Reminder: mildly M.

Chapter 8

Kate lives in a fairly ordinary block not too far from the precinct – until she opens the door, without suggesting a goodnight kiss, and beckons him inside.

It's – cosy. Plump couches, warm tones, casual but eclectic décor, massive bookshelves. No sharp edges, no hard angles. It's exactly not what she's like outside.

He has precisely two seconds to look around, before he realises that he's walked her home, and every good first date ends with a kiss.

If only he'd got there first…

Kate's arms are around his neck, her face is turned up – up? Oh, she's kicked her shoes off – to his, and she's proving that he is most definitely her conquest. Again. Maybe, though, he can do a little conquering of his own. He gathers her in, pressing her tightly against him, slides a hand into her hair and takes her mouth, explores and invades: a slow discovery that her mouth is perfectly sized to his, her lips addictive, her body fitted to his: every curve and lineament finding a matching space in him.

Her hands bite on his shoulders, a small hitch of surprise as she finds, he thinks, more muscle than she expected. He, deep in the exquisite feel of her mouth on his lips, instinctively untucks her t-shirt and starts to learn the smooth planes of her back, the texture of her skin, the small soft noises that she makes and the bend of her back as she flows into his touch. In turn, she explores beneath his shirt, a tiny scrape of nails, not painful, as she finds the strength in his shoulders and the muscle of his pecs, and he growls pleased noises in response.

She moves round and presses kisses along his jaw, into his neck; his hand finds the clasp of her bra – and stops.

"Kate?" he murmurs. "Are you okay with this?"

She stops, pulls back, and looks him full in the face, hands slipping to the small of his back in imitation of his – and then she leans back in, head on his shoulder, utterly at ease.

"Let's see where it takes us," she purrs.

The next second his shirt falls off. Okay. Right. That's taking us (there's an us!) in a very definite direction.

And then her mouth nibbles quite wickedly on his earlobe and he stops thinking about any direction other than the one that's the shortest route to her bed.

Beckett had more or less decided at the moment he kissed her in Remy's that she was going to go for what she wanted. And she wants Rick. The more he touches her and she touches him, the more it blazes: all backed up from that very first touch and ready to ignite. He's fitter than she'd have expected, but she enjoys the sensation of strength surrounding her; wants the combination of the affection he's previously shown and the desire that's now roiling in his eyes. She kisses him hard again, pulls back for an instant.

"I'm clean," she whispers, "and protected."

"Me too." He is. It's been a little while, and he's always careful – but he gets checked out, periodically. "But have you… because I don't…"

"Um…"

The pause makes him unwarrantedly happy. If she has to think about it, then she's hardly bringing guys home every other week – and she isn't on the rebound, either. The first seems totally unlikely, but he doesn't want to be a notch on her bedpost, however hot. The second – well, a little niggly thorn dissolves.

"I don't know," she admits, blushing luridly. Taking the initiative hadn't fazed her, but the practicalities… she's adorably cute when she blushes.

"I'm sure we can make each other happy whatever," he grins, and in his first display of real initiative, whips off her t-shirt, takes her mouth, swings her up so she wraps legs around his waist and oh she feels so good there: so right: he curves a big hand round under her rear and uses the other arm to hold her tightly against him.

And then he takes them to the only door that could possibly hide a bedroom, and she stands on her own two feet again, next to a queen size bed in palely patterned covers on which her dark hair will stand out like a panther on snow, and kisses him until he lays her down and slowly, tantalisingly, undresses her to her lacy underwear that isn't at all what he expected but is astonishingly hot, and is then totally undone when she sits back up, runs her mouth from sternum to belt, and then divests him of pants.

Beckett sits back against her pillows and frankly admires. Fair's fair: he's staring at her, too. Without removing her gaze from him (she isn't entirely sure that she could: he's a lot more rugged nearly naked) she opens the drawer of the nightstand and allows her fingers to roam the inside.

There are no boxes. There are no condoms. Dammit!

Rick follows the changes in expression. "None?" he says. "We'll just have to improvise."

"Improvise?"

His smile turns entirely predatory. "Improvise. See what you like. I know you like kissing, and I really like kissing you, so let's start there."

