Vice
Was that his alarm?
Rick Castle groaned and turned over in his bed, glanced blearily at the clock's glowing orange numbers.
Couldn't be his-
Shit, the door.
He stumbled out of bed and his knee buckled, sending him thudding into the side of his shelves and ricocheting off down the hall. He scrubbed a hand through his face and hoped his mother hadn't gotten herself into trouble. Maybe she had just locked herself out of her own place, maybe she needed the extra key to her apartment.
He could only hope.
She was not bringing another boyfriend back here to play his piano at five in the morning. No. He had to draw the line somewhere.
Castle flipped the deadbolt and swung open the door. "You're not-"
He was arrested by Kate Beckett.
Twice, his brain supplied.
Officer Kate Beckett, wearing her winter uniform pants, the holster with its gear (like Batman's utility belt), the turtleneck with the white NYPD, the heavy, weather-proofed coat. She lifted an eyebrow and he stepped back.
Stared.
Then remembered his manners. "Come in."
"I can't. On my way to-"
"Work," he supplied. "Okay."
"I wanted to drop this off. For Alexis."
She reached out a hand and he took the plastic bag from her with a startled reflex, pressing it against his chest so it wouldn't fall. "What is it?"
"The book she's reading."
His jaw dropped.
She sighed. "She's going to miss the chapter - so at least, maybe this way, she can read it and catch up. And I won't feel like such a selfish bitch for dragging the two of you into my personal life."
He sucked in a breath and glanced down at the package, reached inside to pull out Where the Red Fern Grows. "Where'd you get this? Stores aren't open."
Instead of answering, he saw something in her face harden, her eyes back to being careful and guarded. Because of a store?
"I know a guy," she said finally.
"Wow. Thank you. Really. Thank you. This will help."
He stared down at the book for a moment longer, mesmerized by the very idea of Kate Beckett going and buying a gift for his daughter to make up for last night. When he lifted his gaze back to her, he saw her shift uncertainly and flush, a hand coming up to scrape at a flyaway hair, her eyes darting to his hallway, back to him, away again.
She looked uncomfortable. She looked-
Was she staring at his crotch?
He was - ohhh, right - he was wearing his boxers and nothing else. And it was early morning and she looked pretty alluring in her uniform and-
He grinned, tried to inconspicuously suck in his chest.
She was checking him out.
Kate Beckett had bought a book for his daughter to give her the pretense of coming over here and checking him out. (So he assumed.)
She wanted him. (Again, he was also assuming, but these were solid assumptions. Based on lots of facts. And the way she was - maybe - blushing right now.)
He narrowed his eyes and stepped in a little closer, watched her reaction carefully as she made a fist and averted her eyes. But she didn't step back. She didn't move at all. She stayed right where she was, and then her tongue came out to dart against her top lip.
Oh whoa. If she did that again, he'd have to kiss her.
He'd wanted to kiss her for weeks and-
"I have to go," she said quickly, and moved like she was going to leave. Leave him standing there in his doorway with only boxers on and no kiss.
No way.
He reached out and wrapped his fingers around her wrist, held her there; she lifted her face to him in surprise, but her mouth opened, her eyes flicked down to his lips and back up again.
Invitation, pure and simple.
Everything stopped.
The rush in her head, the painful awkwardness of meeting him at his front door with a stupid apologetic gift for his daughter, the riot in her blood from watching the play of muscle and bone and sinew under his skin.
Everything stopped.
When his mouth touched hers.
Soft as satin, sinfully warm. The skirting breath at her cheek, the nuzzle of his nose as he angled her into place, the contact of his lips on hers.
Beckett stopped.
And then the humming in her veins began to clamor, the ache in her chest cracked open and spread jaggedly through her limbs until she found herself pitching into him, a little raw, a lot desperate.
His mouth opened.
She pressed her palm to his bare chest, skin hot and firm, felt her thighs brush his. Then suddenly she realized the back of her fingers were tracing the shape of his ribs and moving down, entirely without her say. But his mouth - his mouth on hers and his hand at her neck. And then her thumb was snagging at his boxers, and his tongue was stroking the roof of her mouth in retaliation or invitation or suggestion, and - she did it.
She slipped her hand past the waistband of his boxers, fingers seeking, and his hips drove sharply into her pelvis-
And then the crinkle of the plastic bag between them snapped her out of it.
She backed up, stunned by the taste of him, the heady look in his eyes that must - had to - mirror the look in her own. Her fingers burned. He still held her by her other wrist.
She didn't know how to leave.
He cleared his throat and looked like he was trying to speak; nothing came out.
Beckett tugged on her arm to break his hold, steadfastly ignored the way her body was aware of his, each cell finely tuned and vibrating to his pitch.
He let her go but stepped out into the hallway after her. "Beckett," he said finally, but she was already turning to leave.
Mistake. A mistake, stupid mistake-
His hand caught her by the pocket of her uniform coat, stayed her. "I know what I want," he growled.
Oh damn. No.
"You said to let you know. You owe me, because it matters to you. I know what I want now," he repeated.
She closed her eyes, grit her teeth. "You do know that I'm not a prostitute?" she growled back.
He tugged and her body - so eager and traitorous - came to him without trouble, her shoulder falling to his chest, her feet tripping over themselves. She was usually never this disgraceful.
"I know what I want," he said again, like he was enjoying the tease of his words across her inflamed nerves, like his voice was a hand that trailed slowly down her side.
"What do you want?" she shot back, jerking from the clutch of him to stand on her own two feet, separate. So what if he'd paid for the full 90-day treatment for her father? So what if it had to be at least a hundred thousand dollars? She'd drive up there and get him out and do something else. She wasn't having sex with Richard Castle to pay her father's rehab bill. The ass-
"I want to use you-" he started.
What the hell kind of proposition was this? He wasn't even trying to be romantic. The insufferable, pompous-
"-for a character."
For a-
"What?" she gasped.
"A new character. A whole book about - you, Beckett. Your story, your tragedy, the precinct, your fierce-"
"What are you talking about?" she said, falling backwards.
"I want to come with you to work. I want to follow you around for a month. Just to learn. A ride-along. They have those, right? You can show me how to run the lights and siren."
No.
No.
He couldn't be serious.
She pressed a hand to her forehead and stared at him.
"Can't I just pay you back with sex?"