They seemed to go crazy: there was so much sex. Varied, intense, and wild, but at first it was all classics: the standard "he's on top/rear" and "face-to-face" positions. And all hot, impatient, with a powerful acceleration to the point of exhaustion, and then again and again. And then again, and then again, and again, and again, until my strength runs out. And then the absent-minded stares at the ceiling and the leaden, steadily slipping eyelids. Until there is a bright and explosive reality, when someone, gently and tenderly biting her nipple, presses it to the bed with his entire mass, and that huge "thing" for intimate affairs is trying to wake up between her legs. And she is glad, indescribably glad to let her partner into her, glad for new sensations, for the splash of emotion and her happiness. And if it were only her will, Castle would not only sleep on her, but he would also eat and write texts (and maybe he would when). And given their quarrel, after which she was almost thrown off the roof, Castle's intentions to please her at once and in every way become partly understandable. Never before had so much coffee been brought to her bed. Never before or so often had she been awakened by a partner so tightly attached to her that he was using the same "toy. Never before and so madly, literally at the snap of her fingers, she has not rushed into a strong but gentle embrace, and this is exactly the case when on the eve of the meeting there is no need for any excuses. And there are none, there are none, and there will not be, because this passionate and long-awaited guy next to her, first kisses her and strokes her from all sides, and then "twists" on his "pole" as he pleases. And what is more interesting - they have been together for a month since the meeting with Bracken, but Castle did not show any signs of fatigue or discontent. On the contrary, it seemed that a little more - and they would mate right on the ceiling, so elevated their souls. And the result of these carnal pleasures should be an incredible dawn of creativity (his, of course, not hers), but somehow Beckett seemed to think that Rick had grown cold to the author's work. And that was so unlike him, as was her manner of not asking anything head-on without prior preparation, or else Castle wouldn't be Castle and she wouldn't be herself. So a plan must be made to revive Richard Castle's creative activity (although in the presence of his muse, Rick would have to write all night long). And it is necessary to dig up the most killer arguments, and it does not matter which plan - "A" or "B" - she will have (or both at once).And the timing is as follows. First of all, literary days in her apartment are absolutely out of the question (there Castle is definitely no time for a notebook, and you can't hold a notebook under your arm). Second, even when the all-seeing and prescient Martha leaves them alone, Castle keeps hanging around her, Beckett. Well, and thirdly, even a covert operation requires room for maneuvering, but shouldn't her chosen one ever rest? After all, among other things, Rick has time to make coffee, take a shower, arrange food delivery, and fry bacon and eggs to treat her, sitting on the bed with her knees in his arms and glaring at him, either with a hungry frenzy or a greedy under-sexed stare. But for some reason she did not dare to ask him about the break in creativity, and this is also in her spirit...
And so, when at the end of the month secret plans were drawn up, and exhausted Castle, after a storm of howling, passed out right across the bed, powerlessly spreading his arms and legs, she urgently needed a shower: everything was so sticky. Especially her face and breasts, and while the washcloth was gently sliding over the steamed, sensitive skin, Kate mentally flipped through her plan again, which, it had to be said, was nothing extraordinary. She had to start with the means of creation, and she knew very well where the laptop was without Castle. And Rick wasn't likely to be too angry with her for being inordinately curious. He might pout a little, but he wouldn't be able to resist her firm, hot body...
A weightless robe with an "indecent" neckline wrapped her shoulders, and a terry towel, drying her hair, slightly covered her head, but before she went in search, Kate glanced into the bedroom - Castle was snoring in their bed. So she fearlessly made her way downstairs. Slowly she strode through the living room, heading for the study.
...The light came on: and here were the loft owner's books, his own and other authors, and there was so much literature that Kate repeatedly wondered when Castle had time to read and reread it all. And that he did, Beckett had no doubt at all: there was almost no dust on the worn spines of the volumes, and she could see from the marks on the shelves that the books were occasionally taken out. It was clear that the folios had been cared for, but it was unlikely that the book covers would remain without greasy prints and scuffs, in pristine condition, as from the printer. Because each has a life of its own, and Castle wouldn't otherwise be the man he became. And here, by the way, is his work tool...
