Welcome to the first ever chapter co-written by Ms. Cartographical and Ms. Cora Clavia. Coragraphical? Cartoclavia? Eh. Whatever.

From cartographical: It's really hard to tell Cora Clavia "no" when she asks me to do something, especially when that something is cowriting a chapter of one of my favorite stories ever. It's been a fun dip (exciting plunge? terrifying submersion?) into KMC world, and hopefully I didn't screw it all up too badly!

From Cora Clavia: It should be illegal, the amount of fun we had writing this chapter. Thanks to carto for agreeing to try it. Hopefully you enjoy the result.

Chapter 24: 3x14, Lucky Stiff

Move that ass, move that ass, git on the flo, git on the flo.

The second he clicks his seatbelt and she turns the key in the ignition, his Ferrari roars to life, and he's pressed back against the smooth leather of his passenger seat. His eyes immediately start stinging from the sudden wind, but he can't help but look over at her, the dangerous spark in her eyes, the whip and tangle of her hair. His eyes trail down her arm, the lithe, easy line from her shoulder to her fingers, stop there, arrested by the way she holds the gearshift as she shifts from third to fourth, by the way her fingers circle slightly, almost caressing the knob. The absent motion shoots straight through parts of him that oh she's definitely never seen but holy -

This car is worth every penny he paid for it, if only because she is just so hot when she's working that gear shift like she knows exactly what he's thinking about.

By the time they squeal to a halt at the club his car's engine isn't the only thing that's revved. He swallows, shifts, tries to get his brain far enough out of the gutter that he can speak in full sentences.

And like she knows what it's doing to him, she smiles, that catlike smile that says Oh, the things I could do to you in this car, but all she does is hand him back the keys with a faintly amused, "Wow. Nice car."

He has all these thoughts, all these sexy retorts about the way she handles the stick and what they could do in the backseat and how relatively easy it is to clean up leather, but then she's getting out of the car and those legs – those legs– it is completely inconceivable that any man could ever get out a coherent sentence, let alone engage in witty repartee, when confronted with the long, smooth expanse of Beckett's thighs and knees and calves and ankles.

"Coming," he finally manages to squeak out, thankful that by now she's probably far enough away that she won't have heard him. She turns at the door, waiting for him to give the keys to the valet, one eyebrow arched in amusement (undoubtedly at his expense), but, thankfully, she makes no comment on the fact that he's already a mess.

(He has a suddenly renewed appreciation for James Bond, who never, ever turns into a stuttering mess when a beautiful woman has her hands all over his gear shaft.)

"Keep up, Castle," she murmurs.

The laughter in her voice is enough to make him stumble, drop the keys as he goes to hand them to the valet. They clatter to the ground, and then he cracks his head against the young guy's as they both bend to get them. He stands slowly, rubbing his forehead, waving off the valet's apologies and glancing sheepishly at his pseudo-date.

Beckett seems poised to jump the border from amused to aghast. "Everything okay?" she asks, although she doesn't look very concerned and her tone is more Can you really not handle a relatively simple undercover operation after sitting motionless in a car for five minutes? Seriously? He wants to point out that he is in no way equipped to deal with the filthy way she handled the stick (okay, at least in his mind it was filthy), but he decides maybe he should just shut up and let her take the lead before he makes even more of an idiot of himself.

Walking in the door presents no giant problems (thank God for small favors). Unfortunately, he's watching when she takes off her coat. She shimmies - shimmies - out of it, even though it's not very tight at all so there is no way that she can actually need to roll her shoulders so suggestively. And then she's walking away from him with a gait that's as loose and liquid as her usual walk is clipped and measured, and she's all bare legs and silky hair and that patch of her bare back in the cutout of her dress is making him think bad, bad things and she needs to stop moving her hips like that because he's not sure what the touching rules are here but he's relatively sure that grabbing her hips and hauling her up against him is still Not Allowed.

