French Heat
by Sandiane Carter and chezchuckles
Richard Castle blinks hard. Scrubs his hands over his face. Looks again.
Kate Beckett. Wearing *that* and-
He gulps, glued to his desk chair, one finger trembling against the blotter.
"Kate?"
She smiles mysteriously, her green eyes glittering with mischief.
Oh. Oh, this isn't good.
When Kate leans forward a little, the shirt she's wearing - *his* shirt, the shirt he bought on the internet three days ago, that says "I'm ALT of control" (he thought the computer keys were a pretty clever wink to his own occupation) - stretches on her chest, and whatever air was left in his lungs whooshes out.
She has to be wearing a bra. She has to. Right?
"Monsieur Castle," she says, her voice sultry and caressing, the French accent making it the very epitome of sexy. "Saviez-vous que je suis l'une de vos plus fidèles lectrices?"
She's electric?
Castle's heart pounds so hard that his body pulses with it, the contoured comfort of the office chair absorbing each beat.
She's electric. Oh God, she is.
"Kate. What are you doing?"
In my shirt.
He leaves it unspoken, but ohhh...he can see the white moon of her thigh as she saunters forward, the darkness in her eye like the night sky, her iris a star.
"Et vos livres," she whispers, the words tingling on his skin like nimble little fingers, driving him wild with excitement and incomprehension. "Vos livres m'ont touchée. Ils m'ont apporté...Une certaine paix," she continues, her hand coming up to rest on her heart, giving him a dark, intense look that pulls at him, messes with things inside his chest.
No, no, no. This is *not* a good time to be clueless. What was that? Her heart? He has no idea. Books? Something about books, right? Or cats? Libra. Libras are cats?
He'll make up his own translation: His books have touched her heart. And now she's wearing his shirt. Because. . .because. . .because she's hotter than CatWoman and oh Kate. . .
He has no idea. She watches him, expecting something from him, an answer, a reply to her heartfelt sentiment, but his brain is this terrible, awful blank rising up before him. Worse than any writer's block.
"I'm a little lost," he squeaks out, wincing at the sound of his voice.
She smiles then, a tender, slightly amused smile that dries his throat completely - worse than walking in the desert for a couple hours. (He did that once, a safari in Africa, and with a bottle of water it was much more manageable than those sexy, foreign words falling from Kate Beckett's lips. Kate Beckett's red, gorgeous lips).
"Ce n'est pas grave," she says, so gentle that his hand comes up of its own accord, desperate for her. She tilts her head a little, the smile lingering on her face, dark locks of hair brushing her shoulder, the fabric of *his* shirt. "Peut-être que maintenant, c'est mon tour de toucher."
Hell yes, he wants to touch her.
He rocks up to his feet, banging his knees against the underside of his desk, his eyes steady on hers. That's what 'touche' means right? Touch. In fencing, it's a hit by the opponent's blade. A hit. A touch.
Castle is around the desk before he can even take a deep breath, standing trembling in front of her with both hands raised, in supplication or avarice he doesn't know.
"Can I touch you?" he whispers, and does it anyway, because he's always found that it's easier to ask for forgiveness than permission.
Her sides tremble with contained laughter when he claims her, palms splayed, wanting nothing more than the material of the shirt gone. And yet it's soft under his fingers, so soft he can close his eyes and imagine it's her skin, almost. Almost.
A delighted sound escapes her, not quite a laugh, not quite a giggle, but something in between. Beautiful, intoxicating. Like her.
"Monsieur Castle," she says, and oh, he cannot get enough of the way those words sound in her mouth, rich and meaningful, so tasty. "Vous vous avancez. J'ai dit que c'était mon tour, pas le vôtre."
Her hands, fresh and cool, delicious, cover his, knock his away. Castle looks up at her, disappointed and uncertain.
Oh, jeez. What is she doing to him? Why is she doing this?
"Okay. . ." he singsongs, letting out a long breath. "No touching."
He licks his dry lips and swallows hard in the face of her amusement, tries to summon up some meaning from the delicious slide of sounds, but it's already gone, already vous and whatever other things sound French, and if he could get her to just say oui. . .
He knows that one.
Yes.
But she *is* wearing his shirt. And *only* his shirt, damn it, so that has to be an invitation. He knows this much. Body language is a language after all, a language he doesn't need slippery sounds for, just the slide of his hand up the outside of her thigh and under the hem-
No touching.
