Chapter 6

"Hey, Castle."

"Hey." He walked through the door, and sniffed happily.

"You look like a Labrador. Sniffing and hungry."

"I am hungry. You promised me cakes." He looked around. "There they are." Big blue puppy eyes pleaded with her.

They were there on the counter. It was the third batch. The first two… hadn't been good. She'd hurried, and been a little careless, and while Lanie could get away with that, being a natural baker, Beckett couldn't. She'd taken time and been very precise with the third lot, and they'd worked. She'd only finished the frosting with enough time to clear up – very fast – and shower – exceedingly rapidly – before Castle was due.

She didn't ask herself why she'd taken the trouble, because she didn't like the answer. She'd never tried to impress a man before, and she had no idea why she was starting now.

(It's because you like him, taunted the brainworm. She ignored that.)

"Oooohhh, you put up a Christmas tree." Castle wandered over to it and poked it hopefully. "Doesn't it change colour?"

"Nope."

He pouted, and looked around. "Is that it?"

"Huh?"

"Is that it for Christmas decorations?"

"Yep. No need for anything more."

Castle frowned at her. "You need more," he said.

"No, I don't." She smiled seductively, to distract him from dumb decorations that she didn't want to have around. "I thought you wanted to eat cake?"

"Well, yes, but… We can't have this. It's not festive. It's not even cheery."

"Eating cake is cheery."

"I guess. So's this." He took two strides, caught her to him and kissed her. "See? Cheery." And then he kissed her again because one kiss wasn't enough, and then again because he couldn't stop, and then her hands were opening his shirt and then her top flew off and cakes weren't on either of their minds any more.

Beckett didn't quite know what had happened. One moment she was ensuring that Castle wasn't vandalising her apartment with dumb decorations of dubious taste (though undoubtedly excellent quality), and the next moment his lips were scorching over hers and she'd opened to him and ohhh the man could kiss. Her hands smoothed over the firm muscle of his back, her hips pressed and rolled into his, she tugged away his shirt-tails and slipped her hands over the warm skin below – and he fired up, whipped her top away and clasped her so close she could have been a tattoo, invaded her mouth and she simply sank into sensation and allowed him to do as he pleased. It was surely pleasing her: he was strong and sure and she loved it. The tight embrace meant that she could feel every inch of him (and there were plenty of inches there); the hand now in her hair tipped her head to the perfect angle for being kissed. She melted into her own need for someone who was stronger than she: strong enough to let her soften.

Soft, of course, didn't mean passive. She detached herself from his lips and kissed around his jaw till she reached his ear and a nerve that had the same effect on him as he'd found with her. He groaned, and jerked against her: fondling her ass, murmuring in that dark, deep bedroom baritone. Her bra fell loose, her pants became unzipped, and he pushed them down and let his fingers glide over the silky fabric underneath. As his fingers moved, so did his mouth, till he'd taken hers again: tongue and fingers moving within her, driving her up: she could only cling to his shoulders and make helplessly aroused noises while he hit the right spot every time; she was soaked and frantic and desperately moving against his fingers when he rubbed the heel of his hand over her and she came hard around him.

He held her up, while her knees wouldn't, for a bare second, then swept her up and carried her to the bedroom, stripped her of unclipped bra and sodden panties, stripped himself in a few efficient movements, and rose above her. She gripped his shoulder and pulled him down to her, opening to settle him between her legs, squirming a little so that he was perfectly positioned to slide and rub against her. Her well-judged stroke and squeeze removed all his higher brain functions and left him with only hard, instinctive desire. He flexed, and thrust, and she arched to him and hauled his head to hers and moved to his rhythm and they broke and were remade as one.

They were lying snuggled together, arms around each other, legs entwined, when Castle's stomach rumbled loudly. Beckett snickered.

"Hungry?"

Castle grinned, totally unembarrassed. "Yes." He rose from the bed, to an indignant mutter, walked, still naked, through to the kitchen, found a plate and popped a few cakes on it, added two forks and returned while Beckett was still muttering darkly.

