BSB: The Dryer

a multi-authored story by Cora Clavia, Sandiane Carter, and chezchuckles

Kate stands in his entryway, soaking wet.

And not in a good way.

Castle laughs at her and shuts the door, reaching out a hand to brush the drops of water sliding down her neck. Kate shivers at his touch, but again, not in a good way. It's been pouring down rain for hours, and in the city, that means the cabs disappear. She drove the Crown Vic over to his loft, but of course, she had to park two blocks away.

"Get me some dry clothes-" she orders, gesturing back towards his bedroom.

"Go to the laundry room and strip. We can stick those in the dryer, have them ready before you leave?"

She looks down at the floor, notes the puddle staining his hardwood. "Yeah, and bring a towel."

He's halfway down the hall to grab her a towel when she calls after him, "And Castle, if you ever tell me to 'strip' again, I will twist both your ears, understood?"

"Acknowledged." He disappears through the door to his study.

Kate leaves her boots by the door and peels off her jacket on the way to his laundry room, setting it on top of the washer. She's soaked to the skin, chilly enough to be uncomfortable. She undoes a few buttons of her sodden shirt, tugs it free from her waistband, but pauses when she realizes that she doesn't have anything to put on yet. And she's cold. And wet. And her fingers are numb.

Luckily, Castle's never been the kind of man who's easily offended at the sight of a woman's bare skin.

Speaking of, he's really taking his sweet time getting her that towel and extra clothes.

Kate finishes undoing her buttons, winces as she struggles to get the damp fabric off her skin, her shirt clinging in a most unpleasant way. She drops it to the floor, goes through a moment of uncertainty, not sure if taking her clothes off was a good idea. Even though being soaked was making her shiver, the cool air on her exposed skin isn't much better.

Now her teeth are chattering.

Looking around, she spies a heating vent on the wall opposite the washing machine, gets as close to it as she can. Yeah. Better. The warm air at least starts to dry the dampness on her skin.

Her dark blue jeans are stiff, hampering her every move; she unbuttons them, tugs down the zipper, then slides her fingers into the waistband, tugging ineffectually. Her shoulders slump in frustration.

Why did she put on skinny jeans this morning? Ugh. She sighs - because of Castle. Damn it. This is his fault.

She's got her thumbs hooked into her waistband when Castle chooses that moment to walk in. His eyes go dark and fix on her hips; she shivers.

"Need some help?" he growls.

Her breath catches, chills chasing after arousal, mixing up in her blood. Castle drops the towel and a change of clothes to the floor; she watches them fall. His hands are encircling hers before she has a chance to move, his fingers brushing her bare hipbones.

He slides his fingers between the wet material of her jeans and her cool, clammy skin, then tugs her hips forward to meet his, hot and primal.

"Didn't think I'd have to ask, Castle." She's impressed that her voice sounds so steady.

He lets out a short laugh, and she shivers as his thumbs drag over her cool skin. "To get your clothes off? I'll help any way I can, Kate."

His face is close, so very close, and the heat in his gaze starts warming her up. She sways, catching herself with a tentative hand on his arm, and for a second his eyes go dark and she thinks he's going to kiss her -

But instead he presses his cheek to hers, his mouth at her ear, and starts peeling off her jeans, his arms strong, solid lines around her body. The warmth of his chest against hers, skin on skin, makes her curl against him, his hands sliding sensually down her curves.

Surprisingly, he doesn't take her underwear along with the pants - so not like him, missing out on an opportunity - but it doesn't matter anyway, because he gets stuck at her thighs, tugging on the fabric stubbornly until Kate shoves him back.

That *chafes.*

"Too wet, Castle," she breathes.

His chuckle makes her lean towards him, torn between the flare of indignation at how dirty he always makes everything, and the burn of desire at having him undress her. Desire is winning by a landslide.

His mouth stumbles into hers, almost clumsy, as if he's been trying to hold back this whole time, but now that he's failed, his arousal makes him overeager. He nips at her bottom lip and catches her tongue, going in blind, adventurous like a little kid, except what it does to her -

Oh - oh -

Nothing childish about it.

She shivers and pushes him away, catching her breath (she doesn't want her fun to be over quite so soon); the jeans are still bunched around her legs, restricting her movements, and she glances around for a way to get rid of them.

Her eyes fall on the washing machine.

"Castle," she says, surprised at how rough her voice is, how dark and intimate it sounds. "Help me up."

His large warm hands wrap around her hips without her having to say another word; he lifts her on top of the dryer and leans in to brush his mouth over her collarbone, down her chest, teeth and tongue coming out to play. Getting to the good stuff. Oh, damn, his mouth-

She takes him by the ears and holds him away. "Jeans," she commands, her breathlessness taking all the authority out of her voice. She wants to wrap her legs around him; she wants it now.

Castle's hands travel down her exposed thighs, slide under the fabric, the jeans clinging so tightly that his hands seem to throb against her legs. He scoots her closer to him, then eases the waistband down slowly.

Kate lifts her hips, not to help him, but because she can't stop the arch in her back, the sudden coil of need that flares to life. She grips the edge of the dryer and slits her eyes, trying to keep it contained.

