A/N: Last chapter in this first experiment in co-authoring with AnnieXMuller. All the hot stuff is all her! All the late posting is me!
From the last chapter:
"Castle, focus," she warns.
"I am," he replies, his eyes fixed solely on her chest.
"On. the. documents."
"Oh." He drops his hand, almost sadly, and glances down. "Where's the fun in that?"
The next day is a whirlwind, finish the paperwork and an afternoon off to try to catch up on sleep. She's already encouraged him that napping separately might energize their date tonight. He was persistent in his pursuit of details on exactly what she meant.
Seven unanswered sexts later, he arrives at her door a full forty minutes before their agreed upon time.
She pulls her coat on over her lingerie before she opens the door for him. Kate's no fool, if he sees her before she's ready, they'll never leave the building.
"What? No sneak peeks?" he says by way of greeting, snagging the belt on her coat as he passes her in the doorway.
"Spoiler-free," she murmurs into his mouth quickly, kissing him lightly as she takes the belt from his hand and moves to close the bedroom door in his face.
Ten minutes of him cajoling her to come out by calling through the door with clever,
"Kate, can you show me where you keep the fire extinguisher?"
("My neighbor is a big burly firefighter, why don't you run over and ask him to help.")
"Kate, let me in, I cut myself, I'm bleeding."
("I have some lemon juice in the fridge, use that.")
"I'm shipping out to join the army tomorrow, I may not come back. This could be our last night together."
This time she doesn't respond.
He's leaning heavily on the door when she finally opens it, re-wrapped in her coat. He can't help himself as he stumbles into her, greedily capturing her lips with his. He's turned on and intent but she's determined, after all, she's got plans of her own. She swats his hand from the belt on her coat and leads him to the door, grabbing a bag by the door on the way out.
"You know my mother is home, right? We'd be so much more comfortable here."
"Who says I want you comfortable?" She replies, eyebrows raised.
She keeps her coat tied securely as she leads the way out to her car, and he whines the entire way. She swats his hand away, threatens him with her gun, and tells him to zip it.
"No touching, Castle," she warns as the elevator doors close and the cab begins to descend.
"But-"
"Patience." She speaks the word calmly, evenly. But, she's not calm; she's losing patience herself. She just wants to grab him, push him back against the walls of the elevator, lick her way up the warm skin of his neck, nip at his stubble-roughened jaw, her hands on his lapels, holding him in place. She licks her lips as she imagines the positions reversed, and in her mind she's the one pressed hard against the cool mirrored walls, her coat open, his hands on her breasts, her waist, his lips everywhere. She closes her eyes, suppressing the aroused shudder threatening to course through her and give her away. She opens her eyes and stares straight ahead, feeling his eyes boring into her, she can see his head turned her way in her peripheral vision. She can't turn, can't meet those eyes - or can she? She glances around the interior of the elevator, avoiding his gaze as she scans the walls, ceiling, everywhere, for signs of a camera. There's one particular fantasy that they could perhaps-
They reach the ground floor, and she exhales a frustrated, but relieved, breath as the doors open. No elevator sex tonight.
He hears the chirp of the autolock on her police unit before he sees it, surprised she wants to use it for their date, knowing she has to log the miles for a monthly report. The clicking of her heels on the floor of the garage slows, but as he turns to question her about it, he sees her watching him from the corner of her eye. It's a knowing look.
She's wearing very little, even less than he's aware of, under that coat. And she has no intention of driving at all. A detective caught out on the streets of New York in just lingerie and a coat, making out with her partner in the back of her cruiser - yeah, that won't be happening.
The getting caught, that is.
The rest of it? Oh yeah, that's happening. Because all she wants to do is play out a little fantasy that loops through her mind, one he's planted during their stakeout. It can't happen while she's on duty, but that doesn't mean with a little imagination it can't happen at all.
The garage is empty, and dark, and she's parked between a couple of cars she knows won't move tonight. And when she opens the back door for him, she knows this is going to take some flexibility and contortion to work.
"What exactly are you planning?" He's eying her with a hint of hesitation, a flash of confusion before he blinks it away. At least, he thinks, it's not the trunk.
"A night in, of sorts," she replies calmly. "Get in, Castle."
He does as ordered, slipping down into the back of her Crown Vic. When she inclines her head, tilts her jaw up a little, he slinks across to the opposite side, as he has been silently ordered to do.
She hitches a leg up, and places her foot inside the car. Her coat rides up, separates a little at the bottom, and all he can see is her smooth, tanned skin. A lot of it.
She slips in beside him, and pulls the door closed. The good Detective turns to face him, and the look in her eyes is the most predatory he's ever seen. He knows he's in trouble.
"Ah, Kate," he croaks out, watching her intently. "Are we going somewhere?"
She smiles and shakes her head even as she her arms embrace his neck, drawing him to her.
Kate dodges an elbow in the face with all the reflexes of a trained detective.
He smiles sheepishly. "Sorry. Again."
She sighs at him. Not angrily, more a sigh of resignation. This had been easier when she was sixteen. It isn't going to work quite so well now. Their bodies, their legs, everything is just too long, too awkward. He's scrunched up uncomfortably, his neck bent at a painful angle, his head against the glass window. He has drawn his knees up as far as he can, but . . . it isn't enough. Damn. This needs to become less awkward and more sexy - and fast.
And then it hits her.
"Sit," she commands.
"What am I, a dog?" He asks, rubbing his neck as he sits up a little straighter.
