Now, here is how my writing went:
Me: Okay, so here's how it's going to go…
Beckett: What? No. No way.
Me: Oh come on! I'm the writer here! I'm in charge! Right, Castle?
Castle: Um… well… I'm going to have to go with Beckett on this one.
Me: That 'cause you just want to get laid.
Castle: …no?
So, yeah… I had a bit of tug-of-war on this one. I hope that it still turned out all right, though. I'm so happy that so many of you guessed this correctly! Yay for you! Consider this your reward.
Let it be said, to be preserved for posterity, that Detective Kate Beckett did not have an issue with control.
Let it also be stated, here and now, that Detective Kate Beckett was excellent at denial.
"All I'm saying, honey, is that we all know how much you like to be the one driving the stick…" Lanie paused at her friend's expression. "Shift. The stick shift."
"And all that I'm saying is that it really shouldn't be that big of a deal that I be the one to drive!" Beckett insisted.
Lanie pursed her lips in that infuriatingly knowing way of hers. "Uh-huh. So tell me; it's not a sign of extreme control issues and/or insanity that you would rather bum a ride from a friend then let your fiancé drive you home?"
Beckett sighed, sagging against the (now empty) examination table. Lanie planted her hands on her hips.
"You listen to me, Katherine Beckett-soon-to-be-Castle."
"Stop saying that."
The medical examiner continued as if she hadn't heard a thing. "You are working two cases at once, plus a case that's up for trial, and you haven't had a wink of sleep in the past four days. You have had so much coffee if I cut your finger you would bleed vanilla sugar-free latte, and your eyes are more bloodshot than the dude from the Texas Chainsaw Massacre! You can't drive in this condition or you'll end up running over some old grandma. Now text him back and let him drive you home!"
With a sigh worthy of a Christian martyr facing the lion-filled gladiator pit, Beckett acquiesced. Pulling out her phone, she responded to Castle's text, sent ten minutes ago.
Fine. I'll let you drive.
Even with texting, Beckett was a stickler for rules. That included the rules of spelling and grammar.
C u soon! :)
Castle, on the other hand, abused text lingo and emoticons shamelessly.
Twenty minutes later, Beckett's ride pulled up. At least he'd used the Ferrari, and not the patrol car that had not-so-mysteriously vanished from the garage that morning. She still wasn't sure how he got the keys out of her pocket.
If she was being honest with herself – and she wasn't – she would have admitted that yes, she was a little cranky from the combination of sleep deprivation, massive doses of caffeine, and cases with an annoying lack of leads. But all that vanished when she saw her partner pull up in his shiny red car. The top was up, which was a rare occasion, but even more noteworthy was the driver's state of dress.
He wore a suit that, while certainly not worthy of Downton Abbey, invoked the air of a servant. He even sported a pair of white gloves. Beckett arched an eyebrow, but her smirk softened the expression.
"Miss Beckett? Your ride is ready."
Oh. That tone in his voice…
Beckett's smirk grew. Cranky? She was so far from cranky it was almost comical.
"Thank you, Richard." She said, slipping into the role with an ease that almost startled her. This game was becoming easier, and more fun, with each session.
And, well, she did kind of owe him for last time. She hadn't really cooperated with the whole be-in-charge thing. (Although, she'd thought the handcuffs last week had made up for that…)
He opened the door for her with a slight bow, his face unreadable. As she sat down, however, he bent down, tugging the seatbelt over and buckling her in. His hands glided over her chest and lap, lingering a little longer than necessary in certain areas. When he was finished, he rested on hand on her thigh, gripping it firmly for a moment before releasing it, just as the fingers on his other hand glided up her arm, caressing her throat and jaw for a whisper of a moment before departing. He straightened.
"Just wanted to make sure you're properly secured." His voice glided over her, the undertones unmistakable. He closed the door before Beckett could do anything about the fire he had suddenly kindled in her belly.
Damn the man.
Since when had the Ferrari's engine roaring to life made her tingle like that? The first time she'd driven it, she'd gotten a rush of power, of adrenaline, at the thought of having such a pristine vehicle at her disposal, the controls right at her fingertips. She had heard, of course, of girls who got… well, hot around cars, but she'd never had that kind of reaction. She'd always been much more male in her relationship with automobiles. Now, though, she had to cross her legs. She blamed the guy driving the car.
What was the phrase? Oh, yes; damn the man.
Rick glanced at Kate in the review mirror. She looked completely composed to the casual observer, but he knew her too well. She was hot and bothered, and she was trying hard not to show it. He smothered a grin of villainous glee.
"Lovely night, isn't it?" He asked casually.
Kate said nothing.
"It must be nice to go home and relax after such a long work day." He continued.
The passenger in the back made a noncommittal sound.
"Do you have anybody you're going home to? Someone you can… properly attend to your needs?"
No indication was given that she had heard him, except that she sat up a little straighter. A word to the wise – Kate Beckett's first giveaway (in regards to sexual tension) was that she sat ramrod straight.
After a moment of silence, Kate gave up and broke it. "No." She said. "There's no one at home."
This was technically true.
"Well, that's a pity." Rick said, his tone beginning to slide away from conversational and towards… something else. "A beautiful woman like you, with no one to take care of her?"
