'So, Detective Beckett?'

She raises her eyes just enough to catch him standing across the table, watching her. He's smiling, goading her? His clothing is so uncharacteristically disheveled and his demeanor so overtly sexual, Beckett can barely look away. For some reason, no matter how much water and champagne she drinks, her mouth is dry and she feels like her heart is pushing her ribcage outward. Somehow, Kate keeps her posture low over her pool cue, her concentration wandering for a second as she focuses on the predator.

How the hell is this gonna end?

There are a thousand different answers to that question. None of them involve her winning anything but a rosy blush to the particular slice of skin where her tattoo lies.

She's only a dozen shots into their 'one-and-done' game and already Beckett senses that this is not like challenging Castle to a sparring contest. He's polished, adept at holding the cue correctly, comfortable thrusting over the table. On the last two occasions, Beckett has stolen furtive glances at exactly how he pistons his hips during his follow through to a shot, and it's not to see how a winner might stand. She's thinking about something else entirely! No wonder she's losing.

She'd be lying to herself if she said she's not desirous of feeling this skill performed in a different arena. She is. The desire is dripping from her neckline through to the crevice between her breasts, making her so hot that she wants to rip off her top …

No I don't, Beckett tries to say to herself while watching Castle buttress his inner thigh over the edge of the table.

He positions his balls with great experience. With care and precision. Kate's own game is above average, but the comparison sucks. She wishes she'd taken him onto a cushioned mat, flipped him onto his back and blown him away.

Literally. Okay, maybe not with a gun, but a blow is a blow, especially down on a mat … and this is the line of thinking that's getting her nowhere, fast.

Just stop it! She tells her brain. But her glands enlarge and 'things' become whetted with the speed of the next Castle quip.

She needs another drink.

Kate's a beer drinker by trade, it's part of the job if not her personal preference. The champagne has created an atmosphere that's much looser than the relaxed feeling she gets from a post-case ale, and it doesn't help her maintain a typical tight composure. The Beckett in Charge ethos. The last drink has pushed her over the line of absolute control.

Only ten minutes ago, Kate was more at ease about the game. Lanie had around. She had 'whoa-ed' at the idea of Beckett and Castle going head-to-head, that there was a wager involved and someone would be declared winner. Had Lanie known that Castle wants to see her tattoo if he wins, Beckett is pretty damn sure her friend would make Esposito stay longer.

'You're not staying?' Kate didn't know if she was pleased or horrified when Lanie had mentioned it was time.

'I've got to go, sweetie pie,' Lanie hiccuped in her ear and rubbed her own hand suggestively over Beckett's cue. 'But take it from me! Castle's got one sexah look on his face this eve and you could easily get lady-lucky tonight. In fact, with those come to my bed eyes you be wearing? The luck might all go his way. It's on. You got what I'm saying, gal?'

Beckett snorted and pulled the cue away from her friend. 'It's not like that.' (She was so full of it, and Lanie knew). 'He's probably just looking for a way to put his first notch on this pool table, you know? Guys like Castle love the game, want a trophy — an acknowledgment — and that's about it.'

'Nah-uh, De-tective-No-Fun! He's the real deal. And there's so much more to the Ricky package, and you know it. He's got the cash flow, the heady-oh-so-heady blend of experience and looks and large, soft hands. And … and, and, and, and, and …'

Lanie had gotten louder. Beckett looked over her friend's head to eyeball Esposito, trying to convince him to intervene, but no cigar. Esposito was giving Castle a rundown on the best ways to beat Beckett, although his hands didn't match his words. He seemed to be muttering something about the angles of entry, the trajectory of the balls, when all the while his fingers were making hourglass symbols and thrusting movements in front of a laughing Castle face.

What the—?

'And honey?' Lanie had continued with unrestrained enthusiasm. 'Castle is cashed up, sexy, older, young at heart—'

'Immature.'

'Oh, but not sexually! Very worldy with the women ...'