He moves his hands to her left thigh, ducks his head to leave open-mouthed kisses on her skin, his nose brushing against her, teeth grazing, making her muscles twitch. Castle drags his hands down her leg, delicious, lovely friction. She clutches his shoulder as he works, squeezing when he stops to play.

"Castle," she gasps.

He moves to the other thigh, slowly peels her jeans off of her.

By the time he's worked his way down to her feet, she's shivering, bowed over, her hands failing to keep her upright. He rises, takes her mouth with his in a long, hot kiss, his hands groping under her thighs. She feels the dryer door bang against her heels and pulls back, stunned.

"Clothes," he murmurs, and tosses all of her wet clothes inside, slamming the door again.

But it's been more than a few seconds since his mouth was on hers and she can't deal with not kissing him at this point, so she grabs his shirt and yanks him to her, winding her arms around his neck. He stumbles forward, ending up between her legs, and as her tongue teases his she hooks one knee around him, pulling him even closer. His hand travels up her back, tracing her spine.

Castle's fingers linger on the clasp of her bra, burning her skin even through the black lace, and a sound that is both impatience and encouragement falls from her lips, disappears into his warm mouth. But he disobeys her inarticulate command, his hands falling to her waist without unhooking anything; she feels him smile against her.

Damned man.

He breaks away from her after one last sweep of his tongue across her bottom lip, and she opens her eyes to stare at him, a dark promise of punishment for playing with her, turning her into this desperate, needy thing (and the worst part? She doesn't even care).

"Have to start the dryer, Kate," he explains, but she sees the impudent look on his face, the proud line of his mouth, the grin he tries to hold back.

He's loving every second of this.

Somewhere behind her, his hand twists the dial and presses start, sending waves of sinful motion up through her body.

Kate swallows and closes her eyes, hands clutching the dryer, vibrations shimmying up her bones.

"How's that?" he murmurs appealingly, his mouth at her jaw, breath hot on her ear.

"Good. Good," she moans, hating herself for it, unable to stop. His fingers flutter over the scrap of silk at her waist, pull her to the edge and against his hips.

She shivers, her body tensing at the sensory overload. He gets bolder, running his hands up over her thighs, and she can't hold back the gasp as his hips rock forward into hers, the friction hitting her in just the right spot. God, he's good at this. Without thinking she tightens her knees around him, forcing him even closer, her body oscillating between the dryer and his his hips.

He comes willingly, his mouth eagerly seeking her neck, her wildly beating pulse. Kate tilts her head back to make way for him, and another moan escapes her without permission. She's not in control of anything; her hands grip his back, digging into his warm skin as if he might misunderstand her intentions - she certainly does *not* want him to stop, but it's not like they can get any closer without -

"Oh-oh."

The sound leaves her lips mindlessly; the dryer thrums under her and Castle has unclasped her bra, and - oh god - his fingers are slowly sliding along her ribs, his thumbs brushing the sides of her breasts, gentle and yet so arousing, and he's pressed against her, and she wants him, wants only him-

She's so close, so so close, and the constant tremor of the dryer is echoed in the tremor of her body as his mouth lowers, his thumbs brush across her-

"Oh God."

They both jerk violently, drawing apart, because that's not her voice, that's not his voice, that's not either of them but-

"Alexis," he croaks out.

Kate turns her head, flames racing up her throat and into her cheeks, to see his daughter standing in the doorway, one hand on the knob, the other over her mouth, her eyes entirely too wide for an eighteen year old. Wide and staring right at Kate. Kate, whose bare legs are wrapped around-

"Oh God," Alexis repeats, spins around, and slams the door shut.

Kate groans, dropping her head into Castle's shoulder, letting her legs fall from around his waist, her heels banging into the dryer. She's still on the razor's edge of pleasure, and the vibration from her heels against the metal makes her back arch, pressing her body against his despite herself.

"Kate," Castle grits out, choked, his arm coming tight against her back.

"S-sorry," she hisses, tries to separate from him. "Go, talk to her."

"Not possible." His hand at her ribs squeezes. "Not like this."

Kate lifts her fingers to massage her forehead, tries to breathe. "Let me down. I have to get off-"

He makes a strangled noise and she curses silently as she realizes what she's said, but she slides off the dryer, trying to put distance between them. Her body is quivering with need. She wants to just, really quickly, just straddle his thigh and-

Alexis, she reminds herself, biting her lip.

"I'll go," she says finally, clasping her bra together and scooping the clothes up off the floor that he brought for her. "I'll go." Shit. Shit, she does *not* want to do this.

Castle is leaning against the wall, hunched over, and he doesn't even make a move when she tugs on the tshirt, the pair of shorts he must have borrowed from his daughter.

His daughter. Damn. "What in the world do I even say? Sorry you caught me making out with your father?"

He laughs - he would find this funny. Cheeks burning, Kate opens the laundry room to look for Alexis.

From behind her, Castle calls out, "Apology is the best policy, Kate."

Damn man. This is *his* fault.