She does like kissing. She especially likes kissing when they are both nearly naked. She likes his weight and bulk pressing down and covering her. She thinks she likes his mouth moving over her jaw and round by her ear, but she's trying too hard not to squirm frantically and squeak desperately really to analyse it.

And then she stops thinking at all, because he's found a spot she didn't know existed and surely the side of her neck isn't a classically erogenous zone?

"You liked that," he murmurs. "Should I do it again, or should I see what else you like?"

Clearly that was a rhetorical question, since he's already decided on the answer. His lips – does he use lip balm? They're astoundingly soft – are astoundingly mobile, flexible, and utterly wicked. They've sneaked down to her breasts and – oh God how did he do that? – are enjoying themselves. They must be. They keep returning for another go. They can have as many goes as they like, as long as she gets some goes at pleasing him in return oh oh oh Rick!

"You liked that, too," he growls, in a deep furry baritone that strokes the inside of her skin. "I like you liking that." She can't answer, being too busy trying to decide if she still has all four limbs and a head. The only thing she can do is hold on to Rick until she can retaliate in kind.

That is, if she gets a chance to retaliate. Rick seems to have a mission in mind. She can cope with a missionary, though one position would be boring – oh God missionaries do not do that.

Castle does have a mission in mind. Although he's already decided that he could play with Kate's beautiful, perfectly sized breasts (in or out of that scorchingly hot lacy bra) for hours without a single hint of boredom, he also considers that he should explore the other possibilities for some very adult kissing. Of course, the minor little detail that he adores giving good oral and that it generally has the most satisfactory results, has nothing to do with it. He slithers down the lean, toned lines of Kate's stomach and takes a moment to appreciate the scorchingly hot lacy panties. Tastefully erotic, he'd call them.

And erotically tasting is exactly what he is going to do. He breathes gently over the fabric, not touching. She wriggles. He glides gentle fingertips over the delicate surface of her inner thighs, and she opens further for him to survey. Of course, surveying should be thorough, and involve all five senses. Hearing is already engaged. She's making little sexy noises, which he intends to encourage. Smell: well, he can smell a hint of bodywash, but he can also smell the delicious aroma of aroused Kate. Sight: he doesn't need that so much, but she's still a beautiful sight, all hot and very bothered. Touch: he runs a featherlight finger over the fabric and she writhes and wriggles and finally he completes the set with taste, running his tongue lightly over fabric, flicking out from a kiss on each satin thigh. He plays with the fabric, adds touch to taste to move the silky material aside, and uses skill and experience to leave her so high he hopes she'll never come down.

Improvisation is a wonderful thing, and so is post-orgasmic Kate. She's lax and snuggly in the best possible way. Castle cradles her in, and daydreams about doing so more. Lots more. His daydream expands to include the magical provision of the absent condoms, the possibilities of the shower, the bed, waking up together…

Oh my God that isn't a daydream oh God Kate oh fuck just don't ever stop ohhhhhhhhh Kate!

She looks extraordinarily smug. He probably looks as if she removed his brain, though he's pretty sure he's grinning so widely he could tie a bow round the back of his head. She seems to be back in his arms, which is just as well because if she tries to run away now he will use her own handcuffs to attach her to his wrist and then swallow the key. Fortunately she is curled around him, and he is curled around her, all tangled together, warm and cosy and comfortable and perfectly suited to each other. Her breathing slows to match his, his eyes drift shut to match hers…

What the hell? What time is it? Where is he? Who's he with?

And then some conscious thought filters in and he remembers that the warm body beside him, still tucked in, is Kate, who's his Kate, and they are really dating, and that might just have been the best night of his life ever. He indulges in some creepy staring, realises that it's creepy peering through the gloom and he can't actually see anything much at all, and pouts.

The he realises that he is out without a late pass, texts Alexis, sets his alarm for a time he really doesn't want to visit from the post-sleep end – and then wriggles back down under the covers, tucking Kate in again as he goes.

He's woken by his own alarm, which is overtaken by Kate's. She gets up far too early, he decides. Mornings are for sleeping, snuggling, and at least two other words beginning with S, which could usefully be combined, if only they could. Next time. Next time will be soon.