'Yeah, Lanie. Two ex-wives that we know about—'

You mark my words, he might be youthful at his core, but his extremities? One extremity in particular? Ricardo Castleman has … has … has …'

Beckett had put her hand on her friend's shoulder to still the flow of words and steady her stance. 'C'mon Lanie. Enough Castle love. He's got a big enough ego anyway.'

'Oh, that's not all to it,' Lanie said, looking over to where Esposito and Castle were still involved in a smiling conference. 'He's got the gear. Ricardo's turret is the biggest on any castle I've ever—'

'The gear?' Beckett had interrupted, arching an eyebrow and nodding in disbelief. 'All this talk is leading to drugs? Castle and gear? Like drugs? Um, Lanie? I think Esposito is calling—'

'Not drugs, girl. His gear!'

In a move that reminded Beckett of herself, Lanie sighed and rolled her eyes in frustration. 'You cops call it one thing, but sometimes? In the ME rooms, we know the gear — the actual gear — as being the parts,' Lanie joined her fingers at the top, created a inverted V with her hands and pumped downwards over her thighs. 'Down here.'

'What?'

Beckett remembered being similarly confused when Natalie Rhodes asked her if Castle was gay. Instead of spitting her drink this time, she felt her face furnace. 'He has … um … well … wha? Um … how the hell would you know that?'

Beckett didn't want to be interested, wasn't up to discussing this with anyone, let alone her friend who was in a profession where these things were measured. Of course she knows comparisons of anatomical features. Holy fuck, she does know what she's talking about.

Lanie had laughed. 'I've seen it. Sorry sweetie, but I have and 's impressive.'

Kate screwed up her gaze and mentally slapped herself for drinking champagne. It was clouding her judgment. She couldn't tell if Lanie was having her on or testing her out. Whatever the case, a detective had to know more.

She gulped, wanting desperately to swallow the question that was pressing on her larynx, but it bobbled out with the contraction of her voicebox. 'H-how? How did you? Lanie?' she frowned, aware of Castle finishing his conversation in her periphery. 'Did you? Really? But … how?'

Lanie leaned against the table, swung a drinking straw around and around 'tween her fingers and leered. 'I walked in on him in the lab bathroom. Was an accident, baby, but a more interesting … ah … enlightening accident? I aint never had.'

Lanie had giggled. She stood straighter, rubbed her thumb and forefinger together in the air and mouthed 'hawt', then oozed towards Esposito mumbling something to the effect of Castle 'making a move before hell froze over or the end of season four' ... whatever that meant.

Esposito had cast his puppy dog look Lanie's way and they were off faster than a bride's underwear, Lanie chirping some thanks about their host being 'so generous. In so many, many different ways ...'

They'd gone, but this is now, and in the likely event of Castle winning and demanding to collect, Beckett has made her decision. It's out-of-character, dishonest even, and it's so un-Beckett like, she almost pinches herself to check it's really her.

She's going to welch on her bet. She's going to run, if she has to, far from his Old Haunt, away from the possibility of encountering warm, dexterous hands dipping beneath her top to shush away the strap of her bra.

She'll hate herself in the morning, but so be it. There's every chance that if he wins and the bet is consummated … oh, my God, but that's not the right word, she bashes at her brain … if Castle wins and the bet is collected, Beckett is in the mood where she might just take that next step and end up hating them both in the morning.

Whether it's the champagne, the fact they're both single or the sight of a charismatic man with his shirt hanging out like a little boy, Beckett shivers at the idea of him trying to gain access to her tattoo and her using her training and skills to get away. Ohhhh.

She's ridiculous! She's never felt freer, but she'll be minus her clothing and ridiculous if she doesn't focus on a getaway plan and the game — the one that's happening on the table — very soon.

