A/N: A little something to get you through the Castle-less Monday. There's potential for a second chapter, so I won't mark this as complete just yet. Huge thanks to Diana (Dmarx) for the beta, even though it took me nearly six months to finally post this after she combed through it.
WARNING: Rated M.
Overactive Imagination
It's been a long day. But then, what day isn't anymore?
Kate's hand trembles as she turns her key in the lock. Her blood sugar is low, but it's not food that she wants. She just wants him. Knows he'll be waiting for her, tucked up under the covers in her bed.
She's exhausted, but she takes the time to bolt the door of her apartment and put her gun safely away. Then she starts cutting corners. She tosses her keys onto the side table instead of hanging them up on their wrought iron hook. Her coat lands in a puddle on the floor of the foyer. Her shoes, pants, and underwear come off in one desperate shimmy in the middle of her living room, leaving a little heap of Beckett so perfectly dropped that it looks as though she's simply vanished into thin air.
She peels off her pinstripe shirt without undoing more than a couple of buttons and makes quick work of her bra. She slips into thedark silence of her bedroom and closes the door softly behind her.
He's there, covered by just a thin sheet, and the outline of him rising out of the mattress sends a hot, anticipatory thrill through her veins. She climbs into her side of the bed, her naked body sliding between the sheets, her feet pointing and stretching, the taut line of her spine relaxing. That's better already. Almost as good as a steaming hot bath. But not as good as a steaming hot orgasm.
She keeps her breathing quiet and shallow as she runs her palms over her own breasts, exploring the soft flatness of her stomach, the flare of her hips. Sometimes she likes to treat herself to a little foreplay, but tonight she's not sure she needs it. She's been thinking about him all day. So instead, she flattens her fingers against herself, the tip of her middle finger confidently pressing. It only takes a few slow, grinding circles and she's crushing out a low, dusky moan. The noise echoes in the dark; with any luck, he'll be inside her very soon.
Years of practice lend her hand a sure and steady (if a little predictable) choreography. Her middle finger pushes through her folds, tracing her slick entrance, once, twice, and then she slides it high inside. She works herself like that for a moment, making sure she's ready to take him. It doesn't take long - she's too impatient tonight. She rolls onto her side and seeks him out under the sheets, pulling him towards her, settling onto her back as he's suddenly exposed to the cool air, and then she's offering him her warmth by guiding his tip into her heat.
The first slide is slow, a little raw (it always is, even when she's drenched; he's just on the verge of being too large), and exquisite. He fills her, every surface straining to hold him, to contain him, and when he presses hard against her furthest wall it causes that ache that unfailingly compels her muscles to contract.
"Oh, God, Rick," she whispers, and it sounds harsh and grainy and full of the awe he inspires in her.
Her fingers work with him as he slides in and out, picking up speed but maintaining the grace and glide. At first, she tries to concentrate on the rhythm of the act, still present enough to make sure she clamps down for every withdrawal, her innermost muscles pumping and pulling in four/four time as the pressure builds underneath her clit. The thrusts and strokes start to get desperately fast, the pursuit of pleasure a speeding train dangerously close to running off the rails, and she starts rubbing herself almost viciously, loses control over the beat and then suddenly a buzzy warmth is soaking every organ south of her diaphragm. She's chanting his name, oh Rick and yes, Rick, and thenshe's clenching but this time it's completely not on purpose, twisting around him, suddenly so tight that it becomes difficult to keep up the tempo, and her orgasm is spreading, spreading, spreading, and then peaking spectacularly in an outburst to rival the finale of a fireworks display.
His name ricochets around the room as she comes.
When she's caught her breath, he slips out of her. She takes him into her hand, the hard, too-smooth surface slippery with her satisfaction.
Sighing, she swings her legs out from under the sheet and pads to the bathroom.
The harsh light pulls her out of the fantasy world of her bedroom, and she squints at the glowing, rosy-cheeked woman in the mirror. After an orgasm, her vision seems a bit more three-dimensional, a bit crisper, like the beginnings of being drunk.
She looks down and shakes her head.
"I cannot believe I named you Rick."
She turns on the sink and runs the bright pink vibrator under the water. She rinses away yet another moment of cowardice, washes clean the evidence of her expertly hidden hunger.
She knows she's pathetic. It wouldn't take much to have the real thing. At least she has this, these moments to practice breathing his name out from under currents of ecstasy, to imagine having him just where she desires him most.
Who knows? Maybe one day she'll introduce Rick and Rick.
A/N: Did you see that one coming? (no pun intended :)