Kate holds her breath, she doesn't mean to but she does. Grinding her teeth and biting down on her tongue and - fuck - stuck exactly where she stands.
The buzz in front of her isn't wearing off, it might even be getting louder - droning incessantly in her ears - and any second now one of the trawling press mongrels will turn and see her emerging from the bathroom.
Now frozen in the doorway.
Her hair's a mess, as much as she tried to rid the remnants of Castle's fingers from the strands, somehow his touch still burns against her scalp and at the base of her neck.
There's stubble burn on her cheeks, wet lip prints and teeth marks in the delicate blue fabric of her dress.
Oh god, the dress.
Rumpled and ruined and a complete giveaway, it clings to her body almost as tightly as Castle did. As tightly as she clung to him.
Shit, she left her underwear on the floor in the bathroom.
Thoughts dart through her mind in random succession but no matter how she spins it in her own head absolutely everything about her is a walking billboard for what they just did and, for fucks sake, she needs to pull herself together.
The anger that was rising up inside her - desperate to quell the aching chasm she could feel forming in her chest at the thought of his approaching rejection - is slowly replaced by the steady drip drip drip of self preservation through her veins.
She needs to act, needs to move. She needs to get a fucking grip and get the fuck out of here. As far as Kate can see, she only has two options.
Step forward and face the press or turn tail and face Castle.
Both are terrifying, but with her teeth in her lip, the air trapped in her lungs thumping at her ribs for release, she curls a hand behind her and reaches backwards to claim the handle so she can throw herself into the bathroom.
Instead the solid form of Castle collides into her back before she even finds the door and were it not for her teeth already biting down on her lip she would be grunting out in shock and giving them both away.
The barest oomph of sound leaves her instead and for a brief moment she almost expects him to crack a joke. Kate tenses against him, waits, feels the shift of his body press tight to the backs of her legs and the frozen length of her spine.
Castle's closeness, the blistering heat of him standing behind her, finally makes her release the breath she's been holding on to. He jerks and the way he stiffens instantly sets her mind at ease. The unconscious reaction he has to the press mob tells her he feels exactly the same way she does.
They need to get the hell out of here. Now!
Castle emits a sound behind her, anger and annoyance and frustration all melding together and rumbling low at the back of his throat. A short vibration ripples through his chest, shivers down her spine and Kate can feel her heartbeat ricochet through her body, pulsing and pounding to the tips of her toes.
He's pissed off, she can feel it in the hard wall of muscle at her back, there is a rigidity to him similar to what she could feel from him when she first stormed into the bathroom and her brow narrows and knits together in response.
He's not just angry at the photographers, he's angry at her.
She sets that aside for the moment and jumps when his hands land on her skin, the width of his palms huge and easily encompassing her slender arms. His fingers dwarf her narrow bones, caress muscles and sinew as they slide, a string of goosebumps erupting in the scorching trail he leaves.
The heat of his hands permeates deeply into her skin, sinks through each layer leaving a calming warmth in its wake and his touch alone sends a warm rush of reassurance down to her fingertips, before he captures her hand.
She's thankful for it and hating it all at the same time. He has her back literally and now he's holding onto her hand.
Starting with his thumb and slowly, finger by finger, Castle interlinks their hands, locking their knuckles together, keeping them palm to palm, before he squeezes gently. A message that screams to her in their self imposed silence. Trust me.
Does she trust him?
Can she?
As she contemplates his movements, eyes never straying from the people in front of them, one hand wraps around her from behind. His fingers splay wide across her abdomen and almost as if they are slow dancing with her back to his chest, Castle pulls her body in tightly to his.
The tips of his fingers press firmly, hold her closer and the muscle beneath his hand jumps to attention. Desperate and against her will, awake and alert to his touch.
Hot, moist breath flares fire at the base of her neck, lifts the straggles of hair from her skin and makes them ripple and tickle at her nape.
A rush of blood rises up, staining her cheeks and pounding in her ears. Surging high and swooping away again, low and in time with every steady inhale from Castle. A push and pull of oxygen and intensity that leaves her breathless, more so than before.
Any second now someone will turn and see them.
He has to tug to get her moving, has to drag just enough for those first few steps to catch and flitter through her mind, and they slide a little in the right direction.
But it's his lips at her ear that finally make her move.
When they're far enough away, Castle clutches tight to her, like he cannot bear to let her go, and his nose skims her neck, his mouth opening hotly against the shell and lobe as he hisses, "Move, Beckett."
It sounds like more.
More Beckett.
A plea, a feral demand. A wanton call for release.
She's catapulted straight back to what can only have been minutes before and the feel of him as he drove himself into her. And then, as if a switch has been flipped her feet are moving in time with his. A synchronized rhythm.
As one they race away from the throng, moving stealthily off to the side, sliding with their backs to one wall.
Ten steps. Fifteen. Twenty. They move together.
It all happens in a few seconds, but the way her body is bombarded with sensation, with longing and contrasting emotion, it feels like hours pass as she extracts herself slowly from Castle's grasp.
There are no dark hideaways or corners to lay low in. The room is a buzz and bright and everywhere she looks his fucking name is plastered in gigantic letters, cardboard cutouts of his face dangling from every surface and reminding her exactly where they are and what a monumental fucking mess they are in.
She feels his body pivot away, his hands releasing her reluctantly and Castle follows her line of sight. Something ripples over his face slowly, his features, usually unmarred and mirthful, take on a pained expression before he sighs.
Just like that he surprises her again.
The Castle before her seems cloaked in remorse, a soft tender look in his eyes coming to life when he turns to face her. He reaches out, mindful of where they are, and presses the tip of one finger to the back of her hand, his voice low and quiet, a shared thing just between the two of them "Look, Beckett -"
"Detective Beckett?"
"Rick, there you are."
From opposite sides of the room familiar voices come at them, opposing forces claiming their attention and pulling them apart.
Kate jumps back at the sound of her name, stepping away from Castle as if proximity will give them away.
Turning almost back to back, she and Castle stare into the faces of the people coming for them. Her captain and his agent share similar and knowing looks, eyes raking over the couple before them as they are interrupted.
And busted.
Fuck.