SUPPLY AND DEMAND
RATED M
CHAPTER TWO


God, she hates him right now, with his Cosmo reporter and scantily clad models draped all over him. She hates that he basically pranced into the precinct that morning, announcing his return with a flourish, as if he'd expected a ticker-tape parade.

She'd told him in no uncertain terms that they were through after he'd looked into her mom's murder. The one personal thing she'd asked of him, and he couldn't even fucking do that.

And now, here he is, acting like he still shadows her just for fucking book sales, and she's supposed to pretend like she can't do her job without him.

He didn't even bring her coffee, the bastard. Or an advance copy of the book. The one he'd written about her, using her as inspiration, and he couldn't be bothered to acknowledge her.

She pours herself a cup of the battery acid-adjacent coffee, not willing to even look at the espresso machine, and watches him laugh and flirt with the reporter in the bullpen. Apparently, she's next on the interview schedule, and she's never wished for a body drop more than now.

Even worse, she hates that she missed him.

Well, not him, him. She's not glad that he's back, anyway. And she hasn't spent hours replaying their brief rendezvous in the supply closet the previous spring, hasn't brought herself off countless times to the memory of his body pinning hers to the door, his cock pounding inside her, or his skilled fingers turning her into a trembling mess.

The case they're called to is insane from the start. Missing organs, Russian mafia, and Castle's stupidity that leads to her parading around half-naked, needing to save his damn life.

She feels Castle's eyes on her every time her jacket moves, and she'd be lying if she said it didn't turn her on a little.

She squirms, uses the movement of pulling her pants back on to rub her thighs together and try to relieve some of the pressure between her legs.

Okay, so she's more than a little turned on.

Castle doesn't say a word on the drive back to the precinct, and for that she's grateful, doesn't think she could disguise the arousal in her voice if she needed to respond. As soon as she parks in the precinct garage, though, he opens his mouth.

"Thank you."

She glances over at him, and she can't help but soften a little at the grateful look on his face. "For what?"

He gives her a small smile, just a lift of his lips. "For saving my life," he clarifies. "That was some quick thinking."

She shrugs. "Well, this case gave me enough paperwork already, adding 'civilian death' wasn't ideal." She'd gone for teasing, but it obviously doesn't sound that way, because Castle frowns and reaches for the door handle.

"Right. The paperwork," he echoes, his voice flat.

"Castle-"

"It's fine, Detective," he interrupts her, stepping out of the car and leaning down to look at her. "I'm out of your hair. Goodbye."

As soon as his door slams shut she turns off the ignition, uttering a curse as she exits the car. "Castle, wait," she calls after him, jogging slightly to catch up with his long strides. She's almost as tall as him in her heels, but he got a head start, and he's walking fast.

It's like he can't get away from her fast enough.

He glances at her, but he doesn't slow as he leads her towards the elevator. "You never wanted me around," he continues. "I've been nothing but a bother, but you don't have to worry about me anymore."

Her steps falter at his words, his cold tone. He's always taken her comments as the teasing words that they are, but either her delivery is off, or their time apart that summer has caused a rift between them that's deeper than she'd thought.

She recovers in time to join him in the elevator before the doors close, and she hits the button for the fifth floor.

He glances at her, and she catches a flash of recognition in his eyes. "Fifth floor?" he asks in a low, rough voice.

She steps in front of the panel so he can't stop the elevator. "We need to talk," she says.

Well, they do need to talk. But that isn't the immediate plan.

"Talk?" Castle echoes, his eyes darkening. He takes a step until they're just inches apart, and leans forward, his hands on either side of her head, trapping her in the cocoon of his body. "Why are we going to the fifth floor to talk, Beckett?"

She takes a deep, shuddering breath, and steps into him, presses her palms against his chest, feels the arousal pool between her thighs. "Why do you think?"

God, she's so turned on right now, she barely recognizes her own voice.

She hears a low growl erupt from deep in his chest, and he leans forward, his eyes dropping to her mouth as his lips part. Her own eyes flutter closed in anticipation of tasting him again, of feeling his hands on her body, but before they touch, the elevator dings and he backs away.

He takes her hand in his, his large fingers dwarfing hers, and he tugs her out of the elevator and onto the empty floor.

In one move he shoves open the supply room door, spins them around, and shuts the door by pinning her against it. His mouth is hot and open against hers, his tongue sweeping across the roof of her mouth, his leg slipping between hers.

She groans into his mouth and sinks onto his leg, grinding onto him, desperate for relief. Even through their clothes she can feel his erection against her, and as he rolls his hips she shudders with a small orgasm.

