Because seriously, who doesn't love Undressed Russian Slutty Beckett?

Chapter 8: 2x01, Deep In Death

But you are man, aren't you? Very handsome man.

If the Russians don't shoot Castle first, Kate Beckett is going to.

But first, she has to take off her clothes.

She strips behind the van quickly, remembering the half-asleep neighbors from her tiny student apartment in Kiev, girls who never seemed to be quite dressed. And never seemed to care. She doesn't have a lot to work with right now, but she can manage a pretty decent facsimile of their style with what she's got.

Richard Castle. Richard Castle. Stupid, pigheaded, idiot, moronic –

She swears under her breath, tousles her hair into passably slutty Euro-trash style, and prepares to save the idiot. Again.

Castle is elated. He's found the fake pinky-man, he's cleaning up at poker, and he's wearing a damn spycam.Seriously. Beckett may not be happy with him right now, but he's kind of James Bond-ing it up tonight and she'll be proud of him for it.

Probably.

Well, he sortof hasn't exactly followed her instructions. Still. All the heroes go rogue at some point, right?

He takes a drink, casts a glance around the table of tattooed Russians. Fake Pinky looks antsy. Aha. Not-really-subtle provocation is working, then. Pinky is definitely the guy. Castle feels himself swelling with the pride of justice. Seriously, he's like half-Jedi, half-Sherlock Holmes right now.

The Russians suddenly pause, staring at him with odd looks – is that jealousy? yeah, he's doing well, but come on, guys, poker faces – and he's about to speak when he feels a hand trail up his arm, over his shoulder, slide through the short hair at the nape of his neck. Oh. Wow. He likes that. That's nice.

He cranes his neck, expecting to find some buxom Russian with blonde hair, red lips and not a lot of inhibitions.

The woman he finds actually standing behind him is infinitely more exciting. His jaw drops.

Beckett?

"What - what are you doing here?"

He's proud he manages not to squeak. Because important pieces of Beckett's clothing seem to have simply vanished. Like her shirt. And her pants. And he can see her bra (oh God it is red and he is going to dream about it) and her legs are bare and so long (oh, he's going to dream about those too).

"Come for you, darling," she drawls in a Russian accent he's never heard from her before ever but he wants to hear every night because he hadn't thought she could get any hotter but yeah. This does the trick. She runs her hand over his shoulder and it's not even really sexual but it feels so dirty.

"Something you need, babe?" Fine. He doesn't know what she's doing, but he'll go with it because she's Beckett and she's not really wearing much and she's running her hands through his hair, massaging his scalp, and that's fine with him. Totally fine. Oh yeah.

"Something you need, I think." She tugs his hand, and he obediently stands, letting her draw him away from the table, where the Russian players are watching with undisguised interest. "Come on, Richard. We need to go make you get very lucky." She flicks her eyebrow upwards, a coy smile on her pouty lips.

Oh.

Ohhhhhhh.

So that'swhat she's doing. His girlfriend, right?

Prove it, Kate.

"Gotta get me a little honey, boys." He smirks, slides his hand up her leg (her bare leg), and to her credit, she doesn't flinch, just looks up at him with those big dark doe eyes of hers and seriously, seriously, with the bedroom eyes and sexy tousled hair, that red mouth of hers is making him think of terrible, wrong, hot, dirty things he wants her to do to him.

One of the guys snorts and says something in Russian that makes the other guys laugh, one of them making a crude gesture. He doesn't understand. But she probably does. He looks down at his new girlfriend, because he is really, really enjoying looking at her. "What did he say, baby?"

She'll probably shoot him later for calling her 'baby,' but it's not like she's got anywhere to hide a gun in this getup. And she's going to shoot him anyway for putting his arm around her. She keeps up with the charade, slipping her hand inside his shirt collar to stroke his chest. (Oh yeah. She can do that anytime.) "He says I'm going to go – how do you say – make head for you?"

Oh God. Oh shit. That accent. He has no idea when this stopped being a legitimate case and turned into his newest, hottest fantasy. But they can't stop now.

Well…he really doesn't want to stop now.

"Tell him yeah, babe. We'll be back when I'm a little more – relaxed."

He slips an arm around her waist as she says something in Russian (God, it is so damn sexy) that makes the Russian guys laugh again. She leans into him as he tugs her back towards the kitchen, puts her lips to his ear like she's going to whisper something dirty (who is he kidding? with the way she's pressed up against him at this point like some kind of impossible wet dream, she could whisper her grocery list and it'd be like porn), but she hisses "I am going to kill you for this, you bastard."

It's not a grocery list, but yeah. It's still so very, very hot.

"Is that a threat or a promise, Ekaterina?" he murmurs, watching her eyes flash in dark, heated disapproval. Pissed-off Beckett is hot. Scary. But hot.

Unfortunately, the illusion shatters the moment the kitchen door shuts behind them, and sexy Ekaterina turns back into Kate, who is not happy with him. He wants Ekaterina back.

"What the hell, Castle?" she hisses, poking him viciously in the chest. Ow. "We found the guy! Why the hell are you still sitting there baiting them?"

