Your Own Devices

AN: A variation on the 'Vice Beckett' theme, originally suggested by Cartographicals to both Chezchuckles and Sandiane Carter. I have stayed away from both stories so far in order to write this, and if there are any similarities, it's purely coincidental. I have adopted the idea upon request.

For ER, our Master Flailer Extraordinaire, who demanded a version that heavily involves Castle in a very specific way. ;)

Spring 2004

Castle flips shut his cell phone, drops it on his desk and rubs his hands gleefully. That went easier than he expected. It sure pays to know people who know people who can sneak you knowledge you aren't supposed to have. He only fumbled a little bit; he's pretty sure he convinced the lady with the smoky voice that he knew exactly what he was doing, knew how to give her a good time.

He snickers, bounds out of his chair, paces around the desk in his office. Meeting set up, check. Babysitter for Alexis, check. Now he just needs to make it through the next few hours until the date. He is bouncy, jittery with excitement. It's not nerves, no. Why would he be nervous, right? There is no reason. He won't have to go through with anything; just needs to get a feel, some hands-on experience. Feel the atmosphere; soak up the seedy life of New York's underbelly, smell the scents, touch the depravity.

Speaking of touch, he sure hopes his 'date' is pretty. She could be… Well he supposes she could be older. Wrinkly. Hunched over a cane. Or really big. Female body builder. He shudders.

She sure sounded sexy though. Rough, smoky voice, he could almost hear the sex dripping through the receiver, could visualize the pouty lips and long legs. Why would a woman like that need to pay for a 'date' though? Shit, shit. He didn't even think of that.

And what do you wear as a gigolo, anyway?

Beckett slams the receiver back on the cradle, runs her hands through her hair in frustration. McCulloch snickers as he drops the ear piece that allowed him to listen in on her conversation and she throws him a glare to shut him up. He cowers, drops his head over his paperwork.

She is getting so sick of this. For weeks now she's had to play dress-up, luring sleazy escorts to meet with her on the off chance that she might extract some valuable information. But no matter the angle, they have yet to get much closer to who might be pulling the strings behind the large underground escort ring that, on top of illegal prostitution, also appears to be heavily tied to drug trafficking.

The teasing she gets from her male colleagues is relentless, and if she didn't know the size of the operation behind it she would've already-

No, she wouldn't have. She has her goal in sight; this is just a stepping-stone, she won't stay in Vice forever and she'll handle whatever is thrown her way to make it. She already has an in with Montgomery from the 12th, and if she plays her cards right, she'll make it to homicide detective soon. She can take a few more dates in the process. Besides, it gives her something to do in the evening, something to focus on besides the silence of her apartment and the unrelenting pattern of her tormented thoughts.

"Another hot date tonight, Beckett?" Burris needles her but she doesn't even bother with an eye roll as she heads toward the elevator.

She's going to wear red tonight.

The bar is dark, cozy more than dingy and really, not quite as sleazy as he had envisioned. He is slightly disappointed that his look at New York's underbelly turns out to be classier than he had hoped, but at least there are lots of shadowy booths, flickering candles providing the only illumination across the black polished surfaces. He hops onto a bar stool that gives him an unobstructed view of the entry and tucks his foot behind the crossbeam of the seat to stop his leg from bouncing fretfully. This is ridiculous; he's met his fair share of women; there is no reason for him to behave like a fourteen-year-old on his first date.

Except this isn't a date. He's the escort, a pay for hire date, the rent boy.

He arranges the single long-stemmed red rose on the bar so that it is visible from afar, feeling ridiculous as he does it. What a cliché. Real escorts likely don't signal their presence with something that's as obvious as a bat-signal, he's sure of that. What was he thinking-

And then he truly doesn't think anything any longer when on a swoosh of chilly March air, the longest pair of legs he's ever seen saunters through the opened door of the bar.

His jaw drops and he can't stop staring, his eyes slowly gliding up those lean, long legs, the swishing blood-red skirt that plays just over her knees, over the slim waist, the hint of creamy-white cleavage that the neckline of her dress reveals. Her hair is dark, shoulder length; an abundance of mussed up curls as if she's just crawled out of bed after a salacious night. Her smoky eyes do nothing to dispel that mental image as she looks out over the room, her gaze finally falling to his. And holding.

He can't fucking breathe.

Her eyes are intense, piercing, as if she is looking straight through him, able to see so much more than she is supposed to, leaving his stomach in flutters. Her mouth falls slightly open, the parted lips glistening and then she flicks the tip of her tongue across her bottom lip and his lower body contracts forcefully.