"Food," he pointed out, and smirked lecherously. "You'll need energy."

She rolled her eyes. "So modest." (He's got a lot not to be modest about, the brainworm oozed. Didn't notice you complaining earlier.)

"Modesty is overrated. But if it makes you feel better to hide all that gorgeousness under the sheet, feel free. I'll find it later."

Beckett blinked at him. Castle's normal childish silliness was one thing. This suavely confident, sexy male was quite another, which gave her the most amazingly peculiar sensations in her core. The appreciation in his openly hot gaze flattered her. She didn't pull the sheet up.

"Lie down," Castle said. She quirked an eyebrow quizzically. "You'll enjoy it." He was splitting two of the cakes into pieces, and when he was done, pushed her gently back on to the pillows so that she was flat on her back.

A predatory, hungry smile appeared on his lips. He speared a piece of cake with the fork, and put it to her mouth. Her tongue peeked out, and took it in. He speared a second piece, but placed it carefully at the base of her throat.

"What" –

"Wait and see. If you wriggle, you'll get crumbs and frosting all over the sheets."

He placed a third piece neatly between her breasts, a fourth on her sternum, and continued placing bite-sized pieces until the last morsel sat below her navel.

"What are you doing?" (You know exactly what he's going to do. I'm surprised you're pretending otherwise. That blush is a total giveaway.)

"Can't you guess?" he flirted. "Two of my favourite things. Cake, and you." His head dipped, and he ate the piece of cake from her throat, adding a kiss with a teasing flick of his tongue. "But you need to stay still, or there'll be a terrible mess.

(Just like you're going to be a hot mess, the brainworm added sardonically.)

Staying still…wasn't easy, or desirable. Frosting on the sheets, however, was deeply undesirable. Apart from her ever-deeper breathing, and the small noises of mingled arousal and disappointment at the touch of Castle's mobile lips and tongue, nibbling cake from her naked body and leaving soft, scalding kisses as he went, never moving from the straight path downwards to stray and tease her breasts, the proud nipples; apart from those, she was almost still.

He ate the final piece of cake, and smirked. "I've eaten all the cake, but I'm still hungry." Beckett wriggled. His hands clamped on her hips, and she gasped. Shortly, gasp became moan, became his name became a high cry of satisfaction.

Some considerable time later, they finished the cakes, and Castle reluctantly left.

Beckett regarded her apartment crossly. Her ire was not raised by the fact that she had been making cupcakes, since those were cooling on a rack, ready to be frosted and then to be boxed for transit to the bullpen tomorrow. She was perfectly confident (having tried one as soon as it wouldn't burn her tongue) that they were good, and of her ability to frost neatly. Nor was her ire raised by the presence of many delicious chocolates in her fridge. That was, instead, the redeeming factor.

Her ire was raised by the presence of many Christmas decorations, adorning – or vandalising – her chic, classy apartment. She hadn't asked for them. In fact, she'd explicitly told Castle she didn't want them.

But the damn man had come round practically every night, kissed, caressed, and bribed her with chocolates into bed (yeah, right. Bribery wasn't needed. You practically jumped his bones as soon as the door shut and I have to say I'm amazed any of his shirts still have buttons attached) – and sneaked in the decorations when she was sleeping the exhausted sleep of the (well-fucked, said the brainworm) hard worker who would need to be in at shift start the next morning. (Like I said.) She'd tried taking the tinsel down, the first time, but Castle had produced completely unreasonably plaintive, sad, and downright pathetic hurt blue eyes and somehow she simply couldn't leave him that unhappy.

So here she was, surely developing a headache from the glittering tinsel and sparkling baubles that he'd put up, about to wave goodbye to any form of baking for another year. She absolutely wouldn't miss it. She took a chocolate and a mug of coffee to occupy herself until the cakes were cool, and tried to ignore the decorations. Beside her small table top tree were the presents for her father, beautifully wrapped and ribboned. She did that herself: because her father loved the pretty wrappings, and she wanted to make him happy.

