wicked grin of satisfaction. "But the Detective has a body to attend to. I'm obligated by contract to be there, you see."

Strictly speaking, it's the truth.

This is the fic your mum warned you about. All fluff and porn with absolutely no nutritional value! Happy Castle Pornado 2015. Your regularly scheduled programming will return shortly.

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