WARNING: Rated M.
Fantasy Fridays
Chapter Twenty-Two: Under Wraps Part II
Previously…
"I'm starting to get an idea of what this fantasy of yours might be," he says.
"Oh?" She smiles at their reflection.
"You want to go to work and pretend like no one knows we're sleeping together."
Kate's hands shake as she presses them against her forehead, smoothing back hair that she only thinks has escaped from her high ponytail. She feels unkempt, a wispy, sweaty mess, but it's all on the inside. On the outside she looks pristine.
Four days.
It's been four days and she thinks she might be going through some sort of withdrawal. It started out simply as missing human touch - no warm Castle hugs, no hand-holding, no sweet kisses. Then she started craving another, more intimate physical connection. By the end of day three, it was all she could think about.
Things got off to a good start on Friday, and it was a fun trip down memory lane to shake hands in the dim light of the bullpen again. They shared secret kisses that weren't anything like the chaste pecks they've become accustomed to. They came to work separately, and left separately again, like they were in their own spy movie. But she kept expecting him to catch her on the street outside the precinct, to stumble home and straight into bed with him at the end of the day.
She never expected him to last more than one day. But every day the little shit comes in with a gleam in his eye. He's having fun with her. She saw the moment the challenge sparked, almost saw his thoughts written in a dialogue bubble over his head: Exactly how worked up can I get her?
They were in the break room at the time, and he actually rubbed his hands together diabolically. She was halfway across the room to smack him upside the head when Ryan walked in with an update on the case.
She blows out a breath and grabs two mugs from the drying rack, then puts one back. If he can 'forget' to bring her coffee in on his way in, she can 'forget' to make him one.
She hasn't been drinking as much coffee. Probably because the machine at her apartment doesn't hold a candle to the one at his loft, and she's been there for three nights in a row, which might be a record. And aside from some heated kisses in the cruiser and the elevator, they haven't touched at all.
He's driving her up the wall. She'd whined last night - actually whined - when she dropped him off at the loft and he wouldn't let her come up, claiming that the redheads were in and asked did she really want a repeat of the bra situation?
When she'd gone back to work after the summer of her suspension, they'd laid low at work, sure, but they'd still spent almost every night together, and if the loft was occupied, they'd be at her apartment in a heartbeat, unable to contain the pressure any longer. She can feel it working up again, under her skin, in her the tips of her fingers, her lips, in the warmth of her ears.
He'd called her last night, voice all slick charm, asking her how she was holding up, and she snapped out that she was busy taking care of herself. She wasn't - although her fingers had strayed south a few times. She knew he wouldn't want her to spoil the buildup. He was stern with her as he made his terms clear. No touching, Kate. No Rick Junior, Kate.
She heads back towards the informal witness room and the Upper East Side widow that awaits her second round of questions. Murder doesn't stop, even for kinky withholding games. The investment banker who'd had his bucket kicked this week had just gotten back from a couple's counseling retreat with his wife when someone decided to slit his throat in a seedy Jersey motel. Prime suspect: the wife, who's currently crying on Castle's shoulder.
Of course, he thinks she didn't do it, but Beckett's gut says otherwise. She just needs some time to prove it.
A hot twist of jealousy wrings Kate's stomach as she comes through the door and sees the widow's small, perfectly manicured hand resting in Castle's.
Kate leads the widow through her statement again, coaxing a few more details out, but she can't drive hard. It's not an interrogation, and she doesn't have any leverage. Yet.
When they're done, she lets Castle escort the bleary-eyed woman to the elevators, and heads for the murder board.
When he comes and perches on the desk next to her with a fresh cup of coffee, the light has long since drained from the sky.
Her fingers are curled around the edge of her desk, nearly white-knuckled with frustration.
"I've got nothing," she says. "I know she did it, and I have a crap-load of circumstantial, but when it comes down to it, I've got nothing. She'll walk. There's got to be something we're missing."
"Are you sure she did it?" Castle asks. "Everything's pointing to the mysterious blond in the taxi, and the wife's got an alibi for the timestamp on the street cam," he says. "Besides, Rebecca doesn't seem like much of a killer to me."
Rebecca. Is he fucking kidding her?
"Right, that's it," Kate mutters under her breath.
Castle jerks to his feet when her fingers close like talons over his bicep. She all but drags him up from the desk and into the elevator.
The doors close, and Castle looks at his fiancé wearily. "Did I say something that broke the case wide open?"
"Nope. Definitely not." She stabs the button - for two floors above theirs. Admin and IT.
"Uh…where are we going?" Castle asks.
"I'm not going to be able to solve this case until I clear my head."
"And is there something in admin that's going to do that for you?"
"No, there's something in this elevator that's going to do that for me. I just have to take it upstairs so we can have a little privacy."
The elevator doors open on empty cubicles. Their inhabitants work a steady 9 to 5. Maybe a few stragglers stay until six, but at ten o'clock at night, it's a churchyard. This floor has always felt entirely foreign to Kate, with it's more corporate atmosphere, it's water cooler with a glossy green plant next to it, it's desks separated by wafer-thin walls.
