Chapter 2

After lunch, Beckett carefully tidied up so that she was starting with a clear murder board – er, counter. She couldn't work in a messy space. Also, it delayed the fateful moment when she had to follow the instructions.

She read them carefully, and ignored the mildly patronising tone (it was for third-graders) and comments on allowing one's parent to deal with the oven. Okay. Preheat the oven to 320-350F. Preheat? They meant heat. She switched it on, set the temperature to 335F with care, and left it to do its thing. So far, so good.

The rest of the instructions were reasonably clear and, thankfully, simple. Beckett did exactly what the recipe said, and finally had a mixture that she could dollop into the cake cases and put in the oven. She set the timer precisely in accordance with the recipe, and breathed a sigh of relief. That hadn't been too bad. It was just like high-school chemistry. Follow the instructions carefully, and it would all work out. What on earth had she been worrying about? Logic, efficiency and care solved nearly all problems.

At which point, she realised that she had to clear up. Ugh. She did so, put the cookbook away (very well hidden), and sat down with a coffee to pass the time until her cakes were cooked. Frosting could wait for another day.

The oven chimed completion, and Beckett removed her cupcakes. They looked delightful. Nicely brown, nicely risen – for all of ten seconds, after which they all sank gently in the middle. She glared viciously at them, and investigated. On cutting one open, it seemed to be a little soggy in the middle. As in, nearly raw. She scowled, which didn't make it any better. Then she Googled.

What? Well, that was a dumb thing. Apparently each oven was slightly different, and the cooking time should be adjusted accordingly, by trial and – as with her cakes – error. That was not efficient or logical. A temperature was a temperature, and had no business being inaccurate in any respect. Likewise time. Regardless of sci-fi movies, time was immutable. She looked at the sunken cakes, thought for a whole microsecond, and dumped them in the trash.

Mere moments later, the wisdom of that course of action – and of opening the windows to get rid of the smell – became apparent. A familiar rat-a-tat on the door announced that Castle had arrived, which was (one) uninvited (you really don't mind that, the brainworm noted) and (two) unhelpful. On the other hand, he was carrying a pretty box, and appeared more than usually happy.

"Hey?" she questioned.

"You have to try these, Beckett! They're great!"

"Hallo, Beckett, how are you? I'm fine, thanks. You?"

"Stoppit. You're being mean already and I've brought you a present."

That certainly made a difference, though it wasn't necessarily a good difference. Presents meant surprises, which were not efficient or logical. Still, she had manners. "Thank you. Want a coffee? Go sit down."

Castle bounced over to the couch and put the pretty box – with a beautifully curled ribbon, too – on the table. He fidgeted until the coffee was made, and then fidgeted while Beckett put the tray down and sat herself.

"So, what is it?"

"Open it and look," Castle said proudly.

Beckett complied, carefully untying the ribbon and rolling it neatly round her fingers, to be set aside for later use.

"Hurry up."

"Patience, Castle. You said it was my present, so I get to unwrap it at my pace."

"How can you not just tear off the wrappings to discover the delights beneath?"

"Because slow uncovering is so much nicer," Beckett flipped back, and instantly realised her mistake.

"Is it?" Castle oozed. "I'll bear that in mind." His eyes had instantly darkened and his smile turned sexy rather than little-boy enthusiastic.

Beckett ignored that in favour of the box. (You don't want to ignore it, the brainworm said. Why don't you do a little uncovering? That sweatshirt really doesn't flatter you. Beckett mentally used the sweatshirt to suffocate the brainworm.) She gave the box a very gentle shake, and heard a faint shuffle.

"Wow," she gasped as she opened the lid to reveal chocolates. "These look delicious."

"Try one."

Beckett put a tantalisingly dark chocolate in her mouth, and nearly moaned. Raspberry crème. Really good chocolate wasn't so much her weakness as the fastest way to her total seduction, which she had carefully avoided allowing Castle to know. (Now he does. Couldn't miss it, the way you're carrying on. You should be embarrassed. She wasn't.) A second chocolate was already in her fingers.

"Do you like them?"

"Yes. These are fabulous. Where did you get them?" The second – coffee and a hint of liqueur – was already between her lips.