"I - was just - trying to act natural. Not give anything away." He was actually trying to channel a little Casino Royaleinto his life, but he doesn't think Beckett will appreciate hearing that.

"Natural my ass," she grumbles. He wonders if he should tell her she really, really looks nice today. Really.

He decides this might not be the best time.

"We got him! Why the hell didn't you just go?"

"I had a good hand."

She looks like she is going to strangle him. He still thinks it's hot. "Castle, you arrogant, moronic, asinine son of a – "

"Hey! I found your guy! You know which one he is!" The hell. Rebels aren't actually supposed to get in trouble. They're supposed to get medals.

(And laid.)

"Does he know you know?" she demands.

He gulps. "Um. Maybe."

She grits her teeth. "Shit." She glances out the window in the kitchen door, and her face falls. "Shit. He's coming over here."

He blinks. Because he cannot handle how hot it is to hear her actually talk dirty. And he absolutely cannot handle how hot it is that she does it when he's staring at her red underwear. Underwear he wants to see more of. And then maybe remove.

She's freaked out, though. Pinky is headed this way. He looks grumpy. And she's not armed.

"We have to do something!" she hisses. "What's your brilliant plan, Sherlock?"

He blurts out the first thing that comes to mind. "What they thought we were going to do."

Her eyes widen (he sees a little murderous intent but chooses to ignore it) but she plays along, pressing herself closer against him (mmmmmmm yeah) and draping an arm over his shoulders, letting her hand lazily trail over his neck while she nuzzles him.

The door creaks open – he knows the guy is watching them – but nothing else happens. Beckett's whispering in his ear, something he desperately wants her to do more of. Maybe not these exact words, though. "Castle. You'd better not be enjoying this."

"Just doing my part to make the world a better place," he murmurs, 'accidentally' letting his mouth brush her neck, feeling the slight tensing of her hand against him.

"If he doesn't kill you, I will," she replies, placing a soft almost-kiss on his jaw.

As hot as death threats from Nearly Naked Beckett are, that reminds Castle: they're being watched. He sneaks a glance at the door, sees Pinky Russian very obviously watching, not coming towards them but not leaving. He's watching them. And through the half-open door, he can hear them.

It suddenly processes in his fantasy-fogged mind: the guy's staying put. Wow, creepy voyeuristic Russian murderer.

He suddenly gets it, gets why Beckett's still playing along. They're buying time. He needs to come in, or get close enough for Beckett to grab him, or go away, or something, so they can either take him down or escape. He doesn't look like he's going to let them just stroll out, at any rate.

Castle suddenly wonders – does the guy think he's a cop? Only a cop should know what Castle knows. Pinky might suspect. And everyone gets checked for weapons on the way in, but seriously, it wouldn't be that hard to sneak a gun in.

Pinky thinks Castle's armed?

But Castle's not telepathic and neither is Beckett. He doesn't know exactly what she's planning, if she's maybe got some ace up her sleeve (well, so to speak). So he decides to go with his usual plan: act first, think about it later. She'll slap him to death if she wants him to stop.

(And if he's going to die anyway, why not earn it?)

Before she can stop him, he's tugging her belt off, letting it drop to the floor as he slides his hands under that boring oversized sweater and yeah, she really needs to stop wearing sweaters to work if this is what she's hiding underneath them, he realizes, his mouth going dry as his hands slide over the delicate curved lines above her waist, the soft, smooth, warm skin of her abdomen. He likes touching her. He reallylikes touching her.

She gives him a look that is probably meant to convey death and shooting and ear-twisting and pain on his end, but right now he only comprehends Death later. Touch now. She doesn't stop him (They're acting, and she knows it. She can't stop him.), just lets him slowly push the sweater down so it falls to her elbows, leaving her shoulders bare, silky, warm, and he cannot stop touching all this perfect skin, soft and tantalizing and absolutely forbidden under his hands but he wants more, wants all of her, wants this not to be fake –

She does him one better. While he's trying to memorize every possible square inch of her naked skin and scarlet underwear (he may be in danger right now, but oh, is he enjoying her), he suddenly discovers she's backing him up against the wall. She yanks his jacket off his shoulders and throws it aside, and as he slowly catches up to Beckett undressing him, suddenly her mouth is on his and she's pressing herself up against him and oh shit his mind is gone and she's kissing him.

She's dirty, biting at his upper lip, letting out a little noise of utter desire that sends a shot of heat straight through him, and he can't stop himself, his hands sliding down her back, pulling her more firmly, almost roughly against him, her hips tight around his leg. She's raking her nails over his neck and sucking his tongue into her mouth and her breasts are pressed up against his chest and her tongue, her hot wet tongue, traces a line over the sensitive ridge on the roof of his mouth and he groans and oh, oh Beckett, nice girls don't kiss like this. Bad girls kiss like this. Naughty girls kiss like this. Naked girls kiss like this.

