Chapter 20

Castle bounced up to Beckett's desk on Monday practically panting with excitement. "Can we go see the ME now," he whined. "I really wanna. You said we could." He sounded like a five-year old asking if they could go to the circus.

"Yes, we can go. Just let me tidy up," she said in a put-upon fashion.

"Don't be like that. It'll be fun."

"It's dead bodies. What's fun about that?"

"Okay, interesting."

"It's messy."

"Yeah? That doesn't bother me. I write about murder all the time."

"It's not quite the same," Beckett said, standing up.

"I have a very strong stomach," Castle boasted. "This'll be easy."

Beckett looked sceptical. "Bet you throw up – or faint."

"I won't."

"Bet you a box of chocolates if I win – really good chocolate."

"And what if I win?"

"I'll cook you a meal."

"You're on. But I'm going to win."

They went down to the morgue, and as soon as they were inside Castle whipped out a small notebook and a pen and started to make scribbled notes. His gaze was everywhere, absorbing everything – he didn't even talk, which was almost unprecedented in Beckett's experience of him. If she'd been a little more fanciful, she'd have said that he was soaking up the atmosphere emanating from the walls. She steered him along to ME Parish's room, during which time he said not one word.

"Hey, Lanie," she said. "I brought you Mr Question Mark."

"Hey!" Castle complained, and then got a good look at Lanie. "Wow," he said. "You are absolutely not how I imagined an ME to be."

"Oh?" she said, and ran an assessing gaze up and down him. "You're not quite what I imagined either." Her gaze moved up and down him again, and then obviously rested at his belt buckle. She turned to Beckett. "So this is the uh?"

"Uh?" Castle squawked. "I'm an uh?"

"Just kidding," Lanie added hurriedly, catching Beckett's laser-intensity glare.

"I thought you wanted to ask questions?" she directed at Castle. "And you said you wanted to meet him," she sent Lanie-ward.

"I always thought MEs were thin and cadaverous and horribly formal and patronising, but" – Castle suddenly seemed to realise that there wasn't a good ending to that sentence, and stopped it short.

"I always thought that thriller writers were over-compensating for short measure," Lanie said innocently. Beckett spluttered and tried not to laugh.

"Oh, I never come up short," Castle said, just as innocently.

Beckett choked, and quietly disappeared into a handy door, which turned out to be a small office. From there – that being a safe distance – she watched the other two square up. The height difference was amusing, but Beckett was betting on Lanie. She, after all, had the scalpels and the bone saws.

"Really?" Lanie riposted. "That's not what Page Six says."

"I think you're reading Page Six of Architectural Monthly, then."

"I guess you read that to learn about erections?"

"Of buildings, sure. I guess you read Hustler to learn about anatomy?"

Beckett winced.

"Nah, I use it for the bra adverts."

Castle guffawed. "Personally, I like the jockstrap adverts in Playgirl," he grinned.

"I think I like you," Lanie said. "Now, are you gonna take care of my pal? 'Cause if not, I'll come after you with my scalpels."

"How long have you been friends?"

"Er," Lanie counted up on her fingers. "About three weeks."

Castle calculated on his own fingers. "I've known Beckett four weeks – so if you're not nice to my pal" –

"Girlfriend, from what I hear," Lanie snipped –

"I'll make sure everyone knows you're the real life example of my next most hated character."

"Wow, you play dirty."

"And you don't?"

"I really like you," Lanie grinned. "Shame Kate found you first. I never poach." Wisely, Castle didn't say anything. "Now, she said you wanted to ask questions and watch an autopsy?"

"Yep," Castle said happily. "Research."

"Research? What for? Storm doesn't spend time in morgues. He makes work for those of us who do." Lanie fixed Castle with a viciously interrogative scowl. "So what are you researching?"

"Autopsies," Castle said blandly. "Since they provide evidence."

Lanie regarded Castle with extreme scepticism. "I don't believe you, but you're not going to talk, and since Kate'll arrest me if I try persuading you I guess I'll just have to wait."

Beckett felt that this was an opportune moment to reappear. "Are you two finished sparring? I mean, I could happily leave you to it and go home for dinner, if you want to carry on."

"Not required," Lanie said. "We're friends. Aren't we?" Despite the wording, it didn't sound like a question.