Wow, he hasn't had a reaction this strong to a woman in a very long time, not at first sight. He wishes he hadn't set up this ridiculous premise, wishes he could buy her a drink instead, pick her up, see what the night would bring. Try to seduce her slowly, painstakingly, until her slender body was quaking under his ministrations.

She blinks, breaking the spell that seems to have bound him to her, her eyes shifting to look at the rose on the bar, then quickly back at him, her eyes widened in surprise. She covers it quickly, hides it behind the sultry façade but he's seen it, his writer's imagination jumpstarted, analyzing the moment of calculation that flashed across her face.

She saunters closer, hips swaying enticingly and no, that can't be, she can't be-

And then she's in front of him.

His date.

He slithers off the bar stool, feeling boneless and a little breathless and this is ridiculous, he is supposed to act like a professional escort, charming and seductive and instead this stunning woman has him flabbergasted without even having spoken one word.

"I'm Kate."

She's tall, almost at eye level with him but she still blinks up at him from under her eyelashes, slow and heavy-lidded, almost a scheming move and yet her eyes shimmer with warmth, like molten caramel. Only now does he realize how truly beautiful she is; not just hot and sexy, but staggeringly gorgeous. Pronounced cheekbones, light silky skin, and a perfectly shaped mouth, features like an old-time movie star.

He tries to shake himself out of his trance, tries to remember what he is supposed to do next, putting himself in the mindset of his 'character.' What would an escort do? Or really, any coherent male at this point? Jeez he's just standing there like a bumbling fool.

So he leans in closer and presses a tender, lingering kiss on her cheek. She smells like spice and cherry blossoms.

"Alexander," he introduces himself, pulling away.

"Nice to meet you," she murmurs, her voice a touch breathless, staring right at him. "Alexander."

"Total bust, Burris." Kate leans her back against the cool tiles in the restroom, the cold contrasting sharply with her flushed skin, her cell phone pressed to her ear.

"He's a newbie. Totally green. We won't gain any new info there."

'Do I need to get you out?' Burris asks. She's got to give it to them; no matter the ribbing she gets, they have her back when she needs it.

"I'm fine. Gonna get a cab. You should head home."

'Kay. See you tomorrow, Beckett.'

She flips the phone closed and drops it back into her purse. With her hands pushed on to the sink she leans forward, stares at herself in the mirror.

What the hell is she doing?

Her cheeks are flushed, her skin tingly in all the right places. The way he looks at her is sending shivers down her spine and she usually doesn't, but this time, with him, she wants-

Oh what the hell. She reaches into her cleavage, detaches the wire she was wearing and pulls it out of her dress, then stuffs it into the bottom of her purse. She's only 24 years old, she should have some fun. She deserves it. She needs to feel alive, even if just for a night. Stop thinking so much, questioning and analyzing every one of her steps, all the damn time.

She dabs a little bit of powder onto her nose, reapplies her lipstick. Turning a half circle, she watches her dress swirl around her thighs in the mirror, and then she decisively heads for the door of the restroom.

She's going to enjoy this date with Richard freaking Castle.

He stands when she approaches, letting her scoot past him into the sleek midnight blue leather bench of one of the booths that line the side of the bar.

She brushes closely past his body, catching a whiff of his fresh, expensive-smelling cologne and her nerve endings fizzle when he places a hand on her waist, guiding her forward.

Jeez, what is happening to her? Sure, he is her favorite author, and she felt star-struck, at first, when she recognized him sitting there on that bar stool, shocked when she realized she was set up to meet him. She doesn't know what he's playing at, can only surmise it's some quest for a book but she doesn't particularly care right now either.

Not when all she can think of, all she can feel is the visceral reaction that races through her blood with every one of his intense looks, every scorching touch of his fingers.

"What would you like to drink?" He asks, sitting close to her side even though the booth provides ample space. She won't complain though, his proximity like a slow-acting drug in her veins, leaving her arms limber, her thoughts lazy.

"Vodka cranberry with a twist."

He's turned toward her, an eyebrow arched almost mockingly. "Really?"

"Yeah, why?" She hopes he doesn't think she's underage. She doesn't look that young, and if this were what he went for, then she'd better get out of here, really fast.

"That's a drink for a college student," he answers glibly, the low seductive lilt back in his voice. "Come on, what do you really want?"