Beckett drags herself out of bed, for once not throwing herself headlong into the new day with new killers to chase down and put away. Waking next to Rick had given her some decidedly interesting ideas, most of which were likely at least misdemeanours. Unfortunately if she starts down that route, she'll be late for work. Very late.

She tears herself away and into the shower, aware that Rick's eyes haven't left her for a moment. It puts a little sway in her hips, which puts a little heaviness in his breathing. Her shower is a tad cooler than normal, which achieves nothing except to add irritation to frustration.

Rick takes a very fast shower, which leaves him quite adorably tousled. He sniffs his arm and makes a face.

"I smell of cherries," he complains. "Cherries aren't masculine."

"Don't you like cherries?"

"I like cherry smell on you. Not on me. My soap is sandalwood. Much more appropriate."

"You're talking about appropriate?" Beckett gapes. "After last night?"

He grins wolfishly. "It seemed – appropriate – at the time." He compounds his sins by hugging her. Without her heels, she leans neatly on his shoulder, and curves into him.

"Work," she says briskly, and contradicts it instantly with a leisurely kiss designed to curl his toes and straighten his spine. Or somewhere like that. Whatever it was designed to do, it did. He reciprocates in kind.

"See you tonight?" he asks hopefully, bouncily puppyish.

"Hmmm," she teases. "I might catch a case."

"That's okay. I'll bring you takeout."

"If we're busy, you can't distract us by asking questions."

Rick regards her pathetically. "But…"

"The city pays us to solve murders. That's your taxes," she adds didactically."

Castle does not say yes, and I pay lots of taxes. "I guess," he droops. "But I still wanna see you later. I promised you Italian."

"You did. Let's see how work goes. Call me later." She shoos him out, locks up, and strides off to work. Castle watches the stride with considerable appreciation and takes himself home, where he arrives just in time to put breakfast together, and then writes a series of scorching scenes, not one of which would be suitable for unexpurgated publication. He saves them into a very private folder, and then tones the least scorching down by a factor of at least one hundred and inserts it into his half-fleshed skeleton.

He regards the current draft happily, and then picks up the phone.

"Gina, it's Rick."

"Rick? Does this mean you've finally come to your senses? Where are those edits?"

"Never mind the edits. I've got a new book. Half written."

"What?"

"New. Book."

"Great," she says flatly. "Now how about the old one? I need those edits so we can make the publication date without me having to work 24/7 for the next month."

"Gina, stop talking about the edits. I've got a new book. New character. It's going to be a series. Do you want to know or should I go find a different publisher?"

There is a stunned silence. "You wouldn't."

A much longer silence, which Gina breaks. "Okay. Send me it. But we still have to finish Storm Fall. Everything's in place, we just need those final edits."

"Everything's in place?" Castle repeats, confused.

"Yeah. All the publicity, all the signings, the launch party… Rick, we talked about this. Well. I talked. You pretended to listen. Paula set it all up and you need to get with the program. It's not like I can hire a lookalike."

"When's this starting?"

"Publication date is" – there's a short pause broken by tapping – "a month from now. Usual arrangements: a big launch party, then readings and signings in New York, then touring. Paula's got the schedule, since I guess you've lost it?" Castle hears deliberately inserted before 'lost'. She's likely not wrong there. "I'll ask her to send you it." He hears again, with feeling, after that.

"Okay. Look," he concedes, "I'll try to finish" – start – "the edits by the weekend.

"Please," she says. "I need sleep."

"Okay, okay. I get it." There is a sceptical noise. "I do!"

"Okay. Bye. Send me that outline."

"Half a book, Gina! It's a lot more than an outline." Another sceptical noise. "Pressing Send now."

Half a second later there is a surprised squawk. "You really meant it. I'll take a look now – but I won't tell you anything till you send those edits through." Castle growls. "No. Bye." She rings off. Castle growls much more loudly at the phone, and then, with extreme reluctance, turns to the edits. Gina has ways of making him work. It's another good reason they divorced.

