SUPPLY AND DEMAND
RATED M
CHAPTER SEVEN
She hates seeing him like this, insecure and doubting his choice to become a PI. Sure, she'd been annoyed when he'd first shown up at her crime scene, PI license in hand. But over the past few weeks, watching him, seeing first-hand how his mystery storytelling mind works when the case is his and his alone, it's been special.
She's so impressed with her husband, and he's usually so confident, that seeing him so torn up about this case is awakening something new inside her. A protectiveness that she's never felt, not even with him.
"You know, you put a lot into becoming a PI," she reminds him, setting her scotch on his desk. "Don't make any hasty decisions. Maybe you should just sleep on it."
He nods and gives her a tight smile, but it's missing the usual warmth, and she taps his foot with hers to coax some joy out of him. "You're probably right," he agrees. He swirls his own glass under his nose. "I should sleep on it. Or perhaps I should nap on it."
She grins when she hears the teasing lilt in his voice.
There he is.
"Naps are good. I highly advocate naps," she drawls, pushing herself off the desk. She hovers over him, nudging his chair to the side so she can sit on his lap. He looks up at her with surprise, sets his glass down when she lowers herself onto his thigh.
"What-oh."
She cuts him off with the press of her mouth on his, and she cups his face in her hands, slicks her tongue into his mouth as he pulls her close. She feels his chuckle reverberate through her, and she grips his collar.
His hands slide from her back down to her ass, and as he grips her and starts to stand, she locks her legs around his waist, holds on tight.
She grunts when he sits her on the desk, and she manages to tear her mouth from his. "Lock the door," she murmurs, their interruption just the week before still fresh in her mind.
Rick gazes at her with dark, hooded eyes, but he glances at the open door behind her and nods.
She takes off her coat while he's gone, draping it over his chair, and by the time he returns and captures her mouth again, her shirt and bra have joined the coat, and she's managed to undo the button on her slacks.
He bats her hand aside and replaces her fingers with his. "My turn," he murmurs, sliding down her zipper and pressing two fingers into her damp panties. He only touches her for a few moments, and before she can even reach for his clothes, he's stepping away and taking her hand. "Come here," he rasps.
When he opens a door to the side of his bookcase, she smirks when it reveals another room.
He leans back against the doorframe and lifts his arms from his side, gesturing. "Have we really christened the office if we haven't done it in here?"
Kate shakes her head and chuckles. He's such a dork, but he does have a point; he's not allowed to set foot inside the precinct, so if they want to have sex in a supply closet, it has to be here.
She reaches for his shirt when she approaches him, and she starts to unbutton it, presses her mouth to the skin she exposes. Before she reaches the bottom of his shirt, he guides her into the room and shuts the door.
She blinks against the light when he illuminates the space, but once she realizes that there's a futon behind the lone shelf, she laughs.
"Really, Castle?" she teases.
Rick undoes his pants and shoves them to the floor, kicking them aside. "Thought a soft surface would be preferable to the wall," he explains, hooking his thumbs in the top of his boxers.
Kate draws her bottom lip between her teeth, her gaze dropping to his groin, and notices the head of his cock just peeking out of his waistband. Ridiculousness aside, she's grateful for the futon when she sits and crooks her pointer finger, gesturing for him to approach her.
He smirks as if he's reading her mind - which he probably is - and as he closes the distance between them, he lowers his boxers just the tiniest bit, revealing a tantalizing tease of his erection.
When he's close enough, she runs her hands up his thighs, heat pooling between her legs when her fingers dip under his boxers, a mirror of his touch when she wears a skirt. He loves to touch her legs, to tease her over her underwear until she's practically begging for more. She can't grip his length like this, not the way they both want her to, but she trails her fingers across his balls, realizing he's already close to climax.
The futon is low enough that she has to crane her neck to reach the exposed head of his cock with her mouth. She brushes her lips against him, so light she barely even tastes him, but still he groans, the sound coming from deep in his chest. Her tongue darts out to taste the drop of liquid escaping the top of his cock, and she digs her fingers into the back of his thighs before fitting her lips around the head and sucking him gently.
His hands fly to her head, fingers burying themselves in her hair. She can feel the tension, every muscle in his body trembling as he tries to hold onto control, so he doesn't just bury his cock in her throat. She glances up at him, noting the almost pained look on his face.
That won't do.
She tugs his boxers down his thighs and takes his entire length in her mouth.
"Fuck!"
He doesn't swear often - and does it almost exclusively during sex - but his barked curse, clenching of his fingers in her hair, and swelling of his cock in her mouth have arousal flooding her panties.
She'd intended to bring him to orgasm with nothing more than her impeccable oral skills, but she doesn't want his cock in her mouth anymore. She wants him inside her, filling her, wants dirty words whispered in her ear as he makes her see stars.
She releases him with a slow drag of her tongue, but before he can question her, or beg her, she's tearing her shirt over her head and kicking her pants to the floor.
He stops her when she starts to remove her underwear, and without a word, he finishes stripping and kneels in front of her. He takes his time teasing her, his mouth trailing a slow path up one thigh, then switching to the other, ignoring where she wants and needs him the most. His hands follow the same path, but he does allow his fingertips to brush against the soaked fabric between her legs.
She bucks her hips so hard she almost slides off the futon.
When his tongue flicks her swollen clit through her panties, she drops her head back, a loud moan falling from her lips. "Rick," she breathes, her hips lifting, "please."
She feels him smile against her, and the haze of arousal is so strong that she can only watch as he hooks his fingers into her waistband and tugs her panties off. She has no idea where they end up, but as soon as his tongue is sliding through her folds, she doesn't care.