It does things to her, the rasp in his words, unfurls desire like ribbons of heat, low inside of her, thrumming, enticing. She tucks her lower lip between her teeth, watches his eyes darken as he stares at her mouth.

"What do you think I want?" She murmurs, blinks up at him from under her eyelashes.

He scoots closer, cradles his palm over the naked skin of her knee, his fingers tenderly caressing over the sensitive skin on the inside of her leg. Her stomach flutters, her breathing already labored.

"You want something…" His voice is husky, knowing. "Intriguing. Something you usually don't allow yourself to have."

Her heart thumps erratically at the dark truth behind his words. They are talking about more than a drink order, and she knows that they both know it. She's surprised that it doesn't scare her more, the instinctual way with which he seems to look right into her, but tonight she just wants to feel, the anonymity of their meeting tempting, freeing.

She swerves forward, drawn to him, his mouth so near, his breath dancing over her skin and she wonders if his lips feel as soft as they look.

"What can I get you guys to drink?" A waiter interrupts; they jerk apart but she feels breathless as if his mouth has already stolen all air from her lungs.

He orders her a certain whisky, the name of which she has not heard before, straight up.

"So…" He turns back toward her, undeterred, his voice roughened as his fingers track up her inner thigh. "Why does a woman like you hire herself a date?"

She raises an eyebrow. "A woman like me?"

"Yeah you know…" He roams his eyes over her body, smirks suggestively. "So tall."

She laughs low in her throat, runs her fingers up his arm in a slow caress. "Maybe I value the work of a professional," she breathes the words at him.

Even if she hadn't recognized him, she'd have known he was just acting. He's about the least professional of all the escorts she's had to meet up with, too instinctual, too real in his reactions…but damn it, he's good.

He wants her, shows with every look, every roam of his eyes over her body, every tender, seductive touch how much he desires her and she has no defenses left. He makes her feel, and she hasn't just felt in a very long time, not like this.

Maybe never quite like this.

Kate raises her glass to her lips, takes a slow sip of the drink he's ordered for her. The taste is sharp, rough against her throat yet oddly smooth on her tongue, spicy with a warm hint of vanilla.

"Like it?"

He watches her closely, observes her movements, soaking up every details of her as if he's burning her to his brain and it's one of the sexiest things she's ever felt. She flicks her tongue across her lips, licking off the lingering flavor of the whisky and his eyes flash darkly.

"Hm hmm," she hums, nodding, her eyes holding his. "It's exactly what I want."

They talk about inane things, movies and books and New York, but the more she talks, the more he wants to know; hungers for details like a starving man. She is interesting; well read and well-spoken, and he craves to know this woman inside and out, wants to dig underneath her layers, get to the intriguing core that brought her to buy herself a companion for the night, that seems to hide some dark, visceral pain.

And yet he knows it's not to be, they are ships in the night, passing just once, finding solace in each other, all the good clichés. She wants to remain a mystery, anonymous; he can feel it with every pore of his body, see it in every alluring smile she bestows on him. He is surprised at the aching band that tightens around his heart; he's known this woman for a mere two hours but the truth is, he will give her whatever she needs. He's fascinated by her, Kate, mysterious intriguing Kate, and if she desires him for the night, he'll make damn sure that she gets what she needs.

And he'll draw from her whatever parts of the story she's willing to give, soak up every detail for as long as he gets to have her.

"So Kate…" He presses his leg against hers, the warmth of her skin spreading through him. Glancing his index finger just an inch higher on her inner thigh, he watches the flush that spreads across her skin. "What do you do for a living?"

"Really?" She laughs that throaty, teasing laugh, her head thrown back, the white column of her neck exposed. He can't stop staring at it, can't stop thinking about placing his mouth against her smooth skin, dip his tongue into the hollow of her clavicle and his lower body contracts forcefully, wrestling with his control.

"What would you say if I told you I'm a cop?" She watches him, an eyebrow quirked teasingly, careful not to give anything away, and he takes her in for a moment. That would be… new.

"I'd answer that most smart, good-looking women become lawyers, not cops."

"Is that so?" The challenge in her voice is unmistakable and he wonders whether she's ready to handle the truth she's so carelessly asking for.

"Well," he formulates the picture in his mind, laying it on the line. He knows it's risky but some deep, needy part of him wants her to see him as more profound, more than the well-dressed, seductive escort that he's been play-acting as.