'So, Detective Beckett?' he asks again, moving to the top of the table in deference to her next shot, which seems to be taking an eternity to make. 'I suppose I should ask what you want if you win …'

He bolsters his weight against the frame of the table, lowering his body so that he's in direct line of her shot. She makes the move. Her white ball rebounds from the cusp of the corner pocket, hits the ball she didn't intend, then rolls to an area that puts her well and truly behind the eight ball. Already? They're not even halfway. Performing like this is going to make the end more infuriating. Him more infuriating.

'Hey,' she says, standing bolt upright, stick mimicking her posture. It's like a lance, ready to knock the jousting king from his steed. 'If you're going to stand in my line of sight every time I make a shot, I'm going to replay it. You're just puttin' me off.'

She sounds one-part nervous teen girl who has found herself alone with a teacher crush for the first time. The other parts fall under the very wide, wet umbrella of sexually aroused, flirtatiously corrupt and just flagrantly turned on. The tone of her voice gives everything away, even though she's trying to channel precinct Beckett.

She hates herself for it. Kate had wanted to sound annoyed.

Moving his lips in that impossibly quirky way — like he's amused and stimulated beyond reason — Castle gets closer. He uses the edge of the table like a panther might use a tree branch between himself and his mate — all sleek and stealth moves, smiling, cunning, sensual … damn him! He's behind her, holding her cue stick before she gets a chance to assert her 12th Beckett authority.

'Come now, Beckett! The house rules don't allow replaying of any kind, especially when the pool player only requires that shot again,' he moves his mouth to whisker against her ear, 'when that player is losing. And there is a wager involved.''

Beckett clenches her teeth and grits the muscles in her lower body … or is it the other way around? She doesn't know anymore. All she can think about is how very close he is to nestling his untucked, unloosened-shirt front against the needy sway of her spine. And how damn much she wants it, even as she tries to negate all emotion and tension relating to this man.

She wants him as much as she doesn't. Sometimes more.

'And Kate?' he whispers, causing her to almost arch back into him regardless of attempting a firm stance. She manages to stop-gap the gasp of her teeth against her lower lip. 'There's no such excuse as losing because someone is putting you off. I've done nothing … am doing nothing … that could possibly put anyone off their game.'

Then what's that thing you're doing with your voice, projecting it so that it reverberates along my ear canal and shoots out sexual urges to every facet of my body? her mind screams at him. Why are your fingers grazing the small of my back, your breath scorching my nape so that moist tendrils exude from my core and erupt like sizzling embers into my—

'You could always concede defeat, Detective.' he suggests, his voice like honeycombed seduction. 'It will be a relief for both of us, I'm sure. And imagine the outcome? No one would know that you threw in the towel … except for me. And I wouldn't tell a living soul. Imagine. The re ... lief?'

He's so close now, she only need tilt her head and offer the throb of her neck, or twist slightly and crash her lips into his. It's what she's wanted. All along. Why deny it now, when she's available, attracted, souped-up on champagne and his hospitality? She hates him. Does she? The passion is so raw, so palpable, she could—

'After all, Beckett. It's highly unlikely that you can win from this point, wouldn't you say?'

Castle squats. Kate senses this rather than sees it, because he's perched at her shoulder, breathing into the space where her hair dusts her neckline, his knees concertina slightly so she feels his thighs brush her butt. He moves his hand to touch her cue, making actions to schmooze behind her, lock her body down to his own, and instruct her about how to use the wood of her stick.

'Being outplayed a little, Detective? Remember how you first helped me to shoot at the range, although I released so very … so very prematurely? If you just loosen up, lean back a lot, and let me — hey owwwwwwwymurpftb!'

She's going to run! She's out of here, surrendering bets, going to despise herself the very next day. Remember that plan, Beckett? But when his arrogance surmounts even his own mega-Castle scale and he advises her to concede or be coached by a master, her inner Detective Beckett returns. In droves.

With a swift pivot, she grabs the closest extremity of his body, performs her Rick-twist (aptly named after the first time she had to ear him) and reverses their positions so she's leaning over him and the table, the cue now clattering to the floor. He's a soft target, this burly boy, although Beckett knows he concedes just a little bit in situations like this. He's able with his fists — she's seen that before today — but he'd only use them in some instances.