She refused to acknowledge that her ire was because Castle was busy tonight and wouldn't come round. She also refused to acknowledge that she'd got used to him being there. And she certainly wasn't admitting to herself or anyone else that he was all she wanted for Christmas. She put all her energy and concentration into frosting and then boxing her cakes, and then had Mexican take-out for dinner and read her non-Christmassy book until bedtime.

"Ah, Beckett," Montgomery said smoothly the next morning. "What's your contribution to Christmas joy and delight?" From his air of cynical disbelief and slight horror, he clearly expected another batch of burnt mince pies.

"Cupcakes, sir." She put the boxes down on LT's desk, it being nearest, and opened them. "See?"

"Homemade?"

"Of course, sir," she rebuked.

Montgomery took one, rather as Socrates took his hemlock, and took a bite. His eyes widened, however, being a man of considerable sense and even more self-preservation, he said nothing: merely finished the cake – and then snitched a second, repairing to his office with it carefully guarded. The bullpen watched, collectively open mouthed, and then descended like the Biblical swarm of locusts.

"Di'n't know you could bake cupcakes," Ryan mumbled through a mouthful, spraying crumbs disgustingly.

"Didn't know you could cook, full stop," Espo added. "If you can do that, why'd you bring those horrible pie things every year?"

"Why waste good cooking on the bullpen?" Both boys bridled. Beckett ignored them, and went to get on with her work, not neglecting to take a cupcake of her own. Ten seconds later, not a cake remained.

An hour later, Castle arrived, bearing coffee and the daily box of two chocolates. He looked around, and spotted the boxes – by which time Beckett had possessed herself of the chocolates and started on the coffee.

"What was in the boxes?"

"My cupcakes."

Castle wandered over to the boxes, and then grumped his way back. "They're all gone."

"Yep, that's what happens in the bullpen."

"But I didn't get any," he whined.

"That's what happens when you arrive an hour later than everyone else."

"You should have kept me one."

"Says who?"

"Me," he stated. "You should've kept me a cake. I thought you liked me." He pouted.

"What," Beckett murmured, "the amount of time you've spent naked in my bed didn't clue you in?"

Castle choked on his own coffee. Beckett smirked evilly. When he'd finished spluttering and wheezing, he scowled. "Surely you've kept one for me. Where is it?" She didn't say anything. "Beckett, you're being mean."

"Nope. Anyway, you've eaten lots of cupcakes." A tinge of colour limned her cheeks. Castle's eyes darkened.

"So I have." He paused. "So I will." He thought for a moment. "But you haven't saved me a cake, so I guess I won't be eating them tonight." He pouted theatrically. "Unless…"

"Yeah?"

"Unless you left me one in your apartment."

Beckett smirked. Of course she had. Two, actually. Castle had the most inventive ways of eating cupcakes.

"You did! You were just teasing me! Beckett, that's mean."

"Five year old."

Castle ignored that, magnificently, and then proved her point by sticking his tongue out at her. "Santa won't have you on his nice list. You'll get a lump of coal and no presents."

"I stopped believing in Santa when I was three."

Castle boggled. "You didn't believe in Santa? That's awful."

"Santa is a myth. Myths have no place in the adult world. It's just another way to con otherwise sensible adults into spending yet more money on things nobody wants. It's got nothing to do with the real meaning of Christmas and it's just a waste of money and time."

"You'll definitely be on the naughty list."

"One place behind you."

"I'd rather be behind you," Castle said with a salacious waggle of his eyebrows. "So many more options."

"Shut up, or you won't get your cupcake."

"So you did keep me one. Awwww. That's so sweet."

"Shut up." Beckett deflected the conversation. "When are you bringing in your contribution?"

"Tomorrow."

"Oh." That was…disconcerting. Everyone would be able to make a direct comparison between her efforts and Castle's effortlessly brilliant chocolate. On the other hand, all her cakes had been eaten, so she hadn't actually lost. Esposito's cookies had universally been dumped in the trash.