"Yes," Castle agreed. "So when can I watch an autopsy?"

"Tomorrow. My shift finished twenty minutes ago and I wanna shower and eat." She smirked. "And I guess you pair are going to go chat. Or something. Something a lot more fun than chatting, you know."

"Is she for real?" Castle asked. "If I wrote her I'd get flamed for someone so totally without shame or boundaries."

"Yep, she's real."

"Standing right here," Lanie said, brandishing a fearsome implement.

"Leaving right now," Castle squeaked, and fled.

Lanie blatantly eyed up Castle's rear view. "He sure has a nice ass," she assessed. "Bit of a smartass" –

"Like you weren't?"

"Course not," Lanie lied. "Anyway, I'd go grab that ass with both hands if I were you. Not that yours has much to grab. You need to eat more, girl, so's he can find it."

"Night, Lanie," Beckett said firmly, and ran for it.

She eventually caught up with Castle outside the morgue, though he had a certain air of considering still fleeing.

"I didn't faint or throw up," Castle said smugly.

"You haven't seen the autopsy yet, so it doesn't count."

"Dinner, then. Since my ultra-strong stomach" –

"Ultra-strong?" Beckett scoffed. "I've seen what you call a six-pack" –

"Mean. Anyway, since my stomach remains unchurned, let's go to Remy's and have dinner."

"Okay. And then we could have coffee at mine and discuss your six-pack. And Architectural Monthly."

Dinner didn't take long, after that, and shortly they were almost at Beckett's apartment.

"Coffee at yours?" Castle asked.

"Sure," Beckett agreed, more than a little relieved that Lanie hadn't become an obstacle.

"And you can explain to me what an uh is," he added mischievously, hugged her to show that he was kidding, and quickly added, "so that I can turn it into an ohhhh Castle!"

"You can try," she snipped, as they entered the apartment.

"Oh, I think I can succeed," Castle bragged. "Just you wait. If I do, you explain why Lanie called me an uh."

"If you don't, you explain why an autopsy is research," Beckett countered.

"Okay," Castle said, suddenly determined to win at all costs. He really didn't want to explain – yet. He would, of course…later. A lot later. When his new character had her new book and he could show Beckett the whole thing. (though at the rate he was writing, his first draft would be done in a month)

He smiled very slowly and lazily. "C'mere," he drawled, and drew her in, showing off a little strength, exerting just a little force. Her eyes gleamed as his arms tightened around her. "Caught you."

"But can you keep me?" she flirted.

"You won't want to leave." One hand slid up her back to cup her skull and hold her head, the other stayed locked on her spine. He bent slowly, approaching her mouth, giving her time to anticipate his actions. Her pupils dilated, and a small pink tip of tongue wet her lips, parting them slightly, as he ghosted on to them: barely touching down, a flicker of his own tongue along the opening, but not entering; his lips passing on to touch down oh-so-lightly along her jaw, up to her cheekbone, across to her ear, finding the nerve that made her wriggle against him, pressed firmly against hot hard weight. This was his game now, and he intended to win.

Castle hadn't been this forcefully male before, but Beckett was not objecting. Oh, no. She liked the way he was applying well-judged strength and possessive grip; his mouth was teasing, but his hands were firm and he knew exactly where to put them. She sank into the feeling, and let him do as he would, totally aroused by his size surrounding her, his evident excitement feeding hers, his avid lips nibbling seductively everywhere except her own mouth. She squirmed against him, searching for more, rolling into him.

"Impatient," he murmured. "Just wait." The smooth baritone seeped straight through her skin, and she surrendered to its seduction. "I'll give you everything you want. Everything you need. Just wait." His mouth moved over the fine skin over her jawbone, back towards her mouth, ghosting feather-light across her face, and then taking her mouth in one commanding invasion, conquering without a pause. His kiss was deep and hard, strong, sure and confident. He took everything she gave, and demanded more: more assertively masculine than he'd ever been; and she curved and softened and pressed closer, mewing in protest when he pushed her a little way back; sighing in satisfaction as clever fingers undid the buttons of her shirt; whimpering as he parted the fabric and kissed down over her collarbones into her cleavage; more teasing, butterfly kisses that wound her higher and left her wanting and needy, scalding heat collecting at her core.