'Castle!' she snaps, trying not to gape at the gap between his shirt and pants. God, his skin! If there was only some way to taste that without him knowing. 'There's no concession in this game. Ever! Got it! And you are putting me off.'

He wiggles so the shirt rides up a little more. As she's about to reach out and just touch herself a little bit of that divine texture, the light over the bar shuts out and she hears two staff members chuckle and bid them a 'good night'. It seems they are now the only inhabitants of The Old Haunt. Stakes are higher.

God. It's time to run. Use her cop skills and run!

'I was only trying to help you. Make it more even. The game,' Castle says, his own weight pushing back against the twist hold she has him in. 'And really, Kate? There's nothing you could do or say that could ever put me off my game, so how can the reverse be true? You're just using that as an excuse. Let's face it. You're losing to me. You don't like it!'

She sees red. Giving one last push to the hold, nuzzling him into his turf as a reaction to the sting of his words, Beckett releases him and stalks to the head of the table. Leaning forward into the position he'd taken before, she squares up eye contact while he rubs his sore spots.

'Nothing I do or say could ever put you off your game, Castle?' she hears herself bite, loving the interrogation room tone to her voice. 'You sure about that? Think very carefully, Rick.'

'I was only saying that this excuse doesn't hold in The Old Haunt! I can't understand how someone — i.e, me — could put you off a game by simply standing around. Smiling at you. Being pleasant. You're way too oversensitive tonight, Katherine. Perhaps it is time to concede … um,' he grimaces at his sore spots. 'Retire?'

The egotistical, infuriating, enigmatic, charming, sexy, super-inflated son o' a bitch! She's going to make him eat his words. If it's the last thing she does tonight, before heading home to bed alone, it will be to distract him to the point of incapacitation.

His.

Thinking boldly, bravely, Beckett puts her hand on her hip and revises the egress points of The Old Haunt. Her plan is one she's adopted before, as ancient as the role of 'woman as seductress' throughout the eons of time, but she'll work it quickly, intuitively, then leave.

Excusing herself to visit the bathroom, she instructs Castle to 'leave things exactly as they are' and reassess her form beneath her dress as she walks —

Yeah. She has on a dual-tiered, relatively immodest petticoat under her black number. Nope, she'd never wear it in The Old Haunt unless she was desperate to make a point. Yep, it's sexy, revealing and clingy. Nah, she'd never be naked beneath it, and quietly thanks the gods of sleazy bar pool games for the sense to don underwear and a bra. Always.

Yes, she's idiotic. No, she's not getting herself into anything she can't handle … or perhaps doesn't want to be involved with, anyway. Ok, yep, the thing's racy and red and screams 'take it off, then fuck me on the table.' No, she's not nervous, it's like working a case, working a case in a red, revealing thing …

As she opens the bathroom door and prepares to show Castle just a little bit more of the Beckett character, she has to race for the cold water tap to cool herself down.

It's just that hot in his Old Haunt.

Castle dims the lights real low when she's in the bathroom. He saunters over to the bar, finds a couple of cold, classy glasses — as up market as The Old Haunt will allow — and a fresh bottle of champagne. He's pretty sure she won't drink any more. He's absolutely sure that when she realizes he's set this up, she'll use the bottle over the back of his head.

But it will be so worth it.

It's laughable to suggest that Kate Beckett couldn't do anything to distract him. She distracts him by breathing, by being alive. Even as a cadaver, she'd probably have the capacity to make him as stiff as she was the first time they met Lanie in the morgue.

With that odd thought in mind, Castle walks over to the gaming area, places the glasses and drink on the nearby table and readjusts his shirt. He actually pops one of his lower buttons. Just because. She seems to like this look on him and he likes any look on her.

If anyone needs the champagne, it's him. He's so dead. But it's gonna be a hell of a way to die.