She rolls her hips against his mouth, halfway to climax already, but after just a few flicks of his tongue against her clit, he stands and looks down at her, his eyes dark and a little dangerous.
"Lie back," he growls, and her gaze drops to his cock, to his slow, lazy strokes, aided by a familiar scrap of fabric.
Eyes not leaving the sight of him pleasuring himself with her panties, she shifts and does what he says, sets one foot on the floor, opening herself up for him.
He inhales sharply through his nose when she drags a finger through her arousal, then circles the same finger around her nipple, spreading her moisture across her breast. His strokes quicken, and he kneels between her legs, a muscle in his jaw twitching in a familiar pattern, telling her that he's barely holding on.
She is too, if she's being honest; she's fairly certain that she could come like this, just staring at him, but she doesn't want to. She wants his cock inside her when she falls apart.
"On your knees."
Her eyebrows lift at his command, but she quickly obeys, maneuvers her long legs around him with practiced ease. She kneels in front of him, facing the arm of the futon, and when she glances back and sees the determined look in his eyes, she grips the arm, almost trembling with anticipation.
His palms cup her ass and he squeezes, his thumbs dragging through her arousal.
"All mine," he rumbles, dipping one thumb into her entrance.
She moans and pushes back into his touch, every nerve ending on fire. God, she needs him to stop teasing her.
"Please," she whines.
The thumb inside her stills, and she can almost see the quirk of his brow. "Please, what?"
Fuck.
She clenches around his thumb, tries to move her hips, to fuck herself on his finger, but his grip tightens and he stills her.
"Kate."
The soft utterance of her name, warmth cutting through his barely controlled dominance, makes her tremble with anticipation.
"Fuck me hard."
The first thrust of his cock almost sends her to the floor.
His fingers dig into her hips, bruises all but guaranteed as he holds her still and pounds into her. She can feel the futon rocking under them, the wood squeaking, but it's all she can do to hold on as he thrusts, the slapping of skin the only thing louder than their cries of passion.
"Fucking perfect," he grunts, his hips pistoning, one hand leaving her hip to press down on her back. "Made for me, Kate. You're fucking made for me."
She drops her forehead to the cushion, gasping, panting as he drives in and out of her. She was already close, but when his fingers twist in her hair and he tugs, not hard, just enough so she knows he's still in control, she breaks. Her shout of his name is muffled by the cushion, and though she clenches and shakes around him, he doesn't let up.
"More," she manages to gasp even as her climax continues, grinding her ass back into him.
He groans and pulls out of her, but she doesn't have time to question him before he flips her onto her back, puts her legs on his shoulders, and slams into her again. He resumes the relentless pace, a sheen of sweat on his face and torso, his face contorted in a familiar look of barely-contained pleasure.
He throws his head back and groans, and she feels him swell inside her, a telltale sign that he's moments from losing control. Her climax had barely stopped when he'd manhandled her onto her back, and already she's barrelling towards another. She vaguely registers the continued groans of the futon, and she lifts her arms, grips the furniture for leverage as he pounds into her, his fingers curled around her ankles.
"Rick," she gasps, and he seems to read her mind, because he lets go of one leg and presses his thumb against her swollen clit. Her back arches and her hips buck as another orgasm rushes through her, a scream ripping from her throat, her hoarse voice almost unfamiliar to her ears.
Even as she spasms around him, he doesn't stop, just grips her hips, his thrusts quickening, his rhythm faltering.
The groaning beneath them gets louder, but as Rick grips the back of the futon and roars, a string of curses flying from his mouth, his cock pulsing with his climax, the furniture collapses.
Later, she'll wonder how the hell he managed to stay inside her as they fell to the floor. But for now, she just holds on to the still-intact arm of the futon, her hips rolling with his, his climax drawing hers out.
By the time she stops trembling, his face is settled in the crook of her neck, his breath wafting over her sweaty skin as he pants from exertion. She bends her legs around his back, hooking her ankles at his ass to keep them joined as long as possible. She trails her fingers through his hair and brushes her lips against his temple, feels her body relax more every second.
Eventually his breathing starts to slow, and he presses his mouth to her skin before pushing himself onto his forearms. As he bends down to kiss her, his eyes flick to the side, and he furrows his brows in confusion.
"Why are we on the floor?"
Kate laughs and tugs his mouth back down to hers, her laugh turning into a moan when their tongues meet. "We broke it," she murmurs when he pulls away, a dazed look on his face.
"You're kidding." He sits up, pulling her up with him, and he drapes his arm around her shoulders, tucks her into his side as he surveys the broken wood around him. "Holy shit."
She leans back far enough so she can see his lips curl in a satisfied smirk. "Don't get cocky," she teases, poking a finger between his ribs. "Obviously it wasn't well-made." Even as the words leave her mouth she knows it's a lie. Her husband spares no expense, even on secret supply closet sex furniture.
"Not well-made, my perfect ass," he quips. He slides his hand down to her hip, and he gives it a squeeze. "It was a very high quality futon. Just not sturdy enough for our even higher quality fucking."
Kate rolls her eyes, but she can't stop her chuckle as she stands and starts retrieving her clothes. "Come on, sex god," she says as she tugs her pants on, sans underwear. She has a vague recollection of him stroking himself with her panties, and although just minutes ago she'd been so sated she could barely move, new arousal blooms in her core.
Oh, they need to get home, to more reliable furniture, like their bed. Or his desk. Or the kitchen counter. Really, as long as it doesn't break mid-climax - never a guarantee - she's not picky.
"Sex god?"
"Don't wear it out," she fires back, "or I'll just take care of myself when we get home."
He almost growls as he leaps to his feet, tugging her into him, and she gasps when she feels his hardness press into her.
"Only if I watch."