"You're not Bridge and Tunnel – no trace of the boroughs when you talk, so that means Manhattan. That means money. You went to college. Probably a good one. You had options. Lots of options. Socially acceptable options. For you to choose to be a cop, something would've had to happen."

Here he falters, thinks maybe he's taking this too far but now he can't stop, the story too captivating not to keep digging at it just a little further. Character depth, people's motivations, their deep dark secrets are his claim to fame. And Kate has plenty that she is hiding.

"Not to you. You're wounded but not that wounded. Someone close to you."

She's staring at him, wide-eyed and quiet, her breathing shallow and for one short moment he can see all of it, the wide gashes of despair, the broken pieces, sharp like jagged shards of glass. The young, vulnerable woman underneath, her thoughts and emotions, her life discombobulated. His throat clogs, the surge of protectiveness raw and visceral, new to him in its intensity.

She catches herself, blinks rapidly, the spell broken. Kate turns toward the table, raises her glass to her lips and quickly downs the rest of her whiskey.

"Cute trick," she supplies, her voice roughened, from the sharp drink or lingering emotions, he can't tell.

Then she turns back toward him, all pretenses gone as she swings her leg over his thigh, at once sultry and seductive. His hand automatically slides higher under her skirt and she presses into his touch, curls her fingers around his neck to play with the short hair at his nape.

"And you're right, I am a lawyer."

He knows it's a lie but for a few seconds he got to see her, truly see her, and it's enough.

It has to be enough.

He smiles, circles his thumb over her tender skin, dangerously close to the vee of her thighs until her eyelids flutter, her breathing speeds up.

"Maybe you'll become the first female Chief Justice," he quips, only half joking.

Her smile is wide, bright and pleased as she tilts toward his face, her breath teasing his cheek.

"Maybe."

Her fingertips dig sharply in his chest as he crowds her against the wall of the elevator, as she drags him further over her.

She is so slender, feels shockingly small as he presses his body into hers and yet he can feel the strength housed in her lithe muscles. Everything about her is a contradiction and he's never met anybody as intriguing as this woman who's now writhing beneath him, needy and passionate, the length of her body aligned with his.

He wants her like he's never wanted any other woman before, hard and fast, intense and painstaking, wants to brand her with his body, claim her, free her.

The key card for the hotel room is burning a hole in his pocket and suddenly it washes over him, how wrong it is, the deception of their meeting cloying and oppressive and he can't, he needs to tell her... something.

It slays, a dull stab of pain that she might never remember him as more than an escort for a night.

"Kate," he hums her name, shocked by the raw need audible in his voice. Her breathing is fast, lifts the swell of her cleavage against his chest in a teasing rhythm and she lifts her eyes to his.

"I'm... I'm not," he stammers, doesn't know how to explain a night of lies with the sharp curl of desire distracting his thoughts, her lips close, so close, glistening but he can't, not yet, not yet-

"No-" He almost chokes on the word, presses it out anyway. "No money tonight."

He cards his fingers through her hair, tilts her head up, urgent, almost rough so she's looking at him; holding her close, keeping her away. Her mouth opens on a burst of breath, her eyes wide.

"Just us tonight," he pleads, runs his thumbs over the slopes of her cheekbones, willing her to understand. "Just us."

They don't make it to the bed.

Her mind goes blissfully blank when his lips slant over hers, finally, finally, his tongue delving into her mouth, tangled with hers as he presses her against the wall of the hotel room the moment the door falls closed behind them.

His hand grips around the back of her knee, lifting her leg high, draping it over his hip as he crowds into her, his pelvis nudged against the wet heat of her body and he groans into her mouth, a dark needy sound that roars through her limbs like thunder.

She tilts into him, her skin, her whole being one continuous frenzied ache, her hips rotating a thrumming beat against the merciless hardness of his body. His kiss is bold, unrelenting as he explores the shape of her mouth, soaking her up, drawing, taking from her and she falls into him, gives herself over to the delirious pounding of desire, the soaring freedom of sensation.

Her skin quivers under the persistent caress of his fingers, climbing high on the inside of her thigh and fire erupts inside of her, viscous lava in her veins, her skin feverish, her body ready, weeping with want.

She claws her nails into his arm, tugs him forward, higher, more more more and instead he palms her breast, follows the curve of her shape. She arches sharply, sobs into his mouth, needy and throbbing, fast, everything is so fast.