Somehow he's following her to the center of the dance floor, her long legs shifting and swaying to the music, and then she's slinking closer to him, shifting so her body's a breath away from his. Not helping. She runs a hand through her hair, and he can't miss the line of her neck, the perfect place to just barely kiss her skin, trail up the column of her throat, feel her gasp as she -

She's coming closer, closer, too close, oh God is she going to -

But she bypasses his mouth, goes for his ear. Whispers something. Something vaguely like can't find him and need to get further in and follow me and okay, fine, no problem. Further in he can do. Will do. Wants to do. She turns around, the scent of her hair clouding his face, his mind, his (scarce) better judgment, and then she's swiveling away from him, and he can't help it, he's watching, leering really. It's entirely her fault, the way she turns, the way the curve of her body is so present, the way her hips move, tense thigh under taut fabric, oh, it's -

The movement stops and he looks up blankly to find her glaring at him again. Can you please get with it, she seems to be saying from under her dark, impossibly long lashes, and he realizes suddenly that he's going to have to step up his game at least enough that he's not trailing after her like a stumbling, worshipful Basset Hound. For now, though, he can only follow as she leads him through the grossly crowded dance floor. He'd hate it, but he really can't bring himself to be unhappy with anything that means she has to grab his wrist, pull him closer, crush their bodies together (is this Allowed? is this Not Allowed?) so tightly and it's so hot in here and what are we doing exactly?

She does that thing again where she puts her mouth up to his ear, that thing that makes heat pool low in his body and he has to forcibly stop himself from sliding his hands down her back in a way that is definitely Not Allowed. She hisses something so very, very sexy - he's not even sure what it is, words that register vaguely as back of the club, but at this point between the pulsing bass of the music and the thrumming of his pulse in his own ears it could be anything, anything from go get us some drinks to my gun is in my thigh holster and I need you to get it with your teeth -

He closes his eyes, swallows against that particular visual, since she's talking again and now he needs to focus, damn it, he needs to be useful so that maybe she'll let them go on this type of undercover operation every single day for the rest of his life.

"The back is where everything shady happens. We have to get off the main floor. He's not going to be out in the open."

"Huh?" Shady? Does she mean -

She growls in frustration (it's so sexy), but he can't blame her because he has absolutely no game tonight. "Castle. The naughty corner. If Oz is dealing it's going to be from there, come on."

And then she's off, dragging him along the dance floor and he can't find it in him to mind the hard grip of her fingers around his wrist because she is dragging him to the naughty corner and even just her hissing the word naughty in his ear is fodder for so many dirty, dirty ideas that he is sure that none of this can actually be happening.

She pulls him further through the gyrating masses of dancers, and surely it's just because it's crowded that she keeps her hand on him. He stumbles along, hating himself because she is so graceful, so lithe, so fluid, and he keeps bumping into people like some giant, awkward sloth with two left feet, stuttering apologies.

The lights are dimmer further back, and he can feel the swaying get a little more subdued. He opens his mouth to ask her, well, something, but as his eyes quickly adjust to the darker atmosphere, he sees exactly where they're heading. Dancing is not the main activity in this part of the club. Not exactly. He catches a sudden glimpse of a couple pressed against the wall in the corner, the guy's hand fumbling with the button of the girl's tight jeans, and there's a trio off to the side that's starting to – oh, oh, she was not kidding when she said this was the naughty corner, what on earth are they doing back here?

They're blocked by the sudden bulk of a sizeable gentleman who seems to have spent several years perfecting his dark, menacing glare. He doesn't speak, just shakes his head at them slowly and shows absolutely no inclination to step out of the way, and well, okay, that was a nice try, time to regroup, maybe see if there's some sort of back entrance they can slip through or secret passageway they can use.

He's just starting to shift away when he feels Beckett's body cant into his, her shoulder nudging up against his chest, her hand sliding up his chest in a way he is going to remember forever, and then she is pressing herself into him, long and soft and perfect and just wow.

