A/N: I plan to update as and when I can over the next week. Thank you all so much for reading.
She doesn't back down and the challenge in her eyes is unmistakable.
She kisses him like it's a battle, like it's every conversation they've ever had, every argument. Every crossed word and narrowed eye from the moment they met all wrapped up in the surge of her body and rough touch of her lips.
She bites, nips and takes what she wants, her hands aggressive over his chest, nails sharp when she finds skin, leaving bright red marks in their wake.
She kisses him like she means it.
Like she's waging a war.
Like the answer to life and death can be found in the way her tongue slides hot inside his mouth, how it twists and lays over his and strokes. Hot. Thick. Sweet. Again and again and again until he thinks he's about to pass out.
How the fuck does she do that?
She's not gentle, not soft and girly or tittering. She doesn't giggle, she growls, she's not submissive but demanding and the urge to have hits him like a fist in the gut.
He wants her like this, up against the sink with her dress pushed high and her legs wrapped around his head. He wants to taste every hidden inch beneath the silken blue cloth.
She nips again, vicious, angry, and that pisses him off.
Why the fuck is she angry when she's the one who wants to send him away? When she wants a better writer? When he's the one half in lo-
He wraps one arm around her waist, fingers digging into her hips, palm at the back of her head, and Castle pours every ounce of whatever it was he was not about to think straight into that kiss.
He uses her mouth to drown out the thoughts in his head before he can think the words he's too terrified to admit to.
He inhales thickly against her skin, swallows around her tongue and lets her press him into the wall.
He sucks the softness of her into his mouth and pulls her closer, hitches her leg higher, tastes her a little deeper.
Beckett.
Out loud or internalized he doesn't know, but he chokes on it again, her name and the coal black burn of desire, thirst, passion, hunger that comes rolling off her in thundering waves.
He squeezes her ass, lets his palm drift to the division of her butt cheeks outlined by the skin tight material and he strokes the line back and forth, leaving dark wet trails from the tips of his dripping fingers.
She grunts, rage making her rise up, the leg coiling around his opening her up and she rocks onto the balls of her feet, dropping a serpentine hand between them.
He's a poetic bastard even in his own mind, too flowery when he should give in to his animalistic side. But his wounded writer pride is throwing words around even as his hips thrust up hard into her waiting hands.
His wet fingers snag in her hair and it pulls them apart, ragged breath exploding between them but his teeth hold onto her bottom lip as long as possible, tracing it with his tongue.
Her breath licks over his face, in heavy, loud and panted gasps that drive the peaks of her breasts into his chest.
Their eyes flicker, catch and lock. An intensity of emotion surges between them. Shock, need, anger, so much anger, and behind them all something he will not name.
That's one hell of a love letter you wrote her.
Fuck that.
Lust. Nothing more.
Lies.
Heated breath ransacks their lips, her skin soft in his mouth, hot and wet and making him want to slide his fingers further up under that clinging blue dress. He wants to glide over her thighs and find hotter, wetter places within her body.
He wants to hear her croak his name as she comes.
There's a flash of it in her pupils too, something knowing, something more hidden behind her anger, but the moment he catches sight of it it explodes in a maelstrom of sensation.
Her fingers find him, hard and reaching, pressed tight into the warmth of her belly and she squeezes, squeezes and rakes her nails down the sides of his wide erection making him hiss and release her lip.
She retreats but doesn't get far, surging back into him and the second he finds her mouth, licks the line of her lips - wanting back inside - her eyes slam shut and a growl radiates through her chest.
Why the fuck is she mad now?
He doesn't know but he can feel it. Feel the rage like electricity over her skin. Feel it race up the backs of her legs, spread through her like wildfire.
She sizzles with it.
It makes no sense.
She makes no sense. Fucking crazy woman. Maddening, she's maddening and she tastes like mint and everywhere they touch burns.
Beckett presses the swell of her breasts tight to his chest, shifts on her feet so that her nipples - already straining through the thin material of her dress - catch on his buttons.
She teases herself and grinds into him, rolls her hips into his so that he grunts. Then she pulls him in tighter by the buckle of his belt, holds him in place and does it again.