He pulls his head back, a cocky smirk on his face, a twinkle in his dark eyes. "You a little worked up, Detective?" he teases in a low voice.

She scoffs and palms the back of his head. "Shut up," she murmurs before tugging his mouth back down to hers. She grabs the front of his shirt with her other hand, and she turns them around, pins him to the door.

He chuckles as she trails her mouth down his neck, her fingers working at the buttons of his shirt. Her mouth follows, tasting his exposed skin, and when she kneels and grips his belt, she glances up at him, new arousal pooling between her legs when she notices the hunger in his eyes.

She tugs his pants and boxers down his thighs, and she leans back on her heels, draws her bottom lip between her teeth as she examines him. She curls her fingers around his length and gives him a few experimental pumps, reveling in his low groan when she swipes her thumb across his tip. She leans forward and exhales, letting her breath drape over him, and he shivers under her touch.

His hand threads through her hair before he grips a handful, and he gives her a light tug, guides her to look up at him.

"You don't have to," he rasps, almost a growl, and she believes him, but the way his cock twitches under her touch betrays his words.

She offers him the slightest lift of her lips. "I want to."

His hips buck when she envelops him in her mouth, the head of his cock nudging the back of her throat. She grunts and rocks back, releasing him, slides her lips and tongue down his length as his fingers tighten in her hair. Usually she takes her time, prefers to tease her partner until he's almost begging for release. But already she can tell he's close; judging by his tight grip in her hair, he's moments away from just fucking her mouth until he comes.

For the briefest moment, she's torn between the desire to finish him this way, and the equal desire to feel him inside her again.

Her core clenches with need, with anticipation of his length, his girth, remembering how he'd filled her so perfectly. So she releases him, ignoring his groan of disappointment, and she stands and unfastens her slacks, kicks them aside as he grabs a condom from his wallet and sheathes himself.

He palms her hips and tugs her into him, and she gasps, slides her hands up his chest to loop her arms around his neck. As their mouths meet, she feels him walk them backwards, his hands strong and sure as he guides them. She grunts when her back hits something hard, and she pulls away, glances behind her to see an empty shelf at her back.

He's smirking when she meets his eyes again, and she feels his fingers curl around her waist. "How strong do you think these shelves are?" he husks, stepping close, his cock brushing against her core.

Someone whimpers, and judging by the lift of his brow, it was her. She should be embarrassed, but frankly, she wants him so much she doesn't really care. So she places one foot on the bottom shelf, about a foot from the ground, and Castle drops his gaze between her legs.

"Fuck, Beckett," he moans, kneeling in front of her, sliding his hands up the inside of her thighs. He teases her folds for the briefest moment before he slides two fingers inside her, pumping slowly, his eyes locked on her.

Her head falls back and hits the shelf with a soft thump, but he doesn't falter, instead speeds the movement of his hand, grips her ass with his other. He moves closer, nudging her legs further apart with his shoulders, and before she can even form a single thought his tongue is on her, trailing through her moisture before flicking her clit.

She cries out, her hips bucking, and he chuckles, his fingers curling inside her, his tongue insistent at her bundle of nerves. She has to grip the shelf to keep from collapsing as he sucks at her clit, and she finds his head with her other hand, holds him to her as her hips roll with her orgasm.

Somehow she manages to stay upright as he stands in front of her, and he trails his cock through her wetness before pushing inside of her.

He'd been close before, when she'd had him in her mouth, and judging by the frantic thrusts of his hips now, he's moments from losing control.

His mouth falls to her neck, and he nips at her skin, nudges her shirt aside with his chin. He pants against her skin, his hips jerking, until he buries himself deep and groans with his release. He sneaks a hand between them and his fingers find her clit, rubbing at her, the insistent thrust of his hips helping prolong her pleasure.

Finally the stars burst behind her eyes and she cries out, her fingers tangled in his hair, her thighs trembling as she falls over the edge once again.

He presses an open mouthed kiss to her neck before he steps away, and she whimpers when he slips out, ignores the knowing look he gives her. He quickly tucks himself back in his pants, slips his used condom in his pocket, and he picks up her discarded slacks and hands them to her.

"You need help putting them on?" he teases when she hesitates.

She takes them from his hand and steps inside them with shaky legs. Her fingers tremble as she fastens them, and if he notices, he doesn't say anything. Instead, he buttons his shirt, runs his fingers through his hair, opens the door, and leaves.

Kate sighs and straightens her blouse, tries to tame her own hair.

It was just to get him out of your system, she tells herself, her eyes sweeping over the room, looking for any evidence of their coupling. Finding none, she leaves, tries to ignore the bitter disappointment in her chest that he'd walked out on her.