"Oh," Castle said casually, "I made them." Beckett choked, coughed, spluttered and nearly exploded trying to breathe again. "Are you okay?" he worried.

"Yeah. You made them?"

"Yep. I was trying them out – Montgomery said I had to do the Christmas bake too, so I thought chocolates would be good 'cause I could make plenty of them."

He'd made them. Made them. She couldn't even make a cupcake yet and Castle was producing the best chocolates she'd ever tasted. (That's the third one, the brainworm criticised. You'll get fat. Beckett drowned the stupid worm in some low-fat sunflower oil. Anyway, Lanie had said she was too thin.) It wasn't fair. The third one had been a praline. She adored praline chocolate – the nut variety, not the New Orleans candy, though she'd certainly never say no to those either – second only to coffee with whatever that hint of liqueur had been.

Her first instinct was to say No, the bullpen will hate them, but I'll eat the lot. Some last vestige of discretion and sense kept that statement – along with a fourth chocolate, which proved to be salted caramel and as wonderful as the first three – behind her closed lips.

"They'll love them," she said.

Castle stared at her. "Why, Beckett! That was a compliment! Are you feeling okay?" She nodded. Castle grinned. "You won't be if you keep eating these that fast. That's your fifth. I guess you like them. I wasn't going to take them back, you know."

Beckett glared, but grasped the box protectively. There were at least fifteen chocolates left, and she had a cast-iron digestion which was undamaged by vast quantities of coffee and chocolate. Castle grinned more widely.

"You like chocolate."

That was not news.

"You really like chocolate."

Still not news.

"I like chocolate too," he purred, leaned forward, and swept his thumb across her lips, removed the single molecule of chocolate which had escaped her palate, and licked it lasciviously from his digit.

"What are you doing?"

"You had a smudge," he said innocently. Beckett swept the box of chocolates away from him. "Meanie," he pouted.

"Mine."

Castle simply shrugged. "I can always make more."

"Yes, please," Beckett's chocolate-delighted mouth said without any input from her brain whatsoever.

Castle's beam lit the room. "You really, really liked them." He stood up. "I'd better go start making some more."

Politely, Beckett stood too, though she kept one eye firmly on the box just in case Castle tried to remove it, or some previously unsuspected mouse or spider might steal a morsel. Just before he opened the door, Castle turned back to her. "You've got another smudge," he smiled, leaned forward, and dusted a light kiss across her mouth. "Bye," he chirped unrepentantly at her growl, and hightailed it out of the apartment before she could shoot him.

Try not to drool, the brainworm advised. It's not pretty when you're a cute baby, let alone when you're thirty.

Beckett ignored the brainworm and at least one of the reasons for drooling in favour of another chocolate, and then firmly put them in the fridge for later. The second reason for drooling forced its way to the front of her mind, and was forced back.

If he hadn't run out of the door you'd have jumped his bones.

"Would not," Beckett said aloud.

Would so. The man brought you chocolate. You'd do anything for good chocolate. Absolutely anything. And that kiss barely pecked you and it's sizzling down your veins.

Beckett went to the fridge and took out another two chocolates, put them on the table, contemplated their beautiful form and design, and then ate them very slowly and with relish.

After that, she stared at the mess of half-baked cakes in the trash, summoned all her competitive spirit, and resolved to do better the next time. If at first she didn't succeed, she would try again. She wasn't going to be defeated by something a third-grader could do. Especially since Castle was producing superb chocolates without apparent effort. She ate another one, and forced herself to stop. Unfortunately, the lack of chocolate left an awful lot of headspace for the memory of the kiss.

It had scalded. A brief brush of lips, and it burned. It still burned now, and even the chocolate hadn't soothed it. Not only that, but it was addictive – just like the chocolates. She was halfway to the fridge when she realised what she was doing, and turned around, touching her lips.

You want more, the brainworm smirked. Too damn right she did. I meant kisses, it had she, but she wasn't letting that damn brainworm know it. I'm in your dumb head, it pointed out. I know exactly what you meant. She growled at it. It stuck its wriggly tongue out at her.

It hadn't even been a proper kiss. (You wanted a proper kiss.) It barely qualified as a peck on a maiden Victorian aunt's cheek. (You shouldn't have growled at him, the brainworm chided.) Castle had no business not kissing her properly. She humphed loudly, and forced herself back to the couch, not the fridge.