"Oh, come on," she purrs (purrs) at the big guy as her fingers slip under the collar of Castle's shirt and he tries not to choke. "We just want to have a little fun."

He swallows. Decides his hand on her hip is probably Allowed at this point. Chances it. It works. Big guy gives them a once-over, and is almost certainly more convinced by this smoky-eyed sex kitten version of Beckett draped over Castle than by Castle himself. But he steps aside, lets her past.

She leans into Castle, hisses in his ear again, and he really, really likes it. "Castle. This is the naughty corner. You have to actually touch me."

There is no possible way that she can mean what he thinks she means, but when he chances a glance over his shoulder the guy is glaring again, and screw it, screw it, if Kate Beckett tells him to touch her there is no universe in which he's going to say no.

Just a little undercover operation between partners. He's done this before. He doesn't still dream about it, waking up to the phantom feel of her lips slicking over his, to the reverberation of her moan through his mouth, to the scratch of her nails over the back of his neck.

He's a professional. Sort of.

She's taken his temporary paralysis to back herself against a wall that, if he thinks about it logically (which is proving to be far more difficult than usual), actually has a decent vantage point, and her eyes are sharp, alert, scanning the room, but all of a sudden she is hitching her leg up against his and through the fabric of his pants he can feel the heat of her bare thigh and her fingers are trailing along the back of his neck and apparently everything is allowed now so he lets her drag his body into hers and kisses her.

He's tentative at first, but she won't have it. She's immediately impatient, murmuring stop half-assing this before her teeth are digging into his lip and her tongue slides over his, angry, desperate, and then her hips are rocking into his, her thigh sliding over his leg like they're actually -

Her fingers curl around his ear, and then her mouth is on his jaw, tracing over the rough stubble and if he had only known that this would happen he would have shaved. She uses her leverage on his ear to tug his head down to her neck, and he thinks he should slow down or stop or something but he can only growl a quick "okay?" (Still Allowed? he wants to say, but it's too many syllables and she might not understand anyway) before he can't help tilting in, laving his tongue over her throat.

"Yes, yes, come on," she says, her voice rough and breathy and sounding not at all like she's only playing at undercover, and then he feels her hands on his shoulders and she's bracing herself, pushing up as she wraps her other leg around his waist, her thighs tightening into a hot, firm vice around his hips.

To get a better look at the room, he reminds his traitorous body, but fuck that feels good, and he can't help but growl a little as he sinks his teeth gently into her shoulder.

"Oh," he thinks he hears her breathe, and then she's rolling her hips against his in earnest and there's no way he can't thrust back, sink his head and worry the sharp edge of her collarbone with his teeth and tongue as her fingers flex against his neck, clutch at his hair. He's got one hand on her leg and he can't help himself, sliding his palm over her smooth skin, feeling the heat and lithe power of her strong muscles against him. Her dress is already rucked up her legs, and when his fingertips slip just under the hem she lets out this high-pitched moan that goes straight through him because it's the kind of noise she should be making in his bedroom while she's under him, not in this dark seedy club just feet away from another couple who are definitely doing it for real and there are people watching them but she doesn't seem to care and that's just so -

Her hips rock into his roughly again and the weight between his legs is getting uncomfortable and there's no wayshe can't feel it and if this doesn't stop soon it is going to get seriously, seriously embarrassing for him.

She ducks her head forward, drops her chin so that her cheekbone bumps against his and when she talks her lips brush the outside of his ear. "I think I see him, just give me one more - no, just," and then she's clamping her legs harder around his hips and lifting herself up a little higher and oh, okay, that's an interesting angle. He's not quite with it enough to stop the sharp, earnest thrust of his hips that presses her firmly back against the wall. She breathes out harshly in either amusement or arousal and sinks her teeth into his earlobe, and he's sure, he's sure that it's just a ploy to get a better visual of Oz, but she is absolutely toying with him, the way her tongue laves over the skin her teeth just sank into, the way her hips roll against his continuously, now, these long, languid thrusts that make him groan into her shoulder.