Some hours of hard work and several gallons of coffee later, he has, much to his surprise, worked his way through well over half the edits. Much to his irritation, Gina's comments are (as ever) accurate, perceptive, and improve the overall writing. It doesn't make him like her, or the process, any better. He likes her even less when he looks at his watch, finds that it's after five, frantically calls the Italian restaurant where he goes when he wants to be incognito with Alexis and where he can absolutely trust the owners and staff to call him Rick Rodgers and nothing else, is totally relieved to get a table, and then equally frantically calls Kate.

"Hey, Rick," she says calmly. She doesn't sound worried at all.

"Dinner," he babbles out. "I booked and it's all okay and here's the restaurant. It's called Carvoso and the table's in my name for seven and" –

"Slow down. What's the hurry? I didn't expect you to call till early evening. It's not even six."

Castle stops. "Oh."

"Did you think it was later? Must have been a busy day, counting those beans." He can hear the smirk in her voice.

"My boss was on my back. Head down all day. I hate deadlines," he grumbles.

"I like the bills being paid," Beckett flashes back. "Don't you?"

"Yes," he agrees. "Anyway, Carvoso. Seven. Let me know if you're running late."

"Doubt it," she humphs. "No break at all. See you later."

Promptly at seven Beckett arrives in a slightly shabby, old-fashioned restaurant which nevertheless manages to be wholly warm and welcoming. A silver-haired man is at the door. "Detective Beckett?" he greets her, which is surprising, escorts her across the floor to a table laid for two, and smiles at her. He's about to say something more when the door opens again and Rick enters.

"Rick," the man opens, "you're late. What have I taught you about inviting beautiful women for dinner?"

Rick blushes and then smiles affectionately. "Paolo, the only other beautiful women I've ever brought here are my mother and my daughter. Stop making Kate think that I'm a lothario."

Paolo laughs and hugs him. "Good to see you back. You should eat here more often."

"I would, but you feed me so well I'd be the size of an elephant." Rick turns to Kate. "Paolo and Maria make the best Italian food anywhere." He leans down and kisses her cheek. "Hello," he murmurs. The tone slithers straight through her skin and seeps into her nerves.

"Hey," she manages. Paolo smiles fondly at both of them. No question but that he's drawn some pretty accurate conclusions.

Rick turns back to Paolo. "Are you going to let Kate see a menu?" She blinks. "Paolo never lets me see a menu. He just produces wonderful food. But – I don't know, are you allergic to anything?"

"Not if you don't count dreadful coffee."

"Anything you really hate?"

"Nope. Except bad coffee."

"Then you do not need a menu," Paolo finishes grandly, and sweeps off as if he were the maitre d' at the Ritz.

"Okay, then…"

"Don't worry. It'll be delicious. It always is. It means he likes you. If he didn't approve" – Beckett raises an eyebrow – "He's protective, okay? He's known me for… urgh. Ah. Since I was a teen."

"What?"

"Mother used to bring me here if she'd had a lucky break."

"Okay."

"Anyway, he approves of you. So he should," Rick says with a tinge of possessiveness.

"Of course I do," Paolo says, causing both of them to jump. "A Detective? A good job. And she's beautiful. Now as long as she's as smart as you too, it will be perfect."

"Good to know you approve," Beckett says dryly.

Paolo acquires a worldly-wise expression. "Very important for you to be smart and independent. It will keep Rick's feet on the ground."

Beckett grins at him. "He does get a little enthusiastic." Rick squawks.

"Ah, yes. But it's very charming."

"Like a puppy."

Rick squawks again. "I'm not a puppy!" he complains.

"Hmmm," she says mischievously. "You lollop around, nosing into everything and bouncing whenever it's interesting, chase after trails and keep coming back… totally a Labrador."

Paolo has slipped away.

"You'd be a…" Rick thinks for a bit. "You know, I can't think of a dog that suits you. I think you're more like a cat." His eyes sparkle. "Cool, calm, intelligent – independent. Um… Persian. They always look as if they know things that you don't."

"I do," she smirks. Rick snickers, and his fingers sneak over the table to find hers, which twine into his. They jump apart as Paolo returns with wine, grissini, and olives.

Thank you to all readers and reviewers.