Castle sauntered home, exceedingly pleased with himself. His one regret – but he was sure he'd overcome it shortly – was that he hadn't simply continued kissing Beckett. Even that light peck had tasted like heaven, and it had barely been possible to smirk and leave. He subsided into a happy reverie, fuelled by the memory of her soft moan as she tasted the chocolate, and began to plan ways to induce sexy moans which might or might not involve chocolate but would certainly involve kisses. Et cetera. Her lips had been so soft and sweet – a total contrast to the snark they emitted every day of the week. She hadn't been snarky about the chocolate, though. Oh no. She'd loved it. He indulged in some lustful thoughts, chiefly centred around some less-than-publicly-visible uses for chocolate, and happily decided that if the way to Beckett's heart was chocolate, he'd win it in a week.

But slowly. Carefully. Seductively. This wasn't going to flare up and then burn out. Slowly, Rick. Take it slow. He tried hard not to think about taking Beckett, and failed.


A couple of days later, in which she had resolutely ignored both the cookbook and her guilt at not practising making the cupcakes, Beckett returned from a frustrating day chasing leads which all dissolved into mist and then disappeared, listening to Ryan and Espo boast about their culinary skills (none: they were as incompetent as she, on the basis of the previous five years), and not reacting to Castle's incessant innuendos and hyperactive enthusiasm. She thought of her chocolates, and managed not to shoot anyone. (No chocolate in prison, the brainworm reminded her. And this is sheer sexual frustration. Told you to jump his bones. You could invite him round. Beckett ignored it. If she invited Castle round, she'd have to share the chocolate. No sex, no matter how good (it would be spectacular, the brainworm commented) was worth that sacrifice.)

The first thing she did when she got home, with amazing self-restraint, was make coffee. With the coffee, she had one chocolate. She was logical and efficient and controlled, and she could restrict herself to one chocolate before dinner, which was logical – chocolates were even better as dessert; efficient – it wouldn't spoil her appetite; and controlled.

Then she had dinner, which consisted of the remainder of last night's Thai takeout with some salad leaves. Then she had a chocolate, to fortify her for the coming efforts.

And finally she extracted the cookbook, to try again. Just like the first time, she followed the recipe exactly. However, today, she added a few minutes to the cooking time, as suggested by her Googling. Then she cleared up, and waited. When the oven cheeped at her, she trepidatiously opened it, and removed the second effort at cupcakes.

They had risen. She regarded them. They didn't sink. That was a bit better. Unfortunately, they appeared to be somewhat singed at the edges. That was not better. Or maybe it was. She scowled at the blackened – nope, merely darkish brown – edges; allowed them to cool for a few moments, opened a window despite the late-November chill to remove the smell of burning, then trimmed off the dark parts and sampled the baking.

Much to her surprise, they weren't too bad at all. They were moderately light, and tasted like cakes should taste. So, she thought happily, she merely had to hit the middle of the cooking time, and it would be good. She could do this baking thing. She hauled the cookbook back out, made a manuscript note about cooking time, and dumped the burnt edges in the trash, keeping the edible centres. Tomorrow, at the class, she'd get it right.

In celebration, she ate the final chocolate, which made her mouth and taste buds orgasmically happy. She was just savouring the final molecules of the last one, and shaking the box to see if more would magically appear, when the door sounded.

It was Castle. Again. She knew it simply from the tone of the knock. She whisked the open window shut, and shoved the edible pieces of sponge into a cupboard where they couldn't be seen. Just in time, she whipped the cookbook away, too.

"I thought you weren't in, you took so long," Castle said as he entered. He had another – rather too small – box in his hand, which Beckett regarded with the predatorily hopeful aspect of a vampire entering the storage vaults of a blood bank. She raised a quelling eyebrow, and the tips of his ears went pink. "Anyway, I brought you samples of the next types of chocolates." He proffered the box. "I thought we could share them."

(Share them? squawked the brainworm. Does he know you?)

"Okay," Beckett managed. Her normal politeness was seriously strained by the suggestion of sharing. "I'll get us coffee."

