I don't even want to own them anymore. Marlowe is doing just fine.

"Castle, I am not packing a bathing suit. It's October."

Kate rolls her eyes and continues to toss clothes into the overnight bag that she's just hauled out from the back of her closet. Jeans, a turtleneck, a scarf. Layers.

"But, Kaaaaate," he whines.

"Castle, you've seen me naked. What's the appeal, anyway?"

He looks her up and down, slowly cataloging her figure as she huffs and puffs around the room in a pair of impossibly skinny jeans and wearing a lacy, blue bra on top.

"While naked is certainly my most favorite flavor of Beckett," he snags a belt loop on her way by and drags her between the vee of his thighs, "there is something incredibly sexy…"

He pops the button and licks his lips.

"And deliciously erotic…"

Kate bites the inside of her cheek to stop the smirk that she feels beginning to bloom across her face. She waits, wanting to know where he's going with this. She has a fairly good idea and though she's just gotten out of the shower, she's not opposed to needing another one.

His hands roam to her backside, his fingers squeezing and kneading into her flesh. "About watching you saunter around in such a small amount of fabric. The images that float through my head…" His voice trails off and he smiles, hooking his thumbs into the waistband. "Slowly peeling it…"

He struggles at this point. The jeans really are skinny and she feels a small pang of empathy for the man.

"Right off of your..."

She huffs a laugh as he struggles to draw the offending pants down and past her hips, keeping her legs taut to hinder him in his quest just a little longer.

"You were saying?" she queries, as he eyes her pants with what looks a little like suspicion and a lot like frustration. He gazes up at her from behind thick lashes and brushes his fingertips up her thighs.

"I was thinking," he spins her around so she's facing away from him and she feels his hands slide around her waist. One hand rests on her hip, while the other meanders slowly onward. A smooth trail down her belly and then lower still. Until his fingers are grazing at the matching blue lace of her panties. A finger slips in. And then two and three, until he is cupping her and she has forgotten why it was that she wanted to forestall this. "That you are a tease, Miss Beckett. Relax your legs or I will make you relax them."

"That doesn't exactly sound like a threat, Ricky."

He presses the pad of his index finger into her clit, slides his finger up and down until she is slick with moisture. Then, just as fast as he had begun, his hand is removed and all contact is lost.

"Or maybe I will just go wait in the car while you finish packing."

She spins around and shoves him back onto the bed. He grins and sucks a finger into his mouth. The finger she knows is covered in the evidence of her arousal and, god damn, but that is hot.

She clenches her thighs to still the quivering between her legs.

"The house isn't going to decorate itself you know. We really don't have the time." His eyes rake over her body. "Much as it pains me to say so."

She clenches her jaw to stop from hitting him.

He is way too cocky for his own good. He needs to be taught a lesson.

"You're right," she says, straightening up and turning toward the dresser. "We wouldn't want to keep everyone waiting."

His face falls for a second and she knows she has won this round. The self-satisfied smirk returns as he props himself up on his elbows and she wonders what she has gotten herself into. To her chagrin, he plays along and makes like he is seriously going to leave her to pack.

"Seriously, Castle?"

She hates that there is a whiney ring of panic to her voice. That he can turn her into such a needy and… for lack of a better word... wanton woman. She hates more that he knows it.

"Seriously," he nods, obviously pleased with himself. He rises from the bed and struts out of the room looking like the cat that ate the canary.

Oh, fuck that. Two can play at this game.

She removes the jeans and in place pulls on a long and flowy skirt. She rolls down her ruined panties and toes them off; she doesn't bother putting on a fresh pair. They'll only get in the way with what she has planned. A cashmere sweater completes the look. She could pass as a regular trophy wife, all warm tones and soft fabrics. Minimal makeup and bouncy curls complete the look.

He will pay for the brush off when she decides to reveal what's waiting below the Stepford wife facade.

Quickly, she throws a few more items into the suitcase and strolls into the living room where he is waiting, still looking smug and proud of himself.

"Let's go," she says without even throwing him a backwards glace.

"Coming," he says, his voiced laced with a little confusion.

If you're lucky, she thinks.

Shout-out to Avi. For teaching me how to count. I hate her a little.