He's plastered over her body, broad and muscly and she writhes underneath him, can barely move, held captive between the wall of the room and the wall of his chest, and normally she'd balk, fight the implicit vulnerability of her position but he's kneading the curve of her flesh, rolls the peak through the fabric of her dress, the sensations sharpened, tight and centered within the confines of her body and she doesn't care, nothing matters but the fire of his touch.

There's no more pretext when he slips his fingers into her underwear, glides through the slick folds and pushes straight into her body. She cries out, a rough sound that bursts from her throat at the demanding intrusion, at once too much and not nearly enough and he swallows her noises, mirrors the push of his fingers with the glide of his tongue in her mouth.

She shivers, clenches around his fingers as he curls them inside her, the heel of his hand pressed to her clit, his other hand tweaking her nipple, relentless, demanding and it's everywhere, all at once, bursts of sensation, lightning bolts that sear right into her middle, spread tingles through her limbs, flush her skin. The climb so staggeringly fast that she can barely keep up and how did he know that it's exactly what she needed, this raucous forceful encounter. No thoughts, no issues, no painful truths, just overwhelming intensity. He pushes deeper into her, hard pressure inside and out, and she breaks apart, her fingers digging into his skin as her muscles clench, again and again, her limbs shuddering, bright white light flaring behind her eyelids.

She sags onto him, spent and weakened, her dress clinging to her body - oh god they didn't even take any clothes off - her hair sweat-slicked onto her forehead, can't breathe, think, move. He lifts her into his arms, carries her to the bed.

And then – he seduces her.

He takes his time with her.

There's time, now that he's coaxed the initial, desperate release out of her that he knew she needed, and the longing within him has grown only stronger, this slow-spreading ache to take care of her. There's a vulnerability underneath her strength that touches him deeply, and if this is the only moment in their lives that he gets to have her, he'll make sure that she'll never forget it, him.

Her responses to his every touch are raw, deliriously intense, too genuine and authentic to be a frequent occurrence, and his writer's brain supplies the backstory, certain that she doesn't allow herself to let go very often, not like this. Whatever brought her to trust him with all of herself for tonight, even if it is the anonymity of an escort service, he will worship her like she's never been worshipped before.

She is breathtaking, so very beautiful, sprawled atop the bed, her creamy skin a stark contrast to the dark blue fabric of the comforter, so warm and soft underneath his fingertips. He circles his tongue around her navel, kisses the slope of her abdomen, nips his teeth over the tender skin. Goose bumps sprawl out all over her, her body restless, surging into him and he wraps his hands around her waist, holds her steady while his mouth journeys lower, follows the enticing, aroused scent that lifts off her.

Her knees fall open in invitation but he bypasses the siren call of her wetness, caresses down her leg instead, fingers and mouth exploring her lithe muscles, the slender circumference of her ankle before he deliberately slides up the other leg, dips into the hollow behind her knee. She is writhing against the bed spread, her hair wild, mouth open and then she claws her fingers into his hair, roughly tugs on his head.

"Stop teasing me," she groans the demand, arches off the mattress and so he grabs his hands around her thighs, holds her open and dips his tongue along the length of her. She hisses, her hips surge into him and she's, oh, so very wet, tastes so good, like tart cherry.

She tastes like forever and his throat clogs, at once almost overwhelmed with sorrow that this night is all they'll ever have.

Her head falls back, dark moans tumbling off her lips and he swallows his ache, slips his tongue over her nerves instead, flicks and nips and teases, on an irrepressible quest to spiral her higher, ready her for more. Kate circles into him, seeking more pressure, wanton, her skin flushed pink but he lifts away instead, travels higher, ignoring her whimpered protest as he trails a succession of kisses up her stomach, his lips outlining her ribs and the curve of her breasts.

"Kate," he murmurs, laces his fingers through hers and lifts her arms up over her head. "Kate." She blinks open her eyes, heavy-lidded, her pupils dilated as she tries to focus on him and when he has her attention, when she watches him, he slips his lips over the peak of her breast. She moans, squirms against him as he sucks the hardened pebble against the roof of his mouth, over and over, plays her with his tongue until the impatience overwhelms her, her limbs jittery, her body flushed, squirming anxiously.

He rolls them over and she immediately rises above him, settles against his hips. She is a goddess, divine and gorgeous. A tigress, proud and strong and free. She wraps her hand around his length, teases a finger across the tip and his heart almost leaps out of his chest, his body surging upward, at once deliriously needy and she smirks, seems to revel in the control she has over him. But then she sheaths him with a condom, and slowly takes him inside.