He smoothed the shirt from her shoulders, exposing pale cream skin and swelling breasts in black lace, bent to them and began to turn her into a melted, desperate mess of sensation. He'd been great before, but now she couldn't think, could only feel, as he sucked and lipped and played, through the thin material of her bra, and then, flicking open its fastening, on naked skin and pert pink nipples, until her hands clutched on his shoulders and her knees wobbled; until she gave small moans and he grinned wolfishly against her curves and worked her higher, holding her close to hold her up, then picking her up and backing her against the wall to grind against her and he was hot and hard and huge, pushing between her legs, pressure where she needed him, his mouth returning to hers, tongue taking her mouth as she wanted his body to take hers and she was so close as his hand slipped down and round to open her pants and slide within and cup her through thin cotton panties and rub and she exploded.

"That's a good start," Castle purred darkly into her ear. "Now let's carry on." Her pants dropped from her hips as he lifted her; her bare legs wrapped around his waist and her arms around his neck. "I think we'd both be much happier if you were naked in bed."

"Okay," she husked, drunk on sex already, completely unaware of anything outside his body and mouth and hands and fingers and the way he was, so easily, making her feel. She hadn't seen, or hadn't realised, that there was a broad, strong man behind the flirting and childishness; and while their previous lovemaking had been intensely satisfying; this had moved to a whole other level, where Castle was assertively sure of himself and intent on ensuring that she couldn't remember her name.

Which was just fine by her, as long as he didn't stop.

He laid her down on the bed and stood back up, taking her panties with him, and raked her with a hot, navy-blue stare, surveying and claiming every inch of her. She flexed, and started to sit up, but he pushed her back against her pillows. "I want to look at you. All spread out and gorgeous and all mine," he growled, and it went straight to her overheated centre. He began to strip, not hurrying: shirt first, pecs and biceps flexing as his pants slid down, falling to the floor, socks gone; leaving him only in silk boxers which draped around the bulge of his erection and didn't hide a thing.

"Now, where were we? Oh, yes. Turning uh into ohhhhh Castle!, I think." He sat down on the bed, and traced one long, thick finger slowly downward from her clavicles, through the valley between her breasts, over her sternum, to her navel. She arched slightly to encourage him further. Happily, encouragement worked. The finger moved further at that same measured pace, allowing her to anticipate, leaving little prickles of hot arousal behind it: a gathering tide flooding and pooling at her core. It stopped, just at the edge of the soft curls of hair, for only long enough for Beckett to understand his next move. She squirmed, and opened further for him. His touch moved on, and she curved in want and helplessly overwhelming desire.

He touched the knot of sensitive nerves and she screamed.

"We're only just getting started," he rasped, and stroked again. She twisted, and he placed a broad palm on her hip bone to keep her in place for the delicate, erotic strokes. "Is that good? Shall I carry on?" She gasped, and whimpered. He stroked again, gliding through the soaked flesh, until she cried out an writhed and emitted formless, wanting noises. His hands were magical, and she was bespelled.

And then he smiled wickedly at her and began to use his mouth, still stroking over that one sensitive spot, keeping her close but not letting her fall, but when her noises resolved into his name he slipped two fingers into her and she cried out for him and shattered around his hand and mouth.

"I think that was an ohhhhh Castle there," he said smugly as he snuggled her in, rolled her to face him so he could kiss her and then held her close. "Several, in fact." Beckett had rather hoped, when she recovered her senses, that he'd forgotten about that, but, like an elephant, it appeared that Castle never forgot anything. She braced herself.

"But that can wait," he murmured, "because you've had all the fun and now it's my turn." She hadn't quite caught up with that comment – he'd been the one doing all the fun – when he rolled her on to her back, rose over her, pinning her hands by her ears, and (and when did he put on protection, she wondered, because it was there) plunged straight into her; strong and thick and long and hard and wonderful. She tugged her hands free and locked them on his neck, pulling him to her, opening for him to surge deeper and harder, faster, and his fingers flickered between them and she screamed his name into his hard kiss and came again with him.

"Definitely an ohhhhh Castle," he breathed, "and I've got you here" – yep, she was draped over his chest and not going anywhere – not that she could have if she'd wanted to, because she was being quite firmly embraced – "and this seems like a really good time for you to explain what an uh is when you described me."