Her knee is sliding up the side of his leg, the brush of her thigh against him almost too much, and he gasps, his mouth finally breaking free. She doesn't let him go, though; she starts sucking at his throat, her tongue tracing his veins. He slips his hands under her hips, drawing her roughly against him, groaning as she squirms involuntarily at the contact, her thigh brushing against him right where he needs it, drawing a breathy sigh from her as he grits his teeth.

"You seem so tense, baby," she murmurs, the Russian vowels dark, her voice husky and low and so very arousing as she kisses his jaw. "Let me calm you down."

She's sliding a hand down his chest, slowly but determinedly. It's only then that he realizes what she's doing.

Oh. Oh God. Oh God Oh God Oh God.

She – she wouldn't – she's not –

- is she?

No – but –

Her mouth brushes his ear as she whispers, words meant only for him. "Just trust me."

Trust me.

She's got a plan.

Her hands fall to his waist, and as her slender fingers drag over his belt buckle he swears the air has all left his lungs and he cannot breathe and he's actually clutching the counter behind him, white-knuckled, his arms straining, silently willing his body not to notice, not to react. Just to ignore the way she's slowly undressing him, the smell of her hair, the curves of her barely-covered body just out of reach. He's itching to touch her but he can't. He won't stop.

She slips the end of his belt out of the buckle and there is no shower in the world cold enough to undo what she's doing to him right now. His fingers clench the edge of the counter as he breathes through his nose, not sure if he's praying for this to stop or to never stop.

"You like that, baby?" she purrs - purrs- into his ear in that painfully sexy accent, her hand still on his undone belt, and he swallows hard to try and remind himself that this isn't real and she's not really going to -

"You know I do," he manages to say, right before he feels her flick open the button on his jeans and all rational thought leaves his brain and he can't stop the groan that escapes as she starts feathering light, teasing kisses down the side of his throat.

Shit. Shit, shit, he can't –

He can't stop his body's reaction, can't stop her, can only breathe raggedly as she unbuttons his shirt slowly, button by button, her hands so light and careful and everything he's ever going to fantasize about, ever, forever. Oh, oh.

While he gulps for air, she finishes the last button on his shirt, and he's only just managed to take a breath when her mouth leaves his throat and she starts trailing kisses down his chest, hot and wet and her tongue is on his skin and holy shit this is just too much, it's too much -

He licks his dry lips, trying to muster the nerve to speak. "Wait – shouldn't – "

Her tongue swirls wetly over his navel and his abs clench violently and his whole body tightens and all the blood in his face and brain and everywhere is fast rushing south and he has to forcibly stop himself from tangling his hand in her hair. Oh God. He can't. He just can't. She's –

"Who are you?"

The voice is rough and angry and Russian and utterly unwelcome. Castle looks away from Beckett (who is kneeling in front of him, oh shit) to find Pinky edging near them. Training a gun on him. Of course – now that she's stripping him, it's now painfully apparent that Castle is unarmed. Not to mention so turned on he's not sure he can move. And therefore not a threat.

Shit.

"I'm a – I'm a novelist!" Please believe. Please don't shoot.

"Do not lie! You a cop!"

Beckett stands, turns, arches an eyebrow like she's seen it all before, like she wasn't just tugging his pants down and making him forget his own name. "Him, a cop? Don't make me laugh. He's barely even a man."

Pinky keeps the gun trained on Castle, but he must be straight, because he's openly staring at Beckett's (mostly naked) body, and Castle has never ever been so glad to see Beckett using her powers of hotness on someone else.

Maybe he might survive this after all.

With Pinky in custody and out the door, Ryan and Esposito come out to meet them, and it takes Castle a second to understand the intensely uncomfortable expressions on their faces as they hold out what seems to be the rest of Beckett's clothing.

Oh. The camera.

They saw and heard everything.

Everything.

Um.

"So." Esposito has the beginnings of a smug look on his face. Ryan just looks stunned.

Beckett snatches her clothes back, hugging them to her chest, and shoots the boys a look of steel as she steps behind the van's back door to change. It cows them into silence. For a few seconds.

The minute she's out of sight, they turn back to Castle. He shifts nervously on his feet. "What?"

Ryan motions to his face. "Uh, Castle, you, uh, you've got a little lip gloss – "

Castle immediately tries to wipe off the evidence that Kate Beckett just explored every inch of his mouth and marked it as her own. It's mostly futile. Esposito just shakes his head. And Ryan still looks like a little kid who just walked in on his parents, wrinkling his nose in discomfort. "Dude. She – she wasn't actually going to – I mean – "

"Oh, hell no, Bro," Esposito cuts in. "She was just saving his sorry ass."

"Yeah. That." Castle swallows, trying not to think about those big doe eyes, the way she slowly, temptingly tugged away his belt. Oh God. Russian Beckett. Most dangerous turn-on ever. Even without her gun.

Oh, just imagine, that little getup with her thigh holster...

Ryan makes a face. "Ugh. Get over it, man. Button your shirt."

"Yeah. And Castle, you might want to, uh, calm yourself down just a little."

Esposito raises his eyebrows and walks away with Ryan, leaving Castle to awkwardly clutch his jacket in front of the extremely sensitive situation Kate Beckett created and wonder how exactly all of this happened.