This is almost certainly Not Allowed, but he needs to level the playing field, so he edges his fingers up higher, further under the short hem of the dress, and he's so enraptured by the tense play of her muscles under his hand that he doesn't stop until he hits the sharp junction of her hipbone and his fingers leave her warm skin and trip over lacy fabric instead.

"Fuck, Castle," she's growling in his ear, but her voice is breathless, rough, choked, and her hips jerk under his touch. "That's not - "

Her voice trails off into a breathy moan as he sucks hard at a spot just behind her ear, pressing her back against the wall harder. Her nails dig into his back even through his jacket, and her breath is hot on his skin as he feels her tensing against him. Her heels are digging into the back of his legs as she squirms and tries to take a long breath but can't seem to get one into her lungs. A long ohhhhhhhh escapes her lips, vibrates in his chest. Her body is getting more and more tense, tightening against him, rocking into him with these tiny thrusts of her hips while she gasps, and if he didn't know better he'd swear Kate Beckett is about to -

And then she's shoving him away from her, hard, gracelessly untangling her legs from around his hips and stumbling upright, her chest heaving and her face flushed. "He's over there," she says, voice tight, ending on an exhale as her knees shift together. "He just walked into the - into the side room."

"Beckett," he starts, but she's shaking her head at him.

"Just come on," she says, purposefully sidestepping him as he goes to take her hand and they thread their way across the floor, she with purpose and confidence, him following blindly because did that just happen?

Oz, as per every cliché he could possibly imagine, is a sharp-dressed, oily guy with rat-like eyes that fix on her way, way too quickly. Of course, that's kind of the point, isn't it? Castle sucks in his stomach, resists the insane temptation to pull her against his body and kiss her for this sleazebag to see. Oz probably wouldn't care, but she would definitely kill him.

She charms them into Oz's little corner like she's not even trying, all giggles and batting eyelashes and soft bedroom voice and Castle can't handle this, can't stand it, is crazy at the idea that any man gets to hear this breathy sex voice of hers (except him, of course), and it's all he can do to stop himself from grabbing her.

She flops down on the couch next to Oz, and Castle takes the opportunity to sit way too close, crowding her till he can feel her heat, the supple curves of her slender body. Then he thinks about what Oz probably just saw them doing up against that wall (well, almost doing) and decides the hell with it, the words Not Allowed lost all meaning right about the time she wrapped her legs around his waist and started moaning into his mouth. So he shifts a little, tilts into her and slides his hand over her knee, starts tracing absent circles with his index finger over the bottom of her quad.

Her breath catches, and Oz is narrowing his eyes like he really wouldn't mind at all if Castle suddenly combusted or walked away or just generally wasn't there at all, but then Beckett's breathing out, "I like to feel shiny," as she arches her back slightly, and yeah, shiny. He likes that. She's biting her lip, and it is just so utterly not fair that she's not even trying right now and she still has two men completely undone.

"It's gonna cost you," Oz murmurs, and his eyes are raking over her in a way Castle does not like. Not at all. He's about to get more handsy with his "girlfriend" just to prove a point, make it obvious that she's taken, but then he has to choke back the yelp as suddenly her hand is sliding up his thigh, dangerously close to where he really really desperately wants it, her fingernails scratching lightly over his leg, and oh, Kate, Kate, you really shouldn't do that -

"It's okay. Good things always do." And then she bites her finger, and her hand is on his thigh and he can't help himself. He leans into her, lowers his head to put his lips on her neck, just beneath her jaw, feels her pulse thrum under his lips, slides his hand a little higher on her thigh. He feels her muscles twitch, jump, and it's so unfair that this is happening in some creepy club ten inches from another man because this is dangerously close to fulfilling some of the more satisfying fantasies he's ever had about her.