She rides him hard, that first time, her movements jerky, seeking, a stark contrast to the sweetness with which he coaxed her higher and higher but she just can't help it, it feels so good, too good, the roughness that fills the aching, yearning crack within her. She hasn't felt this good in so long, oh god maybe never, filled and free and feverish and she needs more, deeper, more.

"Turn around," he grunts, his hands curved over her hipbones, circling his thumb over the tender skin and she doesn't care to question, just slides off him, turns around, and sinks back onto his length, molding tightly around him, her back to his chest. She clenches her muscles, senses the changed angle when he grazes all her nerve endings, lifts his pelvis up against her.

He guides her hips, holding her upright while she lifts, sinks, circles, her movements sloppy, faster, surging toward the release looming just out of reach.

"Touch yourself, Baby," he murmurs, his voice rough, tantalizing while he guides her own fingers over the swollen nub of her nerves. She cries out at the added pressure, the staggering intensity and then it's urgent, delirious, takes all but a few more pushes of him until she splits apart, her world narrowed to only this moment, the searing explosion of her body, the white hot flames licking her veins.

He lifts her off him, lying her down on the bed and she sinks into the mattress, a boneless, quivering mass, no strength, no thoughts, only the floating sensation of her body. He settles on top of her, deliciously heavy, nudges between her thighs and oh, he's still… he hasn't… He slides inside her once more, still hard and throbbing and she whimpers, clutches her hands to his shoulders, her nerves over-sensitized, fluttering around him.

He stills, kisses her. Caresses her lips and it's so tender and sweet, almost loving, that it makes her weepy, her emotions rising on a well of intensity.

"Once more, Baby," he coaxes her on a languid slide, out and back in and she instinctively shakes her head, not sure that she can but she loves even that, loves all of it, his voice when he calls her baby, as if she is precious, as if he treasures hers.

"Once more." He takes her legs, bends her knees high, up to her chest, filling her deep, so very deep.

And then it hits her, clears in her mind as if a curtain has been lifted, how it is all for her, he's making it all about her, every touch, every moment of their night together only for her. She sobs, from the intensity or the well of sadness, she doesn't know.

For just one moment she wishes she could keep him, wishes she would feel normal, unburdened, able to shatter that wall inside, fall in love, have a relationship with a man like him.

But she is damaged goods. Can't allow herself to give into her emotions, drag him down into the rabbit hole with her.

He moves within her, strong and slow, undeterred and she shakes it off, lets go of the heartbreaking thought, focuses instead on the feel of him, on the slow climb, more intense than seems possible. On the tingles that spread through every part of her, the heat centered low in her abdomen, the sensations that send her spiraling all over again, filled to the brim with him.

There's no sense in weeping over impossible odds. But she can have this. Can give him this.

He wakes alone, the sheets next to him cold, even the pillows rearranged. He knows she's gone even before he sweeps his eyes across the room, hoping against hope that he might still find a glimpse of her somewhere.

The envelope is white, innocent-looking as it leans against the lamp on the nightstand, with nothing on it but the printed hotel logo. He reaches for it with shaky fingers. She didn't leave him money for this after all, did she? That would be so creepy.

He runs a finger underneath the flap, pulls out a single sheet of paper. Her handwriting is flowy; large, playful letters that mirror the few hints of her intriguing personality that he was granted. He can almost hear the teasing lilt in her voice as he reads.

'This better not show up in one of your next books, Mr. Castle.

It's been a true pleasure to meet you.

Kate'

He groans, drops back onto the bed, one arm slung over his eyes. God, she knew the entire time. She knew the whole time who he was; was playing, toying with him like a cat that caught the canary.

Oh but what a game it had been.

No. Not just a game. She had been real, too. Intense and eager and passionate, giving all of herself, allowing him to see her, have her, even if just for this one night.

Wow. What a woman.

He curls around the sheets, longingly inhales her lingering scent.

It's too bad. It would've been great.

Spring 2009

"Mr. Castle?"

"Where do you want it?" He turns toward the voice, his fake-excited smile firmly in place, the pen poised and ready.

And then his jaw drops; the pen falls from his fingers, bounces soundlessly on the hotel carpet as he stands, flabbergasted, his knees suddenly wobbly, heart hammering against his ribs.

It's her.

"Detective Kate Beckett, NYPD, we need to ask you a few questions about a murder that took place earlier tonight."

Whoa. She really is a cop.

The End (and The Beginning)