Kate walked over to the desk, on which, exactly in the center, rested the laptop, and her trained eye already noticed the details: no one had sat in this chair and at this desk for a long time.
To be a hundred percent sure, she walked around the workplace in two leisurely, lazy circles; nibbling her lips in thought, she sat down on the right side, experienced and familiarly looking for confirmation of her theories, and, having found, happily, with dignity smiled: no matter how Castle justified, she would have an iron argument...
- Ahem...
She looked up and froze: in the aperture of the office, sweetly yawning, stood Castle. In barefoot slippers, rumpled and disheveled from sleep, and a blanket was hanging down from his shoulders, touching the uneven corners of the parquet.
- What... Caassttlle?! - She straightened unhurriedly, and, with the same inviting, inimitable grace, sank into his chair. At this, as if unwittingly, her hand went down the neckline of the robe, opening it a little more frivolously. - What are you doing here?
Rick yawned sweetly again, not even thinking about going anywhere; his powerful body was still serenely asleep.- Me?! Oahahaha... I'm cold and I miss you... at the same time... What are you doing?
- Investigating! - She stared at him with a stern expression, helping herself to some kind of gesture. - I think somebody's not productive enough!
- Productivity? - and Castle stepped from foot to foot, barely able to grab the sliding blanket. - It's not... how it usually seems, and this month... I've been super productive! Somebody had... opportunity to see that!
She sparkled her eyes predatorily, laughing quietly to herself.
- Life sets its own criteria, Castle, but I haven't seen you with a notebook or a laptop this month,- her eyebrow furrowed characteristically. - Is there a problem?
- It's totally... out of thin air! - Rick muttered grudgingly. - Not by me! I wrote in bits and pieces!
- Liar! - and jabbed her index finger at him.
- In between love sessions! On my knee in the bathroom!
- Twice a liar!
- And what gives you the right...to think that?
There was a hint of meaning in his voice, and knowing how intently Rick was watching her, Kate pulled the towel from her head and tossed it carelessly over the back of her chair. She mussed her hair, then, leaning her forearms on the tabletop, intertwined her fingers in front of her, thrusting forward.
- Dust, Castle, - Beckett said, as if in an interrogation, trying to look eye-to-eye, in an admonishing, mentoring tone, and she noted with pleasure the way Castle was cringing at her argument. - There's a lot of virgin dust on the laptop lid and between the keyboard buttons, which speaks to the laziness, lack of initiative and indifference of one very, very famous type, which, in itself, is an inadmissible luxury. Maybe he's having a crisis. Really, it's kind of weird. And what would that have to do with anything, huh? Castle?!
To Kate's amazement, Castle didn't rush into a furious exculpatory polemic, only exhaled slowly and got all childishly embarrassed; he sighed heavily and lowered his eyes to the floor.
- That doesn't mean anything, Kate, because it's just dust. And my obligations haven't gone anywhere. Do you believe me?
- Should I?
- Why shouldn't I?
- Because I see what I see. And?!
- I don't have time for this...
- Oh, Castle,- she rolled her eyes incredulously. - That's the dumbest thing I've ever heard. You're probably not talking about you.
- I am, - he tucked the blanket around her shoulders once more. - So much has happened this month: you with me; the killer and the explosion that swept him away; the rest of the dossier and the misled Bracken. And was I supposed to write something else? I just took a little pause, though I could have lied to you, of course, but...
- It wasn't just a pause, Castle, and I believe my eyes, my police instincts, as well as the facts.
- Well, while facts are stubborn things, eyesight, by the way, can fail, and police instincts can go off for a while.
Looking at him walking slowly toward her, Beckett rounded her eyes in amazement.
- Classic again, Castle! I am always a cop, and lately you have been better at acting than talking!
- It will be, it will be, - Rick froze right in front of her, and Kate saw his rebellious "invitation" in the neckline of the quilt, - but since we are partners, I suggest we sit down together and write the next chapter! And even the dust won't get in the way!
- Of course, Castle, - playfully grinned Beckett to her understandable thoughts, and her cool hands confidently laid on the man's buttocks: it remains only a passionate kiss there, - of course. It's just dust, isn't it?
He looked down at her, already pressing her lips against his body, and shuddered with the pleasure that was to come.
- Y-yes, Kate... y-yes. The us-sual dust...