Oz's gaze turns a little less confrontational, a little more curious. "You both like to have a little fun then?" he asks.

Beckett blinks languidly, slips her hand over Oz's sleeve. "We like making friends, too."

(Does she mean - )

Interest flickers over Oz's face. "That a fact, huh?"

"Yeah," she drawls, leaning back into Castle. Uh, yeah. Apparently that's exactly what she means. "What do you think, baby? He seems like such a nice guy."

She nuzzles his throat, plants a wet kiss on his neck, and then he remembers that he needs to answer. "I think you're right."

"I'm a real nice guy," Oz grins. "Scout's honor."

She flicks a glance back at Castle, then trails her nails over the back of Oz's hand, and oh, oh this is absolutely not okay. "You think you can make it good for me?"

Oz gets this dark, mesmerized look, like he's already imagining it. "I think he and I can take you around the world, baby."

Castle swallows the sudden, hot flare of jealousy and tries to look interested or encouraging or aroused, and at least the last emotion's not a stretch at all as Beckett's hand trips ever higher up his leg.

"But," she breathes, her voice positively dripping sex, "you're two big, strong men." She's practically purring at this point, and he knows it's an act, he knows, but it's still impossible for him not to press his hand more firmly into her thigh, not to scrape his teeth along her shoulder. "I might need something to help me - relax."

Oz smiles, clearly satisfied. "I can help with that." He reaches into his jacket, pulls out the little bag, and hands it over.

It's all so fast then. Sex Kitten Kate vanishes as Detective Beckett twists Oz's arm, slams him down onto the table, and groin-kicks the bodyguard who tries to stop her. Can she possibly be any hotter? Castle stares, dumbfounded, not sure how to deal with all this dark seedy sexually charged atmosphere and the phantom tickle of her hands on him and the way she -

Right. Working here.

"Handcuffs," she hisses impatiently, and that's just great, great, how is he supposed to think about handcuffs at a time like this (and then it's suddenly all he can think about, the feel of cold metal under his fingers as it snicks around her wrist, her hands wrapped around the bars of a headboard as she arches -). "Castle," she growls. Handcuffs. For Oz. Okay.

His fingers brush against hers as he hands over the cuffs, and after all the contact they've just had it should be meaningless, but it sends the same shudder through him that the feeling of her skin always does.

"You have got to be fucking kidding me," Oz says with a scowl, turning his head toward them as she cuffs him. "You?"

Castle can't help but snort a little as she hauls Oz up off the table and drags him out. "Try thinking with your brain next time," she spits at the drug dealer, impatient, grumpy, all business (but still so hot).

Castle hastens to follow, though tonight he has been essentially useless as anything more than a pocket for her cuffs (and a sexual plaything, his mutinous brain supplies), and oh, there is no way he is ever going to forget the way it felt to have her nearly-bare legs wrapped around his hips as she thrust against him.

He realizes he's still standing there blankly as she's starting to walk Oz out the club, and he should really be on full alert; this place has been Oz's hangout for who knows how long and nobody in clubs like this likes a cop (well, he thinks, that might not be entirely true, from the way most of the patrons seem to be eyeing Beckett in a combination of curiosity and unbridled lust).

She tosses a glance over her shoulder. "Coming?" she asks, and even though it's mostly acerbic, he likes to think that he can hear the affection in her tone. He finally catches up to her. "Get my coat, will you?"

He obeys, gets it from the front, and isn't sure what to do with it. She's already hauling Oz out the door, so he trots behind her. The valets are running to get the car, so they get the pleasure of standing in the cold waiting with a grumpy drug dealer who won't shut up.

"Seriously. You cannot seriously be a fucking cop," he grumbles. "And you? You a cop too, or just her sex toy?"

Castle isn't really sure how to answer that. She answers for him. "He's my partner, asshole," she growls.

"For the record," Castle says, "I definitely don't mind being your sex toy."

It's totally worth the heated glare she shoots at him.

Totally worth it.