"Just, shift, Castle. To the center, like you would normally sit in the back seat of a car." She edges back, ducks as he gracelessly swings his leg over her head. Her fingers toy with the belt of her coat while he repositions himself, and she suppresses a smile as he settles back and pretends to fasten his seatbelt. Once he is organized, she tugs at her belt, one pull enough to undo the half-bow. Her coat falls open, revealing the lingerie to him.
He swallows thickly at the vision before him. Kate Beckett, in a black and cherry-red baby doll, the soft fabric so sheer he can see she's not wearing underwear. She swings a leg over him - and she's definitely not wearing underwear - straddling his thighs, and lowering herself slowly down until her crotch brushes his, grinding down on his jeans.
"Think we need to do something about this," she murmurs, and before he knows it she's working his zipper.
She slips her hand through the soft slit in his boxers, and wraps her fingers around his thick, hot length. Easing him out through the silk boxers, she runs her hand up and down the length of him, squeezing him gently. He forgets how to breathe, until she lets him go and he whimpers at the loss, opens his eyes.
He feels the heat; at first his addled mind thinks it's from the friction, but then he spies the orange bottle peeking out the top of her bag, and he realizes his sly detective is inflicting the tortuous pleasure of warming lube upon him. He drops his head back, closes his eyes, and tries to stay in control, tries to keep this from ending too soon.
"You kept telling me you wanted me to warm you up," she smiles at him.
Her ministrations sped up, with each swift, smooth up and down motion of her hand she listens to the change in his breathing. She drops down a little, her lips descending onto his, and kisses him. His lips press firmly against hers, though he struggles to keep up a rhythm with her hand squeezing, and stroking, and sliding.
Her hand. The heat. Her body against his. He breaks the kiss, breathless. "God, Kate, I can't... I won't..."
And she knows what he means. She can feel it. He's hard and hot in her hand, his body is almost visibly thrumming with his need for her, and she swears he stopped breathing for a second. He's close.
Raising up on her knees, she leans forward to keep her head from hitting the roof of the car, and places her hands on the head rest behind him. She's dipping down to claim his lips again, when he lifts his hands to her shoulders and pushes her coat off, until the heavy fabric falls between her skin and the back of the front seats. Her arms fall to her sides, and she lets the coat slip to the floor.
Her breasts are level with his eyes, yet hidden behind deep red material. He slips the straps down her shoulders, helps her ease her arms through them, and then tugs the bra of the baby doll down to uncover her smooth, perfect breasts. He leans forward to capture a nipple between his lips and a low moan of arousal leaves her lips as his tongue drags across the peak. She lowers down onto his thighs, shifts up a little higher; her movements cause his lips to leave her skin, but she needs more.
He's still in his jeans, shirt unbuttoned and open, while she's almost naked and exposed, and she doesn't care.
His hands slide down her back, following her curves, his fingertips brushing her so lightly goose-bumps appear on her skin. Then his palms curl at her waist, his fingers pressing firmly into the jut of her hipbone, lifting her up just slightly.
She slips her hand down between them, wrapping her fingers around his hard length. She shifts her pelvis up, bites her lip between her teeth, and slides down on him. A soft sigh leaves her lips as he shifts his hips up and fills her.
Her arms wrap around his neck, drawing their bodies closer, and they pause for a moment. She checks through the back window for signs they're not alone, he's looking out the windshield, she whispers a "clear" into his ear, and then shifts her pelvis forward. Digging her knees into the back seat, she raises up, then slams back down, bucking her hips against him, taking him deep. As she sinks down, as he fills her completely, she rotates her hips, tries to feel him everywhere inside her at once. She needs more: more friction, more speed, needs him deeper, harder. Her stomach muscles are tight, her thighs burn, but it feels amazing. Faster, she moves, sinking all the way down and taking him as deep as she can. He thrusts upwards to meet her each time, bouncing on the seat beneath, holding her tight to him.
The heat is burning her up inside. Fire flows through her flames, licking at her heart, consuming her. The feel of him within her, beneath her, before her, and the thrill of being caught, combine into exhilarating sex. Her release builds steadily, flushing her skin, blurring her vision, threatening to undo her too soon.
He loses eye contact with her as her neck gives way to her body's release. He can see the column of her neck, her mouth open, the sharp intake of her breath. She's beautiful like this. He closes his eyes with the burn of the vision that is Kate Beckett in that moment, locked in his mind. And then he falls over the edge too.
"Shit," she says, slumping against him.
It makes him laugh, all she can do is curse. He did that to her.
"Guess we christened the cruiser," he says wrapping his arms over her shoulders, pulling her to rest against him.
"Illegal," she murmurs into his shoulder, "public indecency."
"I'll be sure and tell the boys," he says.
The slap she gives his chest doesn't have any energy behind it.
Their night isn't forgotten about soon.
Every once in a while when they're out doing some routine work, his hand brushes her thigh, finds the edge of her coat, lifting it up as he declares, "just checking," with a smirk.
He also 'accidently' holds open the back door of the car instead of the passenger door when they are out on a date. It was funny. The first ten times.
And then in late January, after she's practically frozen investigating a guy shot on the banks of the Hudson, she can't get the engine to turn over no matter how many times she cranks it. Esposito and Ryan exchange vehicles with her so she doesn't have to wait for a tow back to the station.
She bought them coffees as thank you.
"Ryan, man, you'd better clean that up, Beckett's gonna kill you," Espo cajoles his partner.
"If you'd learn how to brake without causing whip-lash, I wouldn't be cleaning anything up. . . what the hell?"
Esposito looks over at his partner.
Ryan is holding coffee-soaked tissue in one hand, and an unopened 'Big Boy' condom wrapper in the other.