Beckett nuzzled into his chest, and didn't answer.

"C'mon. You have to tell me. You lost the bet."

"You've met Lanie, and you have to ask?"

"Sure I do."

Beckett grumbled inaudibly into that same broad chest.

"Didn't get that," Castle noted.

"Bully," Beckett sulked.

"Yep. So what's an uh when it's at home?"

"It's what happens when Lanie doesn't give you a chance to think."

"That's not an explanation," Castle teased gently.

"It's all you're getting." Beckett tried to turn away, and was carefully turned back and pulled up so that Castle could see her blushing face.

"As long as I'm an uh not an ugh, I'll live." Beckett said nothing at all, so Castle simply kissed her, slow and sure, a reassurance. "Come here," he murmured, "come here and be cuddled." She eased against him, and he held her, petting. "No need to worry or fret. As long as you get that I'm not an uh any more, I'm your boyfriend."

"Uh? Boyfriend?"

"Well, lover, significant other, partner. It's a bit early for fiancée or husband, I think," he teased.

"That's ridiculous!" Beckett exclaimed, sitting bolt upright. "I've known you a month. That's not long enough to decide what you're like to date, never mind anything else."

Castle smiled. "So you agree we're definitely dating?"

"Haven't we had this conversation?"

"Yeah, but you didn't actually ever agree that we're dating, you only implied it." His smile turned soulful. "I'm insecure, you see. If you don't agree, I'll always be nervous that you don't like me."

"Insecure? You?" Beckett snorted. "You're about as insecure as a mountain – and your ego's about the same size."

"I didn't hear you complaining about my size a few minutes ago," Castle pointed out lazily. "Definitely not complaining. But are we dating?" he added, pouting pathetically. "I wanna be sure that you agree."

"Oh, for Pete's sake. Yes, okay, we're dating. Now will you stop pretending you're insecure and messing around?"

"I like messing around with you. You make such delightfully sexy noises when I mess around with you." He grinned. "Can I mess around some more? Or even better, you could mess around with me." He lay back and spread his arms wide. "I'm totally at your disposal."

"You are?" she purred, sex slithering through her sultry tones, and gave a feline, knowing smile. "That's good to know." He sprang to life simply from her voice and the look in her eyes.

And then she glided down his legs and bent at the waist and he stopped thinking altogether as she proved beyond any shadow of a doubt that her mouth and tongue were just as talented as his.

Still later, they remained cuddled together, quiet and contented, almost asleep.

"You fit just right against me," Castle mused, which thought he had meant to keep inside his head where it belonged.

Amazingly, Beckett didn't produce a sardonic reply. Instead, she nestled closer. "Feels good," she muzzed, and Castle understood that she was nine-tenths asleep.

"It does," he agreed. It really, really did. Had it really only been a month? He felt as if he'd known her for ever, and yet…it had only been a month. But still, she'd agreed that they were dating, and a nagging doubt had lifted from his heart. Even though she'd turned down Detective-don't-you-hit-on-my-girl-you-badge-bearing-bastard-Demming, he'd still worried, just a tiny, silly, unjustified worry, that she'd reject him. It was dumb. She was only twenty-four, and he was ten years past that – though she felt much older, force-grown in the fierce agony of her father's alcoholism. He could give her everything –

But she didn't want everything, or anything. She'd been scared he'd take her to some high-class restaurant: she liked Remy's, or the bistro, or takeout. She didn't invite flowers, though she'd loved them when he'd sent them, or presents, or even chocolate. She didn't try to ingratiate herself with Alexis – in fact, she was downright nervous about being near her, and it wasn't all unfamiliarity with small children. She had been careful around his mother, too, though that was basic self-preservation. His mother had fewer boundaries than Dr Lanie Parish, who had next to none, even on first acquaintance.

It was odd, he mused sleepily, that Beckett and Lanie were friends. Total opposites – but maybe that was why. Beckett needed a foil. As doze turned to sleep, a character based on Lanie began to form in his unconscious mind.

Thank you to all readers and reviewers.

In case anyone missed it, the third Casey & Carval novel, Death in Sight, is available on Amazon (SR Garrae).