"Apparently they've converted one of the rooms up here into a dedicated 'nap room,' after those employment laws were passed last month," Kate explains, as her long strides eat up the corridors. The twist of her mouth tells him exactly what she thinks of the desk-jockeys up here needing naps. "As much as everyone downstairs wants to use it, no one wants to be seen as soft and be the cowards to hit the sack first. It'll be gone by next month, but before Gates gets it shut down, let's give it a try."
Castle almost bounces as he walks.
"Oh my God, are you going to let me do you at the precinct?"
"No."
She had to gently institute the No Sex at the Precinct rule after the time they'd used Fantasy Friday as inspiration to fuck like rabbits in the locker room showers. It wasn't that she was worried about getting caught - well, maybe that was part of it - but the whole experience had been so intoxicating, so addicting, that she knew if they started having clandestine sex at work it would never stop. It'd spiral out of control until they'd get caught, her sprawled on her desk with him eating her out…her laid out on the table in interrogation taking it like a champ…giving him a blow job while he sat in Gates' chair.
Nope, no way. Slippery slope. So she'd banned sex at the precinct.
But she had a suspicion the ban wouldn't last.
"No, I'm not going to let you do me," she says. "I'm going to do you."
She shoves the nap room door open, studies the facilities. It's sparse, just a navy blue futon and cozy cream wallpaper, a blackout blind on the window and a pot of lavender in the corner, but it will do perfectly.
"Cool, a futon. I feel like we're at college or something," Castle says.
She shuts him up by grabbing his belt buckle, unlinking it with one hand, and whipping it out in one intimidatingly sexy motion. She pulls her shirt off over her head just as quickly. The masculine way in which she tugs it off sharply contrasts the femininity of her bra, a pale blue French lace number with glittering rhinestones decorating the front clasp.
She pushes him down onto the futon. Her skin is on fire, she's so damn hot, and she wonders if she actually is coming down with something. She just wants to ride him. Castle wriggles out of his shirt, and starts pushing his jeans down when her hand lands on his package, stroking the bulge lewdly as she tugs her own trousers off.
His boxers and jeans are still tangled around his ankles when she swings a bare leg over him.
"Can I just take my socks - "
"Shut up, Castle."
When she takes him inside, feels the swollen, solid length of him stretching her open, she nearly sobs with relief. His eyes darken. She loves the way he morphs from a silly teddy bear of man into a prowling wildcat in bed, all at the drop of a hat. Or underwear, as it were.
They start rocking their hips together, frantic clashes of ecstasy in each stroke. She towers over him, and he grabs her breasts, fully taking the weight of her abdomen as she grinds up and down on him. He adjusts his hips until he finds that spot that makes her eyes go glassy. Sometimes she can't take it, the intensity of him hitting her there, where every thrust jams against some nerve that shudders through her whole body, but she doesn't make any plea to stop. He keeps the angle, but increases the speed, until her eyes are rolling and her body is breaking over him like a wave.
She comes without even a single press to her clit.
Four days of pent up energy course through him, pounding under his skin, begging to be let out, but he somehow manages to hang on. He gives her a moment, watches as she rocks down slowly, milking the last aftershocks out of herself, then he slides her legs off and gets out from under her. He turns her roughly, slaps his cock against her ass. She gets the idea, tips her pelvis and grabs on tight to the top of the futon. He takes one look at her soaking apex, then drives in ruthlessly.
Kate Beckett has some dirty little tricks, and when she squeezes like a vice around him in rhythm to his thrusts, he drags his fingers down her throat hard enough to leave four red lines. Like some fucking animal.
She rears her head back and gasps, in pain or pleasure he can't tell. He flattens his palm, rubs over the marks in an effort to soothe them. One of her hands flies up to cover his, the other left alone to brace her from his onslaught. The hand that covers his tightens, and he reads the cues. He's always suspected she might be into a little bit of neck-play. Whenever he nuzzles her under the jaw she jumps like a raw nerve ending, especially when he's unshaven. He tightens his hold, puts some pressure under her jaw, and he can feel it translate to his cock immediately through the wrenching clamp of her body.
"Fuck, Kate."
His vision starts to go funny and he looks down, watches as he plows into the firm heat of her. With his last few thrusts, he brings her over with him, both of them loud and loose.
Castle drops his forehead to her shoulder. Both are damp with sweat. He'd pay all kinds of stupid money for a video of what they just did.
"You know," he says lazily, in between her harsh breaths as they slow, "I was going to make you wait another day - until you closed the case - then I was going to clear the loft and fuck you on every single surface."
"Glad you changed your mind and moved up your timeline," she husks.
"Not like I had much choice, Miss Bossy Boots. Also, I'm not an idiot - I'm not gonna pass up my fiancé's generous offer to have precinct sex. Not everyday you get worked up enough to break the rules."
He kisses her wet skin, then works himself gently out of her body.
"You don't have to abandon your original plan, you know," Kate says. "I think we're due to re-inventory the flat surfaces in the loft anyway."
"Well, let's go solve the case, then, so we can go home."
"Oh, I kind of already solved the case. Somewhere between my first and second orgasm." She grins. "Thanks for clearing my head."
She straightens her clothes and strides out. He discreetly hangs back, rolls up the blackout blind, and opens the window. The last thing they need is for someone to walk in tomorrow morning and smell sex.
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