Castle crowds closer instead, letting her awareness of his body, of the breadth of his shoulders and the length of his legs practically straddling hers, letting the close confines of his body say all the things that need to be said.
"At least, let me kiss you."
Her eyes are bright, luminous with unbridled enjoyment and something else too, something he's afraid to misinterpret. And there's that smile again, the one that looks like she's laughing at him. Castle can't bring himself to be mad.
Not when her hands have just come up to his shoulders, her graceful fingers playing with the collar of his shirt, a butterfly touch against his neck.
He struggles to keep his eyes open, struggles not to give in to her light, pleasurable touch. He feels an urge to purr and stretch his neck, to wordlessly ask for more. Is that the deal? He can't touch, but she can? Because he'll take it. No conditions.
"M'embrasser, Castle?" She teases lightly (at least he assumes it's teasing. No, he knows it is. He's heard that nuance in her voice enough times to be perfectly familiar with it). "Ca me paraît un projet bien... ambitieux. Vous pensez tenir le coup?"
Is this all he gets? Just the feathery touch of her fingers, the tease of her voice, without any understanding?
The curl of her lips. The curl of her lips and now her elbows resting against his ribs as she steps in closer, her amusement, her dark and dangerous amusement glowing even from her skin.
"Mercy," he breathes, realizing hazily that it sounds like 'thank you' in French, but it's not gratitude, not at all, it's depesration. He clenches his fists at his side, needing to touch if he can't use words, needing to show her-
Kate lifts up on her toes and leans in, her lips slightly parted, her eyes focused on him, her hands curled on his shoulders for balance. He feels the brush of that sexy, foreign mouth against his ear, tickling, hears the rush of a windstorm that he realizes is his own breathing, clamorous and rattling.
How unmanly, to be so undone at a touch.
"Pitié, Castle?" She breathes in his ear, laughing, or very close. If her touch undoes him, her voice...Ah, he doesn't even have words for what it does to him, the way it infiltrates into his chest, winds around his heart, a deadly snake closing in on its prey.
He sways, has to put his hands back on her waist, catch himself. Kate doesn't push him away this time - is he allowed to do this, or is she simply too busy to notice? Her lips press on his earlobe, teeth coming out to scratch his skin, and he lets out a shuddering sigh, his eyelids squeezed tight now.
"C'est tout ce que tu veux, ma pitié?" She whispers, taunts really, and oh, those sexy words that he can't understand..."Parce que ce serait...décevant. Décevant, Richard," she repeats, her smile shining in her tone.
"Me? *You're* indecent. And sexy, and wearing my shirt, Kate. I need-"
He shakes his head and opens his eyes, but it's just the dark halo of her hair, the warmth of her cheek close to his. He grips her hipbones tighter and hopes he leaves bruises in the shape of his thumbs, hopes for it because it will be a mark, a lasting testament to this - whatever this is -
"Castle?"
A shiver runs right through him, trembles down his legs and out of his feet, the whole room trembling, quivering like a reflection in a pond-
"Castle!"
He snaps awake, cold and brutal, the vertebrae in his neck screaming against the brusque movement. Kate is in front of him still, but instead of his dorky, sexy shirt, she's wearing a sober white blouse, her hair pulled up in a messy bun. And instead of that laughing smile, instead of those twinkling eyes, he get a raised eyebrow, an impatient look.
Oh. Was he sleeping?
Of course. It's the only possible explanation. But the image of French, sexy Kate lingers in front of him, sticks to his pupils, and he gives her a desolate look, absolutely heartbroken at having to let her go.
"I *told* you to go, Castle," real-life Kate points out at him, sounding weary. "I don't need you falling asleep on me while I do paperwork. It's boring enough as it is. You snoring next to me? Doesn't help."
"I don't snore," he shoots back immediately, his brain sluggish, trying to catch up.
"Whatever," she says, rolling her eyes as she gets up and grabs her cup. "Menteur," she whispers under her breath.
"What did you say?" Castle exclaims before he can help it, his eyes widening. Kate slowly turns to him, the look in her eyes clearly questioning his mental health.
"Was that - was that French?" He stammers excitedly, managing to keep himself from jumping up and down.
Her brow furrows. "So?" She asks. "What if it was? I can't see what's so exciting about being called a liar."
He cannot explain, of course, not without making an even bigger fool of himself, and he simply watches her walk away, the graceful sway of her hips, the dip of her shoulders.
Kate Beckett can speak French.