"I can take care of myself, thanks." Her retort was soft, though, and lacked bite.
"Maybe, maybe not. It can be refreshing and rejuvenating to let someone else take the wheel sometimes."
Their eyes met in the review mirror, and Kate had to bite back her smile. He was warming her heart – and other, baser parts of her.
Since when had the drive home taken so long?
A few minutes later, Rick drove the car into the underground garage. He parked it carefully in the reserved spot, and got out. Kate was nice enough to let him open the door for her, but that was as far as he got. She stepped out and whirled around, pinning him against the car. The door clicked shut.
His hands instinctively moved to her waist and ass, gripping her fiercely as her tongue dove into his mouth. She delved in without hesitation, making tiny appreciative noises and trying her damndest to show him that this was what he did to her, and with barely any fucking effort on his part!
She grabbed the hand that was currently kneading her ass and moved it, practically shoving it down the front of her jeans so that he could feel how wet she was. His eyes widened slightly. The pleased shock on his face made her relax just a little.
Bad idea. He seized the opportunity, spinning her so that her stomach was pressed against the car and he was at her back. He wasted no time, kissing every part of her neck and throat that he could reach. His hand remained in her pants, though. His dexterous fingers moved aside her underwear. Her breathing became ragged and hoarse at once, a Pavlovian response to what she knew he could do; what she knew he would do.
His fingers knew what to do, both through instinct and practice, working against her, in her, moving her in ways that would have made any other woman scream. Fortunately for anyone parking their car somewhere else in the garage, Kate had too much self-control and dignity (well, she'd say dignity, while others would say sheer stubbornness) to do so… yet.
Relentlessly, he toyed with her. He knew her tells, knew the tiny giveaways that signaled she was near, and every time he felt them, he would stop. He never let her go all the way to the top, or fully slip off the edge. She had no idea how much more of this she'd be able to take before she started begging.
And she did not beg.
(Well, not since three weeks ago, but then, who's keeping track? Not her.)
In the interest of both getting what she wanted (namely, an orgasm and some control) and giving him what he needed – as evidenced by what was pressing against her back – Kate pushed herself off the car with as much force as she could muster. Her legs were a little wobbly but she succeeded in turning around and grabbing her stumbling partner by his shirt, dragging him to the front of the car and slamming him against the hood. He immediately grabbed her and flipped them so that she was the one with her back against the still-warm engine.
"I thought you agreed to let me drive?" He asked, teasingly.
She grabbed him by the back of the neck and drove his head down, kissing him so that he couldn't see her smile. He could feel it anyway.
Impatience set in, and she fumbled at his pants, finally managing to undo them and push them down. He was too busy decorating her body with hickeys to help. However, he did manage to rid her of her pants and (ruined) underwear. She wrapped one leg around him, arching against him to try and get her point across. He teased her one more time, and it would be the last thing he ever did.
Rick might have been a lot of things, but an idiot was not one of them. He knew what she was getting at. He lifted her other leg, allowing her to hook her ankles around him as he entered her.
Talk about going from zero to sixty.
It could have been the fact that anyone could have walked or driven in, or perhaps the car element; but it was most likely the result of all the teasing, of being held so close, and not allowed to go over. Whatever the case, Kate quickly began to feel it building up within her, burning and burning and burning, consuming her like a particularly large and voracious fire.
Rick had once heard that some men preferred it with the woman on top, or below. Honestly, he couldn't decide which was more erotic. Kate was a goddess, his goddess, his woman, and if she wanted to be on top or on the bottom then who was he to argue? Either way, she undid him. But, as with zombies, conspiracy theories, and flirting in the precinct, he brought up the "driving" just to drive her crazy.
Currently, Kate being driven crazy was breathtaking. He could never hold on once her orgasm hit; the sight of her, her face slack and her mouth open, her hair spilling about her like tendrils of water down a cliff. He fell with her, his climax thundering through him, thrumming and beating itself along his bloodlines like a thousand horses.
As her engine died down, Kate let her legs fall to either side, miniscule beads of sweat making the golden cream skin glisten, almost like the skin of a fish or a snake, covered with shiny bejeweled scales of spun gold or sun-baked tan, or cream as it turns into butter. Her face was tinged with pink, her eyes glistening like two tiny brown beetles. She smiled up at him, enchanting and enchanted.
"Remind me to let you drive more often." She whispered.
"I'll hold you to that."
She laughed, high and clear, like a silver bell. He hauled himself off of her, and she stood up slowly. "Well, you certainly know how to handle the stick." She teased.
He finished adjusting his clothes and grabbed her hand, pulling her along towards the elevator. He didn't say anything when she let him open the door for her, but he did shoot Emilio the doorman a triumphant – and slightly giddy – grin.
Lanie's line was actually one that I stole from purplangel, who used it describe my writing. I believe her exact words were, "I know how much you like to have Kate driving his stick shift." Best. Analogy. Ever. Also, I snuck in a couple car-related analogies because I'm just a little cheesy that way.
Also, Downton Abbey is an amazing British television show. Do yourselves a favor and go watch it after you review this chapter. (See? See how I did that? Oh, the cleverness of me!)
Since you all are so amazing, here's the hint for next chapter's theme: What's a hands-on way to relax?