Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you, happy birthday dear Nathan… Happy birthday to you! Consider this my birthday present to our favorite ruggedly handsome writer (and occasional space cowboy) Nathan Fillion! Woohoo! So if you're reading this for some insane reason, Nate, this one's for you.
He sat in the bar, turning the empty whiskey glass over in his hand. He'd nursed the glass for the good part of an hour, and he wasn't sure if he wanted another one or not. Nothing said "lonely" like a man slowly nursing shot after shot by himself.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a woman slip onto a barstool, signaling for the bartender. He was surprised to see that she didn't order a fruity little drink or even a Kailua and cream but something that looked suspiciously like a vodka mix. The woman smiled her thanks.
Now, a woman like that should never have to pay for her own drink. He took her in, the very sight of her doing more for him than the good, strong whiskey he'd just consumed had.
She had long, creamy golden legs, her feet held prisoner by a pair of wicked red heels. She wore a deep, dark red dress, simple but classy – not too dressy for her current location, but still elegant. Her dark amber locks were pulled back in a loose, curling ponytail, keeping it out of her face but allowing the natural curls to snake around her neck and down her chest. He couldn't help but follow the line of her neck, the curve of her breast, drinking in her figure with his eyes.
The woman looked around the room with a mixture of boredom and apprehension. Her eyes were almost gleaming emeralds in the half-dark, reflecting the light like a cat. She looked exactly how he felt.
Reaching a decision, he stood up and made his way towards her, sitting himself down on the barstool next to her. He flagged the bartender, while the woman looked at him. One thin, perfect eyebrow arched as he turned to face her.
"What's a beautiful woman like you, doing alone on a Friday night?" He asked. He saw she was opening her mouth to say something, so he held up a hand. "I'm not trying a pick up line, I'm honestly asking."
"That would be a first." The woman smirked. She accepted the drink the bartender got her, though. She gazed at him through her lashes as she sipped. "So, why are you asking?"
"Curiosity?" He hazarded.
The woman shook her head.
"Well, I'd tell you I'm a New York Times bestselling author doing research, but that would just sound like bragging. Or another pick up line." He joked.
She tugged her plump bottom lip between her teeth, biting gently as she tried to hide her smile. "And I'd tell you I'm a single woman looking for someone to show me a good time, but that would just sound desperate."
He shook his head. "Single? I don't believe it."
Eyebrows shouldn't be able to physically raise that high, but the woman managed. "What about you; a classy, handsome man like you all alone? Or did some harpy snap you up?"
"They tried to." He winked.
She smiled, and then looked down at his outstretched hand. She rolled her eyes and slipped her hand into his. Her hand was small and cool to the touch, the skin surprisingly smooth. His hand was large and the pads were a little rough, but warm and strong.
He dropped her hand, and she immediately missed the warmth it had sent crawling up her arm. She crossed her legs, treating him to another tempting smile.
"So," He said, leaning forward. "You're single? How did that happen?"
"My last boyfriend was exactly the most… attentive of people." She offered.
"What a pity." He said. He leaned forward a little – not too much, just enough to suggest intimacy. "It's a sad thing that so many men today don't appreciate their partner."
She smiled appreciatively at the word. His voice lowered a few notes, but he continued to speak conversationally.
"A woman should be appreciated for the beautiful thing that she is." He explained. "Her skin should be kissed and suckled. Her curves should know what it's like to be gripped with possession. Her lips should be caressed and crushed by a lover's mouth."
He gently touched her, just with his fingertips, on her knee, slowly drawing them up her thigh. Although there was the material of the dress in between his fingers and her skin and he wasn't even really touching her that much, tingles began to spread until they engulfed her entire body. She was held there, frozen, her lips parted slightly as his words wrapped around her, keeping her in his thrall with his voice and the sinful things he was saying.
"Her hair…" He reached up and gently took a piece of it, feeling it between his thumb and fingers before letting it slide slowly through his hand. "A woman's crown and glory." His voice was a hoarse whisper now, his throat tight.
She stood up abruptly, annoyed at the devilish gleam in his eyes. Her skin was flushed, her breathing was shallow and damn him, he knew exactly what he was doing to her. He stood up as well, and she realized just how tall he was, towering over her, his darkly handsome face filling her vision.
"I think I need to rest."
It wasn't supposed to be an invitation… or was it? Her brain was a little addled.
Gently putting a hand on the small of her back to guide her, he steered her away from the bar exit, towards the back. There was a separate room, down a few steps, that held a couple pool tables as well as two doors, one on either side of the room. The one on the left held a storage closet and a few other things (including but not limited to rats, dark tunnels, and possible wine storage rooms), but it was the one on the right they were headed towards.
"I don't usually do this kind of thing." She explained, her voice weaker than she wanted it to be.
"Never said you did."
"I'm just…"
He opened the door to an office, and sat her down in a dark green couch along the wall. "You can relax here." He said. He went over to one of the shelves, pulling down a bottle of scotch and two glasses.
"You seem very prepared for this kind of situation. Does this happen often?" She teased.
"Never happened before." He said earnestly, handing her a half-full glass. She took it but didn't drink, staring at him over the rim.
"So I'm the first?" The teasing note never left her voice – she was toying with him.
He sat down next to her. "Why?" She asked.