Castle sat down, and unwrapped the box. He didn't open the lid, which was unbelievable. It was chocolate, for goodness' sake. She made the coffee and brought it over, sitting close to the chocolates. (And I suppose that sitting closer to a sexy man had nothing to do with it? Absolutely nothing at all. You like that cologne. Shut up.)

He flipped the lid open so that Beckett could survey the contents. There seemed to be four different shapes. Only four. And she had to share them. This was not fair. Why hadn't he made more?

"What are they?" she asked, moving nearer to the box.

"Lemon crème, coffee crème, a different praline – walnut: the other was hazelnut – and marzipan." He indicated. "That's the coffee one." Expectancy filled the air. Coffee chocolate filled Beckett's mouth. Castle picked the marzipan delicacy, and set it by his coffee cup. "Is it nice?"

She nodded. Her mouth was full, so she couldn't talk.

"Good," he murmured, and caught her hand as she reached for the next one. "Uh-uh. I want to try it."

"Huh?" was as far as Beckett got before Castle shifted right up close and kissed her. She didn't tell her lips to open under his, but they did; she didn't ask her hands to rise and clasp about his neck, but they did; and she certainly didn't request her tongue to twine around his and share the taste of coffee chocolate, but it did that too. His arms were around her, his hands slipping up her back – and why weren't they under her shirt, huh?, and his touch had to be electric because sparks were searing through her skin and sizzling down her nerves.

He lifted off, selected a lemon crème, and stroked it across her lips, inviting her to open and take it. Her tongue flickered, a pink tip touched the chocolate. Castle pushed it forward, and leaned after it, an inch away from her lips as she slowly, sensually chewed and swallowed; landing on them an instant later: a leisurely exploration and tasting. She made a tiny noise, and knotted her hands in his hair, pulling him to her, taking in his lower lip and nipping seductively.

The kiss deepened: demanding each other surrender; the spark set light to the banked up fires and it ignited. Lips clashed and crashed, both raiding, ravaging: one of Castle's hands rounded her ribs and found the small mounds of her breasts, palming and stroking, sliding over the line of the edge of her bra then retreating.

"Do you want another chocolate?" he purred. She licked her lips, and smiled a cat-like smile.

"Please," she said, and pouted her lips together. He kissed them. "Not a chocolate," she pouted further, but instead of supplying one he kissed her again, and again, and again, and she forgot about chocolate, being far too busy to think. His hands were wicked, and they were everywhere she hadn't known she wanted them to be. (Hadn't let yourself want, more like. Dumbass.) They traced her breasts, and played with the curves, and then with the already-peaked nipples, through the soft, pale cotton of her shirt. (Told you, you should wear the pretty ones more often.)

And then he stopped. Stopped! What the hell?

(Aw. You don't want him to stop. How sweet. The brainworm's tone was acid-sour. Beckett hated sour candy.)

"I… think I've had enough….um… chocolate," Castle squeaked, reluctantly pulling away from her. "Time I went home. I've got to get started on the Christmas decorations." He looked exceedingly flustered: pupils blown, hands suddenly firmly clasped, as if they would return to her if he didn't stop them.

Beckett's jaw dropped open. He what? Christmas decorations? When he'd just been kissing (and the rest, said the brainworm. Don't forget the rest. As if she would) her into chocolate-flavoured ecstasy?

"Oh." She gathered some game – and the box of remaining chocolates. All one of them. "Okay, then. See you tomorrow." She concealed her annoyance and (admit it, go on) upset.

"Till tomorrow, Beckett." And he was gone, in a whirl of confusion.

Beckett gaped at the closed door and absence of Castle. What the hell was he playing at? Seducing her with chocolate and kisses (and not mere Hersheys, either) and then leaving her high and dry?

(Hardly dry, the brainworm snarked.)

Well, two could play at that game. She wouldn't be in tomorrow evening, because she'd be at the cookery class with Lanie. Serve him right. And he'd left the chocolates, so she was on the winning side – he'd even left the one he'd selected, so she'd got two. She ate them both, vengefully. They were equally as delightful as the previous ones.

It didn't improve her mood in the slightest. (Frustration, the brainworm noted. She took out her frustration on it by using her new rolling pin to wallop it flat. It reflated.)


Thank you to all readers and reviewers.