"Hey, girl." Lanie's not so dulcet tones split the air. "What's this I hear about all your cupcakes actually getting eaten? And no-one's dead, either. Guess those cooking classes paid off. See, you should trust your best friend" – she stopped, rather too late. Beckett's glare would have destroyed asteroids.

"You went to cooking classes?" Castle gasped. Beckett's cheeks flared scarlet, she threw a searing glance at Lanie, who most unreasonably didn't burst into flames on the spot, and departed at speed, trailing shamed embarrassment.

"Er…oops?" Lanie said to the empty space where Beckett had been.

"Cooking classes?" Castle said to Lanie.

"Yeah." Lanie wasn't nearly as embarrassed as she should have been. "Girl wanted to learn to make cupcakes."

"She said she'd made them plenty of times." Lanie looked conscious. "Lanie?"

"Um… look, I need to go see LT" –

"Doesn't he normally come and see you?"

"I wanted one of those cupcakes."

"All gone before I got here."

Lanie blinked. "Anyways, lemme talk to LT and then you can buy me coffee and a cupcake seeing as I didn't get any – take that smirk off your smug face or I'm gonna slap you – and we'll have a chat. You need some help." Castle smirked in a very satisfied-male way. "Right now, Beckett's hightailing it to the Yukon. You need some help." The smirk slid away.

Not many moments later, Lanie was leading the way to a comfortable coffee bar. Castle paid.

"Okay, cooking classes," he said. "Why?"

"Well, you know Beckett doesn't cook…"

"Yeah, so? Manhattan's full of take-out places."

"Like, really doesn't cook. She can't even boil an egg, and she doesn't want to learn. Didn't," Lanie corrected. "So Montgomery invented this dumb tradition that everyone brings in home-baked treats at Christmas, and for years Beckett's bought some British product called mince pies" – she might have said stewed sewer rat with less disgust – "charred them in her oven and dared anyone to comment." She slurped her coffee. "And then you showed up, and we all know you can cook, and, well, um…" Lanie trailed off.

"She got competitive," Castle grinned. "Why am I not surprised?" Grin turned to beam. "They were good cakes, though."

"Yeah, well. We won't be seeing any more of them. By now she'll have burned the cookbook and ditched anything that might indicate cooking. Unless you go talk her out of it. You talk all the time," Lanie casually insulted him, "so surely you can put it to good use?"

"You're the one who let the cat out of the bag."

Lanie shrugged. "Thought you'd know," she defended. "Anyway, secrets aren't a good thing in a relationship." She drained the coffee. The cake she'd selected was long gone. "So go fix it."

"I get to fix your mistake?"

"Yep. I'd rather you got shot than I did."

"Gee, thanks."

"And you can likely stop her dumping you on your ass. I can't. I wasn't built for sparring." Lanie humphed. "She's not gonna be happy with me."

"Nope."

"So you better distract her or I'll have a scalpel with your name on it."

"I'm already famous. You don't need to name your scalpels after me, though of course I'm deeply honoured."

"Get outta here. Go find Kate and talk her round."

"Did you really think I wouldn't?"

Lanie smiled like a mischievous Christmas elf. "Nope. I just wanted some good coffee." Castle growled, but there was no anger behind it. "Go fix it." She grinned. "You know she wants you to."

"See you, Lanie," Castle said mildly. She took the hint.

Castle considered his coffee, his cookie, and his options. All of it was underlain by a feeling of considerable satisfaction that cool, collected, anti-Christmas Beckett had been so affected by his presence that she'd felt the need to take cooking classes in order to impress him. Or at least, not to be embarrassed by her subversion of the Christmas spirit in the bullpen. He hummed happily to himself, and had another good idea, which was to wander into the stores and acquire another few pretty baubles with which to decorate Beckett's apartment. She'd need a while to calm down, and sitting next to her desk, musing over her, probably wasn't going to assist in that.

He bounced off, perfectly happy.

Thank you to all readers and reviewers.

Courtesy of my inability to stop a story, there are two more chapters.