"Because you're…" He stared at her for a moment, and then grinned slowly. "You're extraordinary."
She had to look away or she ran the risk of getting lost in the blue depths of his eyes. "Should I feel honored?" She asked.
There was a smile playing at the corners of her lips, and he had to swallow hard. He leaned in. "I think I'm the one who should feel honored here." He whispered.
"You know what I think?"
"What?"
She downed her scotch, then set down the empty glass with a thump. "I think you should put your money where your mouth is." And she closed the distance between them.
The kiss was soft, extremely soft, his lips warm against hers; his hand reached up to gently cup her cheek, angling her head. He opened his mouth, his tongue swiping against her lips, asking for entrance. She gave it to him, allowing their tongues to slide against each other, tasting the whiskey and something deeper, a full, darkly sweet taste that was his alone. He groaned, moving his hand up to slip it through her hair, gently gripping the locks at the back of her head. She rose up a little, shifting so that se was kneeling above him, tiny sounds of pleasure emitting from the back of her throat.
They slid, smoothly and slowly, off of the couch and onto the floor. He was on top of her somehow, and their clothes had managed to melt off of them in the way they often do when your mind is occupied with other (more enjoyable) tasks.
He flipped them, getting on top so that he could better run his hands over her silky skin. He reveled in every mark, every freckle, every piece of her. It amazed him how she could be so perfect. Even her flaws just made her more perfect. He kissed her scars reverently – there was the burn mark on her knee from a dropped frying pan, the thin surgical scars from an archery accident, and not least of all, the sniper scar between her breasts.
She arched beneath him, encouraging him to move faster. Her nails raked against his back, and she was kissing his neck with an almost feral hunger. He slowly made his way upward, pressing openmouthed kisses and little nips to her skin, reveling in her salty-sweet taste. She gripped his shoulders, yanking him up and claiming his mouth, dominating him with her tongue. Looping one leg around his waist, she pressed him up against her entrance, demanding that he finish what he started.
More than ready to comply, he broke the kiss, lifting his head up so that he could watch her face. He entered her, sucking in a breath at her expression. Her mouth fell open in a gasp, her pupils swallowing the rest of her eye to glitter like gleaming black pearls, her skin becoming even more flushed than before. She tilted her head back, relaxing, her body shifting to accommodate him.
While they did wait a minute before moving, once they began it was frenzied. A part of her was very much aware that they were doing this on the floor of a bar, in what appeared to be someone's office, and they weren't even using a condom and she hadn't felt this reckless since she was nineteen and oh God, the danger, the wrongness of it, the sheer naughty pleasure, was giving this tryst an edge that she hadn't felt in forever.
He moved almost erratically, the feel of her around him, clinging to him, engulfing him in every sense just stripping him of any vestiges of self-control. He pounded into her, and were he in his right mind he would have felt guilty but she was meeting him for every thrust, mirroring his movements, and every time he tried to slow down she would clench around him, gasping out some version of "don't you dare". It felt so wrong, so dirty, and so… fucking… good.
They had to be quiet, so when she felt herself beginning to slip, she pressed herself against him, crushing herself to him, and kissed him. He had control this time, his tongue delving in and drawing moans out of her like a composer coaxing music out of nothing.
She fluttered around him, and then she slipped completely, her hold on sanity and control vanishing as she plummeted, and her entire body shook with the force of it. She tightened around him, her channel rippling, and he couldn't hold back anymore. He went rigid, pouring everything he had into her as she continued to fall, kissing him like it was the only way to keep her anchored to this plane of existence.
Finally, they spent themselves, collapsing in a sated heap. She glanced up the few stairs that led from the office to the bar, and then rolled over so that she was lying on top of him, her arms folded on his chest.
"What's that smile for?" He asked, perplexed.
"We didn't lock the office door." She said, grinning wickedly.
"I'm sure the owner won't mind." He said, wiggling his eyebrows.
"Yes, but whatever poor bartender that comes in here next probably would." She said.
"Mmm." He didn't appear to care, as he was far too busy running his fingers through her hair. God, he loved her hair.
"So I was thinking…" She said slowly, noticing how he was playing with her locks, "That we could use a place to clean up. Why don't I show you my place?"
"Only if you let me wash this gorgeous hair of yours." He insisted.
She closed her eyes, imagining them in the bath. She shivered, hot chills dancing across her nerves. "I'll consider it."
They stood up, carefully donning their clothing, fixing their hair as best they could, before heading back to the bar. As they walked through the crowd, he kept his hand resting lightly on her hip. It wasn't much, but it was enough to make her entire body hot, and it was certainly enough to show the various men stealing glances at her that she was taken.
"Mr. Castle?"
They had almost reached the door when the senior bartender flagged him down. "Are you going to be back tonight, or do you want me to lock up?"
Castle glanced over at Beckett. She was looking at him like she wanted to eat him alive… and like she was daring him to leave her presence again that night.
"No, I trust you to lock it up." Castle replied, talking to the bartender but smiling at Beckett.
Without further ado, they exited the Old Haunt, making it ten feet before they started making out again.
And yes, I know that this is being posted a day late, so technically it's a belated birthday present but I know you won't hold that against me, will you?
Quick note for those of you who sent me reviews, allow me to thank you with another hint! Next chapter is already halfway done